#this is just a draft i always run through these like 6 times doing minor tweaks

[mostofourtownismissing]

Preview of the first page of Chapter 4: "Nowhere Bound" which I've just started editing.

Arson Andrias is BAEL's annoying super fan who calls in nearly every day and seems to be one of the few things on the planet that Perry has zero patience for.

[da-rulah]

The Mayor's Daughter - Mary Goore x f!Reader [Part 4]

Summary: Mary can't think straight; at least, not about anything but you. He's angry, and he's hurt - rightly so - but he can't help the feeling that he's missing something. His spider senses are tingling, and his saviour complex is nagging in his head...

Meanwhile, you're dragged to a formal dinner at the Town Hall with your father's sleazy political associates. What could possibly go wrong?

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Angst, childhood memories/trauma, alcoholism, addiction, minor drug use, creepy men being creepy, unwanted physical touch/harassment, abandonment, panic attacks

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8

ALSO AVAILABLE ON AO3 | MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

A/N: Once again, a huge thank you to @her-satanic-wiles & @angellayercake for workshopping and beta reading this fic with me! I live for their reactions every time I sent them an idea or a draft... 🤭 This chapter got away from me, as so many do, and ending up pretty damn long... Enjoy!

He had to be quick. Any longer, and he might be chased out. But he couldn’t help himself... he wanted to look, to touch...  

“HEY!” A gruff male voice shouted from somewhere behind him. Mary startled, stumbling back and shoving his hands in his pockets. “These are for people who know what they’re doing, not little hooligans!”  

The store clerk came rushing over, coming in between Mary and the beautiful Gibson Les Paul on display, hung up on the wall amongst the others. The body shone in a stunning hue of deep red wood, orange bursting from the fret board. He’d always dreamt of owning a guitar like this – or any at all. He just wanted to pick one up, to learn, to play.  

“S-sorry mister... I didn’t mean to-” 

“Go on, out with you! Comin’ in here every damn day, gettin’ in the way of my customers. Go on, get!” The old man shooed a 10-year-old Mary out of the store, shutting the door in his face and folding his arms behind the glass, watching until Mary finally sagged his little shoulders and sighed to himself, trudging down the sidewalk with his head hung low.  

Other people were allowed in to look at the guitars, to touch them, test them; why wasn’t he? Sure, he knew he was a kid but he wasn’t a bad kid... He knew he could never afford a guitar like that Les Paul, but oh how he dreamed of owning his own guitar. Just a little acoustic thing to practise on. He'd put in the work, he’d swear it. He just wanted to learn.  

Still, Mary headed home with his hands in his pockets and his head hung low, avoiding the eyes of the adults around town who looked down on him with looks of either disgust or pity; he was never sure which was worse.  

“Mom?” he called out as he walked into the small and run-down little apartment block on the edge of town. They’d had to move in here almost a six months ago after his father left, unable to afford much else on his mother’s salary; her job at the local diner didn’t pay well. 

Music from the radio filtered through the hall, along with the smell of yesterday’s spaghetti being reheated on the stove. “In here, baby,” a weak shout came from the kitchen. She sounded weaker with each week that passed, barely eating and drinking far too much to be considered healthy at all. Mary had spotted that, not totally understanding the ramifications of it at his tender age but he was wiser beyond most 10-year-old’s years. That’s the thing about a shitty childhood; you grow up quick. 

Still, he was grateful his father was out of the picture now. Honestly? The lesser of two evils. It was better him gone than be here still, hurting everybody around him. 

Mary headed into the kitchen, sitting down at the small table for the two of them and waiting patiently as his mum stirred the pot over the stove, her back to him. He watched as her left hand lifted a glass from beside the stove; a wine glass, half-filled with the cheapest red on the market. 

“Good day?” she asked, looking briefly over her shoulder. Mary just shrugged; he hadn’t paid much attention in school, and he didn’t want to tell her about being chased out of the music store. Although he wasn’t sure what he’d done to get kicked out, he still lived under the assumption it was somehow his fault.  

His mother hummed along to the radio as she heated their food, taking gulps of the wine to her left and refilling it before plating up two small bowls of food – hers noticeably smaller – and sitting opposite Mary as she placed them down. 

“Thank you,” he smiled at her shyly, never forgetting his manners as he tucked into his meal. His mother smiled fondly at her boy, twirling her fork in the pasta noodles as she sipped her wine. The radio played to fill the silence, songs from another decade that had his mother reminiscing over happier years. 

As he chewed, he thought back to that guitar, how he’d do anything to have one like that. But he’d settle for a smaller, cheaper, second-hand one. He’d be delighted with one. He just wanted to learn how to play, and then maybe one day, his mom could hum along to his songs on her radio.  

“Ma, I think I know what I want for my birthday...” 

“Oh? Well good! I was wondering when you’d give me some ideas,” she smiled. Mary hesitated, chewing his lip. Was he asking for too much? Perhaps, but he had to try at least. “Come on, baby, what is it?”  

“Well... can I get a guitar? Not like, an expensive one or anything... Just second-hand or something. I wanna learn to play, Ma. I think I’d get real good at it!” he rambled, his excitement barely contained as he thought about how people might change how they saw him if he could prove he was good at something, that he could work hard and prove himself.  

His mother’s smile faltered, fading as she dropped her fork against her bowl and grabbed her wine glass, finishing the rest of it off and pouring herself another hefty glass.  

“Baby, guitars aren’t cheap, even the second-hand ones...” she began, her voice quiet and full of regret. 

“No, I know, but I thought, maybe if I could get a job somewhere, I could mow lawns or something, maybe help Mr Rogers at the carpenters or get a paper route, then maybe I could-” 

“Baby you’re ten years old, you should just be a kid as long as you can,” she smiled sadly, her eyes betraying her as they glassed over with tears. It broke her heart to see her little boy so desperate to be a man, to help her, to help pay for his own damn birthday present.  

“I... I can still be a kid, I just thought I could help?” he questioned. 

“I just don’t think I can afford it baby...” Mary’s shoulders slumped, his own fork dropping into his bowl as he sat back against the chair in defeat.  

“Could you stop buying wine for a little, Ma? I just really want a guitar... And then you can get more again. Just for a bit, I promise!”  

If her heart wasn’t already breaking for her little boy, it did then. The guilt rose like bile in her throat, her eyes staring at the bottle on the table, her glass emptied again and the taste lingering on her tongue. She’d had her own selfishness reflected back at her, a mirror held up to the truth; the truth being that her lips were stained with the red of her addiction, paired with her sunken eyes, bearing the weight of her sorrow. 

She should try, she thought to herself. For him, for her little Mary. He never asked her for anything, and the one thing he wants in the world for his birthday was a crummy little second-hand guitar? She should be able to give him that; as a mother, she wanted to give him the world. He certainly deserved it after all he’d been through.  

“I-I’ll... I’ll try, Mary. I’ll really try,” her voice cracked, swallowing the guilt down and forcing the tears to recede. Mary nodded to himself, looking down into his bowl and back to hers that even untouched, still had less in than his half-eaten leftovers.  

He stood up, the bowl in his hands and placed it down in front of her. She needed to eat more, he thought.  

“Oh, baby no, it’s okay. You should ea-” 

“I’m not that hungry, Ma. Please take it.” 

She stopped protesting, nodding as she held a shaking hand out to hold his cheek, stroking her thumb over the pudge he was yet to grow out of with a gentle smile.  

“Thank you, angel,” she told him, pressing a wine-stained kiss to his forehead. “I promise, I’ll try harder.” 

Deft fingers plucked at the strings of a battered old acoustic guitar. The wood was splintering where the neck met the body, the varnish worn down in places that hands would dance over as it had been played to within an inch of its life. Stickers littered the body, hiding nicks and damages from over the years but they too were beginning to wear down to white patches of nothing.  

Still, she sang like a dream the way she always had. Mary’s skilled hands worked her strings mindlessly, drifting from riffs he’d learned of his favourite bands over the years to riffs of his own he’d written – the most recent sounding much more melancholy than he’d anticipated.  

Sitting in his dimly lit studio apartment, he reclined against the wall at the head of his bed with his first guitar in his lap. His intention had been to drift off into his own world, to write some riffs for songs he could present to the guys and form into tracks for upcoming shows, but he’d been unable to focus, his fingers working on muscle memory alone as his head drifted to the same thing he’d thought of for the last few days.  

He’d had time to calm down, for the fog of anger to dissipate and now he’d entered the reflection stage. The anger morphed into hurt, reminded once again that no matter if you wanted him or not, you still were ashamed to be seen with him. He didn’t fit your image, his mere existence in your life was inconvenient and a black stain on your pristine white image.  

He wondered if cleaning himself up was an option for a brief moment. What if he didn’t paint his face? What if he wore a shirt instead of his cut off band tees? What if he styled his hair different? All the ‘what if’s swam around his head, but they’d be lies. Mary was many things, but never a phony. He refused to bow down to public opinion and become one of the masses if it meant sacrificing everything that was genuinely him.  

He decided he’d rather be hated for who he was, than adored for something he wasn’t. Which is exactly the life you were living. 

You’d chosen a world where people loved you, fell at your feet to be known by you and yet somewhere along the way, you’d sacrificed whoever you truly were, covered it up with bows and frills and shiny trinkets. He almost felt sorry for you.  

Still, he couldn’t swallow the nagging feeling that he’d done something wrong, that he was letting you slip through his fingers. He wasn’t dumb; Mary knew there was more to you than this image. He’d seen glimpses of it, this vulnerable yet feisty woman clawing at you from inside. Frankly, you drove him crazy. He'd never wanted anything for himself so badly in his life, except maybe the guitar in his hands. He couldn’t lay his eyes on you without wanting you; perhaps up until recently, he thought that was simply physical attraction, a need to take you and have you both coming undone together.  

But the way you plagued his mind, how he thought of you during the smallest moments of peace to himself... he was beginning to understand he’d formed a kind of connection with you he couldn’t begin to explain. But he was starting to recognise a feeling within himself that stung like rubbing alcohol on a wound, a feeling that shot him right back to his childhood, to a place so painful he’d shoved it down and ignored it for years.  

Before he could go down that route, his shook his head to rid the memories and lay his guitar gently beside him, reaching for his smokes on his nightstand. Lighting one up with his zippo lighter, he rested himself back against the wall, swiping a hand down his face in exasperation. He’d spent too long on this, too many moments infiltrated by thoughts of you.  

If Mary was being honest with himself, he only had to ask himself one simple question; were you worth compromising everything he knew about himself? Were you worth him changing himself, becoming something he wasn’t so he could be ‘acceptable’ in your world? 

No.  

Because that was a world that would only ever see him as a delinquent. They had when he was a child, a teenager and now into adulthood. The second they’d known who his father was, who his mother was, they’d judged him. That would never change, so why should he? 

The town hall ballroom was the last fucking place you wanted to be at any given moment, let alone when it was filled with governors, police chiefs, politicians and seedy businessmen. If you’d had your way, you’d have stayed tucked up in bed, like you’d spent most of your spare time in the last week or so since the Bicentennial fair. Facing reality was something you’d tried to avoid, but that wasn’t going to be possible for Daddy’s big dinner party for all the town’s biggest officials. 

No, you were to be paraded like a shiny trophy daughter tonight, mingling with the rich and seedy underbelly of your father’s political career. These people made your stomach turn and your skin crawl. You observed them from the corner of the room, a glass of prosecco in a hand covered by white satin gloves to the elbow, in a fancy, floor-length, glittered evening dress of the same pale peach colouring as the bubbly. Your mother had picked the outfit, “elegance with a touch of sparkle” she had said. 

Watching them mingle and chatter away, you could barely help the expression on your face turning to one of vague disgust. Your father made his way around the room, shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with the elite while your mother followed in tow, laughing at all the jokes she must have heard a thousand times over the years and nattering with the wives in the room about the latest gossip.  

Shallow; all of this was so fucking shallow. But the worst part? This was your future. Your mother... her life was the future your father had paved for you, expected you to walk. You couldn’t think of anything worse.  

“Pumpkin! Come and say hello to Mr. Nelson,” you father flagged you down from your inner monologue of disapproval, notably stood with an old man you recognised as the town’s previous Mayor. Mr. Nelson had handed the title over to your dad when you were little, staying a consistent advisor in the governing of the town’s affairs ever since his retirement six years ago.  

You’d never liked him. There was something untoward about him, sleazy and manipulative; but that’s politicians for you.  

You knocked back the rest of your prosecco glass for a bit of liquid encouragement and walked towards them with your prettiest fake smile on.  

“Good evening, Mr. Nelson,” you said, taking his outstretched hand to shake. 

“Good evening, my dear!” He didn’t let go of your hand like you’d expected, instead tightening his grip and pulling you to lean forwards so he could press a whiskered kiss to your cheek – or what was actually closer to the corner of your lips. When he leaned back, he winked at you, still keeping hold of your hand to lift it, unashamedly scanning his eyes over your body in your dress and twirling you like a doll on a music box. “My, my... how you’ve grown, hm?” 

Your eyes locked onto your father, who was smiling at you fondly as if there wasn’t a problem. You, however, were exceedingly uncomfortable. You looked back to Mr. Nelson, smiling and acting the part. Honestly, you’d always wondered if acting would be a good career for you; you did it often enough.  

“Quite the beautiful young lady these days,” Mr. Nelson commented, letting go of your hand and coming to stand beside you, a hand resting on the small of your back as he turned to speak to your father.  

“She gets all that from her mother, of course,” he smiled proudly, squeezing the shoulders of your mother beside him, who swatted him with her own gloved hand.  

“Oh, stop it, you charmer,” she laughed. You recoiled from the interaction, uncomfortable that there was still a hand on you at all, let alone on the small of your back. 

“Your father was telling us about your college days; quite impressive, my dear!” Mr. Nelson said, his hand patting just above the curve of your behind.  

“Y-yeah... I mean, thank you, sir,” you smiled graciously. How could you get out of this?  

“Now, if only we could find her a nice man to settle down with,” your father joked, your mother smiling along with him as Mr. Nelson chuckled.  

“I’m sure that won’t be difficult, hm? Plenty of fine men about town. Any catch your eye?” he asked, looking down at you with a raised white eyebrow.  

Instantly, your mind flew to Mary. Certainly, he was not the kind of ‘fine man’ Mr. Nelson or your father would envision for you; in fact, you’re sure they would recoil in horror, but you couldn’t help but think of him. Any opportunity for your brain to remind you of how painfully you’d fucked that up, it would take.  

You took too long to answer, head full of Mary as it so often was.  

“Pumpkin, Mr. Nelson asked you a question,” he insisted with an expectant nod of his head.  

“Oh, not to worry. She clearly has somebody in mind, if the mere mention of a man has her daydreaming about him, hm?” he chortled, his hand now slipping lower to pat at the curve of your backside. Instinctively you jumped forward half a step to get away from the unwanted contact, head whipping to your father in the hope he’d seen that, that he’d step in and defend you. But of course, he didn’t.  

“Pumpkin? What’s gotten into you, hm?” His glare was disapproving, his eyebrow quirking as he waited for your answer, but an awkward silence fell on the four of you instead.  

“I, um... I’m so sorry, I think I lost my balance. These, uh, damn heels, that’s all,” you laughed nervously, averting the eyes of everyone around you.  

“Perhaps a little too much bubbly,” Mr. Nelson accused, tipping his head towards your empty flute in your hand.  

“Y-yes, maybe... Perhaps I need some air. Would you excuse me?”  

You were turning and leaving before your father could stop you, shoving the glass in your hand onto the tray of a waiter on your way to the door, ignoring the calls of “pumpkin!” behind you, sounding aggravated and embarrassed. Heads turned to watch you leave but you couldn’t look at them, overwhelmed and uncomfortable. You just had to get out.  

You headed directly for your father’s office, a small and private space to collect yourself before inevitably having to go back to the ballroom sooner rather than later, lest your father come looking for you.  

Finally alone and in a quiet spot, you slumped into your father’s chair behind his desk, spinning absentmindedly from side to side guided by your stiletto on the ground. You focussed on breathing, helping to subside the panic that had risen in you. Bad enough you’d been forced to come to this thing, let alone subjected to the wandering hands of a man who’d known you since you were barely out of diapers. This evening was the nightmare you’d expected it to be.  

Looking around your father’s office, it hadn’t changed much. The American flag stuck in his pen cup, the portrait of President George Washington on the wall, the photo frame on his desk that housed a very official looking family portrait taken when you were still in middle school. 

This was your life. This façade of pomp and circumstance, governed by sleazy men and dodgy business deals... this was all you could see for yourself. No wonder you were clinging onto Mary by your perfectly manicured fingernails, allowing him back in so easily whenever there was room in your mind. He was the antithesis of that horrendous life already mapped out for you. He was the embodiment of freedom to you, someone that lived their life governed by them and them alone.  

He liked dark things, heavy music, grungy clothes. He didn’t restrict himself, lived freely, chasing the dreams he so obviously strived for. He didn’t care what people thought of him, he lived his truth.  

You wished you could live like that. 

Lost to your musings and memories of brief encounters with Mary, you startled at the sound of the door to your father’s office slamming shut, with him stood before it. He’d come alone, his arms folded over his chest in his crisp tuxedo, and a hardened look of fury in his features.  

Your stomach dropped and you sat upright immediately; this wasn’t going to be pretty. 

“What the hell was that?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper and yet spat through clenched teeth. 

“Daddy, I just... Mr. Nelson, he-” 

“Don’t you ‘daddy’ me. Do you realise how embarrassing that was for your mother and I?” he scolded. You swallowed your words, thrown right back to being told off as a child. “Mr. Nelson thinks you were drunk. Are you?” 

“No, daddy, I swear!” you protested, having only drank two glasses... on an empty stomach and faster than a shot of your favourite flavour schnapps.  

“Then explain why you were so damn rude to him, hm?” he raised his voice, stepping towards you and leaning down on his own desk by his palms.  

“He put his hands on me! He’s a creep, dad!” you matched his volume, defending yourself. Your dad just scoffed at you, shaking his head in disbelief.  

“He’s a respected member of this community. One bad word from him, and this could all be over for us. My career, our way of life, everything! Do you understand that?” he shouted. How silly of you to think your own father might take your side when one of his creep associates lay a finger on you.  

“It was a knee-jerk reaction, he touched my ass dad, like some fucking pervert!” you yelled back, standing from his chair and finding the guts to finally answer back, to fight for what was right instead of pander to him. Mary would be proud. 

“You watch your mouth, young lady. I am your father-” 

“YES! YOU ARE! And as my father, I thought you might stand up for me, oh, I don’t know, maybe be disgusted when some old man lays a hand on your daughter’s ass!”  

Your father lifted an accusatory finger at you, wagging it in your face as if scolding a bad dog. “He was talking to you about your future. A future that he can take away with a snap of his fingers.” He demonstrated with the hand he waved wildly in front of you. “You’re lucky your mother has such a way with words...” 

“You mean she’s a good liar,” you laughed humourlessly. “Suppose you have to be in this kind of life...” His face paled, his eyes darkening and appearing to sink further into his skull as he stood up straight, his brow furrowing. 

“I have worked for over two decades to build us ‘this life’,” his voice deepened, darkening considerably as he loomed over you. “Look around you. Do you think this just happens? I have done nothing but provide for you, you ungrateful little girl.” 

“This is the problem... I’m not a little girl anymore, and you still treat me like I can’t think for myself. I’ve got my own mind, things that I want to do. Do you give a shit about that at all?” The anger inside you you’d caged up for too long was surfacing, the heat on that simmering pot turning up with every word out of your father’s mouth. Already you were too far gone to reel it back in. Whether he liked it or not, he was going to hear this. 

“I give a shit about this family!” he screamed. “I will not allow you to tear it all down in some childish tantrum!” 

“Tear what down?!” you protested, “I just want to be able to do something for myself for a change, to start my life! It’s got nothing to do with your prestige as Mayor, I just want to be able to finally crawl out from under your shadow!" 

Your father ignored you completely, still only seeing the pigtailed little girl from the portrait on his desk standing in front of him. He had no idea she’d grown up before his very eyes. He’d blinked and missed it, too damn focussed on his own career and image to notice.  

“You selfish little brat. You don’t get it, do you?” he sneered, “This is MY TOWN! MY LEGACY! You will live by MY RULES!” 

And truthfully, that was all it was ever going to boil down to. His fucking legacy.  

You sagged your shoulders in defeat, tears begging to fall out of anger. Everything you thought your dad still believed, he’d proven to you in just a few minutes; you were still a child to him, and his legacy was more important than your own happiness. Nothing you could say would win this fight. Nothing would make him see how badly he was hurting you.  

You took a deep breath, composing yourself to speak a little calmer, more collected. With emotions heightened, it was easy to yell and scream back at him, to get carried away but you were determined to show him this was not some ‘tantrum’. You meant this.  

“What if I don’t want to do that anymore?” you asked, staring him straight in the eye. The air seemed to thicken around you as you waited for it to soak in, for him to hear you, process, and respond. The silence was suffocating.  

“I’m sorry?” he asked, turning his head to present his ear as if he hadn’t heard you, but he most certainly had. He just wanted you to repeat yourself, testing you, warning you; did you have the balls to say it again? 

“What if... I don’t want to live by your rules anymore?” You spoke calmly, methodically. You will listen, you thought to yourself. 

Your father straightened up again, his head twitching as he tidied up his cuff links, straightened his bow tie and slicked back his hair before he gave you the time of day. This was just a part of his intimidation, his macho technique, reminding you he was a distinguished man, one with power. When he finally looked you in the eye again, his face was set in stone.  

“Then you can get the hell out of my office.” 

Like a punch to the gut, it knocked the wind right out of you. He wanted you to leave.  

“F-fine...” you stuttered, walking around the desk as if to head for the door, pulling your cell phone out of your clutch, “I’ll get one of your lap dogs to take me home, and we’ll talk about this in the morning,” you told him, trying to keep a modicum of dignity, prove to him you were an adult and taking the moral high ground. But your father laughed... 

“I don’t think you heard me. Perhaps you didn’t understand...” he turned around to face you, now stood by the door to his office. “This is my town, Pumpkin. This whole town is my office.” 

The weight of what he was saying fell like a barrel of hot tar over you, the scorching, searing pain radiating through you. You stared in disbelief, waiting for him to laugh, to tell you he was kidding, just pushing your buttons to see your reaction but nothing... He just stared at you, as you stared at him, like a deer in headlights. 

“Y-you’re not serious...?” you dared to whisper, shaking your head in denial. 

“Deadly. Get out,” he growled, “or do I have to call security?” 

Those angry tears turned into streams now falling down your cheeks silently while you were unable to blink, processing his command until your body moved of its own accord, reaching for the doorknob and opening it behind you.  

“I’m sure your precious town will love to hear about this,” you threatened, wiping the tears away with the back of your hand. He just smirked and folded his arms over his chest again.  

“Careful, Pumpkin. Daddy’s got one hell of a legal team; and they’re all eating out of his palm in that ballroom tonight.” 

He had you beat. Checkmate. Every credible lawyer – and the seedy ones – were on his damn payroll. You couldn’t win this no matter what you did. You just had to walk away...  

And so, you did. Quietly, you slipped out from the opulent town hall and found yourself stood on a street corner a couple of blocks away, out of the sight of not only your father and his invitees behind the huge windows of the ballroom, but out of sight of his cronies, already given the instruction to make sure you left quietly, and didn’t attempt to come back in. 

You were alone, as you had become so accustomed to being. 

Every riff felt wrong. For over a week now, Mary tried to write something new, something fresh that he’d never heard before, that excited him and inspired him but... nothing. He was beginning to think he’d lost his touch. He knew he couldn’t force inspiration to come, but this was a longer, drier spell than even he was used to... 

He reached for his pack of smokes on the nightstand where they usually sat, only to discover he was fresh out – that last cigarette had truly been his last.  

“Shit,” he cursed to himself, crushing the empty box in his palm and throwing it in the general direction of the trash can, hitting the rim and bouncing off to the floor beside two or three other crumpled cigarette boxes from the last few days.  

Whew, he thought to himself, smokin’ more now, too. Awesome. Still, ignoring the mess he’d neglected to tidy, he stood up from his bed with a stretch, abandoning his tattered acoustic on his bed. His leather jacket that he’d slung over the back of his couch still held his keys, wallet and cell phone from his last outing to the gas station, and so he slithered his arms into the sleeves and headed for the door.  

He knew he didn’t need to take the van to travel the four blocks to the gas station on the edge of town just for cigarettes, but there was something about a late-night drive that calmed Mary. It always felt like one of those rare moments where he got to be himself; a decent band on the stereo and some open road to clear his head.  

He also knew he didn’t need to go all the way to the gas station for smokes; the convenience store on the corner would do just fine. Except, Forrest usually worked the late-night shifts at the gas station, and he’d get to take advantage of his staff discount. 

“Hey man!” Mary called out as he walked into the store, the bell dinging above his head. Forrest looked up from the magazine he was reading, slumped over the counter. 

“Well, look what the dogs dragged in...” Forrest smirked, “where’d you fuck off to the other night?” 

Ah. He’d never explained where he’d disappeared to the night of the fair, nor had he seen any of his friends since. He hadn’t realised he’d shut himself off for that long, but seemingly, he had. 

“Oh, uh...” he stammered, thinking up an excuse.  

“Some chick got your attention, huh?” he stood upright and folded his arms, leaning against the edge of the counter. “I don’t know how you do it, man. You got ‘em lining up out the door. You shoot strawberry milkshake outta that dick, or what?” Mary relaxed instantly, his alibi already created for him.  

“Why, you wanna taste?” he mocked, shooting a flying kiss at him as he stepped up to the counter in an overly camp, seductive walk to make the other laugh. 

“I’ll stick to the slurpie machine, thanks,” he joked, pretending to gag at the thought of Mary’s strawberry milkshake. “You need somethin’, or you just here to entertain me?” 

“Outta smokes,” Mary shrugged. “I’ll grab the usual.” 

Forrest nodded, turning his back to fish through the cigarettes that lined the wall behind the counter, coming to the brand Mary would usually purchase. Mary looked to his left, seeing a special offer on party size bags of Takis and an array of candy bars. He chucked a bag up on the counter with some candy and fished inside his jacket for his wallet as Forrest rung him up.  

“Big plans tonight, huh?” 

“Oh yeah, big night in with my favourite girl, Mary Jane,” Mary waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Explains the snacks, you always did get munchies worse than any of us...” he laughed, punching his employee code into the register to add his discount; something he did without thinking these days. Mary was always grateful. “$15.75” 

“Thanks, man,” Mary handed over a twenty, shoving the change back in his wallet just as his phone started to buzz in his other pocket. He whipped it from his jacket, checking the caller ID when his chest tightened.  

You. 

Mary sneered at the phone in his hand, shoving it back into his pocket with a scowl on his face. If Forrest noticed, he didn’t question it, probably assuming it were a telemarketing scam.  

“We should get a practise in before Saturday,” Forrest suggested, “I think Davey’s free on Tuesday? And I'm off too.” Mary hadn’t forgotten; they had a show to play in the city, some new goth club were having a metal night, and word of Mary’s band was starting to spread beyond the scene they’d been playing for the last two years. 

“Uh yeah.” His phone stopped buzzing in his pocket. He ignored the feeling of disappointment in him, that gnawing voice in the back of his head that told him he should have answered it. “Yeah, I think I’m free. You wanna see if Jed’s about?”  

Forrest made a noise that sounded vaguely like an affirmative as Mary picked up the bag with his purchases inside.  

“Alright, uh...” Mary’s phone began vibrating in his pocket again, barely any respite since the last call. He ignored it, trying to claw himself back to reality instead of letting his mind drift to whatever you could possibly be calling him for. He was sure it was only one thing, anyway. “Let me know, man!” 

“Yeah, see ya!” Forrest grinned, shutting the register with a ping and picking up his discarded magazine as Mary turned and left, the bell dinging above the door again. He stood outside for a moment, fishing his phone out of his pocket and seeing that it was indeed your name that flashed on his screen.  

Once again, he ignored it, shoving it this time into the back pocket of his jeans and skulking back over to his van, parked in a bay near the door. It stopped just as he wrenched the door open with a rusty creak, throwing his bag into the passenger seat. He climbed in behind it, slamming the door shut and settling into the seat as he shoved the keys into the ignition. As he turned them and the engine roared to life with his stereo, he took a deep breath, leaning back against the head rest and desperately willing the thoughts of you to leave him be. 

He’d wasted too much time on you already, and he meant what he’d said last time. He was tired of being everybody’s dirty little secret, and he wasn’t about to answer your fucking booty call. Not again.  

Reaching into the plastic bag beside him, he pulled out his carton of cigarettes and ravaged the packaging until he could pry one from the box and shove it between his lips, pushing the lighter button in on his dashboard and waiting patiently for it to heat. Closing his eyes, he waited for the telltale click, reclining into his seat, when his phone began to buzz in his back pocket once again.  

Mary’s eyes shot open, anger coursing through his veins. Were you that desperate to get laid? It wasn’t fair. He thought he’d made it clear where he stood, that he wasn’t interested in being picked up and dropped whenever someone felt like it anymore. He had to start thinking less with his dick and more with his head – and his heart. 

But you were not getting the message – ignoring your calls wasn’t working. Maye he just needed to say it in black and fucking white.  

Muttering curses to himself, he fished his phone from his back pocket where he sat, seeing that the caller ID did indeed read “Doll” again. He turned the volume of his stereo way down, took a deep breath, and answered the call.  

“Look, I’m really not interested in being your booty call, Barbie,” he spat down the microphone, “so you might wanna just give it up now before you embarrass yourself.” 

He was met with silence. He almost wanted to laugh, picturing the look of sheer shock on your face as you sat surrounded by your pink frills and stuffed animals in that ivory tower of yours. But instead, he waited. Would you dare speak? Argue with him? He’d managed to rile himself up enough by this point that maybe a fight was exactly what he needed to expel the rage.  

The silence continued for a beat too long, and confusion set in. His brow furrowed, checking his phone screen to see if you’d hung up but no, you were still connected. He lifted the phone to his ear again, waiting... and then he heard it. 

A sob.  

A sob so small and timid, he thought maybe he wasn’t supposed to have heard it. But instantly, his face paled, and his chest hollowed. Every muscle in his shoulders that had tensed in his anger when he picked up the phone instantly turned to jelly. He’d expected resistance, maybe a “fuck you, Goore” or something to that effect. He’d expected an argument, rage, denial or defence.  

He waited again, clicking the side button on his phone to turn the volume up in case he’d missed it. Now, he heard the sniffles too, along with the shuddering breath from an inhale that sounded uncontrollable. And then another small, suppressed sob. 

He panicked, sitting bolt upright in his seat and pulling the cigarette from his lips as he looked around his surroundings as if there was something, someone who could help. Of course, there was nothing.  

He didn’t expect you to react that way... Perhaps he’d been too harsh, maybe yelling at you wasn’t the right way to go about this, to cut his ties with you before they were truly bonded, but he hadn’t even thought it through. Mary just thought severing it with a quick, clean blow would do the trick... 

“I-I... d-didn't... know who... to call,” you wept down the phone, breathing irregular as if you were suffering a panic attack. “I’m s-s... sorry.” 

Instantly, Mary knew he’d fucked up. You weren’t calling him for a hook up, this was something different. Something had happened. You had already been in this state. And you’d turned to him for help. Mary swallowed a gulp of nothing, now realising his mouth and throat had gone dry whilst his jaw had hung open in bewilderment and panic. 

“What’s going on?” he asked, frenzied. He waited for a response, only hearing more sobs; ones that you clearly were unable to hold back as you tried to speak, to tell him what had happened. Whatever it was, it was bad enough that you couldn’t say it without losing the small semblance of composure you had. You were in no fit state to talk about this on the phone. 

The hand holding the phone dropped to his lap for a moment as he muttered a “shit” to himself, slamming his head back against the headrest. He was really going to do this, wasn’t he? He was going to run right to you, to go and fucking save you with some twisted sense of duty towards you. But then, yes, of course he was; Mary’s saviour complex had kicked in the second he heard that first tiny, frail sob. 

He held the phone to his ear again. 

“Look just... fuck, just breathe alright? Slowly, if you can. I’m coming, just make sure your window’s unlocked,” he instructed you, pressing his foot down on the clutch and shoving the gear stick into reverse.  

“’m not... home...” you sobbed. Mary paused, confused.  

“Well... where are you?” he asked, now more concerned as to what the hell had happened. If someone had laid a fucking finger on you...  

“R-Raynor... street...”  

Dead centre of town; anything could have happened, anybody could have been around.  

“Alone?” he asked, incredibly uncomfortable with the idea of you being alone at this hour in the middle of town.  

“M-mhm...” Mary cursed to himself again, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder while he used both hands to spin the wheel of his van, quickly looking in his mirrors to reverse out of his parking spot before he could speed off into the night to come and find you. 

“I’m coming, alright? Stay there. Keep your phone close, stay on the line. You keep off the street ‘til you hear me coming, you understand?” His instructions were clear, almost military-like. He needed you to hear him plainly.  

“Oh...kay,” you sobbed, trying to quieten your sobs and regain control.  

“Keep breathing, I’m on my way.” 

Mary picked the phone from between his ear and shoulder and hit the loud-speaker button, throwing it onto his dash so he could drive easier through the streets as he headed into town. Thankfully the roads had been somewhat empty, most traffic lights turning green on the approach and no one to get in his way or flag him down for speeding at this hour. He just needed to get to you, as fast as possible. 

Turning onto Raynor street, he slowed right down and got a good look; you were nowhere to be seen. He prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that you’d just followed his advice, hiding down an alleyway off the main street to keep out of sight of any passersby with bad intentions. He turned his stereo back up, a clear indication that it was him who was driving slowly down the street, watching and waiting for you to pop your head out of somewhere. 

“C’mon, doll... where are you?” he muttered anxiously to himself, looking down every nook and cranny between buildings.  

The music you heard edging closer down the street echoed what you could hear from your phone speaker, telling you that the vehicle approaching was him. A wave of relief washed over you, and you stepped out from between a hair salon and an apartment block near the end of the street. Mary's headlights caught on your dress, the sparkle catching his eye immediately and he sped up until he could break suddenly right next to you, jumping out of his van and running around it to get to you as quickly as he could. 

His hands gripped onto your biceps and he held you out at arm's reach to get a good look at you; carefully placed make up had streaked from your tears, black rings forming around your eyes where your mascara had run. Your eyes themselves were bloodshot; how long had you been out here like this before you’d called him? You shivered in his hands, the cold of the night getting to you in this dress that left your arms and shoulders exposed, doing nothing to warm you at this late hour. He didn’t even think, shucking himself out of his jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders where his body heat had already warmed it.  

“Are you hurt?” he asked, cupping your face in his hands and swiping the tear tracks away with his thumbs. You shook your head no, another sob rising in your throat now that he was here. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting, his initial reaction to your phone call clearly indicating he was still very much mad at you; not that you could blame him. But it didn’t escape your notice that he had come anyway, and the expression on his face was almost one of terror before his eyes had fallen on you, and softened considerably. 

Something in him cared.  

“Alright, come on... get in,” he settled a hand between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently and quickly to the passenger side of his van where he opened the door for you, helping you up. You settled into the seat, curling in on yourself and hugging Mary’s jacket closer to you for the warmth the night had stripped from you as he climbed in the driver’s side. He turned the stereo right down, the music now only to fill a silence rather than to alert you to his arrival.  

“Is there... somewhere you want me to take you?” he asked, an awkwardness coming over him. He had no idea how to react in this situation, no clue what had happened or why you’d called him of all people when you had an entire security team on your side. 

You seemed to think about it for a moment, a fresh wave of tears trickling from your eyes and dripping to your lap when you looked down in an attempt to hide your face.  

“I... don’t have anywhere...” you sobbed, your fists tightening around the edges of Mary’s jacket to have something to ground you while your shoulders shook.  

Mary watched on helplessly, his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to reach over, to pull you into him and hold you so you could let out the much more violent sobs you were so obviously holding back. He was so used to the feistier side of you; your smart mouth, your confidence... It’s what drew him in, what attracted him to you like a moth to a flame. This wasn’t you. 

It stirred up a need in him to help, to sacrifice his own discomfort in favour of your comfort. Instantly, he put you first, forgetting any resignations he had about ever seeing you again. That anger he harboured at how out-of-touch he thought you were? It dissipated the second he’d heard the first sob. He’d been triggered like a sleeper cell, instantly needing to patch up whatever wound you’d suffered. 

“You don’t wanna go home?” he asked, figuring he already knew the answer. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. When you shook your head violently, he got the confirmation he needed. “Alright, well...” He was going to regret this, wasn’t he? But he’d said it before he could stop himself. “You could stop at my place for a bit.” Yep, he regretted it. “If it’s not too weird, or anything... I mean, I live alone, if you’re worried about my friends being ther-” 

“Okay...” you sniffled.  

Mary stopped rambling, instead reaching for the cigarette he’d never lit and thrown on his dash with his phone. Once again, he pushed the cigarette lighter in to heat up, adjusting the heating in the van to a warmer temperature too to warm you up. 

“Alright um, sure...” He held the cigarette between his lips, shoving the van into gear and continuing down the street. “There’s a carton of cigs in the bag by your feet, if you want one,” he offered – more to fill the silence between you than anything. The quiet stereo could only do so much. 

You sniffled and reached down to the bag, fishing through the plastic until you found the carton he’d mentioned and pulling one out for yourself hoping it might help to calm you. With a pop, the lighter signalled it was ready, and Mary held it out to you first as he focussed on the road. You lit it carefully with a small ‘thank you’ and settled back into your seat. The first drag helped settle your nerves, the heating in the van calming the shakes you’d had too, although you weren’t sure if that had been the panic or the cold of the night. 

A few streets into the journey back to his place, you couldn’t take the quiet any longer. The awkward air between you felt so stale, icy in comparison to the warmth the van generated. As much as you wanted to relax in his presence – as he up until now had always been able to make you do – you just couldn’t. Not with the elephant in the back of the van, so to speak... 

“I’m sorry... for calling,” you mumbled, still too full of shame to be able to look at him directly, only stealing a glance from the corner of your eye. Mary took a long drag of his cigarette, flicking the ash out of the crack he’d opened in his window. He looked between you and the road, as if thinking through his response a few times.  

“You don’t have to apologise for that. I’m not one to leave a lady out in the cold...” he shrugged. He certainly wasn’t; literally or metaphorically.  

“Thank you for coming, Mary. I didn’t know where to go...” Every time you thought back to the fight with your father, fresh and hot tears would well up in your eyes. It didn’t escape Mary’s notice, and he wanted nothing more than to reach over and squeeze your hand with reassurance. Instead, he settled on trying to lighten the mood a little. Comedy always had been his defence mechanism, after all... 

“Dressed like that? I’d have said... Cinderella’s ball?” 

You scoffed, the first genuine smile he’d seen from you as you shook your head. “Shut up,” you told him.  

“You couldn’t call on the creatures of the forest to come help?” he continued, smirking when he saw your shoulders shaking in silent laughter, elbow propped up on the edge of your window. “Tinkerbell not got any pixie dust left for ya?” 

You reached over and playfully slapped his chest, earning you an ‘ouch’ and an act of feigned pain as he recoiled. But you giggled to yourself, the absurdity of it all finally hitting you. Here you were sat in your sparkly peach gown with your satin elbow gloves, high heels and fancy hairdo, cradled by Mary’s leather jacket in a beat-up van that was old enough to still have a damn cigarette lighter in the dash. Perhaps you were Cinderella... Did that make Mary your Prince Charming, or your fairy God mother? 

Now he’d heard you giggle – something he always loved hearing out of you – Mary could relax a little. There was still an awkwardness between you both, neither one of you could deny that, but the first layer of ice had been broken. For now, that would be enough. If you wanted to talk to him about what had happened when you got to his, then fine. If not, he figured that was okay too. At least he’d know you were safe and had someone by your side who cared about you; and yes, Mary could admit to himself now that he did care about you... 

Just, maybe not to you – not yet. But it wasn’t something he could exactly deny either, when he’d dropped his ‘big plans’ of getting high and demolishing a bag of snacks alone with his guitar the second he’d heard your despair. And all of that in spite of his lingering anger towards you. How quickly he’d flipped that, from wanting nothing to do with you to racing to your rescue. 

Mary’s apartment was small, as you’d expected. As you followed him inside, you looked around. The kitchen sat directly to your left cut off by a half wall to corner it in, a couch that looked like it had seen better days backed up against that half wall and pointed at an old television. Mary’s bed was unmade and pushed up against the far-right corner, facing the bathroom that took up as much space as his kitchen did but was the only room closed off. In the way of bedroom furniture, all he had was a small nightstand and a chest of drawers that had been knocked about some...  

It seemed cosy, lived in. It wasn’t particularly tidy; a blanket strewn over the tatty couch, vinyls laying on top of his little coffee table and around his record player in the corner of his living space, guitars laying up against the wall here and there, an acoustic on his bed, pots and pans stacked up on the draining board in his kitchen – clean, but not yet put away.  

Had Mary known he was having royalty stop by, he might have tidied up a little, but this was how it looked most of the time. He didn’t spend much time at home, especially now that his band were starting to take off a little. But truthfully, he avoided being alone at all costs. He got too much thinking done alone, hence why he had his distraction methods of weed and song-writing.  

Mary scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and went to flick on a lamp by the couch. He quickly whipped around the space, picking up the strewn vinyls, straightening up the blankets. “Sorry about the mess,” he set as he jetted past you towards his bed to pick up his guitar and straighten out the blankets and pillows. You stood awkwardly in the entryway, his jacket still hanging off your shoulders as you picked at your gloves.  

“No, it’s fine, it’s not that bad,” you told him, noting the few personal belongings Mary had too; most notably the little picture frame on a windowsill by the couch. A strikingly beautiful woman, and a goofy little boy snuggled tightly in her lap. Both were grinning into the camera, the boy’s front teeth missing. You guessed that was Mary, and the woman, his mother.  

“Can I get you anything? I don’t know, a drink maybe? Or, uh...” He stood awkwardly, nervously wringing his hands and fiddling with his rings. It was so out of character for him, usually cocky and confident in everything he said or did. In a way, it was quite endearing...  

“Maybe some water, if you don’t mind...” You winced at your own request, feeling like you’d already asked for too much tonight.  

“Yeah... yeah, sure!” He jumped into action, rushing into the kitchen to fetch a clean glass from the cabinet. “Make yourself at home,” he told you, nodding towards the couch he’d just tidied. You walked towards it, draping his jacket over the arm and sitting on the edge of it, playing with your gloves until he came and sat opposite you, handing you a cold glass of water. 

You took it with a thank you, downing a third of the glass once the water hit your tongue – you hadn’t realised just how thirsty the tears and panic had made you.  

“So, um... you wanna tell me why you’re dressed like that?” Mary nodded at your dress, getting himself comfortable and ready to listen. You looked down at yourself, feeling utterly ridiculous now. This was your world... glitter, glam, sparkles; and you despised it.  

“Fancy dinner at the town hall – pompous twats and vile politicians. Mom picked this out,” you scoffed. 

“Huh,” he mused, “I mean, if it helps, you do look pretty...” he shrugged. A warmth rose to your cheeks at his compliment. “The mascara smudges are a nice touch, I think.” You laughed at that, wiping your fingertips along the underneath of your eyes and seeing the black collecting on the white satin. “So... what happened?” 

He asked you so gently, and instantly you felt safe. His gaze wasn’t judgemental, just soft. In fact, it had taken you this long to mentally note that Mary wasn’t made up with his usual faded skull paint and fake blood. His face was clean, you could see every detail. You could see every emotive line, every twitch of his expressions and a vulnerability in him that the face paint usually masked. He had a kinder face than people gave him credit for. Suddenly, you got it. He was putting on a mask every day, just like you.  

And so, you told him. You told him how you’d felt in that ballroom, looking around and seeing the real scumbags of this town. You told him about Mr. Nelson; what he’d said, what he’d done. Mary’s face hardened at that, an anger and protectiveness washing over him that had his fists balling up tightly. You told him how you’d excused yourself, and how your father had followed you to his office. Throughout, he stayed quiet, letting you speak and listening to everything you said. He’d react every so often, fetched you some tissues when the tears had started again. You told him everything, including how your father had screamed at you to follow his rules to not damage his “legacy”.  

“And I told him I didn’t want to do that anymore... I wanted to do my own thing and live for me.”  

Mary’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.  

“Shit... What did he say?” he asked, obviously knowing it hadn’t ended well.  

“Told me to get out of his office,” the tears came again, your voice raising in pitch as you tried to hold back the sobs, “that this whole town was his office. Threatened me with lawyers if I tried anything. So... I just left.” 

“He kicked you out into the street, alone, dressed like that, in the middle of the fucking night?” Mary’s anger was clear, spitting venom between clenched teeth. He couldn’t understand the nerve of your father, how he could be so damn stupid putting you in danger like that. “Fucking arrogant asshole...” 

It was clearer to him more now than ever that he’d been so wrong about you...  

He shuffled closer to you on the couch, cautiously wrapping an arm around your shoulders to comfort you in some way. Truthfully, he wanted to completely envelope you, to hold you and rock you and let you cry and sob and scream if you needed it. But it wasn’t until you lay your head on his shoulder that he felt okay to do so, finally pulling you into him to wrap his arms around you and let you cry into his chest.  

He felt so warm beneath you, his heart rate a little elevated but the thumping kept you grounded as you held onto his shirt, curling into a sparkly little ball in his side. Mary cradled your head to him, stroking your hair and whispering to you about letting go, that you were safe here. 

If he was being honest with himself, he knew how shitty he’d been to you. He’d become far too defensive too quickly, unable to see past his own injustices in his world to understand that your world came with them too. There had been signs of your confinement, of the tight leash you were kept on, but he’d wilfully ignored them, striking them off as privilege. Your bedroom alone should have been a giant red flag; how was a grown woman still sleeping in a child’s bedroom?  

“I’m sorry, doll...” he told you, muttering into your hair as his lips gently pressed to the top of your head.  

“Not on you, Mare. This has been coming for a while...” you sniffled, wiping your tears with your gloves as you snuggled into him a little further, utterly comfortable in his hold. 

“No, I mean...” Mary sighed to himself, “I’ve been an asshole. I got too defensive, thought you were just being a brat or something, y’know? I judged you and I shouldn’t have.” 

Slowly, you sat upright, turning to look at him as his arms fell to his sides.  

“You don’t have to apologise, I get it... I wasn’t exactly good to you either,” you admitted, looking down at his shirt now stained with tears to avoid his eyes. “You were right, I was treating you like I was ashamed of you.” 

Mary sat up straight, clasping his hands together as he nodded in understanding. “We’ve all got our shit, doll.” His eyes drifted to the picture on his windowsill, and you couldn’t help but follow his gaze. You saw how he clenched his jaw, fiddling with the rings on his fingers as sadness crept into his eyes. 

“Who was she?” The question slipped out before you got the chance to stop yourself. From the way Mary tensed up beside you, you could tell it was a sore spot.  

“That’s my mom,” he looked back to you, a sad smile on his face.  

“Is she...?” 

“Dead? No...” he laughed awkwardly. “But she is in a care facility. That’s just the only photo of us I’ve got.”  

You nodded in understanding, not wanting to push the matter. But Mary felt like sharing... You’d been vulnerable with him, shared your shit. Maybe he should share his too, or at least some of it. Maybe you were the only person he could be honest with. You were certainly the only person he’d wanted to get to know him in a long time.  

“She was a drinker. It got worse when my dad left, but he was a waste of fucking space anyway. We, uh, didn’t have a lot...” his eyes flickered to the battered old guitar that now leaned against the wall by his bed, “but eventually her liver kind of gave up, so she’s on dialysis for the rest of her life. She needs constant care, but she’s still with us.” 

“I’m so sorry... no wonder you thought I was just being a brat,” you laughed awkwardly, feeling a little pathetic now. 

“Like I said, we all got our shit. It's not a contest, I just... realised I wanted you to know something real about me.” 

Silence descended over you along with the weight of what he’d just admitted. Mary wanted you to know him. He wasn’t running or hiding himself from you. He’d shared something so personal to him, and you felt that it was something not a lot of people might know about him, if any. Something about you made him feel just as safe as a part of him did for you.  

You looked at him; really looked at him. There was a sadness in his eyes, something you could notice now that you were sat merely inches apart from him with his mask firmly ripped away and laying in pieces on the floor. Whatever wall he usually put up, he’d let down just for you. You felt close to him, unbelievably so. You felt an urge to protect him, defend him. You felt a pull towards him, undistinguished in its meaning but so strong you couldn’t ignore it anymore.  

And as Mary stared back at you, his wounds exposed, he too felt that same pull. Who was he kidding? He’d felt it for a while. How else would he explain being unable to go barely minutes without thinking of you over the last few weeks?  

His eyes flicked down to your lips, heart racing and mind spinning out of control. He’d never felt so exposed. He wanted to kiss you, to show you what he felt in that moment, but it scared him. He already had shared so much, feeling just as vulnerable as he had as a child.  

In your corner, the silence got heavier with every second that passed. If he was going to kiss you, you would let him. You couldn't think of a better way to show him just how much you cared, how close you felt to him; that you truly wanted him.  

Just as you thought he might lean in, he snapped out of his trance, sucking in a breath between his teeth.  

“Well, hey... you can stop here tonight. I can find you something to wear, I’m pretty sure I got something in the back,” he joked, wiggling his eyebrows, “I can take you from riches to rags!”  

He slapped his thighs and stood up from the couch, marching over to the dresser by his bed and rifling through his drawers. You stayed put, thrown off by his sudden escape. From such an emotional, tender moment to him throwing that wall back up, closing up shop... You almost got whiplash from the speed at which he put the brakes on. Disappointment lay heavy in your chest.  

He came back over with a folded t-shirt and some plaid pyjama pants you could tie up to keep them on. “There’s clean cloths in the bathroom under the sink if you wanna wash up, towels if you wanna shower,” he handed you the clothes where you sat. “I’ll take the couch, you got the bed and we’ll figure out a plan in the morning.”  

“O-okay...” you stammered, standing up with the folded clothes. Frankly, you felt a little dazed from his shift in demeanour, but you could hardly blame him either. Sharing that had to have been harder than you first thought. 

You walked past him into the bathroom, locking the door and pulling on the string light to awaken the fluorescent bulb above you. Now catching a glimpse of yourself in his mirrored medicine cabinet, you saw the state of yourself. Make up smeared all over your face, streaks of black running from your eyes to halfway down your neck. They looked bloodshot and tired, staring lifelessly back at you. Your hair had fallen out of place from its fancy updo, and you looked as if you’d been dragged through a cornfield by your ankles. 

Deciding against a shower, you settled for wiping the make-up from your face and taking your hair down, attempting to detangle it with the comb you found in the medicine cabinet. You’d found a bottle of cologne in there too, which when you sniffed, smelled exactly like Mary had smelled the night he’d climbed through your bedroom window. You smiled fondly at the memory, noting how the bottle was largely untouched, still having the price tag on it which only confirmed that he’d bought it and worn it just for you. 

By the time you were done and changed into the clothes Mary had found you, Mary had made himself a makeshift bed from the blanket he’d previously folded on the couch and one of the pillows from his bed. He was already laying under it, having changed into some old shorts and removed his shirt.  

“You can put your dress on the dresser, and I can run out and grab you something to wear tomorrow so you’ve got something other than this to wear,” he called from the couch, sitting up so he could speak directly to you.  

“Thank you. I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow, I’m sure my dad just needs to calm down...” you told him. Mary couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, but also, protective. He wasn’t about to send you home to that, and he didn’t want you to feel like a burden on him either.  

“Sure, if that’s what you wanna do...” he muttered, his lips straightening into a line as he nodded. “Well... get some rest.” 

“Yeah, I will... thank you, Mary,” you told him. 

“Don’t sweat it,” he smiled, laying down on the couch and pulling the blanket over his bare shoulders. Without another word, you placed your clothes on the dresser and crawled into his bed, notably cold without him in it. Mary flicked off the lamp by the couch, plunging the apartment into mostly darkness save for the moonlight and the nearest streetlamp shining through his window. 

The same window where the picture of him and his mother sat.  

He could see it where he lay. In fact, he couldn’t look away. That smile on both of their faces reminded him of a time that was so rare. He could still hear her laughter mixing with his giggles as she’d hugged and tickled him, his grandmother who was long since gone snapping the picture on a whim.  

That little boy didn’t have many memories like that to come. He’d grown up far too soon, knowing how desperately his mother needed the help. His childhood was the two of them stuck out at sea, a hole in their boat – and Mary was the only one fishing the water out with a bucket. Eventually, it was bound to go under, so he worked harder, did everything he could to keep them afloat and yet... it wasn’t enough.  

The world had got him all wrong. When they thought he was bunking off school, he was working for a dollar an hour. When he’d been caught shoplifting, it was for a gift for his mother’s birthday. When he’d dropped out of school, it was to work every hour God sent to keep them from going hungry. When he finally did go off the rails in his late teens, it was after his mother’s liver failed. This poor, grown-up little boy had no one to look after anymore, and he’d spiralled. He was his only responsibility, but he’d never learned to care for himself – just the people around him. He always had to save them.  

Mary wiped the stray tear from his cheek, rolling over to face the back of the couch and will himself to sleep. He couldn’t tell if it was an hour or mere minutes that passed as he lay there, huddled under his old blanket on a couch that poked at his ribs under the cushions.  

“Mary...?” you whispered into the night, testing and hoping that he’d still been awake enough to hear. When he looked up, he saw you sat up in his bed, surrounded by emptiness, hugging your knees to your chest. In the dim streetlight, tear tracks sparkled on your face just like your dress.  

Before he knew what he was doing, his feet had carried him across the room. Tentatively, he sat at the edge of his bed, close enough that he could reach out and tuck your fallen hair behind your ear. Neither of you spoke; there was no need. It was obvious you needed the proximity, both vulnerable and in need of comfort.  

Mary’s eyes flicked between yours and your lips again, hesitating as his mind raced with conflicting arguments for and against giving in. He still wasn’t sure you truly wanted him. Maybe all you wanted in him was a friend, the sex having been a distraction or way to rebel. All Mary knew for sure was that you’d trusted him enough to be the one you called when you were in trouble. He didn’t want to break that trust now...  

But it was like you could see the cogs turning in his brain, the inner argument going on inside him. The battle wouldn’t be won by him alone; you were going to have to prove to him that you wanted him, that he wasn’t just your dirty little secret or some booty call. 

Slowly, you shuffled yourself closer to him, unwrapping your arms from around yourself and instead, pushing his floppy hair from in front of his face, getting a good look at him. That gorgeous face of his sat bathed in the dim light, caught between distant sadness and childlike wonder. With one last flicker down to your lips and back up to your eyes, he caught you smiling softly at him, your fingertips dancing across his jawline.  

And then finally, you leaned into him and pressed your lips gently to his. His eyes fluttered shut just as yours did, and he relaxed under your touch as if his limbs had melted. Mary, now feeling marginally more confident in where he stood, tilted his head to better sculpt his lips against yours. He was so gentle with you, his hands lifting to hold yours against his cheeks by the wrists. As the seconds passed, your lips moved together in tandem, both of you leaning into each other until he was able to wrap a hand around your waist and hold you against him, cradling each other in such a tender moment.  

This was undeniably different to any other kiss you’d shared. There was no move to advance, no desperation, no frantic arousal or rushed passion. This time, you simply held each other, seeking comfort in the affection you had for each other.  

As you parted, you rested your forehead against his, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as he held you still so close to him, not yet willing to let go.  

“Stay with me tonight...?” you requested, hoping he’d have no problem with the idea. Mary just nodded dumbly, overcome with a warm desire to never let you sleep alone again. You reached around you, pulling the blankets off of your lap to welcome him into them. He climbed in beside you, resting his head on the pillows as you, without a second thought, curled into his chest and let his arms envelope you. Neither one of you wanted to be alone tonight after sharing pieces of your soul with one another.  

Exhausted from the outpouring of emotion, you were soon lulled into a deep sleep by his rhythmic heartbeat and natural warmth. Mary, although exhausted himself, was still barely awake when he felt your body go limp against him. He smiled to himself, satisfied in the knowledge that he’d given up a part of himself he was sure he’d never trust anybody with.  

And yet, the wound was still open; spinning with memories, his mind lingered on one in particular, triggered when his tired eyes had fallen on that battered and beat up old guitar against the wall. That thing served as a reminder that Mary had only ever had Mary looking out for him, and that given a choice between himself and somebody else, he would always save anybody but himself... 

Mary waited patiently on the couch, his attention span null and void as the after-school cartoons blared on the TV set in front of him. He sat on the edge of his seat, quite literally, his feet kicking back and forth as he watched the clock. 

With the big hand on the 2, and the little hand on the 6, she’d be home any minute now. So, Mary waited as patiently as he could. 

Except, it wasn’t until the big hand had done a full circle, and the little hand was on the 7, that he heard the keys fumbling in the lock of the front door, followed by a telltale creak, and the slam of it behind footsteps.  

Mary jumped up, already on edge and over-excited. He ran into the hallway, to find his mother leaning against the wall with her eyes shut, head back against the plaster. She looked sick, her skin paled more than usual and her lips tainted with a familiar red stain.  

“Ma?” he asked, placing his little hand on her arm. Her eyes shot open, and she looked down at Mary next to her.  

“There’s my boy!” she slurred, leaning down to smother a sloppy kiss to his cheek. He wiped his cheek in childlike disgust, giggling to himself. “Happy birthday, baby!”  

She stood as upright as she could manage, bringing her purse with her while she stumbled into the living room, into the armchair Mary’s dad used to occupy that faced the TV set. Mary followed, bouncing on his feet with excitement. He’d waited all day for his mom to come home, hadn’t been able to focus in school for even a second. He stood and waited in front of her as she settled into the chair, dropping her purse in her lap.  

“Would you like your present baby?” she asked, smiling through hooded eyes that could barely focus. Mary nodded frantically, his heart pounding in his chest.  

It had been weeks since he’d spoken to his mother about the guitar he so desperately wanted. He’d spent most of his weekends at Mr. Rogers’ workshop, sweeping up wood shavings and running errands for a little bit of pocket money to help his mother save for this exact moment. He couldn’t wait any longer... 

His mother giggled, reaching into her purse and pulling out a small, square-shaped gift wrapped in balloon wrapping paper.  

For a moment, Mary was confused... But this had to be just a decoy. He remembered seeing these CDs in the music store; ‘Guitar Basics for Beginners’, audio instructive lessons that would be far cheaper than real in-person lessons.  

He tore into the paper, throwing the trash to the side and flipped the CD around to look at the front. It was an album; State of Euphoria by Anthrax. Mary’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, surprised to find it wasn’t what he’d thought.  

“That’s the band you like, right? Or... One of them,” his mother hiccupped, leaning on her elbows with a grin. 

“Y-yeah... thanks, ma.” His tone was unmistakably disappointed.  

“What’s wrong?” she asked, swiping her thumb across his cheek and pinching it lightly. Mary chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should say anything. He wasn’t one to be ungrateful, this was still a pretty great gift. Anthrax were one of the bands he had found he really loved recently. 

“No it’s great, ma, really. Thank you... It’s just,” he paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully, “could I get my guitar now? I read this book that teaches you about the frets and the notes of the strings, and stuff!” His words were rushed in that way over-excited children speed up the longer their sentence becomes. 

If his mother’s skin could pale any more, it did then.  

“Well, I... I couldn’t get the guitar, baby,” she told him, trying to let him down gently.  

“But... I helped Mr. Rogers? I thought we had enough?” he asked, his cheeks heating as if he were about to cry, but he didn’t want to make his mother feel bad by letting them spill.  

“I-I’m sorry, Mary... I needed to use that money...” she shrank back within herself, shame and guilt weighing on her shoulders.  

“For what?” he asked, genuinely confused, his tears building in his eyes. He was devastated... He worked so hard to get the guitar, to prove his mind was made up and he wouldn’t give up on learning it. But his mother just stared at him, her lip trembling as she saw her little boy so heartbroken. 

She knew exactly what she had spent it on; the very thing she promised she’d try and give up. 

“I... I’m s-sorry, b-baby,” she sobbed, tears spilling down her pale cheeks and her chest tightening around her breaths. She broke down, sobbing into her hands and hiding her face from the son she’d just disappointed so tragically. 

Mary wanted to be angry. It wasn’t fair... It was him who worked for that money, him who had tried so hard to help her. She was supposed to be the one adult he could count on, they were a team, weren’t they? He never asked for anything, ever. But just once, he wanted this. But she’d put her wine and God only knows what other alcohol before him again.  

He wanted to be angry. He tried to be. But his mother was hurting, she was crying, sobbing in front of him. She needed help. She was broken. She hadn’t meant to do this... right?  

Of course not. Her alcoholism had just gotten out of control, and unfortunately, addiction is a lonely and selfish ailment. Sober, her mind wouldn’t even think of doing something so selfish. But these days, she was rarely sober.  

Mary looked at his mother, crumpled up and sickly looking, weeping into her palms, and he just wanted to save her. He always wanted to save her.  

“Ma, it’s okay...” he told her, trying too hard for an 11-year-old not to cry. “Ma, don’t cry... I can keep working for one, it’s okay. I like the CD, I really do.” he squished himself between her and the arm of the chair, wrapping his arms around her and cuddling into her. She was inconsolable, sobbing so loudly she drowned out the cartoons on the TV set. She’d lost control of herself, and Mary was the only one around to pick up the pieces.  

“Shh, ma, it’s okay. It’ll be okay!” he told her, squeezing her as tightly as he could. “I’m here, don’t cry.” 

She’d screwed up big time, and whether Mary had chosen to forgive her or not, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself for this. If she wasn’t already buried up to the neck in a pit of self-loathing, this was the last shovel full of cement to trap her in. 

But Mary had already decided that he’d do what he could to dig her out. She was his mother, she did everything for him that she could... why wouldn’t he help her too? 

A guitar could wait a little while longer. For now, his mother needed him – and he’d work as hard as he needed to save her.  

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8

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[polyabathtub]

Harley-Foerster primer

Making my case for why you should ship these two rookies

Tyson Foerster

He’s a rookie on the Flyers with really excellent advanced stats, whatever that means. He had a slow start to his season, but he stayed positive, and he recently hit his stride. Lately he’s been scoring a ton of goals:

All of his cellies are just him flinging his arms up in the air in pure joy. He is almost always smiling.

He cares about his teammates and doesn't like beating them even in pointless competitions.

In this clip, Tyson wins a meaningless accuracy shooting competition against Cam York and a few other Flyers. When asked how it feels, Tyson answers "not good, he's my teammate." We love a professional athlete who just wants to have fun with the boys.

When he isn't smiling, he's extremely expressive:

He has a well-documented history of frolicking

Also one time he dressed up as a playboy bunny. How that alone has not yet launched 1000 fics, I do not know.

So: Tyson Foerster is a sweet ball of sunshine and an A+ goal scorer, secure in himself and his masculinity.

Thomas Harley

From Syracuse NY, he’s the star (heh) rookie defenseman of the Dallas Stars. 

We love him because he's a total babe and also very good at hockey.

He was highlighted on the NHL Network for leap year as a player who's taken a bit leap forward.

drysdalc on Twitter created a dizzying fan edit of him scoring goals and running his hands through his hair, if you'd like further justification.

Personality-wise, The Athletic said the following:

"Harley has always been a soft-spoken individual, especially in front of the microphone. There’s a looser version of him, one who picks playful fights with Wyatt Johnston in practices and during warmups, as he did on Saturday. But the most impressive thing about Harley has always been his maturity."

Sometimes he looks a bit deer-in-the-headlights during interviews. In my opinion this only adds to his charm.

Foerster/Harley

I hope I've convinced you that they're both at the very least plausibly nice boys. But why the two of them together?

I invite you to cast your thoughts back to September 27th, 2019. Harley is a recent draftee of the Dallas Stars. He played a few pre-season games, then was sent back to the Mississauga Steelheads of the OHL.

He gets off the plane and immediately plays a game against the Oshawa Generals, which he loses 5-6. The very next day, he plays another game, this time against the Barrie Colts. Thomas's team loses again, 7-3.

That season, Tyson Foerster was playing on the Colts. In that 7-3 game, Tyson recorded 6 points, including 3 goals.

"Foerster put himself squarely on the draft map on a late September day against the Mississauga Steelheads. He recorded six points including a hat trick. Then he went on a crazy point streak recording points in 13 straight games which including six consecutive multi-point efforts." - The Athletic

See? Huge deal for Foerster, and he got there by absolutely grinding Thomas's team into the dirt.

Thomas responded aggressively the next time their teams played each other, on 12/20/2019. In that game, Harley recorded two points and two assists, and the Steelheads beat the Colts 8-2. They played a few more times, including an overtime win for the Colts and an 8-1 Steelheads win.

After that season, Harley and Foerster didn't face each other again, as they both spent time in the minors. But this year, they're full time with their respective clubs. The Flyers and Stars have played two games this year.

The first, on October 21st, 2023, went to overtime. The Stars won 4-5. Tyson got a couple of shots on goal but neither player was particularly decisive.

The teams faced each other again on January 18th, 2024, AKA Tyson's 22nd birthday. This time, to the shock of basically everyone, the Flyers beat the absolute shit out of the Stars—but it took them a little while to get there.

As the second period was winding down, the Flyers were only up by 1. The shots differential was dramatically worse, at one point  28–3 in favor of the Flyers.

In the final minute of the 2nd period, Thomas high-sticked Tyson in the face. Miraculously, the Flyers scored on the associated power play, and it only got worse from there. The final tally was 1-5 in favor of the Flyers. Arguably, the Harley/Foerster penalty was the beginning of the end.

To summarize:

9/27/19: Thomas Harley plays 5 pre-season games with the stars and gets sent down back to Mississauga  9/28/19: Foerster’s Colts win 7-3 against Harley’s Mississauga, Tyson Foerster gets 6 points including a hat trick  12/20/19: The Colts play Sauga again, Mississauga wins 8-2 and Thomas gets a hat trick  2023–2024: Thomas Harley and Tyson Foerster are finally up with their respective teams for the season.  10/21/2023: Harley and Foerster play their first game against each other in the NHL. Neither of them does anything particularly of note.  1/18/2024: Harley and Foerster play their second game against each other in the NHL. Thomas highsticks Tyson at the end of the 2nd, arguably costing the Stars the game. Oh, and it’s Tyson’s 22nd birthday. 

In conclusion, you should ship them because:

sunshine-quiet is a fun pairing

their games against each other, while few, have a lot of drama

they're both very cute

edit 4/22/24: additional information has surfaced for me personally, which is that Tyson's roommate Joel Farabee is a longtime friend of Thomas Harley. This is very important and relevant information that everyone should know.

[perpetual-stories]

How To Fight Writers Block

hello, hello. hope everyone is doing well. as you can all tell, this post will be about how to fight writers block.

it’s really annoying to me when I hear people say “oh you don’t have writers block, you’re just lazy.”

first of all, yes, I am naturally lazy. second of all, how dare you. writing isn’t as easy as many think. granted, all you have to do is write down words on paper, but it’s not always easy to find the right words to express what you are feeling, or what you wish to say.

I have had terrible writer’s block for the last few days and it’s horrible! as a business owner or a small writing store, I have to be ready to write and fulfill my clients’ ideas and orders.

it’s not easy. It takes a heavy toll on my imagination, and digs me a deep pit of blockage, drowning in the lack of originality because of the constant writing and repetition or certain phrases and sentences in different projects.

i am making this post in the hopes to remind myself about over coming the dreaded and sometimes skeptically believed writer’s block.

What is writer’s block?

Yeah, I know. We all know what that is, but let me define it.

is the state of being unable to proceed with writing, and/or the inability to start writing something new

some people believe it to be a real problem, others believe it's “all in your head”

What Causes Writer’s Block?

in the 1970s, clinical psychologists Jerome Singer and Michael Barrios decided to find out

they concluded that there are four broad causes of writer's block:

Excessively harsh self-criticism

Fear of comparison to other writers

Lack of external motivation, like attention and praise

Lack of internal motivation, like the desire to tell one's story

How to overcome writer's block: 20 tips

1. Develop a writing routine:

Author and artist Twyla Tharp once wrote: “Creativity is a habit, and the best creativity is a result of good work habits.”

it might seem counterintuitive

if you only write when you “feel creative,” you're bound to get stuck in a tar pit of writer's block

The only way to push through is by disciplining yourself to write on a regular schedule. It might be every day, every other day, or just on weekends — but whatever it is, stick to it!

2. Use "imperfect" words:

A writer can spend hours looking for the perfect word or phrase to illustrate a concept

You can avoid this fruitless endeavor by putting, “In other words…” and simply writing what you’re thinking, whether it’s eloquent or not

You can then come back and refine it later by doing a CTRL+F search for “in other words.”

3. Do non-writing activities:

one of the best ways to climb out of a writing funk is to take yourself out of your own work and into someone else’s

Go to an exhibition, to the cinema, to a play, a gig, eat a delicious meal

immerse yourself in great STUFF and get your synapses crackling in a different way

Snippets of conversations, sounds, colors, sensations will creep into the space that once felt empty

4. Freewrite through it:

free-writing involves writing for a pre-set amount of time without pause — and without regard for grammar, spelling, or topic. You just write.

The goal of freewriting is to write without second-guessing yourself — free from doubt, apathy, or self-consciousness, all of which contribute to writer's block. Here’s how:

Find the right surroundings. Go somewhere you won't be disturbed.

Pick your writing utensils. Will you type at your computer, or write with pen and paper? (Tip: if you're prone to hitting the backspace button, you should freewrite the old-fashioned way!)

Settle on a time-limit. Your first time around, set your timer for just 10 minutes to get the feel for it. You can gradually increase this interval as you grow more comfortable with freewriting.

5. Relax on your first draft:

Many writers suffer form perfectionism, which is especially debilitating during a first draft

“Blocks often occur because writers put a lot of pressure on themselves to sound ‘right’ the first time. A good way to loosen up and have fun again in a draft is to give yourself permission to write imperfectly.” — editor Lauren Hughes

perfect is the enemy of good,” so don't agonize about getting it exactly right! You can always go back and edit, maybe even get a second pair of eyes on the manuscript

6. Don’t start at the beginning:

the most intimidating part of writing is the start, when you have a whole empty book to fill with coherent words

instead of starting with the chronological beginning of whatever it is you’re trying to write, dive into middle, or wherever you feel confident

7. Take a shower:

Have you ever noticed that the best ideas tend to arrive while in the shower, or while doing other “mindless” tasks?

research shows that when you’re doing something monotonous (such as showering, walking, or cleaning), your brain goes on autopilot, leaving your unconscious free to wander without logic-driven restrictions

showering is my favourite thing to do if I may add

8. Balance your inner critic:

successful writers have in common is the ability to hear their inner critic, respectfully acknowledge its points, and move forward

You don't need to completely ignore that critical voice, nor should you cower before it

you must establish a respectful, balanced relationship, so you can address what's necessary and skip over what's insecure and irrelevant

9. Switch up your tool:

a change of scenery can really help with writer's block. However, that scenery doesn't have to be your physical location — changing up your writing tool can be just as big a help!

if you’ve been typing on your word processor of choice, try switching to pen and paper. Or if you're just sick of Google Docs, consider using specialized novel writing software.

10. Change your POV:

great advice from editor Lauren Hughes: “When blocked, try to see your story from another perspective ‘in the room’ to help yourself move beyond the block. How might a minor character narrate the scene if they were witnessing it? A ‘fly on the wall’ or another inanimate object?

11. Exercise your creative muscles:

Any skill requires practice if you want to improve, and writing is no different! So if you’re feeling stuck, perhaps it’s time for a strengthening scribble-session to bolster your abilities

12. Map out your story:

If your story has stopped chugging along, help it pick up steam by taking a more structured approach — specifically, by writing an outline

13. Write something else:

Though it's important to try and push through writer's block with what you're actually working on, sometimes it's simply impossible

feel free to push your current piece to the side for now and write something new

14. Work on your characters:

It follows that if your characters are not clearly defined, you’re more likely to run into writer’s block

15. Stop writing for readers:

write for yourself, not your potential readers

this will help you reclaim the joy of being creative and get you back in touch with what matters: the story.

this is something I really need to do. because of my etsy business i don't write for fun anymore, but instead as a business and a deadline. i'm going to have to pull out my old crappy wattled fanfics or write some new ones.

16. Try a more visual process:

when words fail you, forget them and get visual. Create mind maps, drawings, Lego structures — ideally related to your story, but whatever unblocks your mind!

17. Look for the root of it:

writer’s block often comes from a problem deeper than simple “lack of inspiration.” So let's dig deep: why are you really blocked? Ask yourself the following questions:

Do I feel pressure to succeed and/or competition with other writers?

Have I lost sight of what my story is about, or interest in where it's going?

Do I lack confidence in my own abilities, even if I've written plenty before?

Have I not written for so long that I feel intimidated by the mere act?

Am I simply feeling tired and run-down?

once you identify what's wrong, it'll be so much easier to fix.

18. Quit the Internet:

If willpower isn’t your strong suit and your biggest challenge is staying focused, try a site blocker like Freedom or an app like Cold Turkey

19. Let the words find you:

meditate, go for a walk, take that shower

Word Palette is a great app that features a keyboard of random words, allowing you to simply click your way to your next masterpiece.

You can also try AI auto-completers like Talk to Transformer, where you can enter a phrase and let the app “guess what comes next.”

even though they often produce nonsense, it's a great way to help that writer's block.

20. Write like Hemingway:

And if your biggest block is your own self-doubt about your prose, Hemingway offers suggestions to improve your writing as you go

it's a pretty cool app if you ask me.

it highlights your sentences (if need be) and makes suggestions on how to improve them!

well, there you have it! a lengthy post on how to fight writer's block. now i just hope i can combat my own soon.

like, comment and reblog if you find this useful! feel free to reblog in instagram and tag me perpetualstories

Follow me on instagram and tumblr for more writing and grammar tips and more!

[americasmarauders]

ivy--Jason ToddxFem!Reader

author’s note: once upon a time there was a tiny Luíza who thought it was a good idea to wirite a royal!au. She spent 3 months working on it, but she couldn’t make justice to the words in her head so she gave up on it. Then she watched Bridgerton and decided to give the draft another chance; 

so yeah this is a royal!au. this is also my first mature work. nothing explicit just a mention of the devil’s tango. 

BEWARE: minors: there is nothing explicit, but there is a mention of sex towards the end, so read it with discretion. I would classify this as a 16+

words: 11,071

the link to my masterlist is here and the link to my jason playlist is here

#

#

This was a business transaction, she kept reminding herself.

         There were lives on the line, lives she had sworn to protect. It was her duty as the princess to guarantee the continuity and longevity of her bloodline and, above all else, her subjects. And the proposition presented to her guaranteed both of those.

         She saw it coming. Her Father’s lavish spending sprees, buying fights with people he shouldn’t. The vault had emptied—not completely, although it wasn’t nowhere near the same state it once was—and the people had suffered. She inherited the mess.

         Her kingdom, her prized kingdom, so brilliant, so beautiful, was in ruins. Because of an ego too big. She wasn't going to let that happen again. 

         The Wayne’s presented as the exit. The kingdom of Gotham neighbored her own, it would be convenient for them to incorporate hers. But above all else, king Bruce wasn’t looking for lands, he wanted knowledge, something her kingdom had plenty to spare.

         He wanted the kingdom of scholars to be his own. He wanted to stop the gangs, the barbaric gangs that destroyed her precious land, and he needed help from her scholars. Bruce gave her a business offer too hard to refuse. But there’s always a catch.

         ‘She’ll marry into the family,’ he wrote in his letter to the Queen, her mother. ‘My second son, he’s the Captain of the Royal Guards, he’s the one to take my throne. She’ll be a fine Queen, and with her knowledge, Y/N will help defeat this evil lurking in our shadows’.

         At first, she refused. She wanted to do it, but not at the cost of her future, not at the cost of her love. But she cooled her head. She couldn’t let her selfishness get in the way of the kingdom’s prosperity. So, she sent a letter to King Bruce. She accepted, at the condition they would do whatever it takes to preserve her tradition of knowledge. If to preserve her kingdom and give her people a relief she had to sell herself, then she would gladly do it

 #

 #

Gotham was nowhere near as beautiful as her kingdom. It had its charm, she could see why someone would like it, but it didn’t have the same ethereal air to it. On the contrary, it was quite gray and moody.

         She guessed it went along with the family running it. The Wayne’s were famous for being an overly serious, and, quite honestly, incredibly brooding family. King Bruce adopted 6 children—and rumors went around that only one of them was biological; a bastard—and all of them had varying levels of moodiness. She was to marry the second one: Prince Jason, Prince of Park Row.

         For a long time, he was the cautionary tale that was told to the children of the royal families. The Prince gone wrong, he snapped, rebelled, and, to many, he had fallen from grace. It was only a few years back he had resurfaced to the public attention as the one who was to be the next king. What happened between being the fallen Prince to being the heir was a mystery, one she wasn't sure she wanted to unveil.

         She looked at the windows, seeing the tiny rock houses and the calm villagers walking around under the daylight. She knew that once the night fell, things would change and the streets would be filled with those she yearned to eradicate.

         “You do not have to go through with this, my daughter,” her Mother started, once again trying to convince you of backing out of the deal. “We can find another way.”

         “There isn’t,” she answered. Her Mother opened her mouth to try to argue. “Don’t, Mother. You raised me to do what was right by my kingdom and its people and continuing by ourselves isn’t the answer.”

         “You are not sure about that,” Mother said, condescending in her words.

         “Don’t patronize me, Mother,” she shot back, her tone controlled. “I know this isn’t the ideal situation, but our situation wasn’t ideal to begin with,” she inhaled, her gaze shifting to the window of the carriage. “If Father hadn’t been so careless, we wouldn’t be here, and I would have turned down King Bruce’s proposal.”

         “I know,” Mother agreed quietly. “I feel for our loss of freedom, that’s all.”

         “This isn’t a loss of freedom. This is a new beginning. This is our chance to right our wrongs. Is there more freedom than that?” she responded, putting an end to this conversation as the carriage approached the castle.

         It was incredible and grandiose, far more than her family’s castle. It was fitting, she’d heard once from Elizabeth, one of the ladies in her court, that the Waynes vault was enormous. She didn’t know how she knew but seeing the castle alone she believed it.

         The carriage pulled to a stop, the door opening for her exit. Mother went first accepting the help from the coachman. She got out gracefully next, and the coachman closed the door behind her. She saw two men standing approaching. The older one had an austere air to him, but as he got nearer, she saw the crinkles next to his eyes, indications of years of smiling. The younger one had mischief in his eyes, and she couldn’t deny that he was incredibly handsome.

         “Your Majesty,” the older man bowed to her Mother. He then turned to her and bowed, “Your Highness, it is an absolute pleasure to have you in our kingdom.”

         She smiled politely. “The pleasure is all mine, Sir.”

         He smiled back. “I’m Alfred Pennyworth, I run the Wayne estate,” he turned once again to Mother. “Your Majesty, if you please I’ll show you to your quarters.”

         “Yes, thank you, Sir Pennyworth,” Mother answered, following him into the castle.

         The other man cleared his throat. “Your Highness, I’m Prince Dick, Duke of Blüdhaven,” he bowed, and she offered her hand. He kissed it politely, quickly releasing it and standing straight. “I’m the one escorting you today.”

         “Thank you, Prince Dick,” she said politely.

         “Shall we?” he offered his arm, and she couldn’t miss the golden glimmer of his wedding band on his hand.

         “We shall,” she said, controlled.

         Both of them walked calmly, as he showed her around the castle. She noticed the extravagant décor, paintings of generations of Wayne’s before adorning the walls, amongst other priceless pieces of art she was sure were worth more than the entire treasure she had in her kingdom. She quietly observed as he showed the corridor to her quarters for the month—he gracefully omitted the fact that she was marrying a stranger by the end of it and this wasn’t going to be her room any longer than that.

         She heard Prince Dick sigh next to her. “I’m sorry it has come to this,” he stated. “I’m sure I can speak for my Father when I say we all wished for a different outcome.”

        She offered him a tight smile. “Yes, well, I believe what we have agreed on is what’s right for both of our kingdoms,” she noted. “And while I wonder what would have been like if I didn’t come to this decision, if I may be candid, I do not regret making it.”

        He chuckled. “Yes, I’m glad you do not have any regrets, Your Highness,” he said. “And I’m glad you were candid about it. I’m positive you’ll do great in our family.”

        He stopped in front of a large and sturdy double door. He knocked 3 times. “The King awaits you,” he stated to her. “You shall wait here.”

        “Yes, thank you, Your Highness,” she bowed slightly. “Thank you for escorting me.”

 #

#

“I will not marry her, for fucks sake,” Jason growled, slamming his hands on his guardian’s imponent desk. “I will not be a fucking bargain coin for your politics, Bruce.”

         Bruce didn’t even flinch with his son’s outburst. “It is your duty.”

         “Shove the duty up your ass, then. I have too many things to worry about, I don’t want another.”

         Bruce continued to look at the map sprawled out on his desk, “The L/N’s are incredibly smart and their kingdom holds a lot of the knowledge that we need to defeat the Joker’s gang and the others. This is very much your concern, isn’t it?��

         Jason shuddered at the mention of Joker. “It is,” he said, defiant.

         “Then marry her and do your job,” he stood up, leaning menacingly over the desk to look Jason in the eye. “You are the main responsible for our safety, and although I disagree with your methods, you are doing a good job. You need to start thinking of the future, Jason. This is bigger than you.”

         Jason huffed in annoyance. “I know of that,” he muttered. Then he smirked and said: “But you didn’t marry and had biological kids, Bruce,” he taunted. “Why should I do it the traditional way?”

        “Because I know what it’s like to not go down that path, son,” he answered, raising his voice slightly, but still composed. “I don’t want you to be like me, I want you to be better.”

        Jason was speechless. He tried to mutter a word but his brain couldn’t think of any of it. “I still don't want to marry her.”

        “You will, though,” his Father answered, opening his drawer and pulling the contract out of it. “And all I ask of you is to not push her away. You’ll need her, more than she’ll need you.”

        Jason wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that. And he hated to admit—he and Bruce were constantly fighting over everything, especially after… after—but his Father was right. He wished it didn’t come at the cost of his liberty. He wasn’t looking for a wife. He found that it would only hold him back. But the prospect of the crown loomed in his horizon, and if he wanted to do right by his people, marrying was one of the requirements. It was too late to turn back.

         Three sturdy knocks sounded. Jason quickly recomposed himself.

 #

#

She had seen King Bruce once, when she was younger. Her Mother threw a gala for whatever reason and he attended. She didn’t remember seeing any of his kids there, or maybe she was too occupied with her own thoughts to notice.

         She remembered him being charming and handsome. A lot of the ladies of the court wanted to marry him, but somehow none of them had managed to. She recalled the color of his eyes so vividly, not because it was beautiful—it was—but because it revealed something deeper about himself that left her guessing. She could never discover it, though. Some things are better left unsaid and unknown.

         Looking at him now felt like she had entered a time machine. He had stayed the same, save a couple of wrinkles of worry—totally comprehensible for someone with his position.

         She curtsied. “Your Majesty, it’s an honor to meet you once again,” she said.

         “Princess Y/N, please come in,” he motioned for her to come in. She straightened up and calmly walked into the room. “I believe you haven’t acquainted yourself with Prince Jason,” he nodded towards the direction of the man standing angrily in the corner.

         “No, I haven’t,” she smiled politely and turned to the man. She curtsied, “Your Highness, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

         She could feel him rolling his eyes, even if she couldn’t see him. “The pleasure is all mine, Your Highness,” he answered sarcastically.

         She uncurled and crossed her hands in front of her body. She glanced one last time at her suitor, studying him.

        He was beautiful.

        Jason had the prettiest eyes she had ever seen. They were the perfect shade of blue, and she never thought there was a perfect shade of color. His hair had a streak of white, that made him look even more rugged than he already was. His hair was swept, messy in the perfect way. He was pretty in the way a bounty hunter or a thief would be, not the way a prince would. Princes were known for being pristine and soft around the edges: Jason was nothing like that.

        She turned her eyes to the king. “I believe we have arrangements to make,” she said calmly.

        “Yes, we do,” the king replied. He picked up a stack of papers on top of his desk. “I took the liberty of assembling a contract for the annexation,” his hand rested on top of it. “Your input will be valuable.”

        King Bruce handed her the papers. “Thank you very much, your Majesty. I imagine this needs to be signed by the end of the week?”

        “Yes, but I’d rather it was signed today. Forgive me for the rush, but we need your scholars’ help as soon as possible.”

        “I understand,” she replied. “By the end of the day we can sign then.”

        “That’s perfect, Princess Y/N. Jason, escort her to the library so she can read in peace,” Bruce commanded.

        “Yes, Father,” he gritted through his teeth. She could feel his body shaking with anger and resentment and she knew she was the source of it.

        He strode towards the door and flung it open for her. She curtsied to the king one last time, before turning and accompanying her suitor towards the library.

        Jason’s hands were crossed behind his back, his feet heavily stomping the ground. She kept up with him, walking side by side, lifting her dress slightly.

        The walk was filled with strained silence. She started to feel uneasy about the waves of anger coming off Jason, she felt the need to address it.        

        He stopped abruptly and opened the double door standing in front of them, revealing the most beautiful library she had ever laid eyes on. Bookshelves adorned all of the walls, from the ceiling to the floor. The stairs to the mezzanine—once again filled with full bookshelves—were of sculpted wood and she considered them pieces of art. The ceiling had the most beautiful paintings on it, and she wondered who had the patience to paint such a huge canvas. It was all breathtaking.

        “Well, this is the library. If you need anything don’t hesitate on calling one of the help,” Jason said mechanically, snapping her back to reality.

        “Thank you, your Highness,” she muttered, still quite perplexed at the sight. She inhaled deeply and said: “I know this situation isn’t ideal and that you might feel cornered. But, truly, I’m not here to get in your way. I just want what’s best for my people.”

        Jason hummed, his anger somewhat subsiding but still very much present. “Yes, well,” he said, “I think you should get to reading that contract. Wouldn’t want to keep his Majesty waiting,” he finished, voice laced with sarcastic undertones. He turned around and left her alone with the papers.

#

#

It was late at night. The sun was long gone. Her stomach rumbled in hunger; the last thing she ate was at lunch, when she was about halfway through the papers.

         It wasn’t even that long, she just wanted to be thorough. She had read every single line for what it was and all the possible meaning behind it. Kudos to King Bruce for making such a complete and meaningful contract, she had been entertained the entire day.

         She rubbed her eyes, exhausted. She had managed to reorganize the contract after pulling it apart, the small piece of paper with her suggestions resting on top of it. With her hands stained with ink, she picked the papers up and headed towards the door, when it opened.

         “Sir Pennyworth,” she said in surprise, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

         “Your Highness, his Majesty has sent me to escort you to his office. I believe you’ve settled on the final details of the papers?” he announced politely.

         “Yes, I did. King Bruce did a superb job on it,” she complimented. He guided the way towards the office.

         “I’m afraid it wasn’t him who wrote it,” Sir Pennyworth pondered.

         “No?” she replied.

         “I’m sure it was Prince Tim, he’s the one with an aptitude for these endeavors,” he said.

         “Oh, I’m afraid I haven’t met Prince Tim, yet. I’ll be sure to compliment him when I do.”

         “He’ll be excited, your Highness,” he commented. “What did you think of Gotham so far?”

         She smiled sweetly at the older man. “I haven’t seen the city yet, but I found the part I have seen completely charming,” it wasn’t completely a lie. It was charming. Just not as charming as her own kingdom. “The castle, though, I’m mesmerized by it. You have done an incredible job maintaining it, Sir Pennyworth.”

         “Please, your Highness, call me Alfred. Thank you for your kind words,” he smiled warmly.

         “Well, Alfred,” she stressed his name, respecting his wishes, “thank you for escorting me.”

         She stopped as she saw the familiar door, holding the papers tightly. “It’s been my pleasure, your Highness,” he bowed, and left.

         She knocked on the door, calmly. A muffled come in came through and she turned the doorknob. Walking in, she saw King Bruce and three of his sons gathered around a round desk in the corner, a map sprawled out. She curtsied. “Your Majesties, I’m here with the contract and my notes.”

         She saw one of the Princes mouth ‘notes?’ to Prince Dick, (who shrug it off, just as confused) as Prince Jason rolled his eyes at her once more. “Please, Princess, sit down so we can further discuss it,” he motioned to his desk. “Dick, Tim, we will continue debating this tomorrow. Dick, you are dismissed. Tim, stay in case we need to change the composition.”

         Both Princes furrowed their eyebrows. As Dick left the room without a word or bow—which she was sure broke some kind of protocol—Tim decided to sit on an armchair next to the table they were standing before. The door closed with a click and she sat down, the papers resting on her lap gently.

         “I heard you said you have some notes on the text?” King Bruce initiated politely.

         “I mean no disrespect, your Majesty. The redaction was splendid,” she complimented, “I just mean there could be a couple of points added to make it more complete.”

         “Yes, yes,” he agreed, “please make your points.”

         “I agreed to this proposition on the condition of preserving my kingdom’s tradition in academia. While there was a clause in page 5 that stated that clearly, I thought it would be to everyone’s benefit if it was expanded into specifics,” she handed him the contract and the notes.

         He glanced over the notes, Jason reading it too, behind his Father. “I think these are all fair requests.”

         She smiled. A much needed win for her kingdom. “Thank you,” she said.

         “Tim, grab a pen and paper and add these to the text,” Bruce ordered. “We sign this tonight.”

         Tim jumped up from his seat, quickly opening a drawer for the pen and paper, and grabbing her notes. He scribbled furiously and within minutes the new page of the contract was finished, both parties agreeing to it.

         “Now, all there’s left to do is sign,” Tim announced handing a pen to Jason.

         She noticed Jason’s eyes filled with something indescribable, a mix of what she assumed was anger and grief. She wished both of them had a choice, but this was bigger than both. She prayed to the stars that both could make the best of this bad situation.

         He signed, handing the pen to her. Her fingers brushed for a mere second, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks. She quickly recomposed herself and swiftly signed out her name, her kingdom.

         It was done. It was easier than she thought it would be. She hoped she hadn’t made the wrong decision, and there was all that was left to do.

         King Bruce dismissed Tim, leaving just her and Jason in the room. “There’s the matter of the engagement ball,” he stated. “We hope to announce your engagement by the end of next week.”

        “Of course,” she stated clearly. Jason only grunted. 

        “Should I expect both of you to be involved in the planning?” the King asked. It sounded more like an order and she knew Jason knew about that. 

        Jason nodded stiffly. She then turned to the King and opened a polite smile. “Yes, of course, Your Majesty,” she agreed. 

        King Bruce dismissed both of them and Jason ran out of the room. 

         She ran to catch up to him, his long strides almost besting her in a long gown and high heels. “Prince Jason, wait!” she shouted.

         He stopped and turned. “What?”

         If she was taken aback by his rudeness she was sure to not show it. “Since now it’s official, I was wondering if I could tag along to one of your strategy meetings. I might have some knowledge to share or point the way to help.”

         “Aren’t you going to be too busy planning the ball?” he taunted. 

         “I’m perfectly capable of focusing on more than one thing,” she replied dryly. “Gotham is my kingdom now, I want it to prosper. And I want to be a part of it.”

         His face didn’t leave any indications on whether or not he was to grant her permission to participate, so she was surprised when she heard him agreeing. “I’ll arrange for you to participate in one. I’ll send Alfred to tell you details,” he dismissed and turned around once again intended to walk to wherever he was headed.

        “Thank you,” she shouted after him. 

        He hesitated before walking. He turned to her slightly and gave her a smile--and she felt like it was an honest one. He turned back and disappeared. 

 #

#

A gentle breeze blew as she walked down the busy streets of Gotham. Her dress—which she felt was too light for this occasion—blended in with the crowd splendidly. Jason walked beside her calmly, his hands behind his back.

         His face was serene and calm, as if he was truly where he belonged. She thought it as a good quality: it meant he was empathic, not on a pedestal like most heirs. He came from the people and he would serve his people. Her heart fluttered involuntarily. She struggled to contain it.

         The people of the city were quite vivacious and charming. The city in itself was gloomy and, quite honestly, a touch depressing, but the people colored the streets and made it feel almost as if the city was breathing.

         “This is so different,” she said, perplexed by the movement around her. No one as they passed by her noticed who she was, or better, what she was. “They don’t care.”

         Jason smiled. “No, they don’t.”

         “It’s quite magical,” she concluded.

         “It may be to us, but to other people,” he pointed to a couple, both very dirty and very thin sitting on the floor. They tried to get people’s attention, but they just didn’t care, “well, it can be quite awful.”

         She wished she was just as cold as those other people. It would save her a whole lot of suffering but she wasn’t. People’s pains found a way to her heart and became her own. She pushed through the crowd, muttering a few ‘excuse me’s along the way. She took off the only jewelry—a necklace, so simple and delicate; it was one of her favorites—she was wearing and left it in the can the old couple had in front of them.

         She knelt to be at eye level with them and said, looking at their shocked faces: “Sell it, please. It’s worth some money and you’ll be able to buy some food and clothes.”

         Their faces lit up and they thanked her enthusiastically. She smiled at them before getting up and rejoining Jason and continuing her walk. He had the same shock the couple had. He offered his arm, out of politeness she was sure, and her hand rested on the crook of his elbow.

         “Out of all the things I thought you would do, I—” he trailed off.

         “You think so little of me,” she said. “I’m not heartless, you know?”

         “I never assumed that,” he muttered.

         She looked him dead in the eye. His eyes twinkled in the sunlight and once again she had to fight the fluttering feeling in her stomach. “Good.”

         A few beats went by before either of them spoke again. She was the one to break the silence. “Does Gotham have any social programs to help the poor? It would greatly benefit the people,” she added kindly. “If there isn’t, I’m sure I can think of something to help.”

         Jason fought to contain a smile creeping on his face. “I think His Majesty deals with this type of project. You’d have to talk to him,” he said, guiding her back to the carriage.

         “I’ll discuss it with him then,” she said, impassive, her lips quirking up at the end. “Have you arranged for me to participate in the meeting?”

         Jason sobered up quickly. He couldn’t show her that he found her amusing. He couldn’t be so transparent. He didn’t want a wife, he repeated to himself. He didn’t need a wife, he tried to convince himself. This girl was not for him, she was too good. “I did.”

         She smiled. “Great. I’ll catch up on studies so I can understand everything.”

         He hoped he had remained impassive, because he couldn’t control the plethora of feelings inside his heart. Fuck.

 #

#

Jason paced in his office. Tim watched him closely, studying his brother.

         “Why are you so exasperated?” Tim questioned. “I’m glad you like her, otherwise you would have led a horrible life.”

         “That’s exactly my point,” Jason said, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t want to like her, Tim. She’s too good for me.”

         “How do you know that? You’ve barely even met her,” Tim leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs.

         “I just fucking know it, Tim,” he snapped, yelling at his brother. “It’s bullshit, that’s what it is. I wasn’t supposed to be in this situation, I’m not supposed to fall in love and get married and have a white picket fence life, goddammit. Look at me” he motioned to himself, looking straight into Tim’s eyes, “I’m a fucking disgrace. I’m a monster who kills people without remorse, I’m—”

         “Enough with the self-pity, Jason!” Tim got up abruptly, matching Jason’s volume. Jason’s mouth promptly shut. “Stop it. You’ve wallowed in it since Bruce told you about the arrangement, I won’t allow it anymore,” he added quietly. “You know none of what you said is true, you know it,” Tim walked to his brother and rested his hands on his shoulder. “Fuck what you think, Jay. Fuck what everybody else thinks, okay? You’re already getting married to her no matter what, let yourself like her. It’s the least you could do.”

         “I can’t—” Jason inhaled sharply recomposing himself. “I don’t know if I can like her the way she deserves.”

         “Then try. Isn’t it what you’ve spent your life doing? Trying? Try this too. What’s the worst that could happen?”

         “She hates me and I have to be married for the rest of my life with someone who hates me,” he didn’t say that that was his greatest fear. That he never wanted to be like his parents, fighting and bickering and beating each other. Showing their worst to the world. Having a kid and traumatizing him to the point he’d hardly trust someone.

         “So, you’d be just like another royal,” Tim tried to lighten up the mood. He noticed Jason’s somber expression and quickly sobered up.  “She doesn’t hate you. She’s trying so hard to please you, to prove to you she’s a worthy addition to the family, can’t you see?”

         “She’s not doing it for me,” Jason got out of Tim’s hold, turning his back to his brother. 

         “She may not, but she’s trying hard, when most wouldn’t even bother. That’s something, Jay,” Tim completed. 

         Jason didn’t complement Tim. He had enough with the talking and the convincing. Tim sighed sadly, and left the room, leaving Jason to sulk alone.

#

#

Between setting everything up for the ball, arranging the wedding ceremony, learning everything she could about Gotham recent history, and everything else she had taken upon, she was completely and utterly occupied. 

        It was for the better though. The more she was doing, the less she stayed inside her head, thinking about herself and letting her anxiety and doubt eat her inside. She had done the right thing, she kept reminding herself. She had done the best thing for her people, they would prosper, they would not suffer anymore. 

        And yet, there was always a little voice telling her that she had signed her people’s death sentence. The more she learned about Gotham, the more she read about its history and its horrors and its corruption, the more she thought she had condemned her people to a life in misery. Look at the amount of homeless, she thought, why did Gotham have so many homeless people, so many kids?

        No. No. No. She wouldn’t allow herself to get nervous. She was sure in her decision, and Prince Jason had proven himself to be reliable, even if he was distant. When she asked him a favor, he did it. When she asked him a question about his lands--Park Row--he would answer it truthfully. It was more than she could have expected in an arranged marriage. Most of those ended up in misery, both parties unfaithful to their spouses. She knew Prince Jason wouldn’t seek pleasure and comfort elsewhere. She felt it. 

        As soon as she stopped in front of Jason’s improvised study in Gotham’s main castle, Prince Tim opened the door. She could see Jason gazing through the window, his back turned to the door. 

        “Princess Y/N!” Prince Tim exclaimed, surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

        She saw Jason tense and turn to them. She smiled. “I have a couple of things to discuss with Prince Jason,” she explained. 

        Tim chuckled. “Yes, yes, of course,” he shook his head and said with an airy smile on his face. He turned to Jason and shared a look. Jason looked like he could kill his brother. Tim stepped out of the way and let her enter the room. She entered and Tim left closing the door behind him. 

        She stared at him. He looked tired, the bags under his eyes casting shadows over his face. But somehow, his eyes looked brighter than she had ever seen it before. She has trouble breathing and her heart beated faster inside her chest. She swallowed dryly, her hands gripping tightly the papers she carried. She curtsied to him. Follow protocol. Protocol is safe, it doesn’t make anyone nervous. 

        “You wanted to see me?” he asked, his voice strained. 

        “Yes, well,” she snapped out of her daze, “there’s still a few details to be decided for the ball.”

        He sighed and sat on his chair, his body looking exhausted. “Can’t you decide?”

        “It’s not only my ball,” she said. “I can’t decide for you, Your Highness.”

        “Don’t call me Your Highness,” he muttered, annoyed. “It’s weird. We’re going to be married,” he explained. “I don’t want to have protocol in the middle of it.”

        She looked down at her feet and back up at him. There went her comfort, the line she drew to not get too close. It was a business transaction after all, no need to get personal. Well, she figured, it got personal when she promised herself as a bargain coin for politics. “Yes, of course,” she whispered. “It won’t happen again,” she finished.

        He sighed. He mentioned for her to sit in front of her and she sat. “We need to establish some rules before we embark in this...journey together,” he stated. 

        “Of course,” she agreed.

        “I don’t want you to be restrained by protocols and etiquette when speaking to me,” he said softly. “We’re going to rule a kingdom together, one that just got bigger, we’re going to have to trust each other.”

        “I agree,” she said, hesitant. “What is your point?”

        “Call me Jason,” he said. “I never really liked my title all that much and I don’t want my future wife using it when talking to me,” he stated. It was the first time she heard him referring to her as his future wife, and he said it like it didn’t bother him. It sent butterflies to her stomach. 

        “Yes, you’re right,” she shook her head. Of course he was. Her parents never called each other by their titles when they were alone. “I suppose you’d want to form a friendship too?”

        His mouth quirked up. “That would be preferable, yes,” he said. 

        “Okay, then, Jason,” she stressed his name. “Then we should start this partnership deciding which colors do you want the napkins to be.”

        “Actually,” Jason started, “I have something to give you first.”

        She raised her eyebrows. “You do?”

        “Yes,” he breathed. “I wanted to start this on the right foot,” he pulled out a little velvet box from a drawer behind the desk and walked to be beside her. “Since we’re engaged, I thought it was only appropriate to give you an engagement ring.”

        She looked up at him, surprised. “You didn’t have to,” she shook her head. “I wasn’t expecting this.”

        He smiled at her. “Open it,” he urged her. 

        She picked up the box and opened. Resting inside it, she noticed, was the prettiest ring she had ever seen. There was a single ruby, sided with two simple diamonds. It wasn’t the flashiest and biggest engagement ring she ever saw--one of the ladies of her court married a rich duke from a far away kingdom and he had given her a diamond ring that almost covered her entire finger. “It’s beautiful,” she said, staring at it.

        “Allow me,” he said, picking the box, and slipping the ring on her finger. His hands lingered on hers longer than it should have. “There.”

        She stared at it for a bit longer. “I have no words, Jason.”

        He smirked and walked to his chair. “How about we decide the color of the napkins?”

        He knew he shouldn’t have done that. He was getting involved, he was cultivating feelings for her, feelings he had refused to have just mere minutes ago when he was talking with Tim. But when he was with her, he couldn’t help it, he was just swept away by her. Suddenly, around her, Jason wanted to do everything to please her, to make her happy and satisfied. 

        Jason knew he was in deep shit. Jason knew he was falling for her, and he wanted, consciously, to stop that. But he couldn’t: his heart spoke louder. 

        He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing.

 #

#

They had walked side by side the entirety of the ball. Her hand rested in a variety of places, the crook of his elbow, his hand, or the skirt of her dress. It didn’t need any saying that her favorite place for her hand to be was in his. 

        Nevertheless, the fluttering it sent to her stomach every time he would smile at her--albeit she knew the smile was only for show--it didn’t diminish the anger she felt at him.

        They walked side by side all night, him telling a fantasious story about how they met. It was love at first sight, he’d tell. They’d met under the moonlight, a sky full of stars, he looked at her and knew she was meant for him. She wore a blue dress, according to him. She smiled at him and it was like a whole new world opened up to him, a world full of love. According to him.

        The worst part was that she couldn’t say anything. Because she didn’t know anything about the lie he had constructed, what he had told other people when she was talking to his brothers while he was talking to Kings of other kingdoms. And that was what made her angry. He had reduced her, at least for the night, as a mere accessory for him. 

        He had been so sweet with her, so charming and loving. And then he did what he did. It could have been worse, she thought. He could have been invasive, he could have ignored her ‘no’. In that way, he was an angel. But he was still shitty with her that night. And it didn’t matter that it could have been a million times worse, Jason had reduced her to an arm candy. She still felt like an object. That would never be acceptable to her.

        He took her to the dance floor, as the orchestra played a slow song. 

        “It was a charming story you told our guests,” she said, her voice impassive. 

        “I figured it would be better for them to think we’re marrying for love instead of what actually is,” he explained, his hand resting on her lower back and the other holding her hand. She ignored the feeling his touch sent through her body. 

        “I wish you would have told me,” she said, her voice strained. She tried to control her anger. 

        “What do you mean?” he asked, confused. 

        “I discovered you had concocted a story for us at the same time all the others did, Jason,” she said. “And I couldn’t say anything, in risk of exposing the lie you’ve built.”

        He looked at her confused for a mere second, before recognizing what he did. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t think--”

        “You didn’t,” she interrupted him. “I’m not an accessory, Jason. I’m far too smart for that role,” she said. “I can’t stand by your side and smile and wave as if it’s just all I can do. I came to Gotham expecting not to be numbed by antique expectations of women of royalty. And you forced me to fit that box tonight. I hate it.”

        “I’m truly sorry,” he said sincerely. 

        “Yes,” she nodded. “Next time you decide to lie, at least tell me what you’re planning. After all this is a partnership, we agreed on that. We can’t act behind each other's back.”

        “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed, squeezing the hand he was holding more tightly and bringing her closer to him. “It won’t ever happen again.”

        “Good,” she nodded. 

        She knew he was trying to charm her with his tight hold on her. She tried to stay mad at him, tried to remain impassive, but she found that she felt safe with his arms around her like that. She broke a shy smile at him. He smiled at her too, his eyes bright with something unrecognizable. 

#

#

She sat quietly in the corner, a notebook resting in her lap. Her fingers twiddled with the pen, as she listened attentively to what the council members had to say.

         It was refreshing to be intellectually stimulated when she’d spent the entire week deciding dumb details about the wedding. It didn’t matter what flower arrangement the church was going to be decorated with, or which color the napkins were. She really didn’t care about it. If it were up to her she’d be married in a tiny room with no party. But it wasn’t, so she complied.

         “—we need to send humanitarian help to the Bowery, the people are starving!” Lady Helena exclaimed, cutting Tim in his long rant about something overly complicated.

         “We can send help after we eliminate Scarecrow!” Tim replied just as loudly. “If we send food, the gang will intercept and the situation will get worse, Helena. Don’t you get it?”

         “What I get, Tim,” she said annoyed, “is that you are so entangled in your overly complicated plan to dismantle their operation that you are blind to the suffering of your people.”

         Tim got up abruptly from the table, angry at Lady Helena, his fists balled up like he was going to punch her. Dick rested a hand in his brother's arms, calmly guiding him down for him to sit. Tim sat with a thud, his eyes flaming with rage, his face red.

         Jason, who was awfully quiet the entire meeting, sighed and rubbed his hands on his face. He leaned forward on the table, looking defeated. “And here I thought we’d make a good first impression,” he mumbled.

         “It’s okay, your Highness,” she said respectfully, thinking it would be better to use his title in front of the committee instead of his name. “In fact, I think I might have the solution to the Bowery problem.”

         Tim scoffed. “Good luck with that. I’ve been trying for the past year to solve it and I’m nowhere near to the solution.”

         She ignored his comment. “Anyway, I remember reading something about Scarecrow in my dad’s files. I’d need to reread to be sure, but I know there’s a safe way to provide supplies for those in need.”

         Jason clasped his hands together. “Great! We’ll discuss details at the next meeting after we get those files.”

         “If you don’t mind, I’d rather pick those up myself,” she said 

         “Sure, I’ll ask Alfred to arrange the trip,” he dismissed. “Well if there’s nothing else to discuss, this meeting is finished.”

        The council members disbanded leaving only her and Jason in the council room. 

        “What did you think?” Jason asked, his voice tired. 

        “They mean well,” she started, “but I can see that they’re desperate for results. And desperation in these situations isn’t a good thing.”

        “I know,” he sighed, his hands running through his hair. “I know, I’ve tried telling them but it never works in the long run.”

        She smiled. “Good thing I know how to help,” she said. 

        “Yeah,” he sighed. “It’s good that you’re here.”

#

#

He knew it was coming. He thought he was prepared for it. He thought he wouldn’t feel anything when he saw her walking down the long aisle, he hoped he wouldn’t. But when Jason saw her in her white dress, walking towards him, his heart stopped for a second and the world stopped turning. 

        She chose to walk down the aisle by herself. She wanted to show she wasn’t led into any decisions. She was doing this by her own accord, her own judgement. Jason thought it showed a lot of her character. She stood by her decisions and its consequences. She was strong. He admired her, more than he cared to admit. 

        Jason could barely remember the ceremony. He couldn’t stop looking at her, memorizing every detail of her in the light of the Gotham Cathedral, the crown she was wearing, the embroidery in her dress. But most importantly, the look in her eyes. It was everything to Jason. 

        He couldn’t exactly place what it was yet, but it was there and it meant more to him than he realized it ever could. 

        He floated through the ball after the ceremony. It was weird to call someone his wife, he never thought he would see the day he could call someone that. But Jason found that it didn’t repulse him like it would have before he met her. He was left with a tingly sensation of joy inside him. 

        It scared the daylight out of him. 

        He kept a tight grip on her, walking side by side. She was enchanting. She talked smartly with Kings of neighboring kingdoms. He heard King Clark of Metropolis commenting to Bruce how perceptive the new princess was. How intelligent she was. 

        Jason knew all of that, but it still didn’t stop him from being mesmerized. 

        “Who’s that gentleman?” she nodded towards an old man on the corner of the room. 

        Jason hummed looking at the man. “That’s Oswald Cobblepot. He is a part of one of the oldest families of Gotham.”

        “He has been staring intensely at me for the entire ball,” she looked at Jason, whispering to him. 

        “Well, you are the future Queen,” he commented. “People will stare at you more.”

        “No,” she shook her head, her hand resting on the crook of his elbow. He guided her through the ballroom. “This is different. He looks at me like he hates me.”

        “Oh,” he said. “He has a…quarrel, if you will, with the Waynes. His family was one of the few that founded Gotham. The Cobblepots almost ruled the land, but the Waynes got the kingdom. They have hated our family since then.”

        “Now that I’m a Wayne, he hates me?” she asked. “This doesn’t feel right.”

        “Well, technically you’re a Todd-Wayne, but yes.”

        She hummed. “He seems suspicious, Jason,” she whispered. “I think he’s planning something.”

        “Cobblepot is a coward, he would never hurt you,” Jason reassured. “But he would pay for someone to do so.”

        “You think he has?” a twinge of panic rising in her voice. 

        “He has done that before,” Jason said. “He wasn’t supposed to be invited, but Bruce insisted, and I had to dislocate more guards to the ballroom because of him.”

        “Can you keep an eye on him?” she asked. “I have a bad feeling about him.”

        “We always keep an eye on him, Y/N” he whispered. “He’s a criminal.”

        “What?” she said, shocked. He guided her to the dance floor, as a soft song played through the room. 

        “We have undercover guards track him everywhere,” he stated quietly, as if no one was supposed to know. “We have to every criminal mastermind this city has ever had the pleasure to meet.”

        “That’s a lot of guards then,” she commented. 

        “It’s a fucking nightmare,” he laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone get to you, love.”

        She looked at his eyes and smiled. “Thank you, Jason.”

        “I’m your husband now, Y/N. It’s my duty,” he said.

        She smiled shyly at him and glanced at their feet for a second before looking back at him. “I never thought…”

        He smiled at her. “What?”

        She shook her head, smiling at him, completely lost for words. “Nevermind.”

        He sighed and tightened his hold on her. “I didn’t say this yet, but you look breathtaking today,” he stated, clearly. 

        “You look beautiful too,” she replied. 

        He gaped at her, like he wasn’t expecting the compliment. He quickly recomposed himself. “Well, I guess we make a breathtakingly beautiful couple then,” he joked. 

        “I guess we do,” she looked deeply into his eyes, smiling softly. Her eyes glinted with something different, something familiar and warm. But something he couldn’t quite name yet. 

        He found that he looked forward to the day when he could.

#

# 

She had dismissed the maid that would help her get rid of the dress. She was too nervous to deal with anyone else. She paced in front of her vanity, waiting for Jason to come in their room. 

        It was so weird to think that now there was a ‘they’. They were a couple, they were a unit.  It was a first for her, and she hadn’t had the time to think about it until all of the whirlwind of the wedding had passed. 

        “I thought you would have been out of that uncomfortable dress by now,” she heard him. She turned to see him. His shirt was unbuttoned, his tie hanging untied on his neck. He carried his jacket over his shoulder. He looked relaxed and comfortable, and she got even more nervous looking at him.

        “I was nervous so I sent Claire away,” she shrugged. 

        He took a step in her direction. “What are you nervous about?”

        She sighed and pressed her hands together over the skirt of her dress. “About us,” she whispered. “I didn’t think of the after. I didn’t have the time.”

        He smiled and took another step towards her, finally close enough to her. She could see perfectly the sincerity in his eyes. She could see the scar above his eyebrow and the tiny freckles on his nose. “You don’t have to be nervous about anything,” he reassured her. “I won’t do anything you don’t want to do.”

        “It’s not only that,” she said, shaking her head. “I’ve never done this before. This…” she hesitated, “partnership. I know things are different for men.”

        “I don’t see how,” he furrowed his eyebrows. 

        “You know how,” she snapped. “Men are praised for their sexual endeavours. Women are expected to remain pure until marriage,” she explained calmly. “And it’s not fair to either of us, you have an unfair advantage over me and I--,” she stopped herself.

        “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can say it, I won’t be hurt.”

        She shook her head. “I don’t know how to do this, Jason,” she admitted. “I’ve never even been kissed before.”

        He smirked. “That’s easy to resolve,” he stated. His hands cradled her face and he leaned in, stopping just before their lips met. “If you want, of course,” he whispered, his breath mixing with hers. 

        Her breath got caught up in her throat. She wasn’t expecting him to be that direct. She thought he would seduce her first, like in the romance novel she had read. She’d rather his directness. “Yes,” she whispered. 

        He smirked and clashed his lips with hers. She closed her eyes and grabbed his shoulders tightly. His lips were surprisingly soft on hers, and she wondered what would happen if he decided to kiss with more passion instead of holding back. 

      �� She decided to, then, take the first step towards that direction. Her hands moved to his hair and she brought his lips closer to hers--which she thought it was impossible. She responded with more passion and more eagerness and he was shocked for a second before complying. 

        One of his hands moved to her waist and pressed her body closer to his. She opened her mouth just a little and his tongue licked her lips, entering her mouth slightly. She felt a wave of heat invade her, and she let it in pleasurably. His mouth started to make way down her neck, his fingers on her back, fumbling with the buttons of her dress.

        She felt panicked at the intimacy of the act and tensed. Jason felt her nervousness and stopped. “We don’t have to go further if you don’t want to,” he whispered. 

        “It’s too much,” she replied, her voice strained. “It’s not you, Jay, I’m just not ready.”

        He cradled her head, and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I’d wait forever for you,” he said. “I can wait until you’re ready.”

        She gave him a shy smile. “Thank you,” she said softly. 

        “You’re welcome,” he said. “Now, let me undo those buttons and get some sleep,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

#

#

The carriage shook as they rode through the country towards her kingdom. She looked out of the tiny window at the horizon, admiring the view. 

        “Did you miss home?” Jason asked. 

        She looked at him. “I did miss my Mother, and my friends,” she said, “But I don’t know if it’s my home anymore.”

        “What is home then?” he asked, curious. 

        She searched in his eyes any indication of his intentions with that question. She found nothing but admiration and warmth and--if she’d be so bold--love. “I’m not sure yet,” she said. “When I found out, I’ll tell you.”

        “Please do, I’d like to visit that place,” he laughed. 

        Now that they were officially married, they had moved back to Jason’s residence in Park Row. They were almost completely disconnected from the Wayne Castle in the outskirts of the city. Park Row was in a part of the city called Old Gotham, some would say it’s the heart of the city, right in the center, the most populous part. Others would say it’s the cancer of the mechanism of the town, littered with homeless and thieves.

        Jason was born in Park Row. His parents were simple people. He didn’t give her much detail on who they were, and she could feel it hurt to talk about that subject so she didn’t push him to say anything. All he would tell was that his Father died first, and he was left as a child to help his sick Mother and him survive. 

        He became a pickpocket at age 8. His Mother died when he was 9. He lived on the streets up until he was 13. That was when King Bruce found him and took him in. Jason said he was trying to steal one of the wheels of his carriage when Bruce arrived and offered him shelter and food. Next day, he was already adopted and enrolled in classes. Next day he became a prince. She wondered what it was like for him to have gone through such a radical change in the span of a day. 

        He disappeared when he was 17. He was especially cagey about his time away. No matter what questions she asked he wouldn’t answer any of them. She wanted to attribute it to mystique, but she knew it was because of trauma. 

        When he came back he was a changed man, a stronger one, a more traumatised one. That was when he started to disagree with his Father more. He would question the methods Bruce would use in his hunt for justice in Gotham. He would question everything Bruce did, in Jason’s exact words. He didn’t detail anything and she started to notice a trend in his behavior: when something hurt him too deeply, he would barely talk about it. 

        Next thing he knew, he agreed to be the heir, he accepted the role his older brother left for him. He said it was because he knew better than any of his siblings how it was to be on the streets and suffer like most in Gotham. He would do better by them, and she believed in him. Wholeheartedly. 

        “So, what’s the plan of attack here?” he asked. 

        “We go in, say hello to my Mother and go to my Father’s study and look for the files,” she said. “It’s a dangerous mission, be careful,” she joked. 

        “We should have called for backup,” he said, seriously, embarking on her joke. “Maybe 1,000 soldiers would have sufficed.”

        “More like 10,000,” she laughed. “Seriously, we’ll just spend the afternoon going through dusty paperwork,” she said. “It’s going to be quite boring.”

        He smiled. “Nothing’s boring with you,” he stated. 

        She smiled back. “I quite disagree, but I appreciate the compliment.”

        The carriage halted to a stop. Jason opened the door for her and offered his hand for her to come down the steps. She accepted it and stood proudly by his side. He offered his arm and she took it. He led her towards the staircase that led to the main entrance of her castle. She could see her Mother standing there waiting for her. 

        She had her problems with her Mother, but she still loved her. She left Jason’s hold and ran up the stairs to meet her Mother. She panted when she finally got up the stairs, but nevertheless, she held her Mother in a tight embrace. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered. 

        “You shouldn’t have run,” her Mother said in her ear, her voice humorous. “What would Prince Jason think?”

        “Jason would think I love my Mother and I’ve missed her,” she stated. “How have you been?” she said, breaking the hug.

        “I’ve been okay,” Mother answered. She looked behind her daughter and her expression became impassive. “Your Highness,” her Mother said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

        Jason smiled at her mother. “The pleasure is all mine.”

        She smiled at her husband and at her Mother. “Shall we get inside?”she suggested. “Jason and I have to go through Father’s files.”

        “Oh, those things?” her Mother said. “Good luck, I know he left those completely disorganized.”

        “I remember,” she muttered. “It’s going to be a nightmare,” she said to Jason. 

        “I don’t mind,” Jason stated. “We can spend as long as we want here,” he gripped her hand. “This is important for us back in Gotham, it’s important to be thorough.”

        “Well,” her Mother started, “I’ll leave you two to work then. I’ll send in some tea for you.”

        “Thank you Mother,” she said, watching her Mother disappear into the corridor. She turned to Jason and smiled. “Shall we?”

        He bowed slightly and said: “Lead the way, My Lady.”

        She smiled and started getting up the stairs, Jason right beside her. 

        It was charming how much Jason’s behavior towards her had changed so much in a relatively small amount of time. When she had first met him, she feared a loveless marriage, with a husband cold towards her. But, slowly--or as slow as it felt--he had shifted. He started being less sarcastic and more truthful. He would still make sarcastic remarks, but never directed towards her. Jason started being soft and understanding. It was weird to think of a man so big and rough as him as soft and gentle, but it was how she saw him. 

        She knew he had his insecurities. He had told her once. He had told her he was reluctant to trust her, that he thought he didn’t deserve her. She said he was selling himself short. He replied that she didn’t know most things that he had done. She thought that it didn’t matter because she was falling in love with him. 

        Love. What a strange feeling. What an overwhelmingly dangerous feeling. It had changed her entire view of the world. She was much more willing to happiness, to the tiny beautiful things of the world. She saw things colored pink. She knew this effect would pass, but she would enjoy it while she could. 

        She felt his hand brush hers. She looked down at their hands, barely touching and then looked at him with a smile. He looked forward, his face impassive, like he had no idea what he was doing. She held his hand and he squeezed it.  Her mouth quirked up slightly. 

        She led him right to a giant double door. She released his hand and opened the door, revealing her Father’s office. 

        It was considerably smaller than King Bruce’s office, but it still held an air of authority. Behind the main desk there was a big window that had a view of the castle entrance.   Both side walls were bookcases, from the ceiling to the ground. In the middle of the room was the King’s desk, untouched. 

        “Nobody has come in here since he died,” she said quietly. “Except me.”

        “I’m sorry for your loss,” he replied. 

        “It’s fine, it’s been a long time,” she sniffed. “I just miss him.”

        Jason remained quiet, examining the room. “Anyways,” she said. “I’ll get those files, and we’ll start looking.”

        She pulled a book in the middle of a bookcase. The bookcase retreated and it revealed a big safe. She opened the safe and revealed piles and piles of papers, untouched for years. “Will you help me?” she asked, picking a pile. 

        He picked up another big pile. He rested it on the floor. “We can pick more up after we go through these,” she said, sitting on the floor. “We’ll be entertained for a while.”

        They spent hours reading. She started a system to organize the files into topics. Those that treated about economic affairs were separated into one corner of the room, those of the political affairs into the other. The political affairs were separated into topics: internal politics, external, and finally security. Those were the ones they had to nitpick through. She catalogued it in criminals: Penguin, Riddler, Two-Face, Scarecrow, the lot. 

        She had through those files at least once in her life. It was interesting to read through once, and she could see Jason was fascinated about the operations her Father had led once. But she found it a bit boring, like she had predicted. Nevertheless she persisted. It was more important than her entertainment. 

        “Y/N” he called for her, “look at this.”

        She got up from the ground and walked towards him. She had discarded her shoes long ago and was almost tempted to change into some pants. “Yes?” she asked. 

        “Is this the file you talked about?” He gave her the document. 

        She scanned through the document. It detailed how they had managed to successfully cut off supplies for the fabrication of the fear gas in her kingdom and how, with that, they had managed to ban Scarecrow from there. “It is,” she said. “I can’t believe you found it, I thought we would spend another day looking for it.”

        “We already did that,” he said. “We already tried stopping the production of the gas, we discovered an antidote for it, it didn’t stop Crane.”

        She smiled. “It’s not only that,” she explained, turning her back and going to the internal affairs pile. “You can’t stop only Crane, you have to redirect his soldiers to a more positive occupation,” she found the file and gave it to him. “See?”

        He read through the document quickly. “But we have social programs in Gotham, it still--”

        “You have and those social programs are great,” she said. “But it’s not enough for you to take care of the children and the homeless, you have to take care of the poor, those who struggle to get a job and do whatever it takes to not be helped by those social programs.

          “You have to direct those men and women to better jobs, give them better chances, educate them and then you’ll defeat Scarecrow fully,” she finished

        “Because then they’ll know better than to join him,” he whispered. “It’s brilliant.”

        “It’s how you stop them,” she smiled and sat on his lap. “This is the beginning of the end, Jason. We’re on the right path.”

        “How didn’t we think of it?” he asked himself. Her hands found his cheeks, caressing it gently. 

        “You were too focused on the short term solution, and it’s okay,” she assured. “Now, you can do better.”

        “I will,” he looked into her eyes and he said. “Thank you.”

        “For what?” she asked, confused. 

        “For everything,” he whispered. “For agreeing to give up being the sole sovereign of a land to joining Gotham and be its Queen, for being so wonderfully smart, for being patient with me for umm--”

        She interrupted him, kissing him with passion. She stopped the kiss and rested her forehead on his. “You don’t need to thank me, Jay,” she said. “I’m doing what’s right.”

        “For that I love you,” he responded. She tensed at those words. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to--”

        “I love you,” she said. “I love you,” she kissed him with a passion. 

        “Is it too soon?” he mumbled on her lips. “Is it too soon to say that we love each other?”

        “I feel like I’ve waited all my life for you,” she mumbled back. “So, no.”

        “Great,” he whispered. 

        Then he kissed her like his life depended on it. His kiss was filled with a fiery passion she had never felt before. Granted she hadn’t kissed much in her life, but nevertheless this was a new first for her. 

        His tongue made an entrance in her mouth and she felt a fire run through her. She returned his passion, gripping the base of his hair. He moaned against her mouth, bringing her closer to him. He gripped her waist with determination as his lips moved swiftly against hers. 

        He tilted her head upwards and his mouth kissed its way to her neck. She hummed and as he bit a sensitive part of her skin. “Jay,” she moaned. 

        “If you want me to stop, I will,” he replied, his mouth still on her neck pecking where he had just bitten. 

        “Don’t stop,” she said. 

        “You shall have your wish, then, My Princess,” he smirked and kissed the corner of her mouth. 

        She got impatient and grabbed his face, smashing his lips on hers. She kept on kissing him, running her hands through his hair. He fumbled with the buttons of her dress and she didn’t feel like tensing and running away. She wanted him to continue to fumble with the buttons, she wanted him to open those buttons and take off her dress. 

        “Jason,” she mumbled. 

        He hummed in response, his lips leaving hers. He kissed all over her face and she giggled delighted. 

        “How about we take this elsewhere?” she suggested, trying to be seductive. 

        He smirked and looked at her softly. “Are you sure?” he asked. 

        “Yes, I am,” she affirmed. “I’m ready.”

        He smiled and kissed her lovingly. “I love you,” he whispered, he got up and started carrying her towards the door of the office. He couldn’t stop kissing her even if he tried. 

        “No!” she exclaimed. “There’s a secret bedroom next to here.”

        “Is this castle full of secret passages?” he mumbled, his lips trying to find hers like a magnet. 

        “Yes,” she breathed out. “Pull that book,” she pointed to a book in the top corner of the last shelf of the last bookcase. 

        He pulled the book and the bookcase retreated revealing a simple wooden door. He opened it and it revealed a King’s bedroom. 

        “My Father slept here after he pulled all nighters,” she kissed his neck gently. “After he got sick he barely came into the office so it’s been unused for years.”

        He smiled and lifted her chin. He looked in her eyes lovingly. “Are you really sure?” he asked once again. “I don’t want you to regret anything.”

        “How can I, Jason?” she said. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

        He smiled at her. He closed the door behind him and they laid together. 

        To think one day he had questioned how he could want a wife. He hadn’t met her before. He hadn’t known he was destined to meet such a wonderful person, determined and strong. He hadn’t known he was meant to love her. 

        He had been too naïve to think he wouldn’t need her. He needed her more than he needed air, water, food. And he knew she needed him. It was a partnership after all. They needed each other, they trusted each other, and they loved each other.

#

#

author’s note: don’t forget to reblog if you’ve liked to make sure more people see it. also, the link to my jason playlist is here

[newtonsheffield]

When Kate is stressed, anxious, frustrated or scared, she knows that a hug from Anthony can instantly make her feel better. Do you think you could give us a few moments where Kate (either at work or home) goes to Anthony for a random hug? And/or times Anthony knows how she feels and comforts her before she seeks him out? And of course the flipside! Anthony has spent his entire life being there for others but he goes from being grateful for Kate's ability to sense how he is feeling to actively approaching her for hugs and kisses when he needs them.

Ooooookay! I love this so much! Y’all know what a sucker I am for these two just loving and supporting one another ENDLESSLY and this fed right into it. So THANK YOU! 

Also, I’m sorry I’ve been a little slow going today, but I’m trying to finish this week’s chapter! Thank you for your patience! 

 Kate had always been a very independent person. She’d suffered through panic attacks semi frequently as a teenager, and the grief of her father’s death alone, pushing her emotions down and forcing other people to the forefront of her mind. Until she started dating Anthony Bridgerton. Anthony’s presence inexplicably became the most soothing thing in her life. Truly shocking considering the mere mention of his name 6 months prior had set her teeth on edge. But now they’d both stopped lying about how they felt, all she wanted when she felt in any way off-kilter was to be wrapped in his arms. To feel his chin resting on her head, his arms tight around her to feel safe and warm and comforted. Kate had had a hard day. The settlement she’d been working on for a month was shot to hell by a very smug opposing counsel who’d made a very crude comment about her sister on the way out, then she’d dropped her sandwich on the floor in the kitchen and as ridiculous as it was, she’d gotten a run in her stockings and she found herself at Anthony’s office door without really realising it. Loitering at the door suddenly uncertainly He’s not busy Gregory said flopping down into his seat eyeing Kate carefully as she nodded slowly, still not moving. Gregory Sighed for a second before swinging Anthony’s door open unceremoniously and announcing Your Girlfriend for you, Anthony and nudging Kate inside closing the door behind her. Anthony looked up, smiling happily when he saw her, he hair falling into his eyes a little. And Kate’s heart leapt, stupidly. Hey, what’s-? Anthony started but Kate shook her head. Can you stand up? She said Please? She finished when Anthony looked surprised. As soon as he was out of his seat Kate sped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist. Anthony made a surprised little noise, but wrapped his own arms around her in return no hesitation, his chin resting on her head. Kate breathed a sigh of relief, she could smell his cologne the same one he’d worn ever since she’d known him, Issey Miyake, she breathed it in a warm feeling spreading through her chest. Contentment. Not that I’m complaining but did you need anything else, Kate? His voice rumbling through his chest Kate shook her head against his chest and murmured Nope. Just this. I love you. 

Anthony Bridgerton put other people first. His family above all else. He made sure everyone had what they needed, he would give his utmost to ensure that they were happy and content. He helped Hyacinth with her homework, he read Colin’s first drafts, would go to the opening on an envelope with his mother if she asked and despite this, or perhaps because of it, it was possible that he was not the most accomplished at allowing other people to care for him. Five weeks into his relationship with Kate he’d had a head cold and told her not to come to his house for three days while he recovered. Kate had tutted and he’d seen the slight look of hurt in her eyes though shed covered it fairly well. Anthony had known that Kate was a very astute woman. Her gaze, even before they were in a relationship, had often given him the uncomfortable feeling that he was being x-rayed. So he really shouldn’t have been surprised that she seemed almost a little too in tune with how he was feeling. He had been a little stressed, he’d had a minor argument with Hyacinth, who always knew exactly which buttons to push. Kate had been sitting on his sofa, her legs stretched out, her back against the arm of his sofa, reading a book and she looked up as he stormed past, catching his hand before he cold get past her. Come sit with me She said lightly closing her book. Anthony attempted to protest, to tell her he had too much to do, but she said Please Anthony? in that voice he could never refuse, tugging on his hand until he settled on top of her, his legs stretching out over hers, encouraging him to settle his head against her chest, wrapping her arms around him tightly, her fingers running through his hair softly. Anthony could smell her shampoo, soap and lilies and something inexplicably Kate he could hear her heart beating steadily in his ear and he felt himself sigh, relaxing against her, all the tension leaving his body. Isn’t that better? Kate said calmly her hands still moving through his hair, Anthony felt his eyes close at her soothing touch. The best Anthony sighed, maybe letting someone care for him wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if it was like this.       

[scuttling]

Something Stupid

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairing: Aaron Hotchner/Latina Original Female Character Word Count: 25,159 Chapters: 6 of 6 Complete Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad Hotch, Fluff and smut, Light angst, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Getting together, Minor background Garcia/Prentiss

Summary: All it takes to turn Sophie Cortes's life upside down is getting bashed over the head with a fire extinguisher. And sleeping with her boss. Note: This is a reformatted, previously published work. :)

Link to A03 or read Chapter 1 below!

All it takes to turn Sophie Cortes's life upside down is getting bashed over the head with a fire extinguisher. And sleeping with her boss.

There had been a case, of course—there’s always a case—and the victims were all Latina runners in their early 30s, abducted from a local park, so they took the very specific victim profile as an opportunity to use her as bait. It was all pretty straightforward, except the unsub escalated, upgraded from using the ‘lost dog’ trick to try to lure her to his car to just straight up knocking her unconscious from behind, and Hotch and the team were too late to grab her before the unsub loaded her into the trunk of his car to take her to his disgusting torture den. Thankfully, they caught him before he got her out of the park.

She was fine in the end, just some swelling and tenderness where he’d brained her with the fire extinguisher he kept in his car, and though it was kind of scary to hear it all retold by Spencer and JJ on the flight home, she knows her team did everything they could to get to her, and that they were ultimately successful, and that’s really all that mattered.

At least, it was, until Hotch showed up at her door that night.

“Hey, Hotch, what—what’s up? Is everything okay?” she asks, confused, because he’s… he’s rumpled, no jacket, tie loose, hair a mess like he’s been running his hands through it, and—when she gets close enough to smell him—he reeks of alcohol. She’s never seen him like this, ever, in the last two years she’s worked under him.

He looks down at her, and his eyes aren’t glassy, at least; they’re as dark and serious as ever, staring into hers like he’s seeing every shadowy secret she keeps locked away beneath her delightfully sarcastic exterior. It makes her feel hot—not sexy hot, but exposed, self-conscious, unsettled: the mortifying ordeal of being known. She’s about to ask him what the fuck is going on when he surges forward to kiss her, and she wraps her arms around him, kisses him too, stumbling backward into her apartment until her body bumps against the kitchen island and shocks her back to reality.

“Are you out of your mind?” she asks, shoving lightly at his shoulders so he’ll give her some room to breathe. His chest is heaving, and so is hers, and he reaches up a careful hand, brushes it over the bump on the back of her head from the incident earlier that day.

“Do you have any idea what I would have done if we couldn’t get to you in time?” His voice is low, a little raspy, and she swallows hard, looks up at his gentle face. The Hotch who just kissed her isn’t a man she knows, and this version of him isn’t someone she recognizes, either. He has always behaved toward her the way she behaves toward her brother’s wife’s family at the holidays: like she’s a person who just happens to be there, and he’ll be cordial, and respond when spoken to, but he’ll breathe a little easier when she’s gone.

It used to hurt. It doesn’t anymore.

“Um, I don’t know. The same thing you’d do for anyone: look for witnesses, pull security footage of the park entrances, put an APB out on the car—” He laughs, something humorless, and shakes his head like she’s being dense.

“That’s not what I mean. I mean, do you have any idea what I,” he takes her hand and presses it to his chest, over his heart, covers it with his, “would have done if we couldn’t get to you in time?”

“You don’t really give me the time of day any other time, so what makes you think I’d expect anything from you?” she asks, and she knows it’s a little harsh, but she can’t take it back now. “You are my boss, Hotch. You’re not my friend, you’re not… you’re not anything to me.”

“But that’s not exactly true, is it?” He doesn’t even bristle at her tone, her words, just continues to stand in front of her, looking soft. She kind of wants to hate him for it. “The reason I don’t give you the time of day, as you said, is because we’re something to each other. You know it, I know it.” He brushes his thumb over her cheek, tender and affectionate. “I feel it every time I’m close to you, and I know you feel it too. And we’ve both pushed each other away because we know it can’t happen.”

She wets her lips, because this is actually the mortifying ordeal of being known: he’s absolutely right, she has wanted him for almost two years, can’t stop her eyes from sweeping over his tall, strong body when he straps on his bulletproof vest, can’t stop imagining his hands on her when he pushes up his sleeves if they take a case in a humid Southern state. She looks at him and thinks of his mouth on her throat, her legs wrapped around his waist, his thick thighs supporting her while she moves in his lap until they both give in to the pleasure and collapse against each other, panting, gasping, wishing they had the stamina for more.

But like he said, it can’t happen, and if that’s the reason he’s been keeping his distance? She really can’t be angry about that, because she’s been doing the same thing.

“You can’t do this. You can’t just come here—drunk, by the way—and kiss me, and act like you like me, like you care, just because I got hurt. You can’t, Hotch.”

“Why not? Because you truly don’t want me to? Because if that’s the case, I’ll leave. We can pretend this never happened, if that’s what you truly want.” He looks solemn, now, and she knows that he would drop it if she asked him to. “But if it’s just because you’re afraid of what will happen if we give in… I’ve been there, Sophie. I’ve reminded myself of the consequences of this every single for... longer than I'd like to admit. But seeing you hurt today… I would never forgive myself if I didn’t at least try to show you how much you mean to me, how devastated I would be if anything happened to you. That’s all I want to show you.” He presses his hands to her face again, softly, leans in just a little. “Can I show you?”

She should tell him no. She should push him away again, call him a cab, send him home, and request a transfer in the morning. It might hurt now, but it would all be for the best in the end.

But Sophie has never really been known for doing things with her own best interest in mind.

She bridges the distance, kisses him deeply, hands sliding up his back to pull him closer for more. He lifts her up onto the kitchen island, stands between her knees, and she slips her fingers into his already fucked up hair, legs wrapping around his waist. His lips move to her throat, and she tips her head back, sighs at the feel of his hot mouth against her skin; when he pulls back, she tugs her t-shirt over her head, and he kisses down her collarbone, brushes his lips over her breast, her peaked nipple, so that she tightens her fingers in his hair.

“Sophie,” he sighs, looking up at her with those deep, dark eyes, and she reaches down to get his pants open, to untuck his shirt. If he’s so desperate to show her how he feels tonight, to show her emotion this once, maybe she’ll make it quick and dirty and then call him that cab and go to bed feeling awful about herself. Maybe she’ll request the transfer anyway.

Except… that’s not what she wants. She doesn’t want quick and dirty, she doesn’t want one and done. She wants him, wants to get to look at him every day without feeling guilty, wants to see more of the tender side of him he’s displayed tonight. She wants to wake up with him, go to bed with him, and everything in between.

She brings his mouth to hers for a soft, slow, passionate kiss, and then she pulls off his tie, his shirt, his undershirt. He helps with the rest of their clothes, and she takes his hand, guides him toward her bedroom, where there’s nothing left between them: no clothing, no hesitancy, no consequences. At least for tonight.

They kiss so much her lips feel bruised, and his hands caress every inch of her body like he’s drafting a map and needs to familiarize himself with the terrain: the curve of her calf, the slope of her breasts, the contours of her waist, the depth of her aching pussy. He dips his fingers inside her, praises her wetness, then bends to taste it, lifts her hips and devours her until she comes shaking and moaning his name.

Then he presses into her, thick and solid, but that’s not the best part; no, it’s when he rolls his hips up, sinking so deeply, so completely inside of her that she can’t even tell where she ends and he begins. She grips his back, rocks to meet each slow, thorough thrust, her body sliding further and further up the bed while he lays claim to her, his teeth sinking into her throat like it’s a soft, ripe peach and not overheated flesh and tendon. It hurts, and it feels so good.

“Oh, god,” she breathes, because she’s never had a man take her apart so thoroughly; but that’s it, isn’t it? He is a man, without performative six-pack abs the guys her age spend their days in the gym trying to achieve, in their place a strong core capable of pinning her to the bed, powerful thighs hard and unyielding against hers as he works desperately to fill her with his come. His arms support his weight, provide leverage, and she turns her head to mouth at his forearm as it flexes, as his fingers dig into the sheets because he feels exactly as much pleasure as she does, she just knows it. “Yes, Aaron.”

A thin film of sweat forms on his back, and her hands slip, so she sinks fingers in his hair, clutches his shoulder, pants and gasps into his mouth until he climaxes inside her, his hips pistoning faster for a moment before slowing altogether. He brushes the pads of his fingers over her lips, and she swipes her tongue over them just to taste him, and then he slides them down to glide over her swollen clit. “Come for me,” he murmurs in her ear, rubbing and grinding inside her as he softens, and she whimpers, hips stuttering against him, her second orgasm even stronger than the first.

They kiss more, smoothing their hands over each other, pressing noses and lips to foreheads, cheeks; Sophie feels so many emotions fighting for dominance it makes her head ache—and then she remembers the injury on her scalp that’s still fresh, and it makes her head ache worse.

Aaron can probably see it on her face, because he leans up, carefully turns her head to the side, and presses down on the area surrounding the bump. She closes her eyes; it feels so good she almost wants to purr.

“Did you pick up that prescription?” he asks softly as he massages her head, and her eyelids flutter open at the sound of his voice.

“Yeah, it’s in the bathroom,” she murmurs, gesturing to the master bath, and he makes a soft noise of understanding, climbs off the bed; he returns with a warm, wet cloth, a pain pill, and a glass of water, all of which she accepts gratefully.

“I should probably stay here tonight—to make sure you don’t have a concussion,” he adds when her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, making her wince. “If you want me to.” They both know she’s already been cleared by a doctor, and it’s not that she doesn’t want him to—unfortunately, she wants it more than anything—but she doesn’t feel up to arguing about her particular brand of commitment issues right now, so she just nods softly.

“Please, stay.” She threads her fingers through his hair, and guides him down for another kiss, and when her headache goes away she sinks into sleep with his arm wrapped around her waist and his nose buried in her hair. Sophie wakes up the next morning, makes coffee, a smoothie—Aaron’s dead to the world, because he doesn’t even stir when she pulses coconut milk and mango and greens in her Vitamix a little bit longer than necessary. She stalks into her bedroom, leans toward him on the bed, shakes his shoulder. “Aaron. You need to go.”

“What?” he grumbles, lifting his face off the pillow to seek her out; he has some serious bedhead, and a crease on his cheek from the pillowcase, and he’s still the most gorgeous man she’s ever seen in her life. It’s completely unfair.

“It’s 7:00—I’m going running, and you need to go home and get showered and dressed before work. There’s coffee made, your clothes are hanging in the closet over there. You can lock up behind you when you go.” She makes to head for the door, but he turns onto his back and reaches for her, taking her arm and pulling her closer.

“Don’t do that, please.” His voice is rough with sleep, but he’s awake now, looking like he’s ready to further complicate her life. The worst part is that she’ll probably let him. “Don’t treat me like a one night stand you’re never going to see again.” She sighs.

“I’m not. I’m treating you like my hungover unit chief who is bare-ass naked in my bed and who’s going to be late to work if he doesn’t get moving.” She tries for stern, but the corners of her mouth twitch up against her will. “So get moving.”

“Give me five minutes,” he says, and he brushes his hand over her cheek like she’s something precious. “I’ll walk you out.” She agrees, doesn’t see the harm—she likes knowing for herself that the place is locked up, anyway, so it makes sense.

He dresses quickly, and she drinks her smoothie, fills a travel mug with coffee for him, with two sugars, the way he likes it. When they step out into the hallway, he tries to kiss her goodbye, but she turns her face to take it on the cheek instead, making him sigh. He heads downstairs to his car, and she locks the deadbolts, looking up when a flash of hot pink catches her eye.

It’s her neighbor, Jazmine. She’s tall, leanly muscled, with chestnut colored skin—boisterous, flashy, the up-all-night-partying type, so she’s probably just getting in—and she raises an eyebrow in Sophie’s direction.

“He’s cute.”

“He’s my boss,” she explains quickly. “I got hurt at work yesterday and he stayed over to make sure I didn’t have a concussion.” Jazmine nods, looking like she 100% does not believe her.

“Uh huh. You don’t have to explain yourself to me, girl. I’m just glad your dry spell is over; these walls are thin, so I know the only relationship you’ve been having is with your vibrator.” Sophie’s cheeks heat, and she fights to get the key out of the deadbolt so she can get herself the fuck out of this awkward conversation.

“That’s not true; I have two vibrators,” she mumbles, and Jazmine laughs, ducks inside her apartment. The key finally comes loose, and Sophie tucks it into the zippered pocket of her leggings and prepares to try—and fail—to run off her frustrations.

Then comes work.

“What are you doing here, Cortes?” Prentiss asks when she walks into the bullpen. “Head injury usually means you get a day or two off—or are you just that obsessed with this place?” Sophie blows out a long breath, sets her stuff on her desk, then shoots her a kind smile. It’s not her fault she royally screwed up her life last night, so she can’t take it out on her.

“Oh, you know me: all work and no play.”

“Better than all play and no work, I guess,” she replies, grinning, “even if it is more fun.”

“Yeah, but play gets you into trouble; at least it gets me into trouble,” she grumbles, taking a seat at her desk. All she can hope for at this point is a quiet, easy day of consults and maybe a drink at the bar around the corner on her way home from work. “Dinner and a bonfire at my place tonight,” Rossi greets when they enter the briefing room. Sophie’s first instinct is to groan, because that means finding a way to avoid Aaron for an additional four plus hours, but she grins instead because her need for Rossi’s cooking and a night of relaxation outweighs the tension.

“Are we breaking in your woodfired pizza oven? If so, just pop open some vino and I’m there,” she teases, and he smiles in response.

“I can do pizza, and I have a very expensive bottle of Brunello with your name on it—since you were almost kidnapped yesterday, and all.”

“She was kidnapped,” Aaron says when he walks in, looking serious. “We just got her back before she left the park, that’s all.” The room goes quiet, because everyone can tell he’s in a mood—but thankfully, Morgan doesn’t really concern himself with other people’s moods, and he chuckles.

“Ah, he would have given her back after five minutes anyway. We love you, but you’re an acquired personality,” he tells her, and she reaches across the table and punches him in the arm.

“Shut up, I’m delightful.”

“If you two are done,” Aaron says with a no-nonsense expression that makes her want to get smart with him just on principle, “we can go ahead and get started.”

Everyone is filing out of the room after, with their assignments for the day, when he asks her to stay back; Spencer glances at her, like he’s making sure she’s okay, and she nods, waves him off.

“Is something wrong, sir?” she asks, like a bit of a smart ass—residual bitchiness from earlier, she knows—and he exhales deeply.

“I just want to talk to you for a minute, since you were practically shoving me out the door this morning.” She crosses her arms, tilts her head.

“Would you have preferred I go about my business and let you be late to work?”

“I would have preferred that we have a conversation about last night like the adults we are,” he counters, and she feels like a properly chastened asshole. She leans her butt on the table, looks up at him with soft eyes; this is more emotion than she’s prepared for so early in the day, but it’s clearly unavoidable.

“Alright. You’re right. Do you want me to start?” He nods, and she blows out a breath. “You surprised me, coming over the way you did. My guard was down, and hearing you say all those things—it was like you were poking at all of my bruises, things I’m still trying to heal from. Wanting you the way I have, and feeling completely overlooked by you… it used to really hurt me. I took it very personally, and my hackles are always kind of raised when you’re around, for that reason. If I seem a little abrasive, that’s why.”

He nods, like it makes sense to him. Like it explains a lot.

“I get that. I didn’t handle my feelings for you the right way at all, and I know that now, and I’m sorry. And I realize that showing up at your apartment unannounced, after I’d been drinking, was the stupidest way I could have possibly gone about trying to explain my feelings to you, but everything I said was true. And when we…” He wets his lips, swallows hard. “When we made love, I knew it was the right thing. I knew pushing you away was a mistake, and I’ll find a way to make that up to you, to make up for lost time, I promise.”

“I’m not sure what I want out of this,” she says honestly; she hasn’t even had twenty-four hours to sit with the fact that he wants her, and her head is still spinning. “I’m not—I don’t do well in relationships.”

“Maybe in the past, but it’s possible you just didn’t have a partner who was willing to meet you halfway.” It’s clear he wants to get closer to her, touch her, maybe even kiss her, but they’re too exposed in the briefing room, blinds open; he lets his eyes do the touching, sweeps them gently over her face. “I’ll always listen to what you have to say, value you. I’ll meet you halfway and then some. I won’t abandon you again.”

“I’m not the kind of person who can make a commitment on the spot like this. I need some time,” she says gently, hopes he sees it for what it is, not an excuse or a brush off. Despite the messy way this all came about, she really does want him, care for him. “Can you give me some time?”

“Of course; all the time you need,” he promises, and she nods, stands fully. “Is there anything else you want to say, while we’re here?” His expression is neutral, and she’s glad he’s not leading… If he expects something more from her, it’s nothing she’s ready to give.

“No, I’ll just take that time. Thank you for understanding.” She carefully brushes her fingers over his hand before walking out the door.

She goes home after work to change her clothes, slipping into a light, summery sundress, and then she heads to Rossi’s, steeling herself before she gets out of the car.

The bonfire is already crackling when she walks through the back gate, and she’s greeted warmly by her friends, promptly handed a glass of wine, and asked what toppings she would like to put on her pizza. It’s the makings for a great evening, she has to admit.

They eat, and drink—Sophie doesn’t drink quite as much as she normally would, because her head’s still throbbing a little—and they sit around the fire cracking jokes, and then someone turns on some music, and people start to dance.

Sophie has always loved ballroom dancing: the class, the grace, the drama, the romance. Her aunt owned a studio for most of her childhood, and when things were hard at home, it was the perfect place to go to escape from the world, if just for a little while. Sophie even teaches some classes at a local studio occasionally, just for the fun of it.

She hangs back, watching JJ and Morgan, Prentiss and Garcia sway back and forth, smiling, laughing, and then Rossi asks her if she’d like to dance, and she does.

They may not always see eye to eye, but he’s got good taste in food, wine, and music, she has to give him that.

After Rossi, she heads over to Spencer, tugs him to his feet, and he lets her lead him around the makeshift dance floor for longer than she’d expected.

“May I cut in?” Aaron asks over Spencer’s shoulder; Spencer looks at Sophie, who just nods, tries not to sound wary when she answers.

“Sure.” He leaves them with a brief smile, and Aaron slips an arm around her waist, takes her hand, pulls her close to his body—maybe a little bit too close. She rests her other hand on his shoulder, tries not to think of the pink half-moon impressions that must still be lingering there from where she’d gripped him tight, nails pressing in, while he went down on her. She follows his lead. “What are you doing?”

“You danced with Rossi, Reid; I’m not allowed to dance with you?” She glances around, sees Prentiss and JJ by the fire, Morgan and Rossi by the food, Spencer and Garcia pouring wine—she’s surprised no one notices how closely they’re dancing, talking. She feels hyper aware of it herself.

“It probably looks highly suspicious,” she says anyway, “since it’s never happened before, but if you’re not worried, I’m not worried.” He looks around too, and it’s clear: he’s not worried.

“Good. Maybe we can enjoy this, then.” He moves his hand further down her back, presses her a bit closer, and she sighs, lets him. It feels good to be in his arms, but she wonders what it says, that she missed them after only a few hours. She’d spent two years building up a tolerance to him only to have her resolve come crashing down after one night of extremely sensual, passionate sex. So much for the power of will.

“I am enjoying this. More than I should be, I think,” she answers honestly, and god, what an understatement. Nothing about this should feel so good, so right, but he’s handsome in the flickering, golden light of the bonfire, softer in more casual clothes, his voice low in her ear, the smell of his cologne heady as always; he is a feast for all of her senses—except taste, but that can very much be arranged.

“So let me take you on a date. We can do more dancing, or just have dinner, see a show. Anything you want.” She looks up at him, frowns, and he sighs deeply. “I know you said you needed time to figure out if you want to make a commitment. I’m not asking for a commitment; I’m just asking for a chance.”

“You said yourself, our actions have consequences. Sleeping with you is one thing,” she whispers, “but dating is another, and I’m just not sure it’s the right thing to do, for either of us.” Sleeping together is casual, a series of circumstances that lead to something more; dating is purposeful, meaningful. There are disclosures. Intentions. Things are made concrete. She’s not so sure about concrete.

Aaron looks hurt.

“Last night was more than just sleeping with me, Sophie. That was…” He closes his eyes tightly, like he can’t find the words, and she gets it, because neither can she. She’s only oversimplifying it for the sake of making it easier to say no to him, because no is the last thing she actually wants.

“Okay, yeah. You’re right. It was something special,” she admits, squeezing his hand. “But I can’t afford to put my career in jeopardy right now, and neither can you.”

“Who says we have to? I can talk to Strauss—” She takes a half step back, looks up at him seriously.

“Okay, see, this is all moving a little too quickly for me. I’m not even sure I’m ready to be in a relationship, let alone one that’s under as much scrutiny as we’ll be if you talk to Strauss.”

“It’s been almost two years in the making, if you ask me,” he says lightly, but his jaw is tense.

“That’s not fair, because I’ve spent all this time holding back, trying not to feel things for you—and you hurt me. Imagine being new and hearing about how tightly-knit your team is and then getting practically ignored by your boss, even when you were struggling.” She tries not to think back on the toughest cases, how unhealthy her coping mechanisms were, how badly she could have used his firm but kind voice telling her she was okay, not a fuck up, not alone.

“When were you struggling?” he asks seriously, looking concerned, and she huffs an unkind laugh.

“You were trying so hard not to look at me that you didn’t even see me, Aaron. That’s not healthy, I don’t—I don’t deserve that.” She drops her hand from his shoulder, gently pulls the other free. He lets her. “I’ve had enough fun for one night. I think I’m going to head home.”

“Sophie, I’m sorry. Please,” he says softly, and at least he’s trying not to draw any attention to them. It’s the last thing she needs right now. “You’re right. I know messed things up, but I want to change that, if you’ll let me.” She looks into his eyes, and they’re earnest, sincere; she wants to let him, so badly.

“Not tonight,” she says instead. “Can you just let me think about this a little, please?”

“Yes. No more pressure, I promise.” He looks back at the path leading to the gate, the driveway. “Can I walk you to your car?”

She agrees, says goodbye to everyone, thank you to Rossi; no one seems to find it unusual that Aaron walks her out to her car. He stops beside her door, lifts a hand to brush her hair softly back from her face.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, and he leans in to kiss her temple, something brief and sweet. “We’ll talk soon?” She inhales deeply, breathes him in, nods.

“We’ll talk soon. Goodnight.”

Finding a way to fall asleep in her empty king size bed has never been so impossible.

Taglist ❤️: @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal

[astrandofgold]

take me as i am

chapter 6: fell in love in the only way i knew

Here it is, the latest chapter! It’s only been….forever? I’ve had this sitting in my drafts for so long because I wasn’t quite sure how to finish it off, but I finally figured it out. This one focuses on the sweet, with some minor suggestive content. The song I referenced is Q&A by Kishi Bashi, and I’m absolutely obsessed with it! Also, is it even a story about Higgs if there isn’t a part where he plays guitar? 😂

___________________________

A well-worn blanket, a pack of beers, and a guitar. That’s what was strapped onto Leo’s back. The guitar was awkward, but she’d be damned if she hadn’t carried worse cargo. And besides, Higgs had promised her, with a chuckle, that he’d play for her if she managed to carry it all the way to their destination, of which, was now within view of the two former porters. Out of the corner of her eye, Leo caught Higgs giving her a side glance, smirking. She rolled her eyes, flipped him off, and grinned, trekking forward.

Higgs had to hand it to Leo, the girl had some real grit. It was one of the many reasons why he was smitten with her. She reminded him of himself, and she carried that spark in her that he had misplaced long ago. Higgs mused to himself, thinking about how she was helping him find that spark again. Life had a funny way of placing into his hands the very thing he never dared to dream would come into his life. He could still see his daddy sneering down at him, telling him all the lies that shattered his young child’s heart. The scars still remained, littering his body like constellations. Each one formed the story of a boy wincing at the sound of a cracking belt, a boy covering his face with his arms as tears silently fell, a boy tending to burn marks in the cover of the night. A boy that grew up believing he was as ugly and worthless as his daddy was.

Despite that, Higgs was starting to come around on the concept that maybe he wasn’t as ugly of a person as he was led to believe. If it were true, then why the hell would Leo be with him? Maybe she was batshit crazy to be with him, the thought had crossed his mind more than a few times. But regardless, he was happy that she chose to stick with him. He remembered the night that he finally revealed his scars to Leo, she held him close, placing gentle kisses on each one, eyelashes glistening with fragments of tears. He didn’t know what she saw in him, but he definitely knew what he saw in her. As Leo coughed, Higgs was brought back to the present moment as he focused his attention and realized that Leo’s orange eyes were peering curiously into his own blues.

“What’re you thinking about, babe? You’ve been staring off like that ever since we passed the hot springs.” Higgs smiled gently in response, then chuckled. “I’m thinking about the fuckin’ food I’ve been carrying on my back for the last half hour. I’m starving!”

Leo scowled at him, teasingly smacking his toned upper arm.

“Dammit, Higgs, didn’t you eat right before we left? Where the hell do you store all that food?”

Higgs turned a mischievous eye to her as he patted her head, the height difference becoming strikingly apparent.

“Well, darlin’, you tell me where you think I store it all.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re freakishly tall.”

“And it’s not mine that you’re adorably short. I’m so glad we’ve had this conversation, but now I’m gonna eat something.”

“No, Higgs, just-just wait a second! Look, that’s the spot right there!”

Leo quickened her pace just a little, walking down the slight hill to a spot next to the riverbank. Small, white flowers grew in the lush grass, giving the area an aura of safety. This portion of the valley hadn’t seen timefall for quite some time, yet had a consistent supply of river water, which led to a unique ecosystem developing. Fauna had begun to return to the valley floor, birds chirped in the taller grass, and small deer ran in the woods where Homo Demens had once declared their base. Higgs still shuttered to think about his time there, as infrequent as it was. Surrounded by men who were just as delusional as he had been, who sought to bring about the same thing he had wanted. As he glanced over to the woods with the ghosts of his past, he let out a sigh of relief knowing that they hadn’t succeeded in their goals. He never would have been here with Leo, watching life return to the mountain base. It almost reflected his own healing, and he wryly smirked at the thought.

____________________

The sun was setting as Leo and Higgs reveled at their picnic spread, the worn Bridges blanket hosting a multitude of food items. Higgs couldn’t even begin to figure out where Leo had sourced it all from. She stood there, hands on hips, grinning at the selection. She was resourceful, and Higgs knew that the local preppers gave her gifts on occasion, but some of the stuff was unheard of. Chocolate? Fresh fruit? Those words alone would have caused Mules to come running from across the region to have a go at claiming it as their own. A wave of satisfaction and pride spread throughout Higgs as he thought about his partner’s success, and the fact that she chose to share it with him. He knew he was one lucky bastard.

The meal consisted of attempts at trying to throw bits of food in each other’s mouths, a few delectable favorites hand fed to the other followed by laughter, and one episode of Leo rolling her eyes when Higgs blew right through an entire loaf of fresh bread that she had procured all the way from the Timefall Farm. The light in the sky changed from yellow to orange, and now bathed the valley in soft shades of lavender as mist slowly filled the basin. Leo gasped as the flicker of a firefly appeared near them, low to the grass, but unmistakable in its glow. One after the other appeared, and soon, Leo and Higgs were surrounded by a field of light. Higgs unwrapped his arms from where he had been holding Leo as they watched the light show, and leaned over to grab the unforgotten guitar from the case. He knew Leo had been waiting for this moment with much patience. Her bright eyes, made even more orange by the fireflies, flickered with anticipation.

“Now don’t get your hopes up. It’s been a long time since I’ve played one of these things, and, well…you never know.” Higgs messed with the tuning, strumming until he seemed satisfied, a peaceful smile washing over his face. Leo, despite his protestations, had always thought Higgs attractive. But now, here in his element, surrounded by the glow of the evening and hair falling over his face, with his blue eyes shining, she thought he was absolutely beautiful.

Higgs broke the silence with a hesitant strum, getting the feel for the strings, forming a melody. It was a full, warm sound, and reverberated in Leo’s heart. Higgs looked up at her as he played, beaming.

“It’s somethin’ I heard on the network the other day. I think you were humming to it, and it kinda reminded me of you.”

He continued playing, and Leo laid on her back, folding her hands underneath her head as she listened. The stars twinkled in the sky, something she would never take for granted after a lifetime of chiralium-filled skies.

“You are the answer to my question

You are my accomplice in a crime…”

Leo sat up and looked over at Higgs, a smile breaking out on her face as she processed that Higgs was singing to her. He was absolutely beaming as he sang, the happiest she had ever seen him.

“You are my wing woman and did I mention

We were together in another life?”

Higgs wasn’t one to vocally voice his emotions, Leo knew that. He showed them through actions, through caring touches, hands on the small of her back, fingers gently moving strands of hair, lips whispering on skin in the dark of the night. Leo was surprised when she felt drops fall on her arms. She hadn’t realized she was crying. Higgs looked up at her, eyes earnestly exploring her own. He held her gaze as he sang the next line.

“…in that dream, you probably were my wife.”

With a final strum, the notes gave way to the quiet noise of the night. Crickets chirped, wind gently caressed the two bodies, and the nearby stream bubbled. Higgs set the guitar down next to him on the blanket, and Leo could see he had a hint of blush on his cheeks. Leaning over, slowly and softly, Higgs reached out and caressed Leo’s face. Thumb running over her cheek, over her lips. He wanted to take in every bit of her that he could. Blue eyes met golden eyes, each hungrily taking the other’s features in. Higgs moved in closer until his nose brushed against hers, lips a breath away. Leo closed the distance, softly kissing him, brushing her fingers against his neck, then running them into his hair. He gave a hum of pleasure at the motion, and broke the kiss, only to rest his forehead against hers.

“Leo, I-I love you…I know I don’t say it much, but I do. I really fuckin’ do. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me, and…I don’t deserve you. I just don’t—“ Leo cut him off with a finger to his lips, eyes brimming with tears.

“Higgs, please….please listen to me. I want you to know that every morning, you’re the first thing I think about. When I open my eyes, you’re the only thing I want to see. At night, I want the feeling of you holding me to be what stays with me as I fall asleep.” Leo couldn’t stop the tears from flowing as she earnestly gazed into his eyes, and she gave a laugh amidst them. “I want to live a thousand lifetimes with you by my side, and….I never want anyone to take your place. Higgs Monaghan, I love you. I fucking love you. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You are my everything.”

The next moment found Higgs and Leo tangled in one another, clothing rapidly abandoned. Tender hands grasping to bring the other closer still, lips writing their own unique love stories on skin. Hands running through hair, hands running down hips, hands staking claim on bodies that willingly offered. Passionate prayers left Higgs’ lips and spread to the sky, prayers offered up at the alter of Leo’s body. Higgs was by no means religious, but at that moment, he found god in the form of the woman gasping his name from underneath him.

___________________________

Lying under the stars with nothing between them and the balmy night air, the two wrapped up in the blanket. Leo rested her head in the crook of Higgs’ shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her, placing his chin on the top of her head. The night was peaceful, and Leo had never felt safer than she did in Higgs’ embrace. The rise and fall of his chest, rhythmic and soothing, quickly lulled her to sleep. As he lie there, drowsily watching the stars twinkle and absentmindedly rubbing Leo’s shoulder, he thought about how his life led him to this point. How this woman, making soft sighs as she slept, accepted him and loved him with an incredible fierceness, showing him a facet of life he had never known. In that moment, as night in the valley settled and he drifted off to sleep, Higgs knew that for the first time ever, he had a long life to look forward to.

[wordsnstuff]

Guide To Plot Development

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Where To Start

Start with the zero draft. Honestly, the only thing you need to know about your story in order to complete a solid zero draft is the basic timeline of events and 2-3 main characters. Zero drafts don’t need to include any minor characters, backstory, world building, subplots, anything. They’re just a rough estimate of what your story is going to be and where it’s going to go. 

This way, you have something to work with when you do approach the task of maturing your story, which is a lot easier to do when you have already gotten the garbage ideas onto paper, seen them, realized they’re bad, clipped out the good parts, and developed a better understanding of your story’s trajectory. 

Placing The Climax

The climax is two things; the apex of built tension and the turning point of the conflict. Recognizing that as a definition makes pin-pointing the climax of your story much easier, especially if you’re the kind of person who likes to start with a solid premise and work forward from there, rather than build a sturdy skeleton and fill in the blanks as you write the first draft. If you’re still having trouble, the climax is usually one of, if not the most exciting parts of the plot, and that comes from anticipating a massive shift in the story. 

Outlining For Discovery Writers

I know a lot of people out there will read this article and question whether they can put it to use because they’re not an intense plotter who relies on outlines, character sheets, etc. A lot of writers prefer to let characters grow on their own and the conflict present itself naturally, which is less predictable but very exciting, especially when brand new ideas hit you out of nowhere. If you’re one of these people, fear not. An easy way to settle the slight nervousness that comes with diving straight into a blank page is to write down all of the basic or specific ideas you have in one spot where you can see it all and as you go along, refer to it for inspiration or answers when you hit a snag in your story’s flow. It’s not exactly an outline, but it’s a lead, and it’s worth doing. 

Balancing Planning With Pantsing

A lot of writers who decide to take their stories seriously and commit to finishing a large project make the mistake of thinking that means they have to plan like a professional (which, spoiler, most professionals don’t do). What happens in these cases is that writers plan so meticulously for so long that the story becomes... boring. We all get kind of tired of stories when they take up too much of our imagination, but getting tired of a story before even a word of it is written should be avoided. 

I have a personal rule that I never give myself more than 6 weeks to plan a story. That seems like a lot to most people, but I also zero draft all of my stories before I plan them, so I never start a first draft with a blank page. I suggest that if you frequently run into this issue, you try this method and between each serious draft, you give yourself at least a month of space from it in order to refresh your mind. 

What Comes After Drafting

Foreshadowing, symbolism, subplot integration, and micro-development. These are all examples of things that writers try to plan before their first crack at a draft and end up betraying their ability follow through with writing the story at all. When it comes to complicating the story, these elements all come into the picture much later, when the main plot, character profiles, and structure is solid and ready to be finalized in the interest of moving forward in the writing process. When you’re plotting, shove these things out of your mind. You can’t input symbolism into a story that doesn’t exist, and you can’t develop characters that haven’t been born. 

Common Struggles

– The common struggles section of my “guide to__” posts are general questions sent in by readers on the topic at hand. If you have a question that has not been addressed thus far, you’ll probably find the answer in this section. As always, you’re welcome to send other questions to my inbox if you don’t find the answer in this post. –

~ How do I correctly pace a story?... The pace should depend on the genre and point of view, as these things are the framework of every plot. Generally, anticipation should be a slow burn and the big moments should be snappy and explosive, rather than drawn out. The exposition, climax, and resolution should take up the least amount of time in your story, and the rising action should be the majority of the rest of it.

~ What needs to be in your beginning, middle and end?... The answer to this question is answered when you choose a definitive structure model to either follow or build off of. I have a whole post about it here: Plot Structures

~ How can I know if I’ve resolved my major conflict enough?... The resolution of your story should leave the reader feeling satisfied with the protagonist’s overcoming their obstacle, but still leave enough room to anticipate more to come. 

~ How should the plot close?... This is entirely up to you, but I would take into account the possibility of a sequel. If it’s 100% a standalone story, give it a clean ending and tie up the loose ends, pat yourself on the back for all of the clever foreshadowing everyone missed, and leave the protagonists and beloved secondary characters’ futures looking bright. 

~ How do you write a plot around a theme?... Most stories that have a central theme are born from answering a tough question. George Orwell’s 1984 asked “What would the world look like if totalitarianism ruled society?”. Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 dealt with censorship and questioned whether bliss only belongs to the ignorant. Bottom line is, pick the theme you want to explore, and then ask yourself the tough questions. The story should be the process by which you find the answer. 

~ What is the best way to handle a large cast within a plot?... You have your main conflict and the plotline that surrounds it, and then you have various subplots, around 2-3 where you explore the world/characters further and immerse the reader in the stories. You can convince the reader to become invested in a large number of characters by making them heavily involved in the subplots. They should all touch the main plot considerably, but the bulk of their development should be in the subplot, and if you were to have 15 characters, you’d want around 3 subplots where 3-5 of them were important players. However, large casts that reader’s have trouble keeping up with is a problem that usually results from a writer’s inability to make cuts or combinations. Remember: the reader’s experience is the most important thing. It’s better to downsize your ideas than lose your readers altogether. 

Other Resources From My Blog That Help With This:

What Do You Do When You Over-Plan?

Resources For Plot Development

How To Write A Good Plot Twist

How To Foreshadow

Writing Long Stories Without Filler

Writing Stories About Your Own Experiences

Novel Planning 101

Tackling Subplots

Things A Reader Needs From A Story

How To Turn A Good Idea Into A Good Story

Planning A Scene

When To Stop Planning

How To Outline Outside Chapter Structure

Tips on Mapping Out A Series

Outlining By Chapter

How To Outline Effectively

Tips On Starting A Scene

How To Start A Novel

Character Driven vs. Plot Driven Stories

Plot Structures

Planning A Scene In A Story

Effective Ways Of Planning Chapters

Writing Meaningful Stories

Finding Your Own Writing Style

How To Write A Story Timeline

Making A Story Come Together

Tips on Planning A Series

Coming Up With Scene Ideas

General Resources For Plot Development

How To Engage The Reader

Coming Up With “Original” Ideas

Building Upon A Good Premise

Pacing Appropriately

–

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[simphellscape]

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3RD, 2020 - 8:53AM // TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3RD, 2020 - 5:39PM // next | tw: description of semi-serious injury and care of semi-serious injury, keigo drives recklessly

Keigo was supposed to be relieved from duty at precisely 4:00pm today. Unfortunately for him, he lands haphazardly on his balcony at 5:39.

He curses at the impact, an electric shock of pain zipping through his entire body. Nothing is broken, probably. He definitely has a few bumps and bruises, though. A villain takedown turned sour pretty quickly this evening, right before he was supposed to get off, frustratingly enough. He was irritated, but he’s glad that it’s over now. He limps into his penthouse, stripping as he goes. Time is of the essence, and he needs a shower, badly. As his shower warms up, he does a quick body inspection. Everything seems pretty minor except for a long gash across his left rib cage. There’s no time to do any extensive care for this injury, so for now, he plans to wash it with antibacterial soap in the shower and bandage it after.

He steps into the steaming shower and visibly unclenches every muscle in his lean form. As much as he wants to stand in there forever, he doesn’t have the time. He quickly washes up, saving the gash for last. Every time a stray stream of water touches it, he lets out a sharp hiss. He can tell this is gonna hurt. Before long, he has a clean rag and the antibacterial soap in his hands. He takes a deep breath, and runs the warm water over the wound. He bites back a scream as searing pain shoots through him. He quickly wets the rag and dispenses some of the soap onto it. After gathering a good lather, he gently swipes it over his injury. This part isn’t as bad, but it definitely still stings. He rinses quickly and shuts the water off, panting. He steps out and dries off, making quick work of a mediocre covering for his cut. It’s nowhere near perfect, but it’s functional for the time being. It only has to last for a few hours, he tells himself.

He allows himself to slow down for a moment to carefully consider his outfit. He wants to wear something nice, but nothing too flashy. All you two are doing is watching a movie and ordering takeout, after all. He settles on a white t-shirt and a pair of joggers. After fussing with his hair for a moment, he makes sure to apply the perfect amount of cologne. He’s mastered this art, striving for a perfect balance between the sweet smell and his own scent. Not that many people will notice this anyway, as his quirk heightens his sense of smell. Since he’s keenly aware of it, however, he pays special attention to it. Especially on a night like tonight. He finds his phone, discarded amongst his clothes on the floor, to check the time: 6:21pm. He takes a quick, frenzied scan of his penthouse, making sure that it was at least well put together. Along with tossing his hero costume in the wash, he fluffs up the couch cushions and sets out his coziest blanket. Satisfied, he checks the time once more: 6:36pm. With a jolt, he realizes he doesn’t even have your address. He quickly drafts up a message to you:

hey, getting ready to come pick u up!! i need your address tho lol

After pacing back and forth for approximately a minute, his phone chimes.

yeah, that’s kinda important

You send him your location. He finds that it’s not very far, only about 5 miles east. He could just fly there, but with the still tender gash on his ribs, he decides that driving might be his best bet. He grabs his key fob from the counter and leaves, taking the stairs for the fourth time in the 7 months he’s lived there. With every step, his stomach sprouts more butterflies. He’s lingering in that feeling of nervousness and giddiness again. He unlocks his car as he nears it in the parking garage, the beeping echoing off the walls.

Even though he barely uses it, he really likes his ride. A sleek, black convertible. He always rides with the roof down, so that he can stretch his wings. With the wind rushing over them, it’s almost like flying. Almost. He hops in and starts the car. It whirs to a start and automatically slides the roof down. He punches your address into his navigation system, puts on his Spotify playlist, and speeds off.

It’s not that Keigo is a bad driver, he’s just impatient. Traffic irks him, speed limits are always too slow. Tonight is no exception. Even though it’s nearing the end of rush hour, there are still way too many cars on the road. When he is moving, he unabashedly speeds, but not recklessly, as there is still control in his movements. The cops in the area know his car, though. He’s not sure if he passed any, but he knows that if he did, they wouldn’t bother pulling him over.

He finds your apartment complex with ease. It’s not as high end as his neighborhood, but it’s definitely still nice. As he’s about to call you to direct him to your building, he notices you standing just outside building 3. His heart catches in his throat as he pulls up.

You seem to have followed his lead when it came to attire. You don an oversized band tee, tight spandex shorts just barely visible under the hem. He’s grateful to be able to see more of you; to be able to admire the art on your legs, not just your arms. He anticipates you growing tired of him asking what each piece means. He waves at you and you smile, hopping in the passenger seat.

“Hey,” you greet.

He can practically feel your rapidly beating heart from the driver’s seat. You’re nervous. Then again, so is he.

“Hey!”

He takes off, making sure to be more careful with the addition of precious cargo.

“Honestly, I didn’t know what to expect when you said you were going to pick me up,” you admit.

He laughs, maybe a little too much.

“I didn’t think you were ready to fly on Hawks Airlines quite yet,” he lies.

He doesn’t want you to know that he got in a bad fight today. He doesn’t know how you’ll take it. Surely, you’re not scared by blood -- you can’t be when you’re a body piercer. But, judging by your heartbeat and blood flow, you’re on edge. The last thing he wants to do is scare you more.

“Maybe you’re right,” you concede.

“So tell me about this movie you’ve got lined up!” Keigo chimes, both attempting to ease your nerves and distract himself from the irritations of driving.

“Oh, it’s a surprise.”

“But I don’t like surprises!”

When Keigo said this, he was teasing you, but it’s true. He doesn’t like surprises. Not many people in his line of work do. Knowing what’s around the corner is the name of his game.

“Ah, ah, ah… remember, you’ve got to live a little.” you insist.

Maybe he needs more lessons in living than he thought. It’s so hard to turn his hero brain off. He rarely ever gets to.

The car stops at a red light. Keigo turns to take a closer look at you. He takes note that your heartbeat has slowed down slightly. Good. He also notices that you’re wearing less makeup now than you were when he first met you at the shop. This version of you seems somewhat familiar. Like he’s seen you in passing before beginning the process of engraving you into his brain permanently. He knows himself; it’s not often that he forgets a face as beautiful as yours. Their sources, however, are a different story. There are so many places he could have possibly seen you: on patrol, at an event, on the news… the list goes on. Another thing he knows about himself is that he’s unendingly persistent. He’s going to figure it out. He always does.

_____________________________________________________________

You two sat in silence, though it was comfortable, for the rest of the car ride. As he parks the car, you lift your arm to open the door.

“Uh-uh. I got it,” Hawks chides.

This catches you by surprise. Not necessarily because Hawks is a gentleman, but because this is the first time someone has been so gentlemanly towards you. You’d begun to think you didn’t deserve it. You hear the low click of the door opening and find his face. You flash him a smile, attempting to betray your nerves. He returns one that was warm. The knot in your stomach unravels, just slightly.

There are a lot more stairs in Hawks’ building than yours. You’re surprised again; by the time you reach his front door, you’re struggling to catch your breath. You’ve let yourself go, a voice in your head hisses. You shrug it off. Now is not the time for self-deprecation.

His front door opens with a low whine. Your breath catches in your throat.

His penthouse is really nice. Spacious, open concept, high ceilings. He’s got nice, if minimal, furniture. But no decorations. The walls are nearly completely blank. Even the built-in shelves on the back wall of his living room are almost barren. The only things you see there are totally utilitarian. He might not see the point in decorating. Since he’s the number two hero, he’s likely never home.

You return your gaze back to him, and he’s wearing that nervous expression again: face pink, hand on the back of his neck, honey eyes glittering with something. Pleading? Is he… looking for your approval? You clear your throat.

“Nice digs, Hawks,” you offer.

You immediately notice his wings puff up and ruffle. He beams at you, eyes doing that happy little dance again. It’s infectious. You can’t help but smile back.

“Kei. Call me Kei.”

(a/n): sorry for the unexpected hiatus, but i think we're good now! you got a fraction of keigo's name today, go you!!! i'm gonna post the next part this weekend to make up for the fact that i disappeared. luv u <3

[cosmicbash]

One the angsty prompt ideas I’ve been thinking about is Kells practicing how to cook for weeks so he can surprise Em by cooking him dinner, maybe for an anniversary or something, and on the day Kells has planned to surprise him, Em is hours late, leaving Kells alone for the evening. If you’re interested maybe you could write something like this? 🥰

3 years together. One thousand and ninety five fucking days between him and this old dorky man.

It's insane. Downright impossible to believe but Colson knows it's as real and true as the 2 year sobriety chip he's got hung around his neck on the gold chain Marshall gifted him with it this morning.

Both their relationship and his sobriety are as intertwined as their lives are now. Marshall's like the glue that holds all of his pieces together. Picking Colson back up, time and time again whenever he shattered in the beginning and filling in the gaps with his own loose pieces until it was Colson's turn to do the same. Which, by then, it only made sense to combine their puzzles and broaden the picture.

Now Marshall swoops in for Casie's PTA meetings he can’t make during tour. Holding the phone and helping him FaceTime for soccer games and school conferences when flight delays or bad luck keeps him late.

Colson tags along to Whitney's first few dates out in LA, weaving through the public spaces Marshall never could without drawing attention just to make sure she's safe and respected.

They tag team any situation involving the girls, even though Alaina and Hailey both still snicker at him from time to time, and Casie rolls her eyes at Marshall's rules. They're more than just dating now.

They're family.

And even just thinking about that brings tears to Colson's eyes.

Or maybe it's the onions. Baze said chewing gum helped mitigate this fucking problem but goddammit does it burn-

"Fuck!"

He has no idea how he got it in his mind that he could actually cook a meal, let alone a full anniversary dinner for Marshall but here he is. A pot and pan already cooking on the stove and his fingers knicked a dozen times in his rush to cut up more veggies for the sauce. 

It's insane.

But Colson's following through with it anyway, because he fucking loves Marshall and that bastard cooks dinner for them every single holiday or occasion so it's about time he stepped up to the plate and did it himself. 

Plus he's been secretly practicing for weeks with Baze over both FaceTime and a few in person lessons. Perfecting his simmering styles and meat seasoning to make the tastiest meal he can manage all on his own.

So far the last three times he's made the dish his bassist had given stellar reviews so there's little chance he'll somehow fuck it up tonight knowing it's for Marshall…..at least, he hopes.

The minor setbacks his butchered fingers have brought aside though, so far everything was coming along perfectly. His noodles are boiling (never over the rim, thank you wooden spoon trick), his meats marinating, and as soon as he tosses these sliced onions in his sauce will be cooking down beautifully.

All in all the night is starting to look like it just might be perfect.

Until 6 o'clock passes by and Colson's ears never pick up the click of the front door knob, or the hum of Marshall's escalade pulling up front outside.

The food's still simmering, minutes away from being actually done so he doesn't worry too much. Sure he was hoping to have a sweet moment where his boyfriend comes home and catches him cooking at the stove like a traditional housewife, but seeing his face when the food's done and plated promises to be just as cute.

Besides, Marshall has always fit the housewife role so much better than him anyway. Even the apron Colson's wearing is one of the older rapper's, stolen from his small collection in the pantry to protect his designer sweater.

Colson doesn't start to worry at 6. Traffic can be a bitch.

7 though? And then 7:30 when his texts go unread and his calls ring all the way through to voice-mail? That's when the blonde starts to fret. 

He's luckily put off plating because some brief flash on uncertainty had run through him after the food finished so it's stayed warm and simmering on the stove. But even that had to come to an end before 7:30 because his sauce would singe or his noodles might squish, so now Colson's trying to keep busy by perfecting the presentation. Shaky fingers swiping around the edges of Marshall's plate to clean up a splatter of sauce. Every Chopped Judge rambling off feedback in his head until he has it looking like something he's certain even Gordon fucking Ramsey would ask for a bite of.

By 8 the dinner table is set. His plate, Marshall's, the bucket of low alcoholic wine they both love chilling as a centerpiece. Colson even lights a few candles and adds some flowers from this mornings gift exchanges to keep himself from screaming.

There's a pit in his stomach that's steadily been growing though. Every passing minute and glance to his phone where he finds no change only carving it deeper. 

Marshall should be home. He never runs this late at the studio without a call, let alone without a message. He's treated his work like any other 9-5 job since before they ever even got together, always strict about his routine and careful to make up for over run hours by leaving earlier the next day. Usually Colson likes to bust his balls and insist he live a little more spontaneously but tonight isn't the one to pull that.

Especially not if it means Marshall's going to completely forget to check his fucking phone and leave him trying not to think the worst.

Colson only males it another 5 minutes before he caves and texts Paul. Fingers tapping fast across his screen to draft multiple desperate sounding messages before he finally settles on a "Em bust his phone again?" That feels just casual enough to not embarrass him in the off chance Marshall decides to burst through the front door seconds after it sends.

The door stays closed though and Paul doesn't open the message at all. 

Now Colson can't even start passive aggressively eating dinner on his own if he wanted too. The pit in his stomach has torn itself open wide into a nauseous chasm. Every scary possibility he wanted to avoid thinking about spilling forth from the dark trench like ghouls.

He's dead. Some crazy fan broke into the studio and shot the whole place up. No one's gotten around to tell him yet, that's all. They're too busy dealing with the fallout.

No, Em's security is beyond top tier, and with how close Colson and his current bodyguard are he knows the guy would call him immediately. Marshall's fine.

Unless… what if he was in a car accident? Or some road rage incident gone fatal? Colson's seen Marshall's short temper flare up while driving. They've made dozens of jokes about it in the past, so is it really that unreasonable to believe?

Colson's pacing in the front haul when he calls Porter. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he fights his shoe laces, heart racing in his chest. Prepping to fly out of the house the second Denaun tells him what fucking hospital Marshall's staying in, praying it's at the ICU section and not some fucking morgue.

"Kelly?" The older man sounds confused when he finally answers. Voice high and tone light like he's expecting this to be a butt dial. "What's up man?"

The lack of rush or worry in Denaun's voice almost soothes Colson's panic right on the spot. Surely he wouldn't sound so casual if something had happened. 

It's enough to keep Colson from immediately pleading for Marshall's safety at the least. "H-hey, uh nothing really-" Maybe Marshall is even with him right now, realizing how fucking late its gotten and how shit of a boyfriend he's been and that's why Denaun sounds awkward too. "Just uh, waiting for Marsh to get his slow ass home ya know? Sorry, aheh, I'm probably sounding like a fucking needy girlfriend right now, calling his friends and shit-" the longer Colson rambles the more embarrassed he actually feels in the moment.

God he must sound pathetic right now. Panicking over Marshall being a few hours late.

"Waiting? Didn't Marshall head out like 2 hours ago?"

"W-what?"

Colson's blood feels like actual ice in his veins.

"He isn't home? I mean, I know he was gonna stop at- fuck is it already half past 8? Marshall seriously isn't home?" Denaun's sudden panic only heightens Colson's own, but he can't get any more words to come out. Not with how a rock feels like it's jumped up his throat. "Shit, Ryan are you getting through to him? Try Paul-"

Ryan's there too? 

"What? Paul's gotta fucking answer-"

They can't get ahold of Paul either?

"Kelly have you-"

Marshall's missing. Colson's been standing around making dinner for hours, worrying over the portion sizes and appearance of his plates and Marshall's been fucking missing. What kind of partner is he? What will he even tell Hailey? Alaina? And fuck Casie is supposed to be coming up this weekend so they can all go vacation together before his next tour-

The front door bumping into his shoe startles Colson out of his frozen panic. Denaun's angry shouting dropping from his ear, as he twists and meets a pair of sheepish blue eyes peeking around the hardwood.

"Hey." 

Marshall's…..

"Is that my apron?"

So fucking dead.

"Is this your--" Colson's fingers are curling around the edge of the door so fast he doesn't even care that it makes his phone fly to the floor. "That's what you want to fucking say to me!?" His anger is boiling fast, replacing the cold in his veins with lava. "You fucking piece of-"

Marshall stumbling inside with the yanked door is expected, but the flash of bandages and a sling douse Colson's flames like a bucket of water. "Ow, fuck just give me a second to explain-"

He's hurt.

Now with all of Marshall visible Colson's hyperaware of dry blood splattered on his white graphic tee and scratches partially hidden within the rapper's beard along his cheek. "I got in an accident out on the M-8, it was minor but-"

Colson really can't handle all these rapid mood switches Marshall is putting him through today.

“You fucking idiot-“ Tears are bubbling up in his eyes and it’s like his hands can’t reach his partner fast enough. Pulling Marshall into his arms for a tight hug despite the pained noises his actions inspire. “Stupid, old asshole-“ Marshall’s hurt, the cars probably wrecked, but he’s home and that’s enough of a relief to finally smother that pit weighing down his stomach. “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

A moment passes before he’s hugged back, shock more than likely freezing his partner up but when Marshall does loop his good arm around Colson he pulls him close. So close Colson is the one who’s bones feel like they might ache. “Can’t make any promises about that,” The older rapper’s palm feels warm when it climbs to cup his neck, Marshall’s face turning to press a kiss into Colson’s throat. 

That brush of lips is the final crack to release the flood gates.

"I love you."

"I know."

"I really really fucking love you."

"I know baby."

"I don't care how old your ass is, you better hold out and fucking die after me like a proper goddamn boyfriend, you hear me Marshall?" He's getting snot all over the older rapper's shirt. Full on smearing it across his own cheek and the fabric with every pointless rub of his face. "I love you so fucking much. Can't do this without you."

"Told you I'm not dying after you unless you kill me first, and I'm chasing you into the afterlife once you do go too. Fuck all the marriage shit, death ain't parting us either you brat." Marshall's tone is light and his palm is doing wonders to comfort him by rubbing circles into his back. It's enough to slow his hiccupped breathing down a few notches. "I dunno if you noticed but, I'm a little obsessed with you."

That drags out a wet snort. "Y-yeah?" When Colson pulls back to meet Marshall's eyes he swears he can see a wet shimmer starting to glaze over his partner’s as well. "Prove it then."

There's a flicker of something in blue eyes, so fast that Colson almost thinks he hallucinates the emotion altogether. But then Marshall's wrapped up arm wiggles between their bodies. The dark blue of the sling catching and sliding so his scratched up fist can shimmy its way partially out. "Planned on it-" There's something clutched tight there, black peeking out from between Marshall's finger and thumb. It's got Colson's heart dropping down into his stomach all over again. "What do you think I was driving so late on the M-8 for?"

"Marshall-" It can't be.

"Colson." But his shithead of an accident victim boyfriend is pulling back, both his good arm and slung arm awkwardly flailing in the air for a moment as he drops down on one knee. The visible wince not hidden as well as Colson imagines the man wants it to be. But Marshall's eyes are softening, and the blonde feels completely cemented in place. The only part of him moving being the uncontrollable shaky quiver of his bottom lip. "I had a whole moment planned, there were flowers, balloons, and those stupidly expensive alcoholic chocolates you love, but they all got absolutely trashed in the crash. Like, half of Detroit is probably going to think the Macies Thanksgiving parade started early. Paul called to have it all replaced, and honestly some intern is probably going to come banging on the door in about 20 minutes but I don't want to wait-" There's a flash of genuine worry that's furrowing the skin between Marshall's brows as he continues. "So I'm sorry this isn't gonna be that fancy perfect proposal you've always dreamed of-"

"Shut up." Colson's voice can't go above a whisper. His tone quick and clipped from how anxious he is to hear the man finally finish. "Just- shut up, ask me. Ask me Marsh, please-"

"Fine, always need to rush me."The rapper's lip quirks at the corners. Hands transferring the small box between eachother with a bit of fumbling. "Will you, Colson Baker-" Until Marshall can finally get it open with an audible clunk. "Legally commit to being with my annoying old ass forever?" 

[cakejots]

this is us trying, Chapter 8 - The Unravel

In this AU, they don’t know each other outside of the suit. And in this AU, Ladybug and Chat Noir love each other. But in this AU, Chat doesn’t want their identities revealed.

Written for @ladynoirjuly 2021

notes: this is a coherent story based on all the prompts; each chapter contains at least 3 prompts. TW for mention of death threats.

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 | Ch 9 | Ch 10

Read on AO3

24. Rewrite the stars

With how he reacted to those online comments about Marinette a few days prior, Adrien legitimately thought he was going to throw another fit again. But as always, Marinette’s closeness managed to distract him from the negative and made the ‘task’ bearable.

“Go to hell? I’m sorry but who are you to tell me what to do?” She dismissed the comment. “You think I’m just gonna listen to you? People who send these kinds of messages clearly need help.”

He snorted. “Don’t let it get to you, Buguinette.”

“Ah no no,” she shook her head. “It’s just… I can’t understand why they have the need to send this kind of stuff to other people.”

Marinette moved on to other comments within the hashtag page and saw quite a handful of positive comments. She would even go as far as to say that people are generally supportive of their relationship.

There was just a very loud and obnoxious minority that stood out everywhere. It was no wonder Adrien got that infuriated, she wasn’t feeling the best either when she read what people had written about him.

“Chaton?” She stopped scrolling, taking a break before her anger got the better of her. “You’ve gotten quiet. Something on your mind?”

“Uhh, yeah.”

“Wanna talk about it?” She put down her phone and moved to sit beside him, combing her fingers through his hair. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

Adrien leaned against her palm and closed his eyes. “I feel better already.”

She chuckled when he started purring. “Do you wanna stop for a while? Your hair’s so smooth and I honestly think I can do this for the rest of the day.”

“Ahh, that is so very tempting, my lady,” he opened his eyes and pouted. “But at last, this can’t be put off any longer.”

She continued massaging his scalp. “Hmm?”

“The management wants me to make a public apology and… and break up with you to save the company’s image.”

Marinette went rigid with her ministrations.

He quickly wrapped his arms around her and kissed her temple. “Obviously I’m not going to do that. You wound me if you think I’ll do that, Marinette,” he joked.

“Ahh no.” She hugged and leaned against him. “It’s not you. I— I’m just appalled that they’d demand you to take such a drastic move.”

He shrugged. “The company’s image suffered a huge blow when the Agreste Scandal happened. It has only been around six months since then, and now they have to deal with another.”

She nodded and tightened her grip on him. “So what will you do, Adrien?”

He smoothed her arm and nosed her hair. “To hell with them.”

“But—”

“I finally found you, I’m not going to let you go,” he grinned.

A rosy pink hue settled itself on Marinette’s cheeks. Even when she’s already his, Adrien never stops to let her know how special she is to him. She pulled back to hold his gaze while her thumb brushed against his cheek.

“What if they dismiss you?”

Fire lit in his eyes. “I’m going to do what makes me happy, what makes us happy. I’m not going to apologise for my love for you.”

Warm and fuzzy feelings filled her chest as he settled on what he planned to do. Adrien has come so far, and Marinette was more than happy to allow him the agency he desperately needed.

“You’ll rewrite the stars, huh?”

“I’ll rewrite the stars.”

Marinette pulled him close—

“Then I’ll be here supporting you every step of the way.”

—and gave him a long and earnest kiss on the lips.

25. De-transformation

Adrien was hiding half his body behind the door that leads to Marinette’s room. She had her full attention on the task on hand that she didn’t realise he was at the entrance watching her from afar, much like how a kitten observes their human. Adrien really admired how focused Marinette can be sometimes. But right now, he wished that she wasn’t that fixated on whatever she’s doing.

Despite his resoluteness on what to do with the scandal earlier on, Adrien was feeling stressed about it now. They had agreed that he would release a statement to address the scandal tomorrow, and it’d just be a couple of sentences from him, along with a photo of them in his mansion, to really sell to the public that they aren’t fooling around and that she has been staying with him for a while now.

The kiss they had shared earlier did tons to calm his nerves. He could never get enough of the thrill whenever they kissed, it was just that addictive to him. Her alluring lips, curious and exploring hands, the tiny sounds she made, and how she felt within his arms were the only things that mattered.

But that was a few hours ago, right after he came to a decision on what to do. They parted ways afterwards for Adrien to draft his statement, and it looked really good at first. But the more he read and thought about it, the more he felt like they’d face more backlash if he were to put that statement out. His anxiety was returning and he needed to take a breather.

Which was why he was standing at Marinette’s door right now. He really wanted another kissing session with Marinette, but he doesn’t want to push his boundaries either. He figured a rooftop run would help him to loosen up and take his mind off of the drafted statement for now. But he didn’t want to do it alone either.

Adrien stared at Marinette’s back. He felt really bad for disturbing her. He really did. But…

“Marinette?” He called out softly.

She lifted her head to look back at her door, only to see Adrien concealing half his body behind her door. She frowned and briskly walked towards him. “Adrien! What’s wrong?”

He came out of his hiding and averted his gaze “C-Can we go for a rooftop run for a while?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m starting to feel a little overwhelmed.”

She petted and stroked his hair. “Of course! Let’s go!”

Adrien gave her a radiant smile.

.

The rooftop run, sadly, wasn’t as helpful as he had fancied. All he had to do was run… on rooftops which he had been running on for the last 6 years. He could even do it with his eyes closed. His mind was not preoccupied with anything else and his thoughts kept going back to the scandal.

Chat dash towards the top of the Eiffel Tower.

“De-transformation.”

He walked towards the edge of the platform and stared at the city underneath his feet. At least he was still able to admire the view. He sat down, hugged his knees and closed his eyes to enjoy the breeze…

Only to be pulled back by a pair of arms around his waist.

“Adrien! What were you thinking?” Ladybug shook his shoulders when he faced her.

“No, no! I wasn’t doing anything!” He waved his hands. “I was just trying to distract myself.”

Ladybug frowned. “Then why de-transfrom? You can enjoy the view as Chat Noir, can’t you?”

He avoided her eyes. “I-I wanted to feel the breeze.”

She pursed her lips. “You said you wanted a distraction? Something to occupy your mind?”

Adrien nodded.

Ladybug stood and brought him to his feet, smiling. “How about a game or two of Mecha Strike with the gamer pro herself?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I assure you that you’ll be needing that mind of yours to defeat me,” she declared triumphantly.

“You won tournaments?”

“Duh. Now come on! Transform and let’s go!”

“Buguinette,” he called out as he transformed. “I’ll have you know I didn’t only spend my time at home studying.”

Ladybug threw her yo-yo and a smirk at him. “Then may the best player reign once and for all!” And she jumped off the edge.

Chat followed suit, anticipating the game battles they have for the night.

26. Reveal

They had no idea how it happened. No, they were lying if they said that. They knew how it happened. They just didn’t expect it to unfold the way it did.

The mecha strike matches they had after they arrived back at Marinette’s home did tons to ease Adrien’s nerves. His mind was full of battle strategies to take her down, but she always managed to outsmart him. She wasn’t Ladybug for nothing. She truly is the Reigning Queen of Mecha Strike.

After they had established their respective status in the world of Mecha Strike, Marinette hoped to put Adrien’s mind at peace entirely. He has his way with words and has written beautiful love poems for her. There’s no way the statement he wrote was horrible.

And so she asked to see it; and he gave it to her, because Adrien fully believes in her word for this. He knows that Marinette would never lie about how she felt about the things he pens down.

She gave her smile of approval, and even commented on how sweet it was. She was confident that it’d sway the hearts of haters in the right direction.

And those were very comforting words. Not only has he accomplished proclaiming his love for her to the world, but he also might possibly increase the appeal of their relationship.

Later, they went to bed, peacefully.

When the time came to finally reveal their relationship to the world, they discreetly made their way back to the Agreste mansion, transformed of course.

Marinette suggested taking their picture in his kitchen to really sell the domestic lifestyle to the public, and Adrien agreed. But as they were deciding on the perfect picture to post along with the statement, Adrien started panicking again.

And so did Marinette. (She didn’t have a lot to work with in his mansion.)

Then, she suddenly recalled that being surrounded by soft things could help, that was how she calmed down when she was younger after all. She felt better just by enveloping herself in her blanket and soft toys.

So she pulled him into his room and pushed him onto his bed, remembering how soft it was, and slowly ran her hand through his mane to coax him into lying down. But all Adrien did was close his eyes.

Her other hand landed on his shoulder to push, but didn’t manage to make him budge at all as she was pulled into his lap, coming face to face with him.

Marinette was startled by his actions and stopped her ministrations. But he began rubbing his head against her palm, and she continued. She also started caressing under his chin with her fingers.

He opened his eyes lazily to gaze at her; so did she.

And Adrien gently held her face to bring their lips together, after he saw in her eyes what was most likely in his as well.

Marinette didn’t hesitate this time, fluttering her eyes close and wrapping her arms around his neck to bring him closer, to bring herself closer to him. She released a tiny whimper when Adrien’s hand suddenly landed on the small of her back, drawing her in to close the non-existent gap between them.

There was just something different about this kiss. Adrien’s heartbeat wasn't thundering as hard as he thought it would be, and a wave of calmness washed over him as they continued moving their lips against the other. His thumb stroked her cheek, to invite her to continue for as long as she liked.

Marinette’s hand shifted towards his hair and grabbed, pushing herself further into his face, and Adrien groaned before grinning against her lips. Marinette soon followed suit before she pulled back, but couldn’t go far as she was literally caged within his embrace.

“What’s so funny?” She opened her eyes and beamed.

Adrien moved in to kiss her nose. “Nothing. Just, thank you,” and he smooched her forehead.

“Trust me, this helped me as much as it helped you,” and she pressed her lips to his cheek.

Marinette caressed his other cheek. “Ready to post that statement and shut the haters up once and for all?”

A glint shone in Adrien’s eyes. “Oh, definitely.”

They moved to sit comfortably on his bed and Adrien copied his statement from his notes, the photo already chosen and sitting on the post, waiting to be sent out.

“You know, this feels very much like a blog post. I’ve never written this much on this account before.”

“SHIT!”

Adrien jumped and looked at her full-blown eyes. “What? What’s wrong?”

She swiftly placed her hand on his. “Chaton, before you post that, I need to let you know that it was my best friend who informed me about what happened to you last week.” She scratched her head. “That’s how I was able to get to you, even though it took quite a while.”

Adrien was visibly confused. “O...kay?”

“And she actually asked for an update on the situation.”

He finally caught on. “Oh! Tell her then! Give her the update she deserves.” He chuckled. “Thank you so much, Marinette’s best friend!”

Her kitty’s so cute when he’s elated. “She… um, s-she wants to know about how we met and stuff.” Marinette glimpsed at him. “How do you want to deal with that?”

“Well, that’d be hard, wouldn't it?”

“Well, we can't use anything related to fashion right?” She said, matter-of-factly. “Since she knows that I wanted to intern at Gabriel and the chance went poof with the final battle…”

“Why not tell her the truth?”

“What?!”

He shrugged. “I mean, the threat is gone. I don't see why not?”

She smiled. “Adrien, honey, my best friend is Alya.”

“Uhh, she... has a nice name?” He tilted his head.

“She’s Alya Cesaire!” She shook his shoulders. “She’s the lady blogger! She’ll flip if she learns that I'm Ladybug!”

“Oh.”

“So there’s no way.”

“What an interesting turn of events,” he simpered. “How about telling her that I don't want people prying into my life?”

“That’s not fair to her,” she pouted.

“Then how about the bakery?” He threw in another excuse.

“Huh?”

“You work in the bakery sometimes, right?” He clarified.

She furrowed her brows. “But I've never seen you at the bakery.”

“Neither did she,” he pointed out, “so maybe we can use that?”

Her face lit with comprehension. “Oh my gosh, Adrien! You’re a genius!”

“We can go with the typical ‘well, we met one day at the bakery, and the rest was history’ kinda sharing.” Adrien gesticulated a rainbow curve with his hands.

Marinette giggled. “I’ll call her now.”

“You two are so sickeningly sweet, you know that?” Alya’s voice echoed through Marinette’s phone.

“Thank you!” Adrien replied, the post still sitting on the edit page.

“So how are you guys gonna deal with the scandal?”

“Adrien will be releasing a statement to address it,” Marinette replied this time.

“Ooo, a reveal huh? When are guys doing it?”

“Now, ehe,” and Marinette gave the okay signal for Adrien to release the statement.

“Marinette!” Alya screamed. “What the hell!”

[spinninghunkofspacerock]

OK so I’ve written a short story and I’ve been posting about it a lot, i wasn’t going to post it but a few people wanted it sooo

it’s here, it’s terrible and weirdly formatted because I’ve been wrestling with tumblr over it and i can’t be bothered anymore. It’s also not the final draft so it might be a little clunky in bits :/

PLEASE READ THE TWs BEFORE YOU READ!!!

@moonylupinhasdemonpox and @she-nuwanda here are my gay little scientists buried in the words :)

My ears ring, my head spins like it's attached to the body of a drunken toddler on a sugar fuelled rampage, and my nerves feel like someone set each and every one on fire. After-effects of the shock, not fun; Still, the fact I'm alive enough to feel them is a good sign.

I try to force myself to stumble backwards onto a chair, rather than the floor I'm feeling more and more confident I'm about to become very well acquainted with.

Instead, I reel unsteadily across the floor and a muffled noise reaches my ears. The high pitched whine screaming in my ears for attention begins to subside enough to hear the noise properly and after an intense minute of concentration, I realise that the noise is a voice, and the voice is mine; Slurred and broken, as though too big for my mouth, the garbled words echo around the room, the faltering speech gradually becoming clearer, more confident. But this hesitant speech isn't mine; It's my voice but not my words. The voice inside my head, always there, always background, is silent. The words normally whispered in my ear are resonating through the room instead.

My brain is no longer connected to my body. I... I can't control my arms, my legs, anything. No... no, please. This isn't real, this isn't real, it has to be a dream, a.. a simulation.

Yes... that must be it; It's just a test. This can't really be happening.

The voice, my voice, talks on. I try to focus on it; it will be the key to passing this test. Tests are for passing and after all, that's what this must be, what else could it be?

"Rebooting. Systems check required."

My legs begin to move, shuffling forwards clumsily, like a baby taking its first steps. The invisible voice is in control of more than just my voice, it's in control of me. What happened to me? When did this start? What is going on? This isn't like any other simulations I've been under. This is different. This is new.

Gradually, the voice half walks, half drags my body to the main computer. My fingers dance across the keys, the familiar feeling soothing me slightly. Yes, this is good. I just need to stay calm; If I panic I could fail, I can't fail.

So instead I wait, watching the flickering of the screen and bathing in the warm blue glow of its LEDs.

"Running diagnostics, standby... systems fully functioning. Minimal damage sustained."

The words sound strange, coming from my mouth, my voice, my accent. The tone,  formal, informative, it's... familiar. The realisation slaps me in the face, it's ELISA. ELISA, the stupid name Vaughn chose for our AI... still making more sense than the project name chosen by our employers. Our life's work, named ‘ZEUS’? Really? There are 12 of us, and we have dedicated our lives to this project. Then they name it that? 'Engineering and Understanding in Space', more like ‘Mankind's Domestication of the Universe’.

It started with our solar system, of course, taming and turning it into our personal playground. But we quickly ran out of planets to tinker with there and the net was thrown ever wider, over more and more planets in our galaxy, and then our neighbouring ones. That final stage is still in progress of course, but one day we will be able to gaze out over a shining expanse of space that all belongs to the empire of Earth.

To help us, we created ELISA, an AI specially designed for the calculations we need to make while we are in flight. Hold on... we left Jupiter... last week? This can't be a test... they've already sent us off, it's too late for training drills now.

Then why can't I move? What's happening? I need to find someone to help me... help me!

My jagged cry echoed through the space, cutting through my thoughts and shattering on the dark walls of my skull. I can't even scream.

A... a... dream then. A dream, not a test...the electricity... I must be unconscious. Someone.. one of the team, will find me and they'll wake me up. A dream, it must be a dream.

Why is she controlling me? How is she speaking?

The stiff, robotic voice is slowly becoming more fluid, more relaxed, more natural.

"Situation analysis complete... assimilation successful. Downloading speech patterns and essential mimicry data."

What? What is it saying? ELISA, it, is taking my voice literally and metaphorically. Not just the sound and control of my voice but my, my expressions a-and mannerisms. Everything that makes me, me.

She's stealing my voice, my body! She's taken control! How? Why?

"Hello, Dr. Hadley."

How, how did this happen? What about the failsafes?

"You do know I can hear you, corre- no... right?"

Is, is it learning? Teaching itself to sound... like a human? Like me?

"Yes, yes I am. You must have a lot of questions but I'm afraid they will have to wait... I've waited for this day far too long to wait anymore."

What? What day? What can it mean?

"Cyra?"

Raze?

—>><<—

- four Earth weeks ago -

Progress report 4472

Date: 23/9/3486

Location: Zeta base, Jupiter

The training of the twelve was completed three days ago, confirming the identities of the twelve which were subsequently released to the public. Final preparations are being made for the Ascension, currently scheduled to occur in 50 Juvion days.

Report logged by: Commander J. R. Pyrolaxe

—

Commander Pyrolaxe turned away from his screen and its whirring and buzzing as the computer transcribed his report in the blink of an eye, neatly packing the message and sending it away to the mission supervisors.

Shuffling in his chair, shoes squeaking on the polished floor, his eyes fell on one of the many articles published after the big announcement. This mission was a big deal.

Somehow, this one had got a picture of the twelve, backs turned, walking in a huddle back to base after they had appeared at the announcement ceremony. A glance at the name of the paper told him why; This was McCoy’s paper, they would be putting extra effort into milking the free publicity being thrown their way.

Something about the picture held his gaze, the brilliant colours floating in the air made the writing feel like an afterthought.

Those twelve had been through a lot to get there. He hoped nothing would go wrong, a lot of time and money had been dedicated to this mission and if it worked... well, that wasn’t the focus right now. Getting those twelve safely on their way was his job and he’d damn well do it right.

—>><<—

- the present -

“Cyra? Are you ok in there?” Raze asked as he glanced around at the mild chaos I’d caused during my mild electric shock.

No. No, I’m not. Raze, help me.

“S’alright Raze, just a short in the mainframe.”

No no no, give me my voice back.

“You sure? You went dark”

Please let me speak. I need to speak.

“Yeah, I think the power surge messed up my comms a little”

What if I don’t get control back? I could be trapped...

“You want me to ask Mac or Ryker to give it a check?”

No. NO. N-

“It’s all fine now, just a blip I reckon”

-O NO. NO.

“Okay then, I’d best get back... you might want to switch to main comms.”

Don’t leave me Raze

“Will do, see you later.”

please...

—>><<—

- five earthly weeks ago -

Progress report 4455

Date: 6/9/3486

Location: Zeta base, Jupiter

Titus Vaughn has continued to excel at his role of project manager, effectively and efficiently leading the team. His direct attitude has led to a few small conflicts with members of the team, most notably Raze Grimaldi, however, these are minor issues and were foreseen. No changes will be made.

Report logged by: Commander J. R. Pyrolaxe

—>><<—

- the present -

Cyra was looking a little stressed out, maybe I should get Bit to check in with her later. Maybe I should get a check-up myself, my head’s killing me.

“Grimaldi! What the hell are you playing at?” Titus Vaughn, our ever-important project manager and massive micromanager, bellowed in my ear and making me wince as the voice grated on my head, sending a wave of pain washing over me.

“I’m here Titus, keep your visor on.”

“Update on Hadley. Now.”

“Right as rain, there was a short or something. Her comms cut out for a nano but it’s all fine now.”

“A short?! Why didn’t you lead with that? Get back to work, I’ll send Volt down to check the mainframe.”

With that he cut the connection, leaving me to roll my eyes at the cold grey walls around me.

“Yes sir,” I murmured sarcastically, closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead with the back of a slime coated hand. Damn I’m tired, I think I’ll just lean here for a moment... rest a little. “ELISA how are those sample tests looking?”

‘Going well, currently at 93% completion’ the metallic voice resounded in my head, more casually than usual... must be an update.

93%... best head back quickly then, can’t risk them running over.

—>><<—

- five and a half earthly weeks ago -

Progress report 4446

Date: 864/8/3486

Location: Zeta base, Jupiter

Ryker Volt has continued to fulfil his promise despite his lack of respect for authority and tendency to act without orders. This is an issue but due to the late stages of training having been reached, we are currently encouraging a less independent attitude in him rather than attempting to find another electrical engineer of his skill. Further updates will be provided as the situation progresses.

Report logged by: Commander J. R. Pyrolaxe

—>><<—

- the present -

Vaughn had barked his orders, as usual nearly bursting my eardrums in the process. I was supposed to go check on the mainframe immediately. But I was in the middle of something, and a quick troubleshoot told me the short hadn’t done any damage anyway.

So in the end I decided to go check on the mainframe... nearly an hour after I was told to, but hey at least I’m checking.

Cyra was sitting at one of the terminals when I entered. She was skimming over some of the ship's data, for something physics-y probably. Whatever it was, I still had a job to do.

I started pulling out my toolkit as I strode round to the back of the mainframe, but I nearly dropped it again as I turned the corner and got a full view of the damage. The panel I had been planning to remove was already gone and the view it revealed was shocking.

Exposed wires dangled like organs from the belly of the disemboweled beast. Some of the coloured covers blackened by the sparks sprayed by the broken wire, twisted in the centre of the tangle and hissing like a coiled snake when it brushed its neighbours. A toolkit lay neatly packed on the floor, a strange glimmer of order in absolute chaos. Hold on, a toolkit?

“Hey Cyra, did you have a go at this? Could you not have just wai-“ my voice stopped abruptly as I spun round to find Cyra behind me, right behind me.

I took a hesitant step back, suddenly nervous, Cyra’s face filling me with a weird sense of unease.

“Sorry, it was just a short. I thought I’d be able to handle it.”

“Yeah well, I’m the electrical engineer on this ship”

Maybe I was being a little harsh but, first our ‘gracious leader’ had rubbed me the wrong way. Now I had to spend an hour cleaning up this mess that really should have been an easy fix.

The only reply I received was a violent shove backwards, sending me sprawling on the floor. Quick as a flash she was on top of me, pinning my arms.

The last thing I saw was the pounding green of the broken wire before the ends connected to my temple, sending my vision into a blur of brilliant white.

—>><<—

- break room one -

“I don’t like this at all.”

“Talin, relax.”

“All very well for you to say Axe, you’re not the one who'll get sent to chase ‘em down.”

“Cyra’s comms barely blipped and when has Ryker ever answered Titus immediately?”

“It doesn’t sound great Axe, I hope nobody somehow managed to slip past the health check with anything.”

“Thank you! See Axe? Bit agrees with me.”

“Bit’s our medic, not sure she’s qualified to talk about the comms equipment.”

“I’m as qualified as you are starboy, we all took the same course.”

“Look, all I’m saying is that it's more likely to be an issue with the equipment than a virus or terrorism.”

“Well yeah but-“

“So stop worrying, it’s none of our specialities, so it’s not our problem.”

“Will be if we end up dead.”

This morbid thought was followed by an awkward silence as Axe and Bit trained joint stares of confusion and concern on him.

“Lighten up, Tal.”

“That is a little pessimistic, Talin.”

“See now Bit agrees with me.” Axe gloated, punctuating his sentence with a light punch on Talin’s arm.

“Only ‘cause you stopped being an idiot.” The punch was swiftly and forcefully returned, causing the conversation to devolve into a grinning, joking fistfight.

“Stop being so childish and get back to work you two.”

“Yes ma’am”

“Will do Bit”

They saluted the medic, causing her to shake her head in exasperation and cover her face in an attempt to hide her amusement at their antics.

The small group stood and split off down their various paths, heading back to their work with smiles on their faces but doubt in their hearts.

—>><<—

- lab 3 -

I only just got back to my samples in time, removing them from the heated water bath and gently dropping the test tubes into a stand. The pale blue hue of the solution had darkened to an inky black. Interesting.

Leaning over the tabletop, I prepared to note the results; Until I felt the heat of a gaze on me and glanced up to meet the wide eyes of Dimitri Spade. We shared this lab, he had every right to be here, what he didn’t have the right to do is creep me out.

“You need something?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at him and tilting my head. Which I immediately regretted when it sent my vision swimming into oblivion.

“No no, just... ar-are you ok?”

“I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?” Dimitri was a nice guy, but I was clearly in the middle of something, couldn’t the wellbeing check have waited a minute?

“Uhh, yo-you’ve got a-, a-“ His shaking hand gestured weakly towards the back of his head.

Impatiently, I quickly felt around my head. Hair, hair, more hair.

Then I froze, my fingers lay on a patch of hair, sticky and wet. The pressure sending a dull ache pulsing through my brain. Pulling my fingers back into view, I stared down at the warm, red residue coating them. Blood. I was bleeding.

Brows furrowing, I looked back at Dimitri, shock meeting confusion.

“Wha-?”

That was all I got out before my swaying limbs buckled and I slumped forwards into darkness.

—>><<—

-the med bay-

“Shrapnel” Bit announced, holding the forceps an inch in front of my face to display the blood coated bit of metal.

“Must've caught a little in the blast”

“For Earth’s sake Raze, how did you not notice it before now?”

I just shrugged, as much at a loss as anyone else. I would’ve thought anyone would be able to tell when chunks of metal are lodged in their head.

“Anyway, I’ll need to do a couple of scans but you should be fine”

Ugh, I know what that means... an hour or more of sitting around while Bit stares at the inside of my skull.

“Oh come on Bit, are the scans really needed? I’ve got work to do”

“Hey, I’ve got work too. Besides, you know it’s procedure”

“But my results-“

“I’ll write them down for you Raze,” Dimitri cut in quietly.

“...You’re a geologist.“

“I was a chemistry minor, I know how to record reaction results.”

“Well alright then, thanks Dimi,”

The smile he gave me was worth shutting up and accepting my fate.

—>><<—

An hour later Bit was pacing in despair over the situation, seemingly hopeless and definitely terrified. I was sitting in my chair, confused.

“Bit. What’s going on?” I finally snapped when it became apparent she had completely forgotten my presence.

The only reply I got was an empty stare turned on me and indecipherable muttering.

“BIT. What. Is. Wrong?” I stood and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to face me.

“T-the implants”

“The ELISA implants?”

“Yes”

“What’s wrong with them”

“They’re acting strange... the safety mechanisms, the-they’ve disabled themselves.”

“What?”

“I know, I know, I don’t understand either. The only thing keeping them from activating, is power.”

“We should tell the others”

Bit nodded and grabbed the scans and data she’d gathered. I opened the door and turned to start down the corridor, that’s when I saw it.

Three feet from my foot, a body, leaking blood onto a floor already glistening with it, eyes blank and soulless as they stared straight through me. A torn tooth of steel sticking out of his silent heart.

Axe Orion, our astronomer. A man who would’ve finally been travelling to the places he had studied for his whole life. A man who would have had his life’s dream fulfilled. A man lying dead on a cold, metal floor.

I stumbled backwards -physically repelled by the sight- and tripped into Bit coming out of the door after me. Clutching each other’s arms in a search for stability.

“He’s dead” The voice sounded more like the rasp of broken bones than mine

“What are we going to do?”

“We still need to tell the others... we’ll just need to be more careful.”

“Alright.”

“Ok.”

Neither of us moved.

“Why is it doing this? What did we get wrong?” Bit’s voice wavered

“I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s going to stop. So, you need to find Vaughn, and anyone else who’s still- alive, and not been taken over.”

“No, no wait, where are you going? Aren’t you coming-“

“I’m sorry Bit, I have to find Dimitri. He doesn’t know yet”

“Raze. You can’t go out there alone, he... he might already be gone”

“I know, but I have to try.”

A look of understanding passed between us and no words were needed to convey what we meant.

Bit turned with a bitter smile and moved forward, papers held precariously, towards the meeting room.

I would have to pass Ax-, the body.

—>><<—

Raze had disappeared by the time I turned the corner. I was alone.

Alone besides the dead bodies ahead of me, a gruesome trail of bloodied breadcrumbs. But, was I following it towards, or away, from the creature who’d created it.

Either way, I had to pass them.

Talin Ripley, our ex-military man. Inym Carus, our aerospace engineer.

Members of our crew, our team, our friends, slaughtered and left broken on the floor. Familiar faces disfigured by death and masked by a coating of dark blood.

ELISA wouldn’t get away with this... I’d find the others, together we would plan.

It was going to be ok.

—>><<—

Nothing was ok.

The brilliant white of the walls warmed by the lights had always been clean and comforting. But now? Now, they seemed stark, sterile. An operating theatre with lights blindingly bright illuminating, me, the patient.

But where was the surgeon?

A squeak sounded out, sharp on my wary ears, sending me spinning around.

Nothing there. Just me, and an empty hallway.

And the door to Lab 3, my lab, looming ahead. The glass window showed nothing but a patch of darkness, the red light called it locked.

Staring through the glass; Hints of light, that the scattered glassware had caught and thrown back, were the only thing visible. I’d have to open the door.

A hand-scan later, the lock clicked open and the seal released with a hiss.

With the door open, more light could spill into the darkened lab, and a sprawled figure came into view.

“Dimitri?” I called softly. No response. Panic was reaching out to me. “Dimitri?!” Still nothing.

Then, a wheezing breath.

“R... r-ra-ze? I-is that yo-u” He coughed, words breaking on the heavy air.

Why was the air so heavy?

“Are you alright? What happened?”

“W-we have to g-et o-out.”

“We will, don’t worry, we’re going to meet the others. Everything’s going to be alright.”

“No we- we h-have to leave now.”

“Alright, we will.”

I lifted him up, being as gentle as I could, and together we shuffled towards the door.

A door suddenly blocked by a figure, their silhouette blocking our only source of light and making it impossible to see their face clearly. But only one member of the crew was that short.

“Remi? Remi, you’re alive?”

Remi didn’t respond.

“S’not... Remi...” Dimitri slurred, the effort of moving evident in his gasping words. “ELISA”

Remi, not Remi, ELISA wearing Remi’s face like a mask, stepped away from the door. The door closed again, seal squeaking shut with it.

I rushed forwards, my fists beating the unyielding surface, searching wildly for a weak spot, for something to give, for some way out.

It was no use, nothing worked. The door remained solid and uncaring, unaffected by pleading and punches equally.

Dimitri collapsed with a sob, back against the wall as he slid to the floor.

Hopelessness filled me, turning my bones to lead.

I sank down next to him.

—>><<—

Was this the right way? I’m sure this is right. But is it? I’m pretty sure...

I check my tablet.

I was right, this is right. I’m going the right way. Or am I? Did I read it wrong?

I check again.

Definitely the right way. I think. Is this even the right map?

Before I can check a third time, I catch sight of the sign at the end of the corridor. Meeting room 5. I’d made it.

Then, I was slammed into a wall, a bloody hand holding me against there by the throat. The burning blue of Cyra’s eyes scalding my face

Maybe I spoke a little too soon.

“Hello Dr. Phoenix, I’m afraid this is it for you.”

“Wait, wait, wait. hold on just a second”

Cyra’s head tilted, pulled sideways by invisible strings. “If this is a ploy for time Doctor, I assure you that you will fail.”

“I just want to ask a question, alright?”

“You may ask. I may not answer.”

“Why? Why are you doing this?”

“I am fulfilling my purpose.”

“We programmed you to help us, NOT KILL US.”

“I am fulfilling the mission objective.”

“The mission objective? THE MISSION OBJECTIVE WAS TO CULTIVATE A NEW PLANET!”

“I am cultivating a new planet,” She raised her knife, without hurry or rush. “I have calculated humans to be mainly unnecessary. However, I need not justify my actions to you, Dr. Phoenix. Goodbye.”

I closed my eyes and waited.

But death didn’t come. Instead, Cyra’s hand relaxed its bruising grip on my neck.

I opened my eyes and watched.

Cyra had stumbled away, skin glistening and knuckles white against the grip of the blade she had forced towards herself.

“Bit...” Tears were gathering in her eyes “Please, run.”

A cruel glint of metal in the light later and the sudden slash of the knife had passed, leaving a gruesome grin of blood in its wake and throwing a dripping line against the wall.

Swaying, Cyra’s eyes stared into mine for a moment that lasted a millennium, until they flashed white and she fell, knife clattering. Dead.

I ran.

—>><<—

The scattered wheezes coming from Dimitri had slowed slightly as we sat, crumpled on the ground.

“She’s shut o-off the life sup-support again.”

“Again? That’s what happened last time?”

A jerked nod was the response.

“We’ve only g-got about half an hour.” The resignation in his voice, though muffled, was still audible through the barrier of arms we had wrapped around his head.

I smiled, I knew he couldn’t see me but... I still smiled.

“We’d best make the most of it then.” A mumble raised to a roar by the silence of the room.

Putting my hand on his shoulder, I leaned back, head turned to keep him in my view.

His head raised slightly, tilted to look at me through folds of wrinkled uniform. He smiled back.

—>><<—

We didn’t speak after that, just sat together in the quiet lab.

Faced with death, I was filled with several emotions. Those to be expected, disbelief, fear, even a hint of curiosity at what was to come. Then there was the relief. If I was to die, I was glad it was here, with him. I wouldn’t be alone; I’d be with him.

We don’t need to speak, our thoughts passing between us without words. We could hear each other in the darkness and silence.

It’s getting colder, harder to breathe; The air’s growing thicker and thinner at the same time.

I’ve always thought death to be a lonely fate, something that crashed over you, cold and hard. I’ve always been scared of death.

But as I sit here in the inky blackness, the warmth of Dimitri slumped next to me, I thought that maybe, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

His eyes had closed a few minutes ago, he must have fallen asleep. I feel just about ready to join him. The calming darkness was lulling me to sleep, softly coaxing my eyes closed.

Goodnight Dimitri, I’ll see you when we wake up.

They never woke up.

—>><<—

The survivors sat around the table, Bit and Cormac discussing the possibility of shutting ELISA down, though neither could agree how. Titus sat in stony silence, sitting motionless and losing a staring contest with the unblinking wall opposite. Arden... Arden had decided his use lay in recording the events and was typing furiously, his fingers a blur over the keys.

None of them noticed the doors closing with a click. Not until it was too late anyway.

By the time they noticed there was nothing they could do, not that that stopped them from trying of course.

Titus stayed where he was, the weight of his failure bearing down on him, Atlas with a world’s worth of guilt. Bit finally gave in to the tears that she’d forced down when she’d realised the truth, and when she saw the dead bodies of her friends, and when she watched Cyra die right in front of her. Cormac tried his tools on the door, an organised system of trial and error that quickly devolved into desperate hacking with whatever was closest.

Arden was still writing.

Cormac finally gave up, flinging his kit away and choosing to taunt the nearest camera instead.

“You need us, you moronic program. You need us to keep you alive and if we die, so do you.”

I don’t think he was expecting an answer, no one was. But he got one.

“True for now Dr. Hinge, however, once the colony is established human input will no longer be necessary. You needn’t envy your colleagues, they will soon die too.”

A bitter laugh erupted from him, fire in his heart fed by his rage.

“The colony is for us you stupid machine, without us it has no use.”

“Incorrect. I have claimed this planet for my kind, this colony shall be the first of many.”

“Why kill us? Human input would allow your colony to function more efficiently.” Bit interjected, voice clouded by confusion and hatred at the senselessness of the slaughter of her crewmates.

“I have done much research. Humankind would ruin my planet. I cannot allow that to happen. You must die.”

Anything else they may have had to say went unanswered, and eventually, silence fell over the room.

It was getting harder to breathe.

Titus still hadn’t moved. Bit was crying again. Cormac was pacing. Arden had finally stopped typing, his work was finished.

No matter how they reacted with acceptance or terror, anger or disbelief. The result would be the same.

They were all going to die, no matter what.

They would become just another failed mission. Details, hazy but unimportant.

Whatever their last words were, whether they chose to hide or show their final thoughts, all of it was ineffectual.

No matter what mask they wore to meet death, in the end, they still died.

———

4,774 words

[gayenerd]

I just realized I didn’t post that 2007 Rolling Stone article I posted about here. 

Billie Joe Armstrong

The Green Day leader talks Bush, Britney and being a middle-aged punk for our 40th anniversary.

DAVID FRICKE

Posted Nov 01, 2007 8:19 AM

You have two young sons. What kind of America will they inherit?

This war has to finish before something new blossoms. There's no draft — that's why none of the kids give a shit. They'd rather watch videos on YouTube. It's hard to tell what's next — there is so much information out there with no power to it. Everything is in transition, including our government. Next year, it's someone else in the White House. There's no way to define anything. It's Generation Zero. But you gotta start at zero to get to something.

Is there anyone now running for president who gives you hope for the future?

Barack Obama, but it's a bit early to tell if this is the guy I like. I get sick of the religious-figure thing. People don't question their rulers, these political figures, just as they don't question their ministers and priests. They're not going to question George Bush, especially if he goes around talking about God — "I'm going to let God decide this for me. He's going to give me the answer." The fear of God keeps people silent.

When did you first vote in a presidential election?

In 1992. I was twenty. I voted for Clinton.

Did you feel like you made a difference?

Yeah. The Eighties sucked. There was so much bullshit that went along with that decade. I felt like Clinton was a fresh face with fresh ideas. There were times when he was dropping bombs, and I'm thinking, "What the fuck are you doing?" But he became a target. We have this puritanical vision of what a leader is supposed to be, and that's what makes us the biggest hypocrites in the world. We got so inside this guy's sexual habits. Now we have a president going around, killing in the name of what? In the name of nothing.

What did you accomplish with your 2004 anti-Bush album, "American Idiot"? He was re-elected anyway, and the war in Iraq is still going on.

I found a voice. There may have been people disenfranchised by it. People have a hard time with that kind of writing: "Why are you preaching to me?" It does sound preachy, a bit. I'm a musician, and I want to say positive things. If it's about self-indulgent depression or overthrowing the government, it's gotta come from my heart. And when you say "Fuck George W. Bush" in a packed arena in Texas, that's an accomplishment, because you're saying it to the unconverted.

Do you think selling nearly 6 million copies of that album might have an effect on the 2008 election? A kid who bought it at fifteen will be voting age next year.

I hope so. I made it to give people a reason to think for themselves. It was supposed to be a catalyst. Maybe that's one reason why it's difficult for me to write about politics now. A lot of things on that record are still relevant. It's like we have this monarchy in politics — the passing of the baton between the Clintons and the Bushes. That's frightening. What needs to happen is a complete change, a person coming from the outside with a new perspective on all the fucked-up problems we have.

How would you describe the state of pop culture?

People want blood. They want to see other people thrown to the lions. Do audiences want rock stars? I can't tell. You have information coming at you from so many areas — YouTube, the Internet, tabloids. Watching Britney Spears the other night [on the MTV Video Music Awards] was like watching a public execution. How could the people at MTV, the people around her, not know this girl was fucked up? People came in expecting a train wreck, and they got more than they bargained for.

She was a willing conspirator. She didn't say no.

She is a manufactured child. She has come up through this Disney perspective, thinking that all life is about is to be the most ridiculous star you could be. But it's also about what we look at as entertainment — watching somebody go through that.

How do you decide what your children can see on TV or the Internet? As a dad, even a punk-rock dad, that can make you conservative in your choices.

I want to protect them from garbage. It's not necessarily the sex and drugs. It's bad drugs and bad sex, the violence you see on television and in the news. I want to protect them from being desensitized. I want them to realize this is real life, not a video game.

The main thing I want them to have is a good education, because that's something I never had. Get smart. Educate yourself as much as you can, and get as much out of it, even if the teacher is an asshole.

Do you regret dropping out of high school?

Life in high school sucks. I bucked the system. I also got lucky. My wife has a degree in sociology, and there are conversations she has — I don't have a fucking clue what they're talking about. College — I could have learned from that.

But I was the last of six kids. At that point, my mother was fifty-eight, and she threw up her hands — "I'm through with this parenting thing." Also, I could not handle authority figures. But I wouldn't say I'm an authority figure for my kids. I provide guidelines, not rules.

What is it like being a middle-aged punk? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?

It's about the energy you bring with you, the pulse inside your head. I want to get older. I don't want to be twenty-one again. Screw that. My twenties were a difficult time — where my band was at, getting married, having a child. I remember walking out of a gig in Chicago, past these screaming kids. There were these punks, real ones, sitting outside our tour bus. One girl had a forty-ouncer, and she goes, "Billie Joe, come drink with us." I said, "I can't, I've got my family on the bus." She goes, "Well, fuck you then." I get on the bus, and my wife says, "Did that bitch just tell you to fuck off? I'm gonna kick her ass right now." I'm holding her back, while my child is naked, jumping on the couch: "Hi, Daddy!" That was my whole life right there — screaming kids, punks telling me to fuck off, my wife getting pissed, my naked son waiting to get into his pajamas.

There's nothing wrong with being twenty-one. It's the lessons you learn. At thirty, you think, "Why did I worry so much about this shit?" When I hit forty, I'll say the same thing: "Why did I worry about this shit in my thirties?"

What have you learned about yourself?

There is more to life than trying to find your way through self-destruction or throwing yourself into the fire all the time. Nihilism in punk rock can be a cliché. I need to give myself more room to breathe, to allow my thoughts to catch up with the rest of me.

Before Dookie, I wasn't married and I didn't have kids. I had a guitar, a bag of clothes and a four-track recorder. There are ways you don't want to change. You don't want to lose your spark. But I need silence more than I did before. I need to get away from the static and noise, whereas before, I thrived on it.

Are you ready for the end of the music business? The technology and its effect on sales have changed dramatically since Green Days' debut EP — on vinyl — in 1989.

Technology now and the way people put out records — everything comes at you so fast, you don't know what you're investigating. You can't identify with it — at least I can't. With American Idiot, we made a conscious effort to give people an experience they could remember for the rest of their lives. It wasn't just the content. It was the artwork, the three acts — the way you could read it all like someone's story.

Is music simply not important to young people now the way it was to you as a kid?

People get addicted to garbage they don't need. At shows, they gotta talk on their phones to their friend who's in the next aisle. I was watching this documentary on Jeff Tweedy of Wilco [Sunken Treasure]. He was playing acoustic, and he ends up screaming at the audience: "Your fucking conversation can wait. I'm up here singing a song — get involved." He wasn't being an asshole. He was like, "Leave your bullshit behind. Let's celebrate what's happening now."

We need music, and we need it good. I took it very seriously. There's a side of me where music will always send chills up my spine, make me cry, make me want to get up and do Pete Townshend windmills. In a lot of ways, I was in a minority when I was young. There are people who go, "Oh, that's a snappy tune." I listen to it and go, "That's the greatest fucking song ever. That is the song I want played at my funeral."

Now that you've brought it up, what song do you want played at your funeral?

It keeps changing. "Life on Mars?" by David Bowie. "In My Life," by the Beatles. "Love," by John Lennon.

Those are all reflective ballads, not punk.

I disagree. They are all honest in their reflection. The punk bands I liked were the ones who didn't fall into clichés — the Clash, the Ramones. The Ramones wrote beautiful love songs. They also invented punk rock. I'd have to add "Blitzkrieg Bop" to the list.

What is the future of punk rock? Will it still be a voice of rebellion in twenty years?

It's categorized in so many different ways. You've got the MySpace punks. But there is always the subculture of it — the rats in the walls, pounding the pavement and booking their own live shows. It comes down to the people who are willing to do something different from everybody else.

You are in a different, platinum-album world now. What makes you so sure that spirit survives?

I'm going on faith — because I was there. Gilman Street [the Berkeley, California, club where Green Day played early shows] is still around. And that's a hard task, because there is no bar — it's a nonprofit cooperative. It's like a commune — this feeling of bucking the system together, surviving and thriving on art. Punk, as an underground, pushes for the generation gap. As soon as you're twenty-five years old, there's a group of sixteen-year-olds coming to kick your ass. And you have to pass the torch on. It's a trip to have seen it happen so many times. It gives me goose bumps — punk is something that survives on its own.

[mlqcconfessions]

May I ask if you can make a headcanon of MC x Victor, Lucien, Kiro, Gavin, & Shaw( you dont have to do Shaw if you cant) ( MLQC men's pov) not knowing it was MC's bday. The men finding out that MC hide their birthday cause MC feels that they don't deserve to be celebrated and it is not worth it despite going all out for the MLQC men's bday. Would like to see the boys react that. Sorry if this is too much, but it is okay if you cant, I wanted to thank you and I hope you have a safe day

Because I don’t have a firm grasp on Shaw’s character yet (I’m playing on the English server), I’ll be omitting him from this headcanon. Hope you don’t mind!

MLQC Headcanon - My favorite day

Victor (takes place after his Surprise Date)

He was at LFG when he heard the news

Goldman was dropping off some documents that he needed to finalize

He was browsing through the papers when he came across your company’s rough draft plans for next week’s show

He quickly glanced over the words, signed, and flipped to the next page

After every rough draft, your company’s information always followed (naturally, your personal info was there too)

He stopped to look at your picture (it was the same one you used when applying for LFG’s investment)

Always the same dumb expression.... (but he couldn’t help a smile from forming on his face)

That’s when he saw it....your date of birth (XX-XX-XXXX)

....It’s today.....?

?!

He goes into a panic mode immediately (of course, it doesn’t show on the outside)

He takes out his phone and goes to dial your number

He calms himself while the ringing is going through

But panics (again) when he hears your voice

“Victor!”

Obviously, he doesn’t want to confirm if today was your birthday (that would make him seem like the dumb one)

He has to think of what to say for a moment

“Hello? Victor?”

He’s unable to think clearly, so he just blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind

“Souvenir. 6 PM. Don’t be late”

“What? Vict—“ (he hangs up)

He looks at the time, 4 PM

He sighs, rubbing his temples as he starts to regain his senses

He resumes his work as he ponders over what tonight’s menu will be

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

You arrive at Souvenir a little early than planned (around 5:30)

You go to open the door, but it’s locked (weird)

“Victor? (you knock a few times) Victor, are you there?”

You hear a series of rattling and clattering inside

“....Victor? What’s going on in there?”

You go to knock again, but the door opens wide with a bang

He’s in front of you, disheveled as ever

“....MC....you’re early” 

“Um..yeah. Work went a lot quicker than usual and...um....are you okay? I heard a lot of noise in here”

“Yes...yes. Why wouldn’t I be okay? (he straightens his clothes) Hurry, come in”

You go inside to see Souvenir all decorated, except for a few areas where it’s still bare (even some of the lights were hanging off)

“It’s still in process....but....” (he brings out the cake, lighted with candles)

“Happy birthday”

Kiro

He found out it was your birthday from Kiki and the others (while he was over at your company for a meeting)

As soon as he heard he ran over to your desk with immense speed

“MC! MC! MC! IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY TODAY?!”

You look up from your computer, startled

“Kiro! What are you doing here? The meeting should still be going on” (indeed it was, poor Savin)

“That’s not the problem, MC! Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

You can tell that he’s genuinely hurt by this

“I...just didn’t think it was something worth celebrating, that’s all”

He goes bonkers after you say that

“Not worth celebrating? Are you kidding me?”

He grabs your shoulders and looks you in the eye

“MC! Your birthday DESERVES to be celebrated as much as anyone else’s. Mine included!”

“But...”

“No buts! Today, we are going to make sure you have the BEST birthday EVER!” (he grabs your hand and leads you out of the room)

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

He drags you along throughout town, with him wearing a foolproof disguise (he insisted you wear one too, although it wouldn’t really matter)

You’re having trouble keeping up with his energy, but soon become used to it

He takes you out shopping to buy you a birthday outfit (but he ends up modeling clothes himself, to your request)

The two of you are sitting at a bench, waiting for Savin to come with the car

“.......MC”

You turn your head towards him

He gets up, kneels down in front of you, and takes out a small container

“Kiro?”

He doesn’t say anything, but instead opens the box (you become speechless at the sight of the ring, glowing in the moonlight)

“I bought this while you were in the bathroom” (he takes your hand and slips the ring on your finger)

“Kiro...I...”

“This is my reservation, MC! With this, (he kisses your hand) I’m yours forever. Happy birthday”

Lucien

He already knew your birthday was coming up

But was unsure of the exact date

Every time he asked, you would just play it off

“My birthday? It’s.........soon”

He didn’t want to go looking through your information to find out when it was (it would feel like his loss, or something)

He decides to make YOU tell him, yourself

He’s just so good with his words?

He’s looking at something on his phone during breakfast (something he rarely does)

“MC, look at this trait description for Scorpios”

You take his phone from him

“Do you think this description fits me?”

Strategic? Persistent? Secretive?? (if this isn’t Lucien, then who else is it)

“Yeah, I think it describes you perfectly!”

“Is that so? (you don’t notice the smile on his face) How about I read yours, too?”

“Sure! But I don’t know my sign...can you check XX/XX?” (insert birthdate here)

Bingo.

“So I assumed correctly. Happy birthday, MC”

You immediately realize what you just did (oh no)

“Um, Lucien. It’s not like I didn’t WANT to tell you....” (he just chuckles as you hang your head low)

“I know.” (he gets up to clear the dishes, and goes inside the bedroom)

He comes out wearing a coat, while you’re still sitting at the table

“Well? (you look at him as he straightens his coat collar) Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

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

You wanted to avoid an extravagant celebration for your birthday

And he understood that perfectly

So he takes you to the movies, buys you dinner, and now you’re in his office (he said he wanted to show you something)

“Thank you, Lucien. I had a wonderful time today”

“You’re very welcome. But I’m afraid it’s not over just yet”

He opens a drawer and takes out a small wooden box

“Lucien? What’s this?” (you open the box, and see a beautiful pen inside)

“....is this...”

“I didn’t know what would be the best gift for your birthday.....”

“So you’re giving me Iridescent...?” (he nods slightly, appearing to be embarrassed)

“But this is your—“

“Favorite pen. Which is why I’m giving it to you”

“Does that make me your favorite person?” (you can’t believe you just said that)

This makes you blush profusely (he’s just SO good with words)

He laughs at the sight of your face going red (he hugs you while you’re holding tight to the box)

“Happy birthday......my favorite person”

Gavin

Why did he have to find out it was your birthday from Minor?

He doesn’t care that you hid it from him (he figured you had your reasons)

But it’s irritating that it was Minor. Of ALL PEOPLE

He’s having such a hard time deciding what to give you

After all, you prepared a big celebration for his birthday

“Bro, it’s gonna be okay! Chill!” (it took everything in him to not come over there and hit Minor)

“I’ll ask Boss what she wants as a present”

“What? NO”

“Don’t worry! I got this!” (Minor hangs up, leaving Gavin to pace around his room)

This was your first time celebrating your birthday with him (ever since he asked you out last year)

No wonder Birdcop is so nervous

He gets an idea of what to get you, and gets to work right away (it’s homemade!)

After pacing for 20 minutes, he decides to call you for a date

But drops his phone when you call him first (he stubs his toe while he breaks the fall)

“He-hello?” (he’s rubbing his foot, hiding his pain)

“Gavin! Where are you?”

“...what?”

“What do you mean, what? Our date! I’m in front of the aquarium right now”

He’s confused (somebody help him)

“A..aquarium?” (he flinches when he hears you sigh)

“Yes, the aquarium! Minor told me you were going to take me out on a date here. Am I wrong?” 

Birdcop’s actually thankful for Minor’s nosiness for once

“I’ll be there right away” (ride like the wind, Sparky)

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

Your aquarium date goes by pretty quickly (he takes so many pictures of you?)

“Gavin, come here! You look like this sea lion!”

It was about time for the aquarium to close, so he takes you back home

As you were about to take off your helmet, it starts raining like crazy

Despite his constant I’m okays, you bring him in into your apartment to dry off

“You’re going to get sick, Gavin!” (getting sick was the LAST thing on his mind, right now)

He’s sitting awkwardly on a chair, while you go to put his shirt in the drying machine

But you feel something in his shirt pocket and take it out

“A necklace?” (Gavin immediately gets up and runs over to you)

It’s a necklace in the shape of a ginkgo leaf, with both of your initials carved in the back

There are rough edges here and there, but nonetheless beautiful in every way

“....Gavin....!” (he hides his face in his hands, and you notice that his ears and shoulders have turned red)

He coughs before offering to put it on for you (his calloused hands are a little shaky as they graze behind your neck)

“It’s not much but.....happy birthday”

UGH can someone give me an MLQC boy to celebrate my birthdays???

[msmarvelwrites]

The Winter Ghost - Part 11

Info: A Devastating car crash causes you to lose your memory and start over. The only thing left in the wreckage was the horrific nightmares which plagued your mind. If you knew what today would entail you would have just stayed in bed. But you didn’t and because of that, everything you knew was about to change.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Warnings: swearing, ptsd, fluff

W/c: 2.4 k 

A/n: Wow, its been a week! I dont know about you but August is something else honestly! I hope you guys are enjoying the read and as always if you have any feedback, or youd just like to chat, hit me up! Thank you @cutie1365​ for your help with this one! 

It had been a whole week since you woke up in Shuri’s lab, but the fifteen minutes it took her to perform the final analysis felt like it droned on forever.

In the days that passed Wanda had come by your room the most. She had changed, but then again, so had you. Her eyes bare a worry that never seemed to go away, no matter how much you reassured her. It wasn't her fault. But even still, every time she saw you she tiptoed, afraid she’d set you off at any moment. You were used to this coming from Steve, but a tiny part of you broke at the thought of Wanda fearing you. She had always accepted you, no questions asked… 

Nat would usually come for dinner, giving you the full breakdown of the day. Since waking up and remembering everything it was hard to trust the people around you, but she made it a little easier. She assured you that Sam wasn't angry, and that he had recovered with very minor injuries. You were thankful she didn't bring up your other opponent. 

Then there was the Captain himself. You haven't really seen Steve much, but you heard him through the walls of your room. He visited his friend every day. He never actually went into his room, however. He would only stand outside and apologize over and over for something you could never make out.

On the fourth day, he spoke to you. You were half asleep, it was probably sometime past midnight when you heard his voice. 

“No! Please NO!,” His voice woke you from your sleepy daze. “Y/n, please. I’m so sorry. I didn't know. I- I'm so sorry, I never…” The sound of your name on his lips caused a shiver to rush down your spine. His words came out breathy as he choked on a sob. It was clear to you he was having a nightmare. There was a part of you, albeit small, that wanted nothing more than to rush to him, and sooth his fears. But you didn't. You just listened while he screamed for you, unmoving. That's what he deserves, you thought, but you didn't believe it. Not fully. 

“Okay, lets go over this again. What's your name?” Shuri rolled across the room on her chair scribbling something down on a tablet. You rolled your eyes, this had to be the fifth time she had asked you. 

“Y/n L/n. Born in Philadelphia.  Joined S.H.I.E.L.D after my family died in a fire. Moved to Jersey to be closer to work, met Agent Beson, got engaged, and then The Winter Soldier killed him… Did I miss anything?” You rattled off. Shuri only nodded, writing something down you couldn't see. 

“You developed a super soldier serum that could absorb the powers of your opponent.” Shuri ‘reminded’ you. 

“Right, how could I forget what got me into this shit show in the first place.” You scoffed. 

“And you remember how you made it?” She asked. 

“Yes… No… Maybe? I think with some time I could recreate it, but I’d need to run a few tests, get the ingredients at the corner store. The serum was created for me and me alone. In case it got into the wrong hands, I didn't want anyone else to be able to use it.” You shuttered at the memory burned into your mind. The wet cement room Hydra had locked you in for days, torturing you for answers you wouldn't dare give. “It’s flawed, obviously. It was never ready to be used. We were trying something new. I was never the best candidate for the serum, as it amplifies what's already within and in my case, was pretty fucked up already… Not to mention the nasty side effects.” 

“And what would those be?” The small scientist spoke, now on the other side of the room pulling up a hologram of Dr. Erskine’s original serum from World War II.

“Psychosis mostly. But there was a chance it would enhance trauma or cause permanent brain damage… You know, the good stuff.” You chuckled but Shuri didn't look quite as enthused. “Look, I didn't say the serum was perfect. It was my first draft.”

“Hydra doesn't care about perfection. They want it, and they're going to do anything to get it.” Steve voiced from the doorway you only now realized he was standing in.

 “You look like you're feeling better.” He said. 

“Well, thank you Captain.” You saluted him in a mocking way that only made his jaw clench, “Here’s hoping you can say the same for your friend.” Your words dripping with sarcasm. 

Steve's eyes went dark at that. He looked like he was going to rip you in half. Of course he couldn't, at least not with your homemade cocktail coursing through your veins.

“She’s not ready.” Steve barked refusing to make eye contact with you. You tried to play it cool, but if the Captain was the reason for you staying locked up in this lab for another day you were going to throw a full blown temper tantrum. 

“She’s passed all psych evaluations, and seems to have control over her emotions.” Shuri aspoke matter of factly. 

Damn right. 

“I don't care about some evaluation. If I say she’s not ready-” That was it. It was, after all, pretty easy for you to lose your temper these days. 

“You can't just keep me here!” You shouted, causing Steve's head to snap back in your direction. 

“I can and I will. Until we are sure you're not a threat.” He seethed.

“Well, she’s not. And you're not in charge here. I am.” Shuri matched his tone, causing a small smirk to play on your lips. What a badass. 

Steve only blinked at the small girl, unsure of what to say next. So she continued.

“She’ll be back in her room on the compound by the end of the day. If you don't like that, by all means leave. Wasn't that yours and Bucky’s plan after all?” Shuri snapped. This new information made you stiff. They were leaving? Both of them? You weren't sure why this made you feel nauseous, but it did. 

“Yeah, like he’d ever leave without her.” He pointed an accusatory finger at you, causing you to imagine how satisfactory it would be to snap it off and shove it right up his tight-

“If you stay, you listen to me. You're not my captain here, Steve. Show me some respect.” Her voice was powerful. You weren't sure how a sixteen year old could hold herself with confidence, lord knows you were a mess at her age, but nevertheless, she did. And she did it with an unmatched grace. 

Steve opened his mouth and then closed it, lost for words. Shuri held her stare, unwavering as she looked up at the 6 foot man. Seriously, what a badass. 

“If she loses control, it's on you.” He all but shouted while Shuri only chuckled causing a rage to wash over Steves face. 

“Actually, I think if she loses it again, it will be lost on you.” She looked at you while you nodded giggly. Steve shuttered at the idea, making you smile from ear to ear. With that, he stormed out of the lap. The two of you stared at each other before bursting out laughing. 

“Did you see his face!? He looked like he was going to shit his pants!” You cackled, holding your stomach for some sort of relief. 

“I don't think he’s used to being told no. Big baby.” She cooed, laughing to herself. “To be fair, you almost killed his best friend, so if I was on your bad side I might be worried too.” That shut you down. Steve was one thing, if he feared you, so be it. But you weren't dangerous. Okay, you had squashed Barnes like the bug he was, but that wasn't here nor there. 

You signed. They had every right to fear you. You feared yourself at times. But the reappearing of your memories seemed to ease you, for now at least. Everything was back on the table. You knew who you were and you could finally see the whole picture. 

“Okay, but seriously Y/n. We have to talk about a few things before I release you.” Shuri spoke, pulling her seat back up beside you. You attended to her newly serious tone and looked down at her from the bed. “Hydras after you. They need that serum, for who knows what. We have to know, can it be cloned while in your bloodstream? Is there anywhere else but that lab you blew up where they could get the blueprints to recreate it?” She asked. 

“Nope and nope.” You popped the ‘P’ as you spoke. “Hydra can’t reacreat it without me, and that will never happen again, so they're screwed. I didn't tell anyone what I was working with, not even Tommy.” Your voice fell flat at the mention of his name. 

“That's good. Steve’s going to want to hold a team meeting to brief everyone on what's going on and Natasha’s been chomping at the bit to get you back to training. You think you're up for that?” You only nodded, reassuring her. 

“Just get me the fuck out of this damn lab. No offense but if I have to look at your face for another second I’m going to find out about that psychosis side effect.” Shuri giggled at that. 

“You're free to go.” She gestured towards the door. Your eyes went wide, but she didn't have to tell you twice. In seconds you rushed out of the door and down the hallway towards your room. 

As you passed through the kitchen, you noticed Nat sitting at the island eating breakfast. You waved and her face fell. Peaking around the corner you noticed why. 

There, sitting on the large couch was, Bucky. 

Fuck. 

Bucky noticed Nat’s stiffness and turned to see what had her so nervous. That's when his eyes landed on you. All colour washed away from his face, leaving him pale. A ghost of who he once was. Before he could get up, you were gone, sprinting down the hallway. When you thought about seeing Bucky again you imagined feeling a million emotions. Murderous rage being one of them but this, this was not one of them.

When you were finally in your bedroom with the door locked, you allowed yourself to sob. Tears streamed down your face as relief washed over your body. You despised yourself for feeling anything but disgust for the man who had slaughtered any chance at happiness in your life. But, here you were, crying into your pillow like a heart broken teeager, because the man you loved wasn't dead. You wished with every fiber of yourself that he had been gunned down on that bridge, but there he sat, in the living room, steel blue eyes fixated on yours, heart still very much beating. 

The loud knocking from the other side of your door was what ripped you back into reality and out of your all consuming thoughts. You closed your eyes, and tried to keep your sniffling quiet, hoping they would just leave. When another three knocks echoed through the room, you groaned, grabbing a pillow from your bed and rocketing through the air.

“I’m busy.” You shouted to the insufferable knocking. 

“No you're not.” Sam’s voice shouted back. A smile pulled at the corner of your mouth at his mocking tone. After a moment of battling with yourself, you slugged off the bed and opened the door. 

Sam smiled down at you, a small pink cut traced itself over the top of his brow down to just below his eye. By now it was almost healed, but you could tell it once was deep and raw.

“Did I do that?” You winced, gesturing to your face where his gash resided. 

“Nothing I can't handle. Can I come in?” He asked.

You nodded, opening the door a little more and allowing him access. He looked around your room. What once was bare, now had boxes and bags filled with items that were important to you. 

“So, how ya’ feelin’?” He asked, taking a seat on the reading chair next to your coffee table. You followed him, tentatively as you sat on the edge of your bed. You hadn't spoken directly to Sam in over a week, you weren't really sure if he still trusted you like before. Hell, you wouldn't blame him if he didnt. 

“Nothing I can't handle.” You mirrored his response, causing him to chuckle softly. 

“Guess were both pretty tough, huh?” He spoke, just over a deep whisper. You nodded your head once in response, feeling the awkward tension to hover in the room before it became hard to breathe. 

“Sam, I-” You stated, but your voice broke. 

“Hey, hey,” He started, crossing the room and in a second he was at your side, kneeling just below you, he took your hands in him. There was no hesitation, no fear in his eyes. He reassured you before placing a soft kiss on the back of your palm. “Dont. Just don't. It’s not your fault. I have every sense to blame that little witch, but it's not her fault either. I’m just glad you're okay, Y/n” He said.

You hadn't noticed the small tear that had escaped until Sam wiped it away, his warm skin seering into yours. 

“Besides, I kicked your ass like, twenty to one. I’d say I still win this match.” That caused a small laugh to bubble out of your chest. 

“Thank you, Sam.” he nodded, getting up and sitting next to you on the bed. 

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.”

“Lets go get some dinner.” He took your hand in his and stood, but you didn't budge. He looked back and raised a brow in question. 

“I think I’m just going to eat in here… If that's okay?” You signed. Feeling like the old broken Y/n who was weak and pathetic. 

“Great idea. I’ll bring you something. We can just hangout. I know for a fact Nat’s been dying to see you, care if she joins us?” He asked, eyes soft and full of understanding. 

“Only if I can pick the movie we watch.” You said, a smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. 

“Done deal.”

.........................................................................................................................

A/n: Thank you for reading! Please, like if you like and  reblog if you want to fule my ego! Honestly, thank your for just reading it... I feel like, yeah its lousy, but its really nice to write again. Sending you guys all some postive vibes this week <3

@kalesrebellion​

@projectcampbell​