#this was just supposed to be a stretch for my creative muscles after i realised i was writing rather BLANDLY for my most recent fic. anyway

[carsonian]

Decided to take a break from the fic I'm writing to do some graphic design. Been thinking about the "Star Spangled Man" theme, specifically the more jingoistic elements of its lyrics & how it feeds into the characteristics Steve's got vs what he builds on for the Cap mantle--real chicken & egg type inquiry. But anyway, this isn't me writing an essay. This is me relying on the "a picture paints a thousand words" gimmick to do the hard labour instead. Cheers 👍

[writethelifeyouwant]

Alpha and Omega - Ch 2 / 2

Pairing: Sam x Dean Rating: 18+ Tags: A/B/O, Darkness magic,  Alpha!Dean, Omega!Sam, Dub-Con (biological necessity), little bit of meta (cuz why not), Sam’s a needy mess, Dean is possessive af  Word Count: 4k Created for: @first-time-wincest-fest​ - 12x02 Mamma Mia | @spnabobingo​ - Male Omega | Summary: Amara wants to thank Dean by giving him the thing he needs most – Sam – but she knows the boys are stubborn, so she’s going to have to be creative. Problem is, she doesn’t tell Dean or Sam what she’s put in motion, and magic can be unpredictable.

Despite the many apparent flaws of these British Men of Letters dicks, at least Mick has the good sense to let Dean and Sam go. He offers to try helping Sam, but he doesn’t have any more ideas about his condition than that blonde bitch does, so Dean declines and gets Sam the hell out of dodge.

The moment they make it over the property line and past the efficacy of the anti-angel warding Cas is by their sides, sliding under Sam’s other arm to help Dean carry him to the Impala.

“Don’t touch him,” Dean growls, startling Cas and himself. Cas raises his hands in a show of good faith.

“I am just trying to help, Dean,” he reassures the hunter, lowly.

“Yeah, um, sorry man,” Dean shakes his head to clear it. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t like the idea of anyone else touching Sam right now but he doesn’t want anyone’s hands on his baby brother. Begrudgingly, he lets Castiel grab Sam’s arm and help them to the car, where they gingerly lay a shivering, and for all intents and purposes unconscious, Sam on the back seat. “Cas, what’s wrong with him?” Dean tries to keep a grip on the panic in his voice but he doesn’t have much luck.

“It’s hard to be sure,” Castiel mutters, laying a hand against Sam’s forehead, which is burning hot. “We need to get him home immediately, this fever is dangerously high.”

Dean rounds the car to root through the first aid pack in the trunk, pulling out a few instant cold packs. “Here,” he cracks one up in his hands and passes it to Cas. “Get in back, try to keep him cool.” Cas slides into the back seat of the Impala, pulling Sam over his lap and pressing the cold pack against the young man’s forehead. Dean drops the spare cold packs beside him as he jumps in behind the wheel and peels out of the dirt road driveway in reverse, gunning them back home towards Kansas.

The use of cold packs and bags of ice they picked up at gas stations along their way get the trio home without Sam’s condition worsening. Dean would send up a thank you to Chuck for that except that he’s nearly positive Chuck’s sister is the reason Sam is in this mess in the first place. I thought she wanted to do something to thank me, not destroy my life. They get Sam into bed without too much trouble, and Castiel suggests stripping Sam out of his clothes to help keep him cool.

“Get away from him,” Dean growls, baring his teeth at his friend. Castiel once again looks at him in confusion, his brow crinkling as he stares hard at Dean.

“I’m going to call Rowena, see if maybe she can help us determine what is wrong with Sam.” Cas backs up cautiously, and Dean is glad to see him go.

Once he’s alone with his brother, he does think that stripping Sam down is a decent idea – at the very least he should change him into some clean pyjamas instead of the bloodied tatters he’s dressed in now. Dean sits on the edge of the bed, gently brushing Sam’s hair away from his eyes. He has the sudden urge to lean down and kiss Sam, so he does – very carefully placing his lips against his little brother’s forehead. It seems to Dean like Sam presses back into the kiss, and when his lips retreat, Sam stretches his neck and turns his head into Dean’s side, almost like he’s burrowing there. The unconscious display of affection brings a surge of warmth to Dean’s chest, though he can’t find it in him to smile with Sam like this.

Gingerly, Dean unbuttons Sam’s shirt and eases it over his shoulders, his fingers tracing over Sam’s muscles on the way down each arm. He hadn’t spent too much time around Sam’s unclothed chest recently and he couldn’t help staring at the contours of his frame. Sometimes he spends so much time thinking about Sam as his little brother, he forgets how much he’d built himself up over the years, forgets about the strength that all those layers of shirts they wear everyday are hiding. Dean has to shake himself in chastisement for staring at Sam’s body and lusting after it like a creep when he’s supposed to be taking care of him. How could he be thinking with his dick, even now, when Sam is deathly ill? But he was thinking with his dick, because even seeing Sam half naked for a matter of thirty seconds seems to be enough to give him a semi. For fuck’s sake, Dean curses himself, and sets about the task of easing Sam out of his torn up jeans.

As he gets Sam’s abnormally long jeans off his abnormally long body, three things strike Dean as odd. The first, that the smell he’d overwhelmingly associated with Sam back at the farmhouse in Missouri all of the sudden permeates the air around him. Sure, he’d been smelling it this whole time – it had been almost unbearably strong on the 6 hour drive back to Kansas – but he figured he must have gotten used to it because it had sort of faded into the background until just now. Secondly, the way Sam’s legs were splayed out across the bed right now gave Dean a view of a dark wet patch on the light grey of Sam’s underwear – gross, Dean thinks to himself, until he realises that the stain isn’t on the front of Sam’s briefs like it would be if he’d pissed himself. That examination leads him to his third odd discovery, which is that Sam has a boner.

“Well, what have we here?” Dean spins to see Rowena standing in the doorway, smirking.

“I’m sorry, Sam’s turned into a what?” Dean blinks incredulously at Rowena, who’s perching on the edge of the table in the kitchen. He turns his head to look at Castiel, who is sitting stoically behind Rowena. The angel shrugs unhelpfully.

“An Omega, dearie,” Rowena enunciates more clearly, like she imagines she’s talking to a four year old.

“Right,” Dean nods, although he doesn’t really understand. “And I’m a–”

“An Alpha, yes,” Rowena reiterates, clearly annoyed Dean isn’t getting this. “Well, Sam’s Alpha, more specifically,” she amends.

“And what exactly does all this mean?” Dean grunts, frustrated.

“It means that you and Samuel are mates,” Rowena elaborates.

“We know that, we saw our shared heaven, like a decade ago. What the hell does it have to do with him being sick?”

“Samuel is sick because he’s an Omega in heat, and he needs his mate.”

“Well if I’m his ‘mate’ and he ‘needs me’ – I’m right here! So why isn’t he better?” Dean growls.

“I believe,” Cas clears his throat, “from what I understand of the traditional elements of this condition, that what Rowena means is that Sam needs you, as his mate, physically.” Cas looks sheepishly at Rowena for confirmation.

“Precisely,” she smiles thankfully at Castiel.

“Physically?” Dean’s not any closer to understanding what’s happening. “So what, I need to go hold his hand until his fever breaks?”

“Well, I’m not surprised that you might want to hold his hand, but it’s going to take a wee bit more than that.”

“Will you just tell me how the hell to cure him?” Dean shouts, accidentally shattering the beer bottle he’s holding. He looks down, surprised at his own strength and at the end of his tether now.

“Sexual intercourse,” Cas answers shortly, his face carefully blank. “Though, again, from my understanding, that will only cure his heat. He will remain an Omega and you will remain an Alpha.”

“What the hell are you talking about ‘from what you understand’?” Dean makes indignant air quotes at Cas.

“When Metatron put all of popular culture into my head it included every story ever written. There are a large number of stories on the internet that incorporate the dynamics of the Alpha/Omega hierarchy. It’s a trope primarily found in something called ‘fanfiction’,” Cas explains. “In fact, there is some ‘fanfiction’ about yourself and Sam if it would help you to understand the mating requirements.” Dean feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Cas, listen to me very carefully: under no circumstances are you to ever tell anyone else that those exist,” Dean groans, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Why is this happening?”

“That’s the part I’ve not got the faintest idea about,” Rowena sighs. “It would take something more than a simple spell to alter your anatomies like this. Not even an angel,” she glances at Castiel quickly to check she’s right in her assumption. “I’ve never heard of something like this actually happening outside of fiction.”

“It was Amara,” Dean sighs. “When she left she told me she was going to give me what I ‘needed most’, but I don’t know why she thought this was it. It just seems like some sick joke.”

“Ah,” Rowena nods sagely like she understands now. “She was giving you Samuel.”

“How is this ‘giving me’ Sam?”

“A physically bonded Alpha and Omega are bonded for life, inseparable. Without the other, they won’t survive their heats – or ruts, in your case.”

“So every time Sam goes into a heat, we need to have sex, or he dies?” Dean can’t believe how fucked up this is.

“You’ll also need to knot him,” Cas adds gravely. Noticing Dean’s look of incredulity, he continues. “The base of your penis will inflate when you ejaculate and lock you and Sam together for a brief time. It’s the knot that Sam needs to relieve the symptoms of his heat.”

“What the fuck?” Dean blanches.

“Not to importune but I do believe Samuel was running out of time when I examined him. You really should get to it, Dean,” Rowena cuts in.

“And how am I supposed to do that, huh? The guy’s unconscious! I can’t just–” Dean’s stomach roiled. The thought of fucking Sam was tempting, amazingly so, but the thought of doing it to Sam, without his knowledge or participation, was sickening.

“I can make him a wee draft to revive him and stave off the fever,” Rowena moves towards one of the cupboards in the kitchen where Sam keeps the common spell ingredients. “Then Castiel and I can make ourselves scarce and leave you two to it,” she smiles.

“And you’re positive this is the only way?” Dean presses desperately.

“That Amara is a crafty woman, she knew what she was doing.” Rowena throws some herbs into a small dish. “She saw that you would never ‘put the moves on Sam’, as you say. This is her way of giving you both that little push.”

“Yeah, well, she’s a bitch,” Dean grumbles, dropping his head in his hands and waiting for Rowena to finish the potion to wake Sam up.

Sam blinks awake wearily, vaguely aware that he’s safe and not being held captive anymore, but he can’t remember much more than snippets of sound and scent. The rumble of an engine, the smell of motor oil; the low tenor of Dean’s voice, and the scent of whiskey, apple pie, and old leather. He can make out all of those scents now, too, swirling around him and pulling him back into consciousness – like smelling salts.

“Hey, there he is,” Dean’s voice says nearby, he’s sitting on the side of Sam’s bed.

Sam nuzzles towards his older brother, inexplicably craving the closeness. “De,” Sam mumbles, still sleepy.

“Yeah, it’s me Sammy,” Dean smiles down at him gently, eyes soft. Sam feels an unusual rush of need wash over him like a heat wave and he presses himself as close to Dean as two bodies can possibly get with a blanket still in between them.

“Wha s’happening?” he grumbles into Dean’s chest, looping his long arms around his brother’s waist.

“Short version?” Dean scoffs, but not unkindly. “Listen man, I’ll explain everything, I promise but – right now I just need to make sure you get outta this in one piece,” Dean sighs, drawing his hand down Sam’s face and holding his cheek. Sam looks up at Dean quizzically, unused to the level of physical affection but finding he was in desperate want of more. He nods at his big brother – whatever’s wrong, he knows Dean will take care of him. “You trust me Sammy?” Dean’s voice is hoarse, and Sam realises he’s scared.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam breathes quietly into the slowly decreasing space between them. “Course I do,” he confirms again.

“Alright then,” Dean gulps and nods, mostly to himself though, like he’s trying to psych himself up for something. Then without any further warning, Dean’s lips are covering Sam’s and pressing him down onto the bed.

The fire that had been smouldering inside Sam for days now leaps and dances, as if Dean’s kiss is gasoline being thrown across him. Sam clings to Dean as he’s laid back onto the bed, and lets Dean climb into his lap and bury his hands in Sam’s hair. Dean licks across the seam of his lips and Sam parts them willingly, drinking in every bit of Dean that is being offered to him. He can’t remember why he needs Dean like this so badly, or when he started needing him, but now that he has him he couldn’t care less. He knows with certainty that the only thing he needs to be happy for the rest of his life is Dean – Dean loving him, Dean kissing him, Dean inside him. Fuck, he needs Dean inside him right fucking now.

At this realisation, Sam starts tearing into Dean’s clothes, ripping through the thread keeping buttons in their places without a thought. He expects Dean to start doing the same to him, but then realises he’s not wearing anything but his underwear, which suits Sam just fine. Dean has to pull away from him to wriggle out of his jeans, and Sam groans involuntarily at the sight of the bulge Dean reveals when he strips down.

“Someone likes the view, huh?” Dean teases him, voice deep and throaty, but Sam’s too far gone to come up with a bratty retort. All he can focus on is that he wants Dean’s cock – now.

“Shit, you look so big De,” Sam groans, reaching out a hand to cup around Dean’s member, still hidden behind black cotton. The front of the material is wet with precum, Sam can feel it against his fingertips.

“Think you can handle me, little bro?” Dean grabs Sam’s wrist and drags his fingers along the outline of his cock, up to the elastic waist of his boxers, and then inside them. Sam’s fingers curl around Dean and stroke him gently beneath the fabric. “Think you can fit all that inside your tight little ass f’me?” he grunts, thrusting into Sam’s grip.

“Fuck yes,” Sam rasps, and his breath sounds like it’s raking over hot coals in his throat. He pulls back from Dean to shed his own underwear, staring at it puzzledly when it comes away from his body covered in slick. What is that, he wonders as he feels it on his fingers. It doesn't feel like lube… “Dean?” Sam looks to his brother for answers.

“S’okay,” Dean rushes to reassure him, joining his little brother on the bed, both of them now completely bared to the other. “I’ll explain later, yeah? Just let me take care of you right now, okay?” Dean’s eyes are wide and pleading as he looks to Sam, and Sam nods; he trusts Dean. “Just lemme take care a’you,” Dean whispers again as he brushes their lips together, and Sam pulls him in tight for another bruising kiss.

Their bodies twist and tangle easily, Sam just letting Dean put them together however he wanted. The heat of Dean against him is overwhelming, the sweat on their skin mingles and sticks them together, pulling at their nerves every time they part. Sam doesn’t want them to part. He reaches between them, grabbing Dean’s cock in his hand and thrusts his own into the same grip. Their moans ring through each others’ mouths as Sam jerks them against each other, and they take turns fucking into his fist. Before long Dean pulls away from Sam with a groan, probably to stop himself from finishing before he’s had a chance to see what the inside of his brother feels like. Sam is glad of his consideration in this case, because if he ends tonight without Dean locked firmly inside of him, he’s going to feel like he’s missing out. If he was more clear headed, he might question why the phrase ‘locked inside of him’ is the one that came to mind but he’s not thinking too deeply about what he wants right now — he just wants.

“Need you, Dean,” Sam pants, widely, grabbing at Dean, trying to bring their bodies back together. “Need… ne—” Sam’s vocabulary has become shockingly singular, and he doesn’t have the presence of mind to be irritated with his brother when Dean smiles down at him smugly, knowingly.

“I know what you need, Sammy” Dean grins down at his little brother. Having Sam this strung out and desperate for him is like a drug. I could get used to this being a monthly thing, he smirks to himself, reaching his hand down between Sam’s legs and rubbing at his slick entrance. “Need me right here, dontcha Sammy? I can feel how much you need me,” Dean groans as the tip of his finger slips inside of Sam too easily, “fuck, you’re wet. So fucking wet for me, huh Sammy?”

Sam just nods blissfully down at Dean; it seems his vocabulary of one word has now receded to zero.

Cas had warned him about this, that as an Omega, Sam would start leaking like a fire hydrant, but at least it saved him having to hunt around for some kind of lube — he’d never needed to have that on hand before, and if he found any lying around the bunker there’s a decent chance it would be cursed or something. Plus, he bet this made the whole experience way better for Sam, so he was all for it. Dean moves between Sam’s legs and runs the head of his cock over Sam’s twitching entrance. Sammy lets out a weak moan and arches against the pressure, trying to get Dean to slip inside. Dean’s about to oblige when he remembers what Cas said about them getting locked together by the Alpha’s knot once he comes, and he thinks better of their position. It will be easier to roll on to their sides and rest if he does this with Sam on his hands and knees.

He manhandles Sam into position, rolling him over, and when Sam gets the idea and pushes himself onto his hands and knees, arching his back and presenting himself to Dean like some kind of trophy, Dean can’t hold himself back any longer. He pushes his cock inside Sam slowly, agonisingly and torturously slowly. Not because he’s concerned about hurting Sam, who is opening up beneath him like he was born for this — born to take Dean’s cock — but because he knows he wants to savour this moment for the rest of his life. He wants to remember every second of the first time he felt what it was like to truly possess Sam, to be joined so completely to one another that not even their bodies can keep them separate. So Dean goes slow, even though Sam is begging beneath him, asking him to just fuck him already, Dean ignores him, and he drinks the feelings in.

When he’s got himself bottomed out inside of Sam he leans down over his brother and presses a kiss to his shoulder, tenderly, thanking him for what he’s giving Dean right now. “You feel so good Sammy,” Dean moans, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound as sappy as it does but it’s hard to regulate things like that when you feel like you’ve just connected to your soulmate for the first time, so he gives himself a pass.

The next time Sam begs, Dean gives in, snapping his hips back and fucking into him as hard as he can manage. And once he’s started he can’t stop. Every instinct inside of Dean is shouting at him to take, to fuck Sam into the mattress and never let up, which Sam doesn’t seem to mind, because no matter how roughly Dean thrusts into him he keeps shouting for more, faster, harder, please. So Dean, ever the good big brother, gives Sammy what he needs — what they both need.

Dean can feel himself getting closer and closer to his release, and that’s when he notices that he can’t quite pull out as far as before. His knot has begun swelling at the base of his cock, getting ready to pop and bind him and Sam together. The fattening edges catching on Sam’s rim give Dean a kind of friction no sex ever has before and, fucking hell, it feels unbelievably good. He grinds himself harder against Sam, dropping over his back so they can be as close as possible, and bringing his hand up beneath Sam to grasp at his little brother’s dick. It’s the first time he’s properly touched it, felt it in his hand, and shit, it feels even bigger than it looks.

“Oh my god, Dean,” Sam groans, sounding absolutely wrecked, and Dean takes that as a compliment. “Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck, please,” Sam is pleading with him so prettily, and Dean wants to cum just as badly as him.

“Not stopping Sammy,” Dean strokes him faster, grinds into him harder, “not stopping until you cum all over my hand baby boy, so c’mon, want you to cum f’me.” Dean thanks God that Sam starts to cum loudly when Dean tells him too, because the second he feels Sam start to convulse around him his knot pops and he’s cumming harder than he ever has in his life. The thought of his seed whitewashing Sam’s insides is sickeningly thrilling and he swears a second, small orgasm rocks through him — and hey, if that’s a perk of being an Alpha, I could get used to this.

When Dean comes back to himself, his breathing finally evening out, he notices Sam slumped beneath him, no longer holding himself up. He quickly checks for a pulse, and relaxes when he finds one – Sam’s just passed out. Fuck, he came so hard he passed out. Dean shudders, feeling another small blurt of cum force itself out of his cock at the thought that he’d fucked Sam so thoroughly. To be honest he was a little proud of himself.

Dean arranges himself on his side on the bed, so he can curl around Sam while he waits for his knot to deflate. He thought he’d be annoyed by having to stay still like this for so long but it’s surprisingly peaceful, laying here with Sam asleep in his arms. He hugs his little brother tighter to him, clasping his hands over Sam’s chest – over his heart – feels the rhythm and reassures himself that Sam is here, and alive, and safe. And his. The realisation hits Dean unexpectedly. Sam is finally his in the most permanent way he can think of, and his heart leaps at the thought. The last thing he thinks before he drops off to sleep too, is that he hopes Sam still wants to be his when he wakes up.

Tags: @vulgar-library​ @tintentrinkerin​ @negans-lucille-tblr​ @fandomfic-galore​ @petitgateau911​ @whoreforackles-deactivated20210​ @schaefchenherde​ @kickingitwithkirk​ @little-diable​ @laxe-chester67​ @kassyscarlett​ @akshi8278 @deandreamernp @lyarr24 @lovealways-j @stoneyggirl 

[ditttiii]

Dilectio ♡

▣ Summary: You run your hands across his lower lip as he caresses your cheeks, draws small repetitive circles over the skin, and you relish the moment, the quiet, the space between you two where your breaths mingle until they become one. “Let me buy us a house, somewhere outside the city, where it’s just you, me, Holly maybe a friend for her, a cat for you, and a pond full of fishes, our own little place.”

▣ Warnings: Nothing major except tooth rotting, sickeningly sweet fluff and a make-out session or two. Oh! & Yoongi is called lill meow-meow. Oh 2x! & Yoongi has bread-cheeks. (PG-13)

▣ Genre: fluff, humour, slice of life

▣ Pairing: Yoongi x Plus size Reader

▣ Word Count: 3.1k

This work was commissioned by the lovely @bucksvseverybody for the Changes with Luv  fundraiser project, hosted by @ficswithluv​. All proceedings from this project go to the BLM funds.Thank you so much for your help and kind donation! I hope you like it ❤

You let out a watery giggle as you see your boyfriend give his signature gummy smile to the camera and conclude his part of the commencement speech. 

Said boyfriend, hearing your laugh then proceeds to tighten his arms around you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. 

"Oh, so my advice is funny to you now?" You hear Yoongi grumble, and a shiver runs down your spine at the feel of his lips forming the words on the sensitive skin of your neck. 

Snorting, you sniffle and wipe away the few stray tears that had slipped out, before you twist your torso and look your boyfriend in the eye. 

"If you think I don't see you fishing for compliments, you are dead wrong baby boo." You say as a cheeky grin spreads across your face. He acts like he hates that name, but you know better. The tip of Yoongi's ears turns red, proving you right before he again buries his head in your neck and mutters a quiet, "Smartass."

You burrow your head in the warmth of Yoongi’s sweater and let the soft cloth absorb the few stray tears that had slipped out. Your attention now away from your laptop screen, as you miss the rest of the boys and their speeches. You decide to look them up later as your body protests leaving the warmth of Yoongi’s body heat. 

"Do you really feel alone?" You voice out the question that had been bugging you for some time now. You don't want to assume anything but the thought that your boyfriend has been having a difficult time without you knowing about it doesn't quite sit well with you. 

You feel more than hear Yoongi let out a huff, as his warm breath hits the nape of your neck and you suppress a shudder. 

"Jagiya," He begins before suddenly the hands that were around your waist shift and wrap themselves around your shoulders, pulling you closer to the man in question and tilting your head up.

You hum and shift your gaze up-to meet his eyes, your hands finding their way to the nape of his neck, his soft black hair, tickling the skin of your fingers as you run your hands over his skin. 

"I didn't mean it how you might think I did. I don't feel alone in the sense that I feel like I have no one. It's more of a....creative feeling, where I feel like my inspiration sometimes runs dry and then I don't know which way I should go next." Yoongi says, and you nod in reply. 

He tilts his head as he tries to catch your gaze, but you shift your eyes away. You don't think Yoongi is lying to you, you know he never would. But you also wonder if he is telling you the full truth or not. You wouldn't put it past him to hold back and keep his feelings to himself if he thinks it might worry you. 

Yoongi might seem rough from the outside, but once he allows a person in, he treasures them more than most do. You know that better than anybody else. 

You see it in the way he brings home your favourite coffee from halfway across the city every time you pull an all-nighter, hear it in the way he whispers goodnight to you every night he comes home late and thinks you are asleep.

More than anything else, you feel it in the way his touch caresses your skin like you are a porcelain doll, glides over your curves leaving you feeling treasured and your heart bursting with love and affection for him. 

"Jagi, I love you." You hear your boyfriend's deep, slight gravely voice say and before you can reply, his hands are snaking from your shoulders to your neck and tipping your head up as his soft lips, dip down and interlock with yours. 

Your surprised squeak is muffled as his lips glide over yours, the feather-soft feel of them leaves you feeling warm as your toes curl and your hands' fist and tug the collar of Yoongi’s sweater, pulling him closer. 

His tongue slips between your lips as it licks a strip over your lower lip and you open your mouth, tongue reaching out and gliding over his in response. A breathy moan slipping out almost unconsciously when you feel his hands slide over your curves, caressing the skin under, and your blush rises, the skin from over your chest to the tip of your ears feeling flushed and warm.

You don't think you are needy, nor are you the jealous, insecure kind, but something about Yoongi’s touch has you aching, craving for more, and the thought of someone else being on the receiving end of it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Huffing, you tug him closer, your nails softly skimming over the sensitive skin of the back of his ears, and he shudders, a grin of your own slipping onto your face when you realise for the billionth time the effect you have on him. 

"Stop grinning," Yoongi grumbles embarrassed, his pale skin, looking red as a sheen of oil gathers over his cheeks and nose, highlighting his soft, curvy features, and you bite your lip, humming back a response before you tilt your head up and drop a kiss on the tip of his nose. 

"I love you too babyboo," You whisper back, your lips ghosting over his as you keep them close, your words dripping with love and your eyes overflowing with affection as they gaze into his.

You watch as Yoongi’s eyes turn soft, their usual cat-like silhouette, melting into something curvier before he's closing the distance between you two and your eyes slip close.  

With Yoongi’s soft and sugar-sweet lips on yours, you lose yourself, until the feel of his silky hair twined around your fingers and his puffs of warm breaths on your face, are all that you are aware of anymore. 

"Dammit, I swear to god, if you do that one more time, I am kicking you where the sun doesn't shine." You playfully growl out loud, only to squeal when another spray of water hits the back of your neck. 

Huffing dramatically you advance towards your boyfriend, who's now trying to act innocent, his back turned away from you, neck slightly hunched as he looks down and continues to wash the vegetables for tonight's celebratory dinner. 

Coming to stand beside him, you lean your hip against the counter top behind you, and turn to look at your boyfriend. His bottom lip under the clutches of his pearly teeth, his gummy grin on full display despite his apparent attempt at trying to hold it in, Yoongi looked like the picture-perfect definition of the word adorable. 

"Mature, Real Mature." You remark wryly and roll your eyes fondly when the laugh he had been trying so hard to hold in, finally tumbles out. Body hunching over the counter, as his hands grip the edge, chuckle after chuckle flow out of him. His usual gravely, raspy, deep voice, raising slightly in pitch as his laugh starts to go squeaky and his cheeks bloom red due to lack of oxygen. 

Huffing you try to move away and go back to your cooking, but his hand snakes out, tugging you closer. 

The softness of your chest collides against the hard, coiled muscles of his torso, and your eyes drift over to his sparkly orbs. His bread cheeks on full display, eyes melted into two crescent moons, the wide gummy smile stretched wide. 

Even if you had been genuinely angry, you'd have melted immediately. 

"You're too cute for your own good little meow-meow." You tease and watch as Yoongi's blush darkens, a groan spilling out of his lips as he pulls you closer and nuzzles against your neck. 

Giggling, you run your hands through his hair, caressing the skin of his nape as Yoongi's hands tighten around your waist, the soft flesh under his grip feeling warmer. 

"For someone who's supposed to be the tough, scary one you're awfully affectionate," You remark when you feel him leaving soft pecks on your neck. 

"Well, little meow-meow is soft for you," Comes his reply, face rising and dropping a kiss on your forehead, his soft, full lips leaving their impression on your skin even after he's pulled away, and gotten back to his washing duty. 

Heart bursting with affection, you take in the man who in a span of a six-month relationship has somehow turned into your entire world. When you had first met Yoongi, you were still in college. 

Stressing over your impending finals and drowning in stress, you had more or less body slammed into him, drenching his coat with your coffee. Bloodshot eyes, a rats nest of hair, you had then proceeded to scold him for standing in the middle of the cafe, your sleep-deprived brain too shot to realise that you could get into a world of trouble for insulting the world-famous musician. 

Not all that unexpectedly, you had left quite an impression on the record-breaking idol, and thus began the wooing. 

Ridiculously expensive flower arrangements with lyrics and small poems written onto the cards, gifts from all over the world—little trinkets he would buy from wherever he was, would arrive at your doorstep; softening you inch by inch, day after day. 

Yoongi never one to a miss a chance, had swooped in like a prince charming, out of his Mercedes Benz with your favourite coffee from halfway across the city, and hook, line and sinker—

You were wooed. 

Six months later, here you are, fresh out of college, celebrating your graduation night with your boyfriend. 

Smiling dopily at your thoughts, you move past and get back to cooking, Yoongi's hand reaching out and gliding against your wrist as you pass by. 

As the fragrance and warmth of the still-hot Bulgogi and Samgyeopsal wafted up to your nose, you break your chopsticks apart, picking a piece of the meat and biting into it. Moaning, in pleasure and satisfaction, when the sweet and savoury flavour hits your taste buds. 

Lightly swinging your feet under the table, you nudge Yoongi's feet and grin, your hand rising up to cover your mouth when he raises his brows, his hand pausing mid-rise. 

"I kill at cooking, admit it, I am better than you baby," Winking, you tease, your feet under the table hooking under the edge of his PJs, sliding against his legs, and you watch amused as the tips of his ears go red, but he doesn't shift. 

"Who taught you to cook, you brat?" He quips back with a wink, and you just giggle, head tilting as you catch his gaze and receive a soft smile in return. 

Fondly you watch as Yoongi picks a piece before his hand extends towards you, and you rise a little from your seat, reaching out and biting into half of the meat piece and chewing. 

Too big for one single bite, you leave half of it in Yoongi's hold, but before you can reach out and eat it, your boyfriend already has it in his mouth. 

His cheeks bulge out with the still too big a piece, and you gape, a wounded whine deep from your chest coming out in response. 

"Hey! That was mine!" You playfully glare, as your hand reaches out to snatch his chopsticks away, but Yoongi leans back and out of your reach. 

Winking, he grins, "What's yours is mine, baby boo." 

Raising your brow, before your boyfriend can blink, your hand reaches out and clutches onto the last piece of meat from his plate. Inside your mouth not a second later, you let out an exaggerated moan, dramatically closing your eyes and throwing your hands over your heart. 

"Whaa! You brat!" He exclaims, his pout coming out in full force as he moans over the loss of his precious meat. 

Winking you reply, "What's mine is yours, meow-meow."

Seeing your boyfriend get up from his chair, you scramble to getaway. Squealing when you feel his hand graze your waist, you push yourself harder, your laughter ringing across the apartment. 

Breathless you fall onto your bed tired, and move to hastily roll over to your corner. 

Yoongi, however, can be fast when he wants to be, and before you can scoot all the way, his arms are caging you in and pulling you closer. 

Squealing you try to push him away, but his hand's sneak under your sweater, and then he's tickling the soft skin under, sending you into peals of laughter. 

You try to wriggle away, but he entangles his legs with yours and refuses to budge. Gasping for breath, you pat his shoulder and squeal out an apology for stealing his meat. 

Finally taking mercy on you, he stops, and you draw in a long breath. Your body feels hot under your sweater, even in Seoul's harsh winter and chest heaving, breathless you turn to your boyfriend. 

Yoongi's body, conditioned after years of dance practices and concerts, is doing a lot better than yours. The only indication that he had even chased you through the hallways of your apartment are his cheeks; tinged pink and glistening under a thin sheen of sweat. 

You drink in the sight of your boyfriend, from his narrow cat-like eyes to his curvy nose, to his fuller lower lip. His body heat seeps into you and warms you from where his legs are still twined around yours.  

Your appreciation of your boyfriend, however, is cut short when said boyfriend rises and snuggles into you. His face nestling over your chest, and between the creases of your soft sweater, cheeks squishing against your chest, and you just look on amused as your boyfriend makes himself comfortable over your chest. 

You want to call him out on how cat-like his behaviour actually is, but you refrain, content to bask in the familiar comfort that Yoongi brings for now.

"You're soft." He mumbles, his voice coming out soft, half-muffled, his nose and mouth still pressed against you, and you snort out a "You're not,"  when you feel his chin slightly dig against your ribs.  

Picking up on your slightly strained voice, he shifts down, until his face is squished against the curves of your stomach. Breathing no longer a stifled process, you just hum and run your hands through his hair, softly scratching the scalp under your tips every now and then. 

Yoongi melts under your touch, a pleased moan slipping out when your hand slides to the back of his ears and lower to his neck. Smiling, you feel him snuggle closer, his face finding purchase between the warmth and softness of your flesh. 

Maybe if it was anybody else you'd have felt a little self-conscious, might have felt the need to change yourself, lose some weight to be like one of those thin, barbie doll-like female idols. But somehow with Yoongi, you have never felt that. Not an iota of self-doubt ever arose when he caressed your skin, your curves, the hills and valleys over the canvas that was your body. 

It wasn't like you were unhealthy, and if you ever feel the need to lose even an inch, it would be on your own accord, and never because you felt like you had to change, to fit into any mould that the society had carved out for you. Your boyfriend had made sure of it, reassuring you early on in your relationship that he loved you in all of your entirety and you don't doubt him. Anybody else you might have, but Yoongi wasn't one to lie, he valued your trust and you as a person too much to do that.

"I love you," His voice flows up to you, deep and dripping with love for you, and you pull him up, hands curling around his neck as your eyes gaze into his before you let slip a smile. 

"I love you too," You say, your voice soft and small, as though you are afraid that if you speak any louder, this moment might shatter, the little bubble that you two are in might pop, and you'd be sent craning into reality. 

But this is your reality. A voice inside your head supplies and you have to stop yourself from tearing up. Even after six months, the surreality of the situation hadn't left, the reality hadn't quite fully sunk in. 

You think of you and Yoongi together, look at his face beside yours on the pillow every night, and it feels like a dream come true. You wonder what you did in your last life to deserve someone as patient, loving and mature as Yoongi, and while you don't know what your past-self did to deserve any of this, you are thankful to her. 

Looking into his dark, onyx eyes, the moonlight from your window brightening his pale face, something inside your chest, tightens. 

You run your hands across his lower lip as he caresses your cheeks, draws small repetitive circles over the skin, and you relish the moment, the quiet, the space between you two where your breaths mingle until they become one. 

"Let me buy us a house, somewhere outside the city, where it's just you, me, Holly maybe a friend for her, a cat for you, and a pond full of fishes, our own little place." Yoongi proposes, taking the chance and asking you the question he had first worded a week ago. You hadn't given him an answer then, a little hesitant to let him spend all that money on you. It wasn't like you two were married, you had only been dating for six months.

But would you ever marry anybody else anyway?

The same voice from before whispers and you already know the answer. Not anymore. Not after Yoongi. 

Looking into his starry eyes, the ones that hold an entire galaxy and all the love he has for you, you nod, say yes to your own little place away from the rest of the world, somewhere you'll one day build your own family. A garden for your plants, a studio for Yoongi's music, and a courtyard for where one day your children will play, run after Yoongi and you, as you all chase each other. 

You can already picture it and looking at the excited, bright grin on Yoongi’s face, you know he can too. 

Giggling, he pulls you closer, and your laughter spills from between sloppy kisses and half intake breaths. 

Ask me again 다시 나에게 되물어봐 Are you happy now 지금 행복한가 The answer has already been decided 그 답은 이미 정해졌어 I am happy 난 행복하다

—Min Yoongi  화양연화 || The Most Beautiful Moment In Life.

A/N: And so its out! I have loved writing soft Yoongi with every cell of my body, and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you Grace for commissioning this and helping fund the BLM movement. Black lives did, do and will always matter. 

Leave me your feedback, I genuinely enjoy reading every single word. & Have a good day ahead ❤

[eternalcantarella]

Entropy - Chapter 2: Horseman of The Apocalypse - Joker/Reader

Entropy

  Summary: We all seek for some measure of uncertainty. Working against the mob is a dangerous game, you might as well be signing a death warrant. You would think it was all by a stroke of chance, the multiple run-ins with Gotham’s Jester of Genocide. When crooks begin to make more sense than do-gooders ― that’s anarchy. He’s no ordinary crook, however. And he’s still wrong. At least that’s what you'd like to tell yourself.

Word count: 17.9k

  A/N: Medical specifics - I know the rod of asclepius is more for professional healthcare usage and caduceus is for commercial usage, but I chose to use a hybridisation of both asclepius and caduceus rods instead because its symbolism was slightly more in line with what I want to portray. Sorry for the inconsistency with practical usage! This chapter took me a while to write, and I didn't expect it to turn out this long. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it! 

  Inspirations: Trafalgar Law’s speech on the new era (One Piece), Amaya & Aiko no Akatsuki's Deisaku writing - Pinky Bruiser (Deisaku fans should totally check this out), Town of Salem's Plaguebearer role.

Available to read on AO3! Check my blog description for link to my AO3.

###

He sat in the long corridor, his legs crossed. His posture was laid back, with his tablet propped up on his lap. He tried to get used to the stiff teal plastic seat, secured to the wall behind him, but it was extremely uncomfortable and he kept readjusting his position. He tried to distract himself with the forthcoming plans for the week ahead with Gotham Press Holdings, refreshing his email to check for updates from his superiors. Unfortunately, he could not find the urge to open those mails. He leaned forward in his seat, his hand instinctively searching for the familiar spot on his chin.

  The thin and bitter smell of antiseptic and cleaning products was invasive, acrid and stinging as it caused him to look away and stare at his other hand, twisting and knotting it as if doing so would hold back the unrest threatening to break within him. A man was whisked on a hospital bed right past him down the narrow corridor, and he was greeted with the disturbance of coughing, hacking and wheezing in the Emergency Department waiting room. He found the closest antibacterial hand dispenser, which was fortunately right beside him, and started working it like a gambling addict hitting up a VLT machine.

  In a disorienting ambulance ride earlier, claustrophobia had closed in on him. He stood hovering over the stretcher, trying to rationally articulate the details surrounding your predicament, trying to discard feelings of his rising worries for you. However, with every bump the ambulance made, his unease peaked higher. As expected, the paramedics had briefed him that prompt delivery to the Emergency Department should be a priority, and had administered their prehospital care procedure onto you. 

  While otherwise appearing to be asymptomatic, the fact that you lost consciousness was alarming. They had secured the airway as required, delivering high-flow oxygen by cupping a respirator mask over your face, obtaining IV access simultaneously. There was a tenseness to his muscles, his head a violent whirl of confusion, trying to organise the newly found chaos in his life. They had also administered a beta-antagonist as a nebulised treatment for bronchoconstriction, a paramedic explained to him as she spritzed short bursts of liquid spray up your nostrils. 

  And here he was, waiting. A suspense ate at him internally while he awaited the ED doctor’s examination results.

  While he was willing himself to check on instructions from Gotham Press Holdings, his hands betrayed his line of thought, and he instead found himself looking through his archived emails. His eyes glossed over the subject title.

  ‘Application for Blake Accounting Consultancy - Junior Data Analyst Applicant; Resume Included’

  He crinkled his eye, his lips stretching against his index finger resting against it. He always found himself unknowingly going back to this fateful letter, at different, random times with no real reason connecting them with each other. He didn’t like to express it, both visually and verbally, to you that he had come to care for you deeply. And he was wondering if he was regretting ever holding back and hiding his actions to show that care. With the current uncertainty, and your life at stake, it’s always easy to see in hindsight that there were many things he could do differently. He clicked onto the email he archived, going through the motions that took him back to simpler and more pleasant times. He indulged himself in the light breeze of familiarity and nostalgia. He would always have a sentimental longing and affection for the past, especially when it came to you.

  He remembered looking at your application and how absurd he thought it was at first glance. He vaguely recalled the contents of his job listing on Craigslist, having clearly stated that a bachelor’s degree in Computing or Data related fields was a prerequisite and lowest qualification one must have at the very least. Yet your highest form of education was trade school and coding bootcamps.

  This was almost ludicrous in his eyes, that he found it to be amusing. He was about to dismiss your application to sift through the others, without even looking at your resume. However he felt compelled to click on it, probably out of some sick sense of curiosity and humour, he supposed. He wanted to see what laughs or kicks he could get out of this.

  A condescending sense of jest bubbled in his chest when he started reading it. Perhaps this was just a joke applicant, he thought. Well, humour me. However, he found that the more he read into it, the more his smile started to falter. Being a data analyst requires very specific skills. You had recorded a very all-encompassing list of individual qualifications from courses painstakingly taken and they were all relevant to the job scope. Technical, analytical, math and creative skills. This was impressive for a non-uni graduate. You had also taken the initiative to contribute to opensource projects, demonstrating a fire and drive for the role. Not to mention the attention to detail and the amount of work put into organising this resume, to frame and market yourself in the best way possible. You had done a lot of research into this, evidently.

  From this, he could sense that being a data analyst was something you wanted to be strongly at this point in time. And while strongly wanting to be one is often not enough for a data analyst, you had the puzzle pieces arranged and chops to back it up. Perhaps what sealed the deal to offer you an interview over coffee was the thing that set you apart from other applicants. Other candidates wrote about what they wanted from this job. No one cares what they want. No one cares that they want to “leverage their skills working with a highly effective team”. Yours was focused solely on the employer’s benefit, rather than for personal gain. And one thing in particular had caught his eyes to show you were perhaps a best fit for the company.

  ‘To build an ethical and positive culture for the company from the ground up and inspire change in Gotham.’

  Given the current legal and political climate in Gotham, especially with the battles between parties of power going on, no one would care to write statements like this. No one even knew if they were submitting applications to companies deep within the mob, entrenched in corruption, or held hostage after having had debts to repay them. The mob had an iron grip on affairs at every nook and cranny of Gotham City. These types of statements were too fluffy, too idealistic, and often were not considered on job offers. However, things were changing. In a world where caped and masked vigilantes were jumping off roofs and Falcone was locked up in Arkham, he had hope. Politics were becoming more transparent, as candidates like Harvey Dent stepped up to the plate. And he would stop at nothing to make the most of this hope for a better Gotham. He had to believe in a better Gotham. He clenched his wrists and swallowed. He wanted to realise this idealistic vision he had. 

  “This mask for the anger I’ve been hiding… It’s not enough.”

  “Then channel that anger to something good, I dunno. Frankly speaking, it’s not that hard.”

  You two were sitting around a mahogany coffee table, with two plush sofas clad in burgundy fabric offering you two the luxury of sinking back into the comfort of its softness. However, you two were on the edge of your seats, not allowing yourselves to be lulled into its false sense of security and let your guards down. Your eyes were trained on each other, the air electrifying. You took a sip from the mug of your macchiato, eyes never leaving his as you tilted your coffee mug. You looked at him through your lashes, hiding behind a coy smile. Intrigued by your boldness, he quirked a brow in amusement. He sighed and pushed his laptop away from him on the table, finding no real need for it.

  “Charming. If you’re so impressive, why don’t you tell me why you hadn’t attempted college?” 

  This definitely did not feel like a job interview. He leaned back, arms folded, a smugness tugging at the corners of his mouth. He was challenging you. You sure as hell weren’t one to back down.

  “Well, maybe it’s because some of us aren’t so lucky to have our parents afford our college fees, just so we can chase our dreams.”

  In a saccharine voice, you leaned forward, tilting your head, no longer smiling. Your lips showed the hints of a pout. John Blake stared at you, slightly confused for a moment. Was this a personal attack or something?

  “That’s very valiant of you. However, Miss, if I had to remind you of something,”

  He maintained his composure, leaning forward with a slight tension in his jaw, his smirk not falling.

  “You don’t know the first thing about me, darling.”

  You remained neutral, staying in the same position.

  “Well, I’m sorry if I offended you.” 

  He had been the one to poke you first, you thought, slightly indignant. You bit your lip and spoke again, treading dangerously.

  “If I had to take a guess, I would say you feel threatened by me.”

  John Blake raised his brows at you, possibly in disbelief at your brazenness. He lightly clenched through his teeth. Were you perhaps right?

  “Far from it, kid.”

  You glared at him for this obvious condescension. If you were anyone else, the blatant disrespect you showed him earlier would have immediately gotten you rejected. But the chemistry between you two was palpable, even then. His eyes looked at the laptop in front of him. His eyes avoided yours. He looked away, and nonchalantly he asked you.

  “Don’t you think it’s impossible to really foster an ethical company in Gotham? I mean, it’s a pretty corrupt city.”

  He stirred his coffee to feign apathy. This question wasn’t important to him. You furrowed your brows and shook your head, your voice raising in tone. You felt your indignancy rise. Affronted and outraged. What kind of question is this…?

  “What? Gotham is full of people ready to believe in good and compassion.”

  You had his attention now. And he stared at you, his eyes hard.

  “Hey, don’t you think that’s pretty naive of you?”

  “You can say that all you want about me. I don’t gain much from being an idealist, but I have to do the best I can.”

  Your voice softened towards the end. This was perhaps the first time you allowed yourself to be vulnerable in this… “Interview”. The man in front of you shifted his weight in his chair and stood up. This prompted you to stand up as well, befuddled and just mindlessly mirroring his body language.

  Satisfied with his find, he stared down his nose at you with an unreadable expression. He stuck his hand out towards you.

  “Well then kid, I believe we have a deal.”

  Dumbfounded, you took his hand hesitantly, and he gave your hand a firm squeeze, bobbing it lightly in the process. Your jaw was slightly ajar and you were confused. After all that, you were in a state of doubt. Did you really just pass this… interview?

  “Check your email for updates.”

  He picked up his coffee, downed the rest of it and held his cup up towards you, a last gesture signifying his leave. He set it down against the table with a clink and left swiftly with his laptop. 

  You will become my weapon. My tool. You will fight for me, and in exchange, I will ensure that you realise your vision, and sate your burning desires.

  He smirked. A diamond in the rough indeed.

  He was stirred out of his daze when he heard the sound of the sliding doors of the emergency ward. It revealed a doctor dressed in blue short-sleeved scrub top and pants, with a white lab coat. She held a clipboard and wore a surgical mask. The mask could not hide the sunkenness in her eyes, fatigued from being overworked during her residency. Blake stood up immediately seeing her, desperate to know the outcome of your medical evaluation.

  “Sir, I’ll cut to the chase. She will have to remain under our observation for the next forty-eight hours, and we will periodically image her with serial chest radiographs.”

  Taking a moment to take this news in, he nodded, signalling for the doctor to continue.

  “We seek your understanding, patients may develop significant signs and symptoms for as long as thirty-six hours after exposure. We checked for burns in the nasal cavity and tested for particles.”

  She sighed and stared at her clipboard, shifting her weight onto her other foot. Her tennis shoes squeaked.

  “Burning was spotted, but minimal. Her airway functions are still relatively stable. Our test results revealed in her system a complex of zinc chloride and the fear gas toxin compound found in our water supply months back.”

  “I understand. Her condition is stable enough and she will recover, right?”

  He looked her in the eye, searching for any signs that would betray her jaded features.

  “I’m afraid nothing in this world is certain, sir.”

  Her voice was somber. His brows knitted. What was that supposed to mean? Realising what she uttered out, she quickly switched her expression to mask what she just said, to a more amicable one for professionalism.

  “But of course, nothing is likely to happen to her. We have databases storing synthesised antidotes and counteragents to the compounds we found.”

  He sank, his muscles losing their tension as he deflated. At least there was some solace in this situation.

  “You can check back around the same time after two days, if you’d like. She will be placed under our care til then.”

  He nodded and took that as a sign to take his leave. He grabbed the laptops from the seats and gave himself another couple of pumps of hand sanitiser solution. He sighed and felt the tension in his forehead subside a little. You always had to cause trouble for everyone involved, didn’t you? He turned his head and looked at you through the glass panes, lying unconscious on a hospital bed. He gave a snort and didn’t slow down his pace. 

  Luckily for you, you had someone who didn’t find you to be more trouble than you were worth.

###

He found the darkness strange. In the heart of Gotham city, he had grown used to having the warm, yellow-orange glow of streetlamps outside his window, light filtering in through the gaps in the curtains and seeing them whenever he walked down the street. It felt safe. Come to think of it, it was a privilege. When he took a first drive through the Narrows, there were no such safety blankets in the form of regularly spaced streetlamps. He continued staring up at the Bat-Signal, its rays projected an emblem. 

  It was shrouded in darkness. Gotham City is a bustling, urban metropolis. The signal was alone in the night sky, not a single star there to accompany it. Light pollution makes us unable to see stars in big cities. The bat was cursed to be alone in the dark. It was the only way he could exist, anyway. After all, most sightings of him caught on tape were filmed around the Narrows.

  He combed a hand through his honey blond hair, while the balmy breeze smeared against his face. He heard footsteps. Immediately, he whipped his form around, hands affixed tightly on his hips.

  “You’re a hard man to reach.”

  He walked forward, trying to seem cordial, as much as he could be. His posture was strained, however, his neck craned forward from waiting too long. He walked forward, closer to the figure and swung one arm loose, by his side. He sized him up. This was the first time he had seen him up close, and he simply remained silent. They regarded each other for a cold moment. He couldn’t expect much from him, even a response would be too much, not without Gordon around.

  He almost blended in with the darkness. His suit mirrored the plated armour of specialised jousters, but with a much more modern and practical design. He looked rigid and reminded him of a man from medieval times, a mounted warrior with ideals of chivalry and a code of conduct befitting for a nobleman. The difference was, he did not work with the state, and was in no way a perfect courtly Christian warrior.

  I believe in Harvey Dent. People needed to believe in something, just as he believed in the Batman.

  His presence, despite being mostly subdued and shadowed, did invoke a bearing to be idolised. If he weren’t Gotham’s District Attorney or the up-and-coming choice political candidate, he might have even been star-struck and giddy-headed at the sight of him. He scoffed at this. They were of the same standing in the city of Gotham, on equal footing, and they both knew it. He could feel it in his stare.

  They waited.

  The jarring sound of the door clicking open broke the uncomfortable silence. He studied Gordon, who looked just as miffed as he did. He tried to get Gordon’s attention.

  “Lau’s halfway to Hong Kong.”

  Gordon ignored him, storming forward to switch off the Bat-Signal. This rubbed Harvey Dent the wrong way. He was a little vexed.

  “You’d asked. I could’ve taken his passport―I told you to keep me in the loop.”

  Gordon was aggravated by his unpleasant overbearing insistence on being involved in the Gotham City Police Department’s investigations. He raised his voice.

  “All that was left in the vaults were marked bills. They knew we were coming, as soon as your office got involved-”

  Gordon was motioning with his hand. He waved it around temperamentally, emotion clearly clouding his judgement and choice of words. Dent felt his blood pressure rise and he definitely would not stand for these accusations against his team. He felt a vein jutting in his neck, tensing as he matched his voice level to reach Gordon’s.

  “My office? You’re sitting there with scum like Wuertz and Ramirez and you’re talking-”

  He jammed a strained finger at the ground as he stressed his words. He paused for a moment. Realisation in a recent finding gave him the upperhand. He sneered. This was turning into a full-blown argument.

  “Oh yeah Gordon. I almost had your rookie cold on a racketeering beat.”

  He jabbed more accusatory fingers directed at Gordon. God forbid his argumentative habits from the high court show through now. This was making things a lot worse.

  “Don’t try and cloud the fact that clearly Maroni’s got people in your office, Dent.”

  Gordon’s statement was final and harsh. They stared each other down. This was going nowhere. The night breeze blew against them. The Bat was silent. Quietly, he stood and analysed whether he could really trust both of these men to solve crime in Gotham together. The wariness and doubt was palpable. What makes them think they could make him trust them, when they couldn’t even trust each other?

  Dent didn’t know how to respond to this. He went silent. He couldn’t dispute or disprove this. The Maronis’ got their reigns deep within all walks of this city.

  Gordon sighed, giving up. If they couldn’t have transparency at this point, they could forget about asking for Batman’s help. He would not accept this if they were to only hinder his goal. It was embarrassing, to say the least. They would only appear to be a joke to the man. He had to relent, for starters.

  “We couldn’t detain him. He has too much power. We can’t conclusively accuse Lau at this point, and we were denied prior warrants on him. We have no data on him aside from pure speculation.”

  Looking down, Gordon bit on his bottom lip, his facial hair caught between his lip. He tugged at his pocket with exaggerated movements, looking like a jovial dad who thrived on telling dad jokes, pulling out a scrap of notes. He skimmed through it. Harvey Dent’s hands were still on his hips, gripping at his hipbone. He turned to look at the man in the dark suit.

  The three of them stood in formation, on the rooftop of the Major Crimes Unit, circling each other. They formed the three pillars of justice in Gotham. All unyielding in their beliefs of their methods of crime fighting, and their ideals. Coming to a compromise seemed near impossible moments ago.

“We need Lau back. The Chinese won’t extradite a national under any circumstances. Not that we even have the right documents to prove his involvement with the mob.”

  Batman took this chance to respond, for the first time.

  “I have no jurisdiction. I believe I personally have enough proof to track that rat down.”

  Harvey Dent raised his brows a fraction. The gall of him to talk about legal power or authority having no control over him, right in front of the DA no less. If he didn’t know better, he would say he was boasting about operating outside the law. Even if he was a vigilante, that was a bold statement. He liked that.

  “If I get him to you, can you get him to talk?”

  Batman’s voice was deep and raspy. Dent did not expect his voice to be like this. The corner of his mouths tugged a bit. This was his area of expertise.

  “I’ll get him to sing.”

  Nodding for further assertion and poise in confidence, he said so knowingly. Gordon unfolded the scrap of notes handed to him by his officers. They had brute-forced their way into the systems of the recent bank heist at Gotham National Bank. Apparently, they had digital tracks of code and graphs as potential sources of evidence for this case from a foreign system. The department, however, was not specialised enough to interpret this data definitively.

  “The GCPD only recently uncovered leads to prove Lau’s dirty work in the mob, but I suppose it’s better late than never.”

  This caught Harvey Dent’s attention. He signalled for him to elaborate.

  “We traced the source to be devices registered under the Blake Accounting Consultancy company.”

  Bringing a finger to his lip, Dent bit against it lightly. He pondered

  “We can do this concurrently while Batman forcefully extradites Lau. We need to do this fast, however. Set up an interrogation with this company, as soon as possible.”

  Dent and Gordon looked at each other. For once, they saw each other eye to eye. Gordon took in a deep breath, and nodded, this time with a lot less hesitation than before. The Bat looked at them, his focus flitting between the two, and pressed his lips together. Maybe there was hope in this after all.

  “We’re going after the mob’s life savings, things will get ugly.”

  Gordon inclined his head, indicating the urgency of this harsh truth. Gordon gave Dent a hard stare, a direct warning to the man. A pretty-boy working high up in the office, who had never gotten his hands dirty like that in the life of a city cop. He had to know what was in store for him, and Gordon wanted to see if he really was all that serious about this, rather than being purely concerned with racking political points.

  “I knew the risk when I took this job, lieutenant.”

  Harvey Dent leaned back, seeming a tad bit offended by his warning. As if he didn’t know already. Hell, someone had even pulled a gun on him in the courtroom. In Rachel’s words, as Gotham’s DA, if you’re not getting shot at, you’re not doing your job right. He decided to let it go.

  “How are you getting back in-”

  He directed his attention back onto Batman. He vanished into thin air. Dent was at a loss for words. How dysfunctional this agreement between the three of them seemed. He dared Gordon to give him an explanation. Do I really want to know, he scoffed. Gordon cocked his head derisively, a wry smile in place.  

  “He does that.”

  Pretty crude sense of humour, even for someone flying from building to building with a cape. He relaxed his upper body, hands still on his hips. He looked at the ground. He gave an audible groan. He was going to need a cold shower after all this―This absolutely baffling and absurd confrontation. It almost seemed comical. Well, he couldn’t complain. After all, he did ask for it.

###

It had been a while since you’ve woken up from your blackout. You could only see darkness. 

  Distant static noises from the television muffled in and out through your ears. When you cracked open your eyes, they still felt raw and fluttered back shut repeatedly from your drugged up state. You had no idea where you were.

  “-according to eyewitnesses, each man wore a clown mask.”

  You gripped the bed sheets. This news was… unsettlingly familiar. You felt a mild stinging pain on top of your hand with the restricted movement. It felt like plastic taped against your hand.

  “-used grenades to intimidate the hostages into submission.”

  Suddenly everything came flooding back, the feeling of fear re-imagined. You tore your eyes which were sealed shut open. You remembered the clowns. And the clown beneath the clown mask. And the sight of a live grenade beside you. You stared up at the ceiling wide-eyed, the whirring sound of a ventilator a droning hum beside your ear. You reached up to your face and touched the plastic sterile respirator cupping over your nose and mouth.

  Oh. You were in a hospital. It took a while for you to register this.

  You looked at the television and saw Gotham Tonight News. Your thoughts immediately shifted to John Blake. He had saved your life. Your eyes desperately searched the room, darting around all corners. You only saw other patients as you were in a public ward, and in your movement you unknowingly hit a button on your hospital bed with your elbow. Distant beeping noises of machines could be heard, with the occasional coughing and hacking. The feeling of grogginess was slowly subsiding. You heard footsteps coming.

  In your silent hope, you half-expected it to be John Blake. But much to your dismay, it was a doctor. She held a clipboard and wore a mask that was tucked under her chin, and a white clinical lab coat. She offered you a warm, hospitable smile, despite the tiredness that dragged down her sunken eyes.

  “Miss, I see you have woken up. We can let you rest for a while before we discharge you, you slept for longer than we have expected.”

  Longer than they had expected? How long were you out? You needed answers. You resisted and slowly tried to sit up. You gestured towards your respirator and flailed your hand around slightly. She seemed to understand you.

  “Ah, I understand. Eager to get out?”

  She continued smiling tiredly. She dislodged the mask from behind your head and took it off your face. You felt a drastic change in pressure as you tried to adjust to the current atmosphere, taking even deeper breaths and sputtering slightly. You suddenly felt breathless. She let you take a while to get used to this before working on the tube that went up your nose and down your throat. She pulled it straight from your nose, much to your horror, and you felt the friction of it sliding against your pharynx. You could have sworn you felt blood trickling down your throat. Excruciatingly, you let out a prolonged sob the more she pulled onto it. When she was done, you panted, using the back of a hand to wipe against the saliva that dribbled around your mouth.

  She took your other hand in hers and tore off the IV access, effortlessly and with little pain around that area. You stared at her behind tearful eyes. Nurses and doctors were so amicable yet did actions like this with that much intention and precision. It was daring, courageous and you guessed it took a lot for them to not be squeamish. You licked your chapped lips and proceeded to thank her.

  You looked at the golden badge pinned on her breast pocket. It was the Caduceus symbol. The omnipotent Staff of Hermes. A staff once carried by Hermes in Greek mythology, slender and splendid, entwined by a serpent coiling around the body of the staff in a downward spiral. The wand of healing. It was beautiful, magnificent, if not a bit eerie and otherworldly. You sucked in a breath. You were lost in thought. Must we really fall prey to the deceptive trickster of Eden in order to achieve greatness? Medicine is a holy tome, the all-encompassing, for the most glorious knowledge in the world. 

  Break the rules.

  To achieve greatness, you must know the truth, and to know the truth, you must take the forbidden fruit for the knowledge of all things good and evil.

  And that means walking away from the lies you were told your whole life.

  Your eyes glazed over, starry-eyed over the dreams of a past life. You stared at the healthcare worker with eyes of green. 

  No, that dream simply isn’t possible.

  Disillusionment tore at your eyes. No, it really wasn’t.

  She returned you your set of clothes from before and you changed out of the hospital gown. You were given a brief rundown of your condition, as well as pictures and radiographs of chest scans. You had suffered minor burns down your air passages and suffered from acute zinc chloride and fear gas poisoning, but the counter-agents had already been administered. Luckily for you, the actions taken against the fear gas were swift and that prevented long-term effects from creeping into your system. You would hate to be plagued with images of that darned clown for life. Soon, you found yourself at the counter, ready to be discharged. You groaned inwardly at the hospital bills this stay would rack up. You would experience mild discomfort and difficulty breathing for a while, but it wouldn’t be anything serious. You guessed that you really did owe Blake one for this time.

  Speaking of whom, you would have expected him to at least pay you a visit this one time, seeing as it was in fact a weekend. If you hadn’t gone through that terror that previous day, you would have felt a petty disappointment in him, for you felt that you were important enough for him to do that much for you. But this time, you felt a bit worried. You chewed at your cracked lips, hoping that nothing bad had happened to him while you were out. 

  You signed the relevant documents and walked towards the entrance, ready to head out when you suddenly saw a head of familiar, clean cut chestnut hair walking towards you. He wore a navy suit with a cool-toned pink tie. You felt a warmth bubble inside of you when you smiled at him. Boy were you glad to see him, and he had made it to visit you after all. You were about to reach out to him and say something, but he stopped you in your tracks only to turn you around and walk you in the same direction as him.

  “Hey kid, glad to see you’re out and all, but we have no time right now. You’ll understand when we get there.” 

  His jaw had a greater tension to it than it did normally, and his dark features were serious and silent. He didn’t really have a smile gracing his lips, but his eyes showed a hint of relief seeing you well and recovered. You were confused by this and felt a slight dejection constricting at your chest. What was with him and wouldn’t he be happy seeing you? You furrowed your brows for a moment and avoided his gaze. He handed you your laptop he stowed hastily by thrusting it into your hands. You fumbled with it and nearly dropped it. You felt your blood boil slowly, you thought to yourself, oh no you’d better not expect me to work overtime like this. You stopped in your tracks.

  “Hey―You really think I’m going to work for you at this hour, under these circumstances? You’re out of your mind.”

  He simply continued walking, not slowing down his pace. He only turned his head behind indifferently, regarding you coldly, then returned his gaze in front of him.

  “You’re not working for me today.”

  Your jaw agape, you stared at his back that was getting smaller by the second, incredulous. You’ve had it with this caginess, he was tight-lipped. Why couldn’t he just tell you anything at all? You pulled at your hair and ran ahead to catch up with him, the heels of your pumps clacking against the hospital floor. At this, you felt a fiery burst pulsating down your throat and windpipe. You ran out of oxygen very quickly and sputtered for more, the friction of air against the burn marks up your nostrils raked mercilessly through your nerves. It was obvious you couldn’t do much physically for a while. Your footsteps slowed down, but Blake’s did not. You guys had perfect communication most of the time and today was one of the rare times you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. You pleaded again, between agonising hacks, clearly vexxed.

  “Could you... at LEAST tell me what’s going on-”

  He stopped suddenly, at the west-wing entrance of Gotham General Hospital. You caught up to him, about to lose your mind at him. You gawked, your gaze landing on the sight in front of him. Your brain stutters for a moment and your eyes seem to betray you. To say that you were shocked was an understatement. You wanted to turn to Blake to confirm that you were indeed working for these people, but you couldn’t find it in you. There stood two of the most authoritative men in Gotham, hands on their hips, feet tapping impatiently. They weren’t facing each other. The vibe felt a little off. Gotham’s White Knight, Harvey Dent, and Lieutenant James Gordon. 

  “This is your Junior Data Analyst, Consultant Blake? I hope you had a speedy recovery, Miss.”

  Jim Gordon adjusted his spectacles and nodded at you, his brows frowning, a sorry expression written on his face.

  “We uh, apologise for bothering you on such short notice, but we hope you can understand.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, the name’s Harvey Dent. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you,”

  Harvey Dent stuck a warm hand out, smiling affably as you took it to give it a firm shake, shifting his eyes onto Blake at the last sentence. He was charming, just like the clips of him you’ve seen on television. You expected no less, but this level of charisma was unprecedented. You introduced yourself and smiled hesitantly, unsure, before you turned to look at Blake, hoping for an explanation. He looked at you and nodded reassuringly, the first time he had shown any real emotion to you this whole time. That made you feel slightly more relieved. The two men still didn’t exactly look at each other. Did they have some kind of beef with each other…?

  “We’re not going to waste your time and get to the point,”

  Gordon ushered you out of the hospital and into a cop car. This was your first time in one, and you were sure that you weren’t in it for illicit reasons, after seeing how John nodded at you earlier. It still unsettled you a little bit, you couldn’t be too sure. You had a read on the atmosphere after your initial shock subsided, and it was grim and urgent. You did not like this energy, no one says anything unnecessarily, probably to save time. It’s no wonder Blake was acting so unusually secretive, and uncommunicative. You felt bad now for blaming him. Blake and Harvey Dent sat to your left. Gordon took the front passenger’s seat.

  You looked up outside the windows. It was dark outside much like the way the cop car’s leather seats and roof were painted black. A return back into the concrete jungle was imminent.

  “We need your combined efforts in decoding whatever work you had on Gotham National Bank.”

  You loosened your grip on your laptop. At least you weren’t in trouble for anything. You tried to maintain eye contact with Jim Gordon through the rear-view mirror, his kind yet profound looking eyes looking deep into yours. You could almost feel his burdens undoing into you. He had a weight on his shoulders and immense responsibilities you could not even dream of imagining. Gordon was the open-book type of person, evidently.

  “Oh, is it the one proving Lau-”

  “Yes, Lau’s fraudulence and involvement with the mob. He’s still in Hong Kong. Your data could really help us with his case and get him to talk. We need to take out the big dogs.”

  Harvey Dent interjected. You turned your head towards him, and you saw his profile with his strong nose and golden hair. The golden boy of Gotham. Normally, you would be rather bothered by someone who cuts you off like that, but it felt different with Dent. Even you would defer to such absolute authority and apparent righteousness at a pressing time like this. From all his campaigns and court hearings, you could tell he was sincere in his pursuit of goodness in Gotham, he just overflowed with integrity and honour. He embodied that All-American charm, handsome, deep blue eyes monumental with some form of knightly honour. A heroic presence, almost like the kind Robert Redford sort of had. He shifted his cleft chin in thought, a hand to his temple, before he looked at you.

  “Can you present us a full analysis of your findings and write out a report by tonight?”

  He raised his brows a fraction, looking at you pleadingly with his blue eyes, lips stretched slightly with a gentle half-smile. 

  How could you say no when he had asked you with such sincerity? While he appeared to be brash at times, it was a quality that came with the job of being the city’s persecutor. It couldn’t be helped, you supposed.

  After all, wasn’t this a dream of yours? To serve in the movement for change in Gotham.

  This city is dying. It’s rotting.

  No, it was rich land for the seeds in the car sitting right beside you. And you had a part to play too, a golden opportunity had presented itself.

  “I already planned to expose that little rat, I didn’t need to be told.” 

  You looked away, snorting. You felt a slight tightening in your chest, and you cursed at the breathing difficulties caused by the smoke bomb. Blake eyed you from the corner of his eyes, trying to hide that twinkle, and his cheeks aching from holding down the pull of the sides. Harvey Dent paused, lightly taken aback by your statement, quirked his lips downwards in an arc, nodding his head unexpectedly.

  “Well then, the youth these days never fail to surprise me. Welcome aboard, Miss.”

  “Listen Mr. Dent, you’re still considered a spring chicken compared to those insufferable old farts we tolerate on a daily basis.”

  You smiled. Harvey Dent let out a hearty laugh within his chest at this joke you cracked. It did well to ease the tension for critical times like these. You did consider him to be part of your generation, at the forefront leading this revolution. John Blake looked over at Dent, adding onto your statement.

  “She’s right, you’re cut from the same cloth as us, you’re our peer. And you are the cream of the crop, the very best of us. Gotham is changing because of you.”

  “Well, I feel very flattered, but I’m not the only one. It’s all thanks to the Batman.”

  You grunted, a rumble through your chest, ignoring the pain. You’d agree to a certain extent, Batman was just the beginning. However, Harvey Dent was the culmination of all this. He was the hero with the face, the hero grounded in reality and tangible change. Batman can only go so far without the help of Harvey Dent.

  “This is inspiring stuff and all, but are we forgetting something? Or someone? Or an entire generation above you?”

  All of you turned your heads to Jim Gordon in the front seat. On the rear view mirror, Gordon had an expectant look on his face, his lips underneath that mustache pressed together in a thin line. The three of you in the backseat felt a light feather ticking your insides, threatening to break free at your throats. You all chuckled weakly, subdued laughter as you all darted your gazes, looking away at all absent corners of the cop car. You hid the humour in your voice with a stinging cough. Heaven forbid you all make light of the situation at a time like this.

###

You cleared your throat, feeling the lingering effects of the smoke on your system, the noise resounding off the washed out concrete brick walls, frosted white with an almost steely-blue. The small room made you feel sick and oppressed, with its air-conditioner temperature set to an isolating sixty degrees fahrenheit. You stepped back, the soft clicks of your heels hitting the concrete, non-tiled floor as you brought up a finger. It shuddered slightly, and you raised it up to point to the projector screen fabric hoisted on the wall, the shadow of your hand looming over the makeshift light projector setup the GCPD had provided, sending ripples through the fabric.

  The room felt like a prison cell, almost deliberately designed to make you feel alienated and scrutinised. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, a fluorescent lighting irradiating through the room with a cool toned jarring brightness that made you squint a little, yet not completely illuminating the dark shadowy corners of the squarish room. A grey rectangular table sat in front of you, with Harvey Dent and Lieutenant Jim Gordon sitting back cross legged in their foldable plastic chairs, while John Blake sat hunched over on the other end of the table, furiously typing out a report on his laptop. You guessed you couldn’t expect anything too fancy from the Major Crimes Unit of Gotham. You needed to push through this presentation, despite the building physical discomfort following your predicament from the day before.

  You made eye contact with Jim Gordon, with a little bit of difficulty, but you still pressed on to make your point. He had his hands clasped together, sitting between his thighs, and avoided your gaze to favour studying the data presented on the screen. Harvey Dent had a hand wrapped around one side of his cheek, and an elbow propped on the table, resting his head against it and listening intently. You had been given unreasonable demands to give impromptu presentations rather frequently at work, but definitely not within an hour of getting discharged from the hospital. Your nerves fired off a little bit and you tried your best not to let your voice betray you. You tugged your blazer tighter around your waist, blaming the cold for this action.

  “I think we have a pretty strong case here. This is all the information you need, reallyㅡto charge Lau, especially with the insights from Mr. Blake. He was a forensic accountant.”

  Gordon and Dent shared a pointed look at each other, expressions unreadable, before Gordon turned back to you to nod a gentle ‘thank you’. You took this as a sign to give them ample space for their own discussion and consolidation, and you let out a huge sigh, walking swiftly over to John Blake after being granted the permission to be dismissed. You dragged another foldable chair and scooched over to sit beside him. You leaned over to look at his laptop, then at him expectantly. He ignored this and continued looking at his screen.

  “Little nervous there, weren’t you kid?”

  You puffed your cheeks and let a stream of air out. You were punished for this motion as you felt searing pain up your larynx and flaring at your nostrils. You were about to lose your mind on him but you remembered the presence of the other two justice hounds in the room. Blake snickered inwardly. You supposed two compliments in two consecutive days was unheard of from the man. You hadn’t been silly enough to hope for that. Yesterday, what he said to you at the bank was possibly the most acknowledgement you had ever gotten from him for your worth as his partner, and you will take that to your chest and run away with it.

  “Yeah, yeah. Why don’t you try giving a presentation after literally being discharged from the hospital?”

  He decided to let it go and brush this off, his smile still not withholding however. He scrolled down the document he had impressively typed out. It seemed he had been working on it while you were out. It was way too detailed to have been put together in the short amount of time you were here, while you gave the presentation. You raised your brows, he was on his A game tonight, more so than usual. Working behind the scenes, after hours. You wondered what sparked this escalation in work ethic and quality. This little rivalry between you two felt slightly more visceral.

  Covertly, you stared over at Gordon and Dent, who looked cold and calculative under the subtle hue of blue-toned lighting. They seemed to be in some kind of disagreement, brows furrowed and stubborn towards each other. Did this happen often? You chewed your lips and tapped lightly at the table. You could see Blake at the corner of your eyes rubbing his chin again. While you two were confidently secure in your abilities as analysts and consultants, working with public servants required a different form of rigour. It required a different kind of convincing. Not one that was only concerned with profits and risk-bearings, like your previous clients, but something that held ethical weight and certainty. You two had done something that could be classified as immoral, and you weren’t sure if this level of convincing was enough to gloss over that fact. Judging from John Blake’s body language, he shared the same sentiments. You took in a deep breath, despite the pain, desperately needing the extra air to catch up on your shortness of breath.

  Gordon and Dent signaled for the two of you to come over and show them the written report. You could feel your heart beating quickly, hammering against your chest. The desire to please the authorities made your senses go wild, and it would only serve as a testament to your abilities if you could help the highest forms of justice in the city in these respects. Blake took this chance to explain briefly the navigation of the report, and to bring focus to the more important details of your presentation highlighted in the report. This would allow them to utilise the information more effectively and constructively should they ever need to take this to court. This once was his area of expertise, after all. Gordon and Dent gave each other another look and they looked pleased. Well, at least they came to a consensus on something. They had their attention on you again after the mutual confirmation.

  “Astounding work you two,”

  Harvey Dent smiled politely at you. Your erratic heartbeat calmed as you felt heat radiate off your face like a hot pan. Slowly the high of authoritative validation crept within your system. His words definitely felt like honey.

  “I’m gonna need you to come with me to County tomorrow, after hours, to account for certain data and ledgers regarding Lau’s case. Could you spare me some of your time, Miss?”

  You gulped. It was extremely hard to say no to this man. You weren’t going to turn down a request like this anyway, if it meant one step closer to saving Gotham City. A little sacrifice for something you love was nothing. You nodded tentatively at first, charting a rough impression of your weekly schedule in your head. You had work the next day and it would be very hectic for you. Blake looked impassive. You couldn’t get a read on him. Harvey Dent leaned back in his chair, threw the documents on his lap back onto the table and stood up to be eye level with you.

  “Well, that would be all for today. I need to rush back, so I thank you all for your hard work.”

  After Harvey Dent promptly left the room, Gordon shifted the laptop in front of him and stood up. The room felt significantly emptier with Dent gone, he had quite the presence. You looked around the room again, eyes scanning the white brick walls, squinting as your gaze briefly landed on the bare LED light bulb. You silently waited for Gordon to collect his thoughts.

  “Consultant Blake, you're not going off the hook so easily, I’m afraid. The GCPD needs your help in tracing the mob’s money while it is being stowed away indefinitely.”

  Blake pressed his lips into a thin line, giving a single nod of understanding. Gordon shifted his weight to his other foot, pondering. He cast his eyes downwards, then back onto Blake and you.

  “You know, you two enjoy fighting against crime, right? I see something very special in you youngsters. Well, I have a proposition for you... So, here’s some food for thought.”

  Gordon looked a little more intently at you two.

  “We really could use your skill sets for our ongoing and future investigations for our fight against organised crime. We-uh, don’t receive nearly as much funding as we need from the state… So our financial forensics department is not as developed as it should be.”

  He paused. You saw those worn down eyes again, beaten down by the world around him. He was an old soul, and he made no effort to mask the worry in his eyes, his forehead grazed with permanent crease lines, perhaps from constant frowning. You could see however, the silver lining behind his dark irises. The one thing not jaded, remaining pure and undiluted, was his hope in enforcing justice for Gotham City. That is where his true passion lies.

  “We don’t have enough people with the relevant technological or knowledge based capabilities. I know this is too much to ask of you… But the offer is always open―I could negotiate a permanent spot for you two on the team, if you were to change your mind in future. That is, if you want to, of course-”

  Gordon fumbled a little with his words, his hand waving about slightly. John Blake held a hand out, saving Gordon from his apparent awkwardness as he felt it unbecoming. Cops should at least have some pride. It would not do well for a lieutenant to be appealing to two private sector workers for help like this, it was almost completely undignified. Had the cops really been pressed thin to the brink? Pushed into a corner? Here, he had thought that the state of Gotham was improving immensely. Evidently, the fine balance of all powers in Gotham has been knocked over. Something was brewing. There was a storm coming. 

  You interjected.

  “We’re, uh, very flattered! Thank you, Lieutenant Gordon. We will definitely keep your words in our hearts, and keep your offer in consideration.”

  You all regarded each other for a moment, unspeaking―completely aware of the implications of all this. This whole agreement, and Gordon’s open proposal to you. John Blake stared hard, his jaws fixed in position. You sensed the energy in this room and it held an excruciating weight. You didn’t even know what you all were waiting for. You clenched your fingers at the hem of your blazer. You looked discreetly at John Blake, not really knowing what to expect. As if you didn’t want him to catch you staring.

  “It’s been nine months since the first appearance of Batman. Since Falcone’s incarceration.”

  Blake started, his voice sure and certain.

  “Did anyone actually accomplish anything?”

  His voice echoed through the room, piercing through everyone that stood. He stepped forward slightly. His gaze flitting down to the laptop in his hand.

  “All Batman did was end Falcone’s era. The Police Headquarters rounded up new forces. The mob replaced the figurehead at the top. Dent’s attempts to take down the top dogs have been, to no avail. The big-timers didn’t take any action.”

  You adjusted your collar, uncomfortable and unable to stare at him for any longer.

  “Sure, petty crimes have been reduced, one by one. Things have changed. But at the root of it all… Nothing’s been fixed.”

  He pondered wistfully.

  “It was like… everybody was just preparing for something.”

  Blake adjusted his tie.

  “...And now you’re here, Lieutenant Gordon―You and Harvey Dent. Asking us for help, knowing very well that this-”

  He waved his laptop around in his hand.

  “-data right here, was gained unscrupulously. And it’s not too far-fetched to believe you two are corroborating closely with the Bat, despite that official policy is to arrest the vigilante known as Batman on sight.”

  John Blake tilted his chin downwards, looking up at Gordon, a purse evident on his lips. You flinched a little.

  “You are resorting to outlawed measures to fight the outlaws. And you’re telling me.”

  Gordon could not find the right words to this. He responded carefully. He would have to humble himself and swallow his pride for the sake of Gotham’s future, and he had in fact pitched you all a rather unreasonable request. He hoped to be able to earnestly appeal to the parts of your hearts, no matter how small, that cared deeply for the city of Gotham. It had to be there, he assumed, otherwise you wouldn’t have aided in the investigations as readily as you did, at the drop of a hat.

  “The mob had… squeezed us to the point of desperation, as much as I hate to admit it. I realise the first step to having a successful collusion with all parties involved is to drop the act and acknowledge this.”

   You gulped, and finally said something. At this point, the tension in the room had made you forget the slightly debilitating pain in your trachea.

  “Frankly speaking, we crossed the line first. We aren’t the only ones, and soon they’ll be hammered to the point of desperation, Lieutenant Gordon.”

  Gordon grunted, a hum low in his chest.

  “I know very well.”

  John Blake, for the first time in this confrontation, allowed a smirk to grace his lips. He looked over at you.

  “You always told me, kid…”

  His gaze on you was unnerving, and compelling.

  “...that the new era of the daring ones is coming along with an unstoppable swell. Batman is just the beginning. He... broke the gear. And we’re not going to be the only side taking up arms, fighting back.”

  He shifted his gaze back onto Gordon.

  “Expect a storm. Expect escalation. Expect a resistance like we’ve never seen before. There’s no turning back.”

  You watched as their eyes locked, their hard expressions unyielding. Gordon was obviously not new to this line of thought, but perhaps no one had been courteous enough to engage with him in discussing the implications of such. He was at a loss for words, but not caught by surprise. His deeply emotive eyes stirred, and he spoke quietly.

  “I am well aware of all this Consultant Blake. It’s not anything new to me. But I am prepared for anything and will stop at nothing. I do the best I can with what I have.”

  Blake’s eyes softened a little, but still retaining their edge, knowing fully well what all of you had gotten yourselves into. The very moment you had engaged in these investigations and accepted the request in lending your contributions, you had placed all of your lives at stake. He stuck a palm to him out of habit, always one for the conditioned nicety. 

  “We have a deal, then. We will lend you our tentative aid. ”

###

Your teeth gnawed slightly at your lips as you made your rounds around the main office room in the MCU. The administrative office had been closed long since you arrived here. You reorganised your datasets you gathered from Gotham National Bank, and printed out the required evidence for your visit to County the next day. It occurred to you, with the impromptu presentation you delivered earlier, that you needed to revise the formatting of your work before it was court-ready. You stood by the printer, listening to the squeaking of ink running across paper and the whir and buzz of the mechanism inside. 

  You exhaled, the first time this night since being discharged that you could take a brief moment of respite. You had a newfound respect for crime fighters in Gotham, if this was what their lifestyles consisted of. Gordon hadn’t even left the MCU, he resolved to return to his private workspace at the top floor of this building. Justice never sleeps, you supposed. You looked out the window, groaning then pinching the bridge of your nose. It was a special kind of blackness out there, one you would probably only see during the witching hours. You wouldn’t be able to get the rest you needed to recover properly, since you probably only had a couple hours of sleep at best before you had to wake up to head for work. Then, when you were done for the day, you would have to rush over to County, grab a bite on the go for dinner if you were lucky, and turn in late again.

  Never would you have thought that you would find yourself working on the side of justice in this way, having a direct hand in adjusting things in Gotham for good. Although, it did seem like a sort of calling to you, in a way. Things were a little bit too convenient, and pieces fell into place together too easily. It was like a feasible chemical reaction in a way that was bound to happen at any given point in time, so long as time had stretched on. You tapped your fingers against your chapped lips, deliberating for a while.

  You did always wish you had a reliable way of measuring what was guaranteed and what wasn’t. It would provide you with a greater control over your life than what you had over the past few years, one that you sought after.

  Serendipity.

  You weren’t exactly too sure if you could call it that.

  Your thoughts wandered back to your coworker and boss, John Blake. He was pretty much done for the night and didn’t have much else to wrap up on. He would wait for you at the porch of the MCU. He had been acting rather strange. Ever since you first saw him, he had been pretty cold to you. But now, it was currently walking along a fine line of coldness and slight, dare you say, hostility. You supposed that he had always been pretty insufferable to you. God, since the start, he had been pretty provocative even when you were sitting round the coffee table at that one boujee cafe. But it had, well, mostly always been in playful jest, or friendly banter. You supposed you always did feel the strife of competition with him, always needing to prove something to him.

  You groaned again, feeling a pinch behind your eyes. You had to save all this thinking for later when you weren’t exactly sleep deprived. You ran a final check through all your printouts, languidly flipping through them with an index finger. Satisfied, you tapped the width of the entire stack a couple times against the surface of the wooden table, aligning the sheets within. You slotted it in an empty file supplied by the GCPD, and headed to the entrance with the large front doors.

  Harvey Dent and Gordon sure made the impression on you, though you did have your doubts towards them. Their relationship seemed… unnatural, kind of strained. You could even describe it as seeming dysfunctional. And it was obvious to you. You couldn’t really blame them, though. With corruption levels so high in this city, you wouldn’t know who to trust either. You would love to have faith in the system, but if they were so good, they wouldn’t be turning to you and Blake.

  You stepped out into lights cast upon the porch by the warm streetlamps, lost in your thoughts.

  John Blake.

  You squinted upon the intrusion of the flaring streetlamps. You saw two streetlamps in the spot where there should only be one.

  What the hell?

  You rubbed your eyes with your free hand. You couldn’t hear anything.

  Where is he… anyway?

  You strained your eyes open again.

  The streetlamps were like a desert mirage. You saw the two balls of light separate slightly, then start to converge.

  Your hair stood on ends, from the back of your neck to the entirety of your arms. Something scraped along the inside of your ears, a high-pitched screeching that bounced within your ear canal.

  You blinked, your shoulders tensing up. You took a step forward, your breath faltering.

  Your feet wobbled slightly as you made your first descent down a step. You gripped onto your laptop and file even tighter. 

  No…

  You broke into an all out sprint, almost nose diving down the long flight of stairs, the sensation pulling at your lungs disorientating.

  Does it depress you? To know that your reality is based on comforting lies?

  Poor little girl... You think a safe space will actually help.

  You felt something black and long, emaciated fingertips reaching into your ear and scratching lightly. They were charred and felt like the bark of scorched trees. They were lanky and skinny like tree branches, about a foot long and grazed at the walls of your ear canals.

  If you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss stares back at you.

  It was a creature of the underworld. One of the most fearsome apparitions, not from the corporal realm. Then… What was he doing here? You bristled.

  Judgement had been passed, and the final fight between good and evil awaits.

  He was the plaguebearer, the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. He was the harbinger of the pestilence. When the time was right, he will besiege the world with pure pandemonium.

  Flesh thudded against stone tiled floors. A strangled scream tore gutturally through the streets. These sounds were incredibly muffled to you.

  He barely turned his head to give a brief, uninterested, side glance.

  And all of a sudden, all your senses returned to you in one compounding moment, everything came crashing down dramatically upon you like a surging, symphonic orchestral blare, and you were met with your fears. The scratchy fingertips stabbed and pierced into your eardrums, and a sharp, debilitating throb pounded through your head. No amount of alcohol could make you forget the sight of his gruesome face.

  Here he stood, in the corporeal world, insidious and spectral. The time had come, and his presence heralded the arrival of world’s end, the armageddon before Judgement Day.

  You were unfortunate enough to be caught, dead in the center of this maelstrom.

  You looked death in the eye, watching carefully as you anticipated his next course of action. He opened his mouth to speak.

  “Ah, uninvited guests―Always a, uh, welcome surprise.”

  He slurred the last word. You tried your hardest to react, to at least do something, anything at all really would do at this moment. Ounce by ounce, he filled every space and cavity your physical being had to offer, and then those your spiritual and mental being as well, for there seemed to not be enough space for this surreal and... grotesque thing. You couldn’t breathe, it felt as if his mere presence was asphyxiating. You wanted to move, you wanted to run, you wanted to curl up into a ball, you wanted to move at least one goddamned muscle in your body.

  But you can’t.

  Sighing exaggeratedly, as if the world owed him a living, he trudged forward slowly and expectantly towards you. He put both his palms up, facing you, stretching and spacing out all his gloved fingers, perhaps in mock concession, a friendly gesture showing that he had nothing to hide. He raised his brows at you with his lips in a sulk, derisive in his condolences. All at once, the air was knocked out of your lungs, and your torso was constricted. You could barely comprehend what was happening, and he seized you by warping behind you as quickly as his stature allowed for. You bit into your lips, tears pricking at your eyes that you could allow such a thing to happen without having the guts to put up a fight. You thrashed your head around, struggling against his grasp, his leather gloved hands muffling a yelp that escaped your lips.

  He grumbled about something related to people minding their own businesses, but you were far too busy trying to pry away at his iron clasp around your figure to comprehend what he was really saying.  

  You couldn’t breathe properly. You sucked in as much air as you could through your scalded nostrils. Your lungs burned. Perhaps it was because you couldn’t see his face, that you could muster the courage required for this display of resistance to his restraints. Your laptop and files were left forgotten, dropped by the pavement and driven into the soil.

  “Kid, it’s fine, just relax and don’t―urgh! Don’t...don’t do anything rash.”

  You peered down as he rasped, the side of his face pressed mercilessly down into the concrete slabs of the sidewalk. Your shaky pupils searched the scene in front of you. The darkness was illuminated by the mellow streetlamps. John Blake was pushed, head first into the ground with a big, pale, brown-haired man kneeling against his form, restraining his arm behind his back. He was armed. That put you slightly more on edge, and slightly more willing to comply. The wraith behind you removed his hand from your mouth, and just as you were about to let out an ear-curdling scream, you felt a cold smoothness of the point of a knife tickle you lightly at your neck, drawing circles around your pulse point gently. Stubbornly, you slackened your arms a little, but still maintained a hold on his forearms.

  Let… Let go of John.

  You saw another man a couple feet beside him, frightened out of his wits, held at gunpoint by another goon, this one wearing a clown mask. He was quivering slightly, both his arms behind his head, clad in a grey suit, a piece of paper duct-taped at its front with words scribbled sloppily―‘Please deliver to Lieutenant Gordon.’ You scrunch your nose a little, tracing your eyes up to look into his panic-stricken, beady eyes.

  “Lau?”

  You spit out in disbelief, momentarily forgetting the compromising position you were in. The phantom circled his arms around you tighter like a python, a ritual they performed before they devoured their prey. It was no use, your arms were wedged by your sides at this point. You tried one last time to fight it, but it was met with a mere chuckle.

  “I see we’re all, uh, acquainted here?”

  He gestured in sardonic formality with his fingers that weren’t latched onto the trigger. He had an incredibly erratic cadence to his voice. His intonations and inflections were completely irregular, he stressed words in a pattern that seemed completely… random. This made even the way he spoke instinctually threatening, for you didn’t know what to expect from him, a sort of jagged edge that laced his words. It granted him a heightened sense of unpredictability, and a malicious air of danger that felt even more tangible. You felt this, it was all too real.

  “You’re working with the police to sell me out, is that how it is? You would betray your own company’s affiliate.”

  Lau, with as much disdain he could gather within him in his sorry state, glared daggers at you. His hands shook more violently, unable to control the trepidation of fear and anger mixed together in a deadly concoction. The ghoulish man who held you shifted you in his grasp a little, pressing your head closer to his cheek, and you felt the stickiness of his greasepaint latch onto your hair. You cringed and recoiled, lips contorting in disgust. He swiped his tongue against the ridges along his bottom lip.

  “I wouldn’t be so ah... concerned with that, if I were you. Seeing that our boy-o over here so valiantly jumped in to save your little-ol life.”

  You snarled at this implication, how dare he mock John? You clawed at his forearm, digging your nails into the velvety textile of his purple sleeve, and jerked yourself against his grasp. Roughly, he tensed his arm against your body. He shifted his lips closer to your ear, his slimy breath stroking the shell of your ear, smearing some hot waxy face paint against your cheek.

  “Ah-tatta… Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.”

  He growled that last bit menacingly into your ear, pushing the slender tapered point of his blade deeper into your neck, sashaying side to side ominously as he adjusted his hold on you to expertly elude his arm from your long nails. He played around with the butt of the knife, tapping it and twisting it around absentmindedly. The blade slid against the delicate skin of your throat carelessly, with varying pressure. You froze. Just because you couldn’t see him didn’t mean he wasn’t there. As a grim reminder of his presence, he knowingly did this, intruding all boundaries of your personal space. Your blood ran cold, frosted by the chilling metal digging into your neck, and your sight remained trained on John Blake.

  Events that happened at the bank flipped through your mind like the pages of a comic book.

  Terrorist. Master-manipulator. Criminal. What the hell are you?

  You weren’t sure if you should be more afraid of this more talkative version of the clown, or the dead silent dirt green-haired man under the frowning mask.

  If there was one thing they had in common, you couldn’t fully understand either of them.

  Your life was in the hands of a madman who treated it all like a game.

  You saw John looking straight into you, seething underneath all that pressure. You tried to seek solace in him and calm him down at the same time, trying to convey your emotions through your eyes.

  Tongue in cheek, the man behind you was clearly watching this interaction, unamused.

  “For a couple of party crashers-ah? You guys sure are bor―ing.”

  With a low rumble in his chest, he shoved you forward and seized your hands behind you, pressing the knife against the back of your neck. A gasp escaped your lips, not used to the crassness of which you were being handled.

  “Ooh, I have an idea, something real fun. It wouldn’t do to do this at our, uh, current venue however…”

  He gestured his goons towards the abandoned building in front of you.

  Catching your breath, you twisted your head to the side to look at John Blake, your eyes widening and searching his face desperately. You had no choice but to be subjected to this… sick game of his.

  “It’ll be okay, John. We’ll be okay.”

  You only managed to catch a glimpse of his jaw clenching and his hard eyes looking back at you, before the clown in the purple suit pushed you forward again. The clown smacked his lips together.

  “Make it fast, lovebirds.”

###

Your head spun feverishly. You were sleep-deprived, couldn’t breathe well, and in a… sticky situation. You were just slammed forcefully, thrown head first into a fiberboard office desk. Through a teary-eyed vision, for a moment it was pitchblack, with the dim light of the city at night filtering through the window. Then, you were blinded by the sting of office-grade LED strip lights arranged neatly on the ceilings above you. Your trachea was already burning from being forced to climb up a flight of stairs. You had just about enough. This debilitation and lightheadedness gave you a newfound strength, ironically.

  You thought back on the 9/11 attacks, and on every other occasion you felt this similar genuine terror strike up in your heart. You vaguely remember some quote, to never negotiate with terrorists, or something like that. Terrible advice really, to anyone who was actually in a terror situation where it was life or death, but to hell with it. You were at your limit for the amount of bullshit you could tolerate. Being absolutely manhandled was not in your itinerary this night. You thought back on every good thing you’ve tried to do for Gotham, sickeningly undone by thugs like these. Your hunched form felt an animosity that was like acid, burning, slicing and extremely potent. And luck has it, you’re trying to stop me again.

  Your forehead was propped against the desk for support. Your hands were free, but your world was spinning too much for you to do anything with them. You bared your teeth, and you swear you could feel fangs growing where your canines were rooted.

  Violently, you hurled your voice against the desk.

  “Haven’t you done enough to us at the bank?”

  You squeezed your eyes shut and gritted your teeth, clenching your fists tightly. Your blood was hot, and you could no longer feel the coolness of the blade against your neck.

  “I’m not afraid of you terrorists. Frankly speaking, I am absolutely sick of you little bastards.”

  Venomously, you spit the excess saliva in your mouth against the desk, overwhelmed with emotion.

  You felt him tugging at your white blazer sleeves, and an excruciating force wrenched at the crown of your head by the hair, lifting your body up slightly, with it still looming over the desk. You felt a suppressed rage as you ran out of ways to express your anger in this awkward position, and you prepared to resort to launching a spit at him to resolve this compulsion.

  But the moment you were face to face with him, the hairs on the nape of your neck bristled. Trapped in your own psychosis, you were wheedled into a living nightmare tailor made for your own brain to play on your deepest fears. Two holes gouged out for eyes, and a bloodied smile carved in place of lips, all splotched onto a chalky white canvas. He looked like a corpse, and you felt the urge to puke. You felt your stomach lurch, and you clutched at your mouth to coax the acidic feeling back down your throat.

  He studied you, frowning deeply and narrowing his eyes, straining his head sideways to get a better look at you. God, when he narrowed those eyes, his sclera disappeared and they looked like the eye sockets embedded within a skull. His greasy hair frayed around framing his head stiffly, lifeless with its strands starched and stiffened together with muck, as if it were dipped in formaldehyde, its proteins coagulated rigidly like it belonged to a cadaver that had long been embalmed. They were bleached off of their natural colour and a faded wash of pallid, acid pale green remained. The fact that he smelled strongly of a queasy mixture of many different chemicals definitely did nothing to help.

  “Ah, so you are that little doctor girl back there. I remember you... Who else on earth wears a, uh, white blazer?”

  He snorted at the end, pinched at your sleeve at the same time, causing your forearm to be lifted, before he let it go. Your wrist bone landed, smacking against the table with a loud snap. The bite was sharp and pointed. You quickly grabbed your hand and held it to your chest, rubbing over it soothingly. You had no idea why you felt offended by this.

  “Glad you made it, little girl-”

  “Doctor... What? And says you! You’re-you’re dressed in a purple trench-”

  You cut him off. He regarded you with a slow lick of his lips, gliding languidly over the fringes of his scars. He gets even closer, up in your face. He stares down at you, looking directly into your very being. You try to look away, but you could only see ink black. You could even smell the greasepaint in this enclosed space. You felt the world spinning.

  “C’mere―Hey. Look at me.”

  He rasped, dragging the clipped point of the dagger against your cheek, pressing it against the corner of your lips.

  “Y'know, whenever people say they’re... not afraid of me,”

  He looked away, inflecting his voice. Then he pointed at his face with his gloved hands, gesturing at the distance between you two, etching even closer. You felt an internal score rising in pitch.

  “I do this. I get all up in their face.”

  He nodded at you. To this you sealed your eyes back together. You dared not look. The world had not stopped circling around you. He yanked your head.

  “Hey―come on…”

  Cooing, he sticks the blade in your mouth. It took all your strength in order to keep your eyes open, just to stare helplessly into back his cavernous ones. The straining notes were reaching an unbearable dissonance, tearing jarringly into your eardrums. It was excruciating. Your ears ached and bled. They reached a frequency that was no longer audible to you.

  “And guess what? They’re always silent. Like you, right now.”

  He smiled, patronisingly, with a sympathetic look on his face, shaking his head slightly.

  “People that, uh, put on a show… are spineless, more often, than no-t.”

  He patted your face gently with his leather finger tips, then rubbed loose patterns around. He had you in his trap. You were his prey, no more than a little mouse to a cold-blooded viper. He flicked his tongue rapidly out of his mouth, then retracts it. What he said wasn’t… false. You couldn’t take it any longer. The revolutions around you were excessive.  

  “Hey―Freakshow. Does it feel good intimidating someone smaller than you? Behind a mask?”

  You saw his eyeballs shift to the side with the weight of a boulder, this time jarringly wide, and you could only see the white of his eyes. He really did not look amused. He shifted his bottom lips in a restrained tick, almost like a controlled form of madness. He leaned back slightly, his grip still firm on your hair, wobbling it around slightly. His body bent a little backwards from the hips, and he dramatically gesticulated his hand holding the knife into an open palm.

  “Very well, your dashing knight in ah, shining armour has given us a great suggestion.”

  Your body was pulled towards him and he faced it towards the center of the room, with that familiar careless grace you witnessed days ago. His arm was hooked suffocatingly around your neck, and you were face to face with the setting of an abandoned office room. The only furniture was the shabby office desk before you, and floorboards were uncovered, revealing nails sticking out of the ground. The wallpaper was partially torn, a pale beige staining at the edges with a rusted brown. A few slider windows were spruced along the walls surrounding the room.

  John Blake and Lau were pushed all the way to the windows, both of them still held captive by the two goons, edging dangerously close to the borders. Lau stood on the left, and Blake on the right.

  “Let’s extend this little… game between us,”

  The grisly clown tongued along the scars on his inner cheek.

  “To our guests here with us.”

  He reached around beneath his coat, into his back pocket.

  “You deranged fuck, what you’re doing here is sick-”

  Bones cracked. A fist connected with John Blake’s skull.

  Lau just stared on agitatedly, his tongue curling against his bottom lip as he inhaled deeply, his breathing rate increasing. His hands were still behind his head.

  “Between one life or the other,”

  The clown craned his head into your line of sight, to check if you were still listening. Your chest constricted, and your breathing picked up. The pain escalated.

  “You’ll get to choose…”

  Reaching around you, he presented a gun, glinting silver. You stared at it, horrified. He cackled scratchily, the sound of his voice grating to your ears like sandpaper. From behind, he wrapped his hands around yours as gingerly as he could at first, as if he were handling a delicate little child, teaching them a valuable life skill, such as tying their shoe laces. Soon he gave up on this idea and thrust it in your hand, then unceremoniously clasped his hands tightly around yours, fumbling slightly with the butt of the gun. He made a throaty noise. His varnished gloves rubbed mercilessly against the skin on your knuckles.

  No, no, no, no....

  You squeezed your eyes, an epileptic meditation amidst the prelude of a panic attack. He hunched over, jutting a sharp chin into the tender flesh between your neck and shoulder. You squirmed, and felt purple walls around you constricting further as his arms enclosed around you, your heart sinking further down and squished into a box. You did not like him pushing past your personal boundaries at all.

  “You can’t make me do this.”

  Your voice was barely a crack above a whisper, croaking silently.

  He lifted his chin and pushed back down on your shoulder to get a closer look at your face, making a nasally grunt as he did so.

  “You do know what’s gonna happen to you if ya don’t play along now, don’tcha?”

  He bobbed your hand around slightly, the gleaming danger of the pistol hypnotic. You stay rooted to the spot, coercing your hands into relaxation. You were being lured into its spell, it was like a siren that serenaded, and the barrel of the gun looked like that of a deformed pipe. His arms were caged around you, you were locked in place.

  You followed the sound of the pipe.

  Your eyes were steely.

  He turned his cheek a little, nudging the side of his cheek against yours to direct your attention to the left side. More wax was smeared on your face. You felt stifled.

  “Your… corrupt boss who cares about nothing but money,”

  Your gun was still pointed to the middle of Blake and Lau. But you were bewitched to keep your gaze on Lau, and he stared at you with the same flecks of red in his eyes as he did a couple days ago at the office.

  “You know, my car is worth more than both of your entire life savings combined-”

  “Or…”

  He jerked his head slightly to the right and made another nasal sound to redirect you, along with the disgusting lick of his lips. The walls were slowly caving in.

  “Your tall, dark and handsome squeeze over here.”

  He crooned suggestively.

  “Y’know, he is pretty gallant―Maybe he wouldn’t mind sacrificing his life so that little squealing rat could live.”

  You watched John Blake as he was being jostled roughly by the brown-haired man. You didn’t know how to react, and you couldn’t find the right words to say. For some reason, that statement made you feel somehow… sorrowful. Why?

  “He… We’re not attached.”

  You silently blurted out. You felt a low rumble vibrating against your back, before the clown behind you burst into a fit of light, high-pitched giggles, incredulous. On top of his voice, even his nasal laughter sounded like a cynical, washed out clown who smoked a pack of cigarettes a day, who put on a red nose and laughed derisively at childrens’ misery at their own birthday parties.

  This was something you felt the need to clarify? Right before all of your untimely deaths? Oh, how entertaining this was to him. You were beyond foolish to the clown.

  “Talk about ice cold, little girl.” 

  The clown scoffed in disbelief.

  “My brother over there, I’m so sorry. Trust me, I feel for ya-”

  He jeered, wiping a fake tear away from his eyes, letting the last waves of his laughter tide through. You frowned, puzzled and bewildered. You caught John Blake’s gaze, helplessly searching for answers from him. He tensed his jaw further, collecting his thoughts. Clearly, the clown’s antics were getting to him. You couldn’t blame him. You fared no better. He took a deep breath and calmed.

  “It’s fine, just relax. Don’t fall for his twisted mind games.”

  The clown pouted at him. He was pushed even further against the edge of the window, the brown-haired man pointing his gun underneath his chin and painstakingly shoved him further backward. His lower body was the only thing anchoring him to the floorboard. The corpse clown's hands clasped over yours tapped it impatiently a couple of times.

  “We don’t have all day, y’know.”

  He deadpanned. You inhaled slightly and closed your eyes. Your mind sifted through many memories, sharp and bright, of all your interactions with Lau. Of all the conversations you’ve had with John over Lau.

  That man is nothing but scum. He has contributed to the steady crumble of Gotham, peddling drugs, perpetuating murders, and ensuring that the mob ruled the city with an iron fist.

  It was scary how you were able to rationalise this. 

  No hard feelings Lau. An eye for an eye. That’s all it really is.

  You slowly felt anger and vengeance bubbling in your stomach. You were overwhelmed with the savagery of the beast. You sought retribution, reprisal and revenge. This… was you. And you had all the power in the world to take the law into your hands, to play your own judge. You slowly traced the line of the sight of the gun to your left. The music of the pipe resounded melodically. It’s dangerous. But it was so… incredibly sweet. You looked up from the barrel to the man its sight landed on. Your eyes were glazed over. The clown behind you hummed in assent, pleased with the results. Your fingers hooked at the trigger, hesitating.

  “Excellent choice, little girl.”

  He licked his lips. He toyed around with the gun, playing and fiddling with its hammer, flicking it and letting go absentmindedly.

  “If only it weren’t so, ah… pre-dictable.”

  He rested his fingers atop of yours. Your hands shook a little. 

  “Is it because it goes ‘according to plan’? I mean, he’s the obvious baddie over here, and all you… do-gooders. You clearly deserve to live. To bring him to justice.”

  He purred into your ear, his breath fanning you hotly. John Blake struggled further against the man holding him back. He had no hands to grip onto the frames of the window. His fall was imminent. He had to speak up now. There was no better time. Desperately, he wheezed.

  “You know kid,”

  He sputtered slightly.

  “I always told you that you were like a… like a siege engine. I’m only saying this now because it’s a matter of life or death,”

  His words were initially spat out at a fast pace, his voice was very strained from his extreme and awkward position, and his breath was laboured. Eventually, he slowed down to get his point across more clearly.

  “You’re a fine weapon. A valuable asset to my company, and your work is remarkable. I’ve always entrusted you to make the right decisions as my junior analyst… But I’ve come to realise you’re so much more. ”

  He tried to peer down at you from his obstructed view, toiling as his voice was weak from holding this position. For so long you worked so hard for him, and you barely got rewarded with words of confirmation. Your eyes went wide and you hastily looked at him, they were glossy and large like a puppy dog. Your heart squeezed gut wrenchingly, for months you pined for this truth. You yearned so deeply to now what he truly thought of you and everything you’ve done for him.

  “You’re always by my… my side. It’s two of us against the world. You’re the only person I want to do this job with. You’re a bright girl, with so much flair for what you do. And that’s not the only part,”

  You felt yourself drift higher and higher, and you were now a lightweight. Drunk on his words, you’ve never heard him speak so personally about you before. It was always sparse little words of affirmation sprinkled around sparingly. He was an incredibly stingy man. He was so ungenerous with praise. It was always snarky jabs at you. He always made you feel the need to prove yourself. But he was the first one who gave you the chance to.

  “That’s not what makes you special. I want you to remember our vision-”

  He implored earnestly. 

  “Our vision… has been tainted. But that doesn’t make it any more invalid. Sometimes... we do have to get our hands dirty, for-for the greater good.”

  He breathed, in between jagged gasps. If this was what he truly thought of you...

  “I’ll trust you again. To do the right thing.”

  Intently, you listened to his words, your eyes watering slightly. You tried internalising the wealth of what he said to you. It was a lot to take in, it all happened so fast. This conversation was happening prematurely. You had no idea who was playing the pipe at this point. Where was the sound coming from…? The alluring music converged from all corners, all directing to the source of the instrument in your hand.

  The clown behind you went uncharacteristically silent. He licked his lips slowly, studying the exchange between the two of you. Siege engine, huh? What a funny word to describe you with. Siege engines were colossal battering rams, castle forged and an exalted war machine that delivered victories to the warring states for centuries. Monumental goliaths, they were the front lines, the fortress breakers, the castle crashers, leading the furious charge on battlefields when zero hour arrived. They were medieval trebuchets of acclaim, a necessity for triumph in war. As glorious as they were, they could only be as great as their role allowed them to be. At the end of the day, they were nothing but a mere pawn of war.

  You slowly looked at Lau, and he no longer looked at you with that malice from before. It was replaced by a look that was… strikingly familiar. He reminded you of the mob bank teller days prior. Pleading, frightened, like a cornered animal, desperate and fighting to survive. His gaze pierced right through to your heart. This struck a chord within you. You observed how his eyebrows knitted into the shape of a mountain, quivering lightly. His lips downturned and parted slightly. His eyes were large. The look of a man whose life flashed before his life.

  Yes, he did cause you a lot of trouble at the office. He did utterly degrade and humiliate you. He made your job hard. The moment he stepped in, he made you hate your job. No actually, that’s the understatement of the century. He made you loathe your job, detest it, abhor it. Pretty much anything to do with a severe hateful feeling you felt for this job, where you used to feel joy or any small amount of excitement, he had killed it for you. But did he really deserve to die for this?

  “I-”

  A croak filed through your dry throat. It felt like a type of flesh eating insect was festering within your insides. Starting at your heart, they feasted at the tissue down into your stomach, and they were coming up through your gullet. The moral conscience weighed inside of you like a heavy pendulum, one swing away from breaking off from its support and crashing through to your very center. You couldn’t bear the moral weight of such a decision. This was not a burden you could carry for the rest of your life.

  “I can’t. I can’t do it.”

  John Blake looked at you while he sucked in a breath, unreadable. Lau fell to his knees, a wash of relief coming over him. He continued being kicked and kneed in the face by the goon wearing a clown mask.

  “Ah... you’ve already chosen unfortunate-ly. And you’re not backing out of this one, sweetheart.”

  You flinched hearing the voice that you had forgotten was there. This stirred something within you, and you refused to give into his demands. You would rather die than make a choice like this.

  “No, I am not giving into your stupid, twisted pseudo-social experiment-”

  You twisted the gun barrel to face yourself, and for once, you heard no more music.

  “It wouldn’t even matter who I chose anyway… would it?”

  Shakily, you looked into the head of the barrel, and you felt… grief. It was cold and empty looking. For the second time that night, it felt like you were looking death in the eye. A knot twisted in your stomach. Your tears spilled over your cheeks, flowing hotly. You wept silently. You were stubborn, you would go to this extent just to prove something. Your ego knew no bounds. Your hearing blanked out for a moment, and you vaguely heard Blake shouting at you. You suddenly plunged into purgatory, existing solely on the plane between life and death. You teetered on the edge. Lau looked on from the ground, body tense and deeply perturbed. This turn of events was greeted by silence from the clown.

  The clown stared, wide eyed. His face twitched. His lips quirked into a frown. Why… would you do something like that? His eyes narrowed a fraction. He couldn’t comprehend this. It wasn’t exactly easy to render him speechless. Why on earth would you throw your life away for another’s? This he could not understand. Humans are... selfish creatures. At the core of it, they were all rotten and purely motivated by self-interest. Then… then why?  Why hadn’t he been able to predict this? This ate at him. Got under his skin. It grinded his gears. His arms wrung around you tighter. He observed the pistol pointed at your forehead. This was pathetic. Absolutely ridiculous. Confusion quickly dissipated in his chest and boiled into a seething, frothy rage. His jaw jutted forth and tensed, trembling slightly, his lips pursing together. He cackled through his nostrils, sounding a little manic. If you really wanted death, he wasn’t going to just give it to you, no. Ah, ah, ah… I’m not letting you get your satisfaction out of this. He couldn’t let you off the hook this easy.

  “Well then, little girl. You can’t be a… a sore loser and quit playing our game now.”

  His lilt sounded crazed. He gripped your hands tighter, you felt the leather skirting against your skin.

  “I suppose-ah, I’ll have to finish your job for you.”

  He spat, his words practically dripping with pure spite and malice. He wrenched your wrist to aim the gun away from you. Alarmed, your senses were heightened and you let out a sharp bark. At a speed you’ve never seen yourself move at before, you bent forward and locked your jaw around his fingers, chomping down forcefully. Your teeth sunk into his leather glove, and clamped down straight into his last finger. Squawking, he was caught off-guard. You heaved your foot and aimed a kick at his crotch. He let out a muffled noise of pain, and you tried your damndest to take advantage of this and get out of this situation.

  You struggled in his grasp, elbowing around at the sides, hoping to worm your way out of it. Unfortunately, he was unrelenting. Your hands were still on the gun, your fingers idling at the trigger. He doubled over, sickling an arm around your neck and gripped tightly onto the pistol, a finger slotted between the gun hammer and the rear sight, pulling it back. While he was in his position bent over, he was looming over you, laughing slightly. You were choking, beyond freaked out at this point, not exactly getting the reaction you wanted from him, and now you were completely unsure as to what he would do. The feeling of confinement was too much and you were at your breaking point.

  “Y’know, forget being a siege engine,”

  He grabbed your jaw, forcefully burrowing his fingers into your cheek.

  “I think she’s more of a, uh, pinky bruiser.”

  He tore your head upwards, and latched his hands back onto yours. He yanked at them, and aimed the gun at Lau. Ready, aim... He fastened his index fingers around yours. You widen your eyes, panicked with alarm bells shrilling through your head. Fire!

  “No!”

  He pulled at the trigger. You jerked your arms violently to the left, frantic. Recoiling, you were sent careening further back into the clown. The sound of the gun shot pierced through the air like a firecracker. You saw the goon with the mask fallen to the ground, his denim jeans getting soaked through with a fresh, gurgling red dampness around his thigh.

  Before anything else could be registered in your mind, the brown-haired man on the right side of the room displaced John Blake’s leg, and grabbed his lower torso, flinging him over the ledge of the window sill. You tried to lunge forward, demented and crazed, you were quickly becoming hysterical.

  “Ohmygod John-”

  Completely out of control, a scream tore through with your whole body like a shard of glass, you took no notice of the pain in your lungs as you were rapidly turning unhinged. The man who flipped John over like he was a light, airy pancake, faced you and you heard the click of a gun.

  You saw the sight of a gun cocked in your direction. You felt tears well up in your eyes at this very fraction of time.

  Bang!

  You screwed your eyes shut, expecting the most intense agony you would ever feel in your life. But the pain never came. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, and you saw the goon drop unconscious like a fly zapped through an electric swatter, most likely dead.

  “Did I tell you to shoot her…”

  The clown behind you muttered to himself, the smell of gunpowder burning your nostrils and you saw streaks of smoke smouldering and rising from the gun barrel in his hands. You tensed your shoulders, mouth slightly agape in bewilderment. You mouthed something soundlessly, but words could not form. What are you doing-

  The crackle of wood being busted through splintered at your ears, the noise tearing through the room sickeningly. You didn’t even have time to decide whether you should feel relieved or not.

  “Drop the weapon, now!”

  Lieutenant Gordon came bursting through with a team of policemen, their pistols aiming at every figure present in the room. He looked at you and the clown, and kept his gun trained in your direction. He dared not edge closer, in case you got harmed.

  The clown, with his hold still vice-like on you, stumbled backwards pulling you along ungracefully. He still kept you imprisoned under his reign for one final moment in time. You were at his mercy.

  “Drop it now!”

  A pair of lips pressed intimately into your ear. You felt a shiver run down your spine.

  “You know pinky bruiser, you were a lot of fun today. Sorry for, uh, calling you a party pooper.”

  He rasped. A chuckle rumbled lowly in his chest.

  “I think... you and I both know―Fate wouldn’t have it if this was our last time together.”

  He murmured and you were about to pass out from this lightheadedness and claustrophobia. You were constricted for far too long. You were way past your breaking point. A huge force tipped you backwards. You grabbed onto the ledge of the window sills, your veins popping from exerting such a strong force on your arms. 

  All of a sudden, the clown’s hold on you was relinquished.

  Your lungs overflowed with air, and your body was dramatically jerked forward, pain flooding your systems as you dry-heaved. Gordon hurried over by your side, extending a tender hand to rest on your arm. Realisation dawned upon you, and you swiftly spun around, bending over the ledge, looking out the window. You craned your neck as far down as you could see, hunting down and examining the perimeter.

  Gone.

  Gordon was pulling you back, preventing you from falling out the window. He was trying to talk some sense into you, but quickly gave up when he realised your current, panicked state of mind. Your strength was fading, and you allowed Gordon to reel you back into safety. Why didn’t you just… kill me? You thumped, falling to your knees, grabbing your hands to your head, sobbing and whimpering your sorrows away. You finally allowed all the pent up emotions to crash, not that you could control it now, anyway. It felt like a mallet crashing through from behind your eyes and nose, the twinging sensation unbearable as you wailed. It should have been me, goddamn it.

  Gordon knelt down, sighing and furrowing his brows in sympathy. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, then closed his mouth. He felt useless in this situation, clearly unable to help clear your head of any type of trauma that resulted from this unfortunate event. He was aware of this. He hated feeling this powerless, he hated not being able to help. He had perhaps felt this way his entire career, with a town like Gotham so rotten, the GCPD was basically made a mockery at this point.

  Lau was about to be taken by the other cops back into custody. He ambled past you, and looked over you and your pathetic form. For once, his expression was not one of scorn. It wasn’t one of anything really, he just looked a shell of the person he was just moments ago. You were pushing it if you said he looked like he felt bad for you, and that he held a thankful expression at the same time. You weren’t sure if you believed him to be capable of that.

  You were escorted out the abandoned office building, swaying and staggering around. You went to pick up the devices strewn all over the soil, with some help from Gordon. When you saw a glowing cop car with shattered windows and John Blake being supported by two cops, relieving pressure off his shoulders, you quickly rubbed at your tear stained face and hobbled over as quick as you could, relief pumping through your chest as you were hopeful that he survived the fall.

  The paramedics were on their way, and from the looks of it, John had a mildly serious shoulder injury and got extremely lucky. He had fallen from a height of 1 story from the ground, but as luck would have it, his fall was broken by the cop car stationed coincidentally below the window. He also fell on his side, which allowed for the best chance of survival and led to the least immobilising injuries.

  You couldn’t help yourself and gave John a quick hug and squeezed him lightly, after hearing him speak about what you were to him, and after experiencing the fright and grief of losing him. You were met with an involuntary wince. That probably felt soul-crushing to him, taking into account that he just fell out of a building. The ambulance finally arrived and they proceeded to bring down a stretcher. You were glad it was over. But something told you this was not the last of the clown you’d see. You thought, I mean… he practically promised you that you’d be seeing him again soon enough.

  “I’ll be fine. Just go get some rest.”

  He assured you, idling around, not really wanting to leave. He tried prolonging his stay with you before they eventually persuaded him to get onto the stretcher.

  “Heh. This time you’re the one sending me off.”

  You smiled, wanting to follow but he refused. You weren’t really sure why he wouldn’t allow that, feeling a pang of hurt in your chest. He quickly convinced you that it was too late and you had your own injuries to recover from, not wanting to disrupt the healing process. You were doubtful, but you shrugged away this nagging feeling and tried to take his word for it, mustering a final warm smile on your wary face. Your eyelids were starting to droop. You bid him farewell for the time being and watched as he was whisked away. 

  You hated to admit it, but your mind was still plagued by that sadistic clown. Your mind raced with questions, and you wanted answers. What did he mean by his parting speech?

  You were disturbed from your thoughts as Gordon offered to send you home, but you couldn’t reject his sincere offer. You didn’t want to disappoint him any further. As much as you didn’t like to leech off his kindness, it was the least you could do to repay him with the validation of being able to do something right. You sat in the front seat of the car, preparing to be saddled with desultory conversations on the ride home. However, you realised perhaps things would be different with Lieutenant Gordon. He had a type of heartfelt presence within, and was incredibly perceptive. You rested assured in your car seat. Yeah, he was different.

  You heard the revving of the engine after Gordon slammed his front door shut. You stared out the window. The moon cast a buttery glow over the town, dancing in the velvety black-blue sky. The thought of the clown flashed through your mind once again. You closed your eyes, dispelling the cursed imagery. The blast of the air conditioner was adjusted to a pleasant breeze brushing lightly against your neck. Gordon placed his hand on the gear and recalibrated it. He breathed in, turned his head and landed his gaze uncomfortably on you.

  “So, you uh, from this town?”

  You felt something pleasant blossoming inside of you, being humoured by this awkward attempt at starting a conversation from Gordon. You chuckled lightly. You appreciated the effort.

  “Yes, yes I am. What about you?”

  You looked back and smiled politely. He stepped on the pedal and accelerated the vehicle.

  “Well, no. I moved here some decades ago with my wife…”

  You guessed it would do well to get to know more about your partners in crime fighting. You hummed, patiently listening. 

  Yeah, this wasn’t too bad, you supposed.

  Now, if only you could stop yourself from feeling like passing out in the front seat. 

  That would be great.

###

[soontofustew]

about now

summary: your touring husband is finally home. 

pairing: park jaehyung x reader

word count: 2.5k ish

a/n:  hey hey @nara1509​!! this is written for you for the myday christmas fic exchange ~ (organised by the lovely @7abshy​) you didn't really specify anything except husband jae so i took the creative liberties!! truthfully, this was really difficult to write (figuring out marriage dynamics and thinking about life after marriage) but i tried my best!! my writing here is lowkey weird too?? feels kinda different from my normal style but sorry for the long wait >< anyway i really hope you enjoy this and have a great 2020!! 

-

“ y/n, aren’t you heading home yet?” 

the sound of your typing slows to a halt as you finally look up from your computer screen after staring at it the whole day, blinking furiously in an attempt to drive the tiredness away.  sohye’s head pops out from behind the door of your office, concern briefly flickering across her face as she takes in the mess of your usually organised surroundings. papers were scattered across your table, you knew there were at least three different files lying open on the couch and a multitude of post it notes were pasted across the department whiteboard that you had (with much effort) managed to roll into the room. 

you attempt a reassuring smile at your closest friend and colleague in the department, although at this point you’re sure it looks more like a grimace. 

“well, i’m hoping to be done with this by 7?” you catch the clock ticking to 6.45 out of the corner of your eye and inwardly sigh, “scratch that. maybe 8?” 

sohye frowns for a moment, before stepping into your office. “i could come in early tomorrow to finish up the rest of the pitch and presentation? especially since you’re supposed to be on leave. minjung said she would be in early as well!” 

“i’ll finish up what i can and email the rest to the department to finish. don’t worry so much and go home, shoo shoo.” you wave a hand at her and she nods somewhat reluctantly, turning around to leave. 

“you better make sure you leave at 8.” she calls out as she turns to exit your office, not before fixing you with a stern glare that you know from past experience meant that she wasn’t playing around.

“yes mom.” you drone, waving your hands quickly at her in a shooing motion. “please leave safely.” 

“i swear i’ll swap all the pen caps on your coloured pens-”, you tune out the rest of her exasperated shouts as she heads to the elevators, staring at your computer screen for a second before running a hand down your face in frustration. 

today was not your day. 

when you had woken up, you were more than prepared to have a week of well-deserved rest and relaxation. what you discovered was an urgent email from your boss telling you that you had to come into work for an emergency (leave or no leave), you had managed to fall and bruise your arm before even leaving the house and spilled coffee on your favourite blouse. upon reaching work, you realised an incredibly dumb tech intern had managed to wipe out all the files pertaining to the upcoming pitch your company had prepared for a major client (hence the emergency) and that your department had to redo it all by the weekend. 

“and of course, all this just has to happen the one time i decide to clear the leave i have backlogged. and when he’s finally back home.” you grumble to yourself as you grudgingly continue typing. a chime sounds and you reach over to grab your phone, unlocking it to see messages from said person you were talking about.

6.54pm

[goat husbando]: hey hey i landed already. how u doing? .o. 

[goat husbando]: also its raining did you pack an umbrella?

[you]: i’m ok 

[you]: i think so? 

[you]: should have a spare one in my office anyway 

[goat husbando]: ok see u soon :”)

a smile creeps onto your face, as it sinks in that your husband is finally back in the country after what seemed like an eternity (admittedly only six months) on tour in europe and america. taking a moment to stretch your sore muscles from sitting all day, you think back to how you even met him and wonder how you managed to survive it all. 

- 24th july, 9.32pm. -

you take a sip of your chai latte, taking in the skyline of seoul before you. "being up here really puts my worries into perspective." you mutter to yourself. 

all of a sudden, a body crashes into you and you yelp in surprise, hands instinctively grabbing onto the railing to support your weight. your chai latte, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky and you stare mournfully as it falls from your grip. 

"oh my god, i am so so sorry! are you okay? ok i guess you're not, i just made you lose your drink. damn it younghyun, look at what you did-" 

turning to look at the situation after making sure your limbs were all intact, you meet a tall boy, his blonde hair tousled by the wind, wire rimmed glasses perched on his nose. he was clad in an oversized flannel, a simple black shirt and blue denim jeans completing the outfit. 

"um-" you make an effort to get this attention, seeing him arguing with another boy, his hair dyed with purple hues. 

he spins around, hands flailing in desperation, eyes large from worry. "i am so sorry! aH what can i do to make it up to you??" 

you can't help it. at the sight of him panicking immensely over your spilt latte, you burst into laughter, hands wrapping around your middle. "you.. you look like... like an octopus." you manage to get out in between breaths. 

the boy ceased all movement abruptly, moving to lean against the railing next to you. "i guess i kind of do huh?" he chuckles to himself.  extending a hand towards you, he smiles - a grin so bright and disarming that it takes your breath away for a split second. 

"park jaehyung. how about i buy another drink for you?" 

you guessed that the rest, like people said was history. 

but the past six months truly felt like the longest six months of your life. it was his first tour after the both of you got married and you convinced yourself that things would be fine. life without jaehyung seemed to function normally at first, you still woke up in the mornings and went to work, just that the bed seemed a little larger now, blankets a little colder when you wrapped yourself in them. skype sessions were irregular given the time differences, but you both tried your best and you would be lying if you said you weren’t happy that you had a folder of pictures dedicated to one park jaehyung falling asleep in the midst of conversation. by the third month of the tour, you were in “peak withdrawal mode” as sohye had termed, with every small thing reminding you of the tall idiot who occupied your heart.

grocery shopping and having to stretch for items that he would normally reach easily for. subconsciously cooking for two instead of one. turning around excitedly to show him a meme and realising he wasn't around. missing his warmth as the weather turned colder and you dug out old sweaters to compensate. 

the fourth month was when you started wearing his shirts to bed. somehow they still smelled like him, a comforting mix of sandalwood and grapefruit. the video calls lessened as the weeks went by, what with how tired he was from the consecutive shows. still, you pushed on - burying yourself in work and department meetings, refusing to allow yourself time to dwell on the missing presence of park jaehyung. 

and then you re-watched the proposal video. 

it was a random evening on the weekend and you decided to clear out some random bits and bobs you collected in your drawers over the years, when you saw the disc. once the video started, you immediately knew what it was. the video was shaky and badly lit, but watching it, you could see every moment that happened in your mind as clear as day. 

- 23rd july 2018, 11.54pm -

“isn’t the view nice?” the camera lens veers into your face as you lean against a metal railing, making you flinch and jump back slightly. 

"not so close, alex!" you laugh and push the camera backwards, turning back to the open view in front of you. you take a deep breath of the cool night air and stretch your arms out, feeling the wind rush between your fingertips. 

"hey hey of course i'm excited! i haven't visited you in ages and to get to tour seoul with you? have some sympathy for your best friend ok." the voice behind the camera rises in pitch and the screen fumbles for a second before readjusting and a blonde appears next to you, holding up a peace sign. 

the video ends up focusing on you again, back to leaning against the railing, eyes drinking in the night scenery - watching the city lights of seoul twinkle beneath you. 

"you really like this place huh?" alex asks again. 

you nod, smiling into the distance. "i met jaehyung here. about seven years ago? and we came here a lot for dates, it's quiet and hardly anyone can be bothered to walk up here since it's only footpaths up to this peak. we just sat around, ate take-out and talked together. i remember he asked me out here too. he brought his acoustic guitar and sang 'best part' before asking me to be his girlfriend."  

you turn around to look at her, eyes narrowing slightly before you spot jaehyung behind her, carrying his well-worn acoustic guitar. 

he slowly walks towards you, a grin on his face as he strums the guitar. 

"if you love me, i can love you till the end. so stay with me don't go anywhere. you will be without a doubt, my last love story. so please be my finale." 

he reaches you, taking off his guitar and leans down to give you a quick kiss on the forehead. kneeling in front of you, he grasps your hands and takes a breath.

"hey y/n. wow ok, i'm totally more nervous than i thought i was going to be. ok ok. we met here on this day-", he quickly looks down at his watch, "on this day seven years ago. meeting you has changed my life, as cliche as it sounds. during these seven years, you've supported me through all the good times and the bad, even when i might have been out of the country and not able to do the same for you. i once asked you to be my girlfriend here. but now, i want to ask another question. is that ok?" 

you can only nod in response, tears already gathering in the corners of your eyes. 

"y/n, would you do be the honour of being my wife?" 

"yes, yes! park jaehyung, i would love to be your wife." 

you paused the video then, curling into a ball on the couch. the apartment had never seemed emptier than at that moment, jaehyung’s missing larger than life presence causing an absence that left a gaping hole in your life. even the dish towels looked sadder, you laughed while blinking back tears as you made your nightly cup of tea. a few minutes later, you were seated by your bedside, staring at the cup of hot honey lemon you had somehow subconsciously made. it was jaehyung’s favourite drink before bed and as the scent of honey flooded your nose, you broke down. that night, you cried yourself to sleep listening to his albums, missing the feeling of his arms around you. 

a loud knock on the door breaks you out of your reminiscing and you look up, mouth dropping open in surprise. 

"someone requested for a delivery of one tall handsome man?" 

park jaehyung leans languidly against the door of your office, a cheeky smirk on his face. his hair messily ruffled from the plane ride, one hand in his jacket pocket and the other holding a multitude of plastic bags. 

"what-" you begin, when he shuffles over immediately, index finger out and shushing you. 

when did he get here from the airport? how?  

you were stunned, mind torn between wanting to run over to hug him and struck by how well he knew you.

"i figured i would pick my lovely wife up from work today. and i bought some takeout along the way too - it's your favourite - sushi and some strawberry shortcake from that small bakery you like. i got the car parked downstairs and i know you're definitely tired." 

he places the food down on the office table, leaning down to peck your forehead as he somehow manages to simultaneously save the work on your laptop and shut it down. "so, how about say we head home hm?" 

he cocks his head at you, and as you stare into his eyes, you know there's only one correct answer. you can never refuse park jaehyung. so you shut your eyes briefly, savouring the weight of his hand as he strokes your hair before getting up to pack your belongings. 

"ah, i forgot. younghyun invited us to dinner tomorrow. wanna go?" he asks without looking at you, hands tapping away on his phone. 

and you suddenly realise that he's always asking the questions. always making sure you're comfortable. always being there to catch you before you fall. you set your half-packed bag down on the table and reach out, tugging the edge of his coat. 

"hey." you lick your lips, watch as his eyes trace the edges of your face. "park jaehyung, can i kiss you?" 

his eyes imperceptibly widen, hand reaching up to run his fingers through his hair as he grins teasingly. "how can i say no when you're asking me like that y/n?", he whispers, voice catching slightly on your name.

so, you reach a hand out, cupping his face and pull him down towards you as you tiptoe to reach him. the warmth of his lips on yours grounds you, releasing a tension you didn't even know you had and you snake your other hand around his waist, drawing him closer. his hands settle around your lower back, tongue slipping into your mouth as you him kiss deeper. 

when you finally break away, face slightly flushed and lips redder than before, you catch a glimpse of jaehyung's smirk and refuse to look him in the eye. "you really missed me, didn't you?" he traces a finger down the side of your cheekbones. 

your response is to bury your face into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of sandalwood. "i did. i really did miss you." 

"mm. i would love to stand here and hug you all day but the food's gonna get cold babe. besides, you got me to yourself all night." he slowly untangles himself from your embrace, and you proceed to gather up your things. fingers firmly intertwined with his as you leave the office, your heart skips a beat as you look up at jaehyung. 

your husband is finally home. 

[xxfanfiction-emo-trinityxx]

Possible - Gerard Way x Reader

Requested on Wattpad Warnings: bullying Word count: 2 295 A/N: I’ve got a cold (nothing major, just feeling shitty af), and my day was (due to a lack of lectures today) spent altering between sleeping, watching Season 1 Supernatural (they were so tiny), and eating/walking the dog. Useless info, but I need to whine a little :P Also that’s the reason why today’s update is earlier (I want to go to sleep again) and I didn’t properly prove read this one shot, so excuse the more than usual mistakes please.

Quickly you lowered your head, making sure the hood of your jacket was covering your face in shadow as you slipped past a group of your classmates. Your heart was hammering in your chest, as you squeezed past them, while you hoped and prayed that they did not notice you, or at least would leave you alone. Luckily the plan seemed to have worked, because no hand grabbed your arm, and no dirty words got thrown after you, nor did any crumpled up papers or lunch left overs. So once you had made it past them, you walked around the next corner and quickly pulled off the hood again, knowing that the teachers did not like it. And it would have been really useless if you had gotten past your bullies only to get into trouble with some teacher.

But just as you had relaxed, and decided that you were out of danger, you ran into somebody with full force. While you were still stumbling backwards the tension immediately returned to your muscles, and not just to keep your equilibrium, but to be ready to bold should it be necessary. Instead a pair of hands securely took hold of your upper arms and steadied you on your feet, while a familiar chuckle made you look into the person’s face.

“Careful,” your friend Gerard laughed quietly, patting your shoulder once you stood safely on both feet, “are you okay?”

It was one of Gerard’s talents to recognise when you were in distress, and that had also been the reason he had befriended you. Unlike pretty much the rest of the school, he did not seem to consider you a weird nerd. Instead he had shown interest in you from the first week on, always asking to sit next to you in the classes you had together, and going for lunch. Soon he had confessed that the reason why he had made it his mission to befriend you was the Lord of the Rings badge you had pinned to your jacket, and after you had started talking about the different masterpieces by Tolkien, you had found more and more books and movies you both enjoyed.

Now, three years later, you were still the social outcast, and much to both Gerard’s and your discontent, your classmates had started to make it a sport to bully you. The main goal, as far as you could tell, was to embarrass you as much as possible, with as little physical contact as possible. A few years ago it had been comparatively harmless stuff like “(y/n) is in love with this and that boy”. But over last summer it had shifted into obscenities and insults worse than you had been able to imagine. You did not want to admit it, especially not in front of Gerard, because he would go and try to protect you while getting himself into their line of fire, but it was hard. Really hard. You had started sleeping less, the fear of nightmares keeping you awake, and sometimes, especially at lunch, you felt so sick that you barely ate anything.

Slowly you remembered Gerard’s question, whether you were okay, and you nodded.

“Haven’t slept so much tonight,” you shrugged, telling him only half of the truth, but since he did not know, he just hugged you quickly.

“Maybe you should go to bed earlier, instead of skyping with me all night long,” he laughed and started wandering into the direction of the classroom in which your first lesson of the day would take place.

“Let’s be honest though, what’s more important: Star Wars or sleep,” you asked with a giggle.

“If you put it like this…” Gerard grinned and turned so he was walking backwards, in order to be able to look into your face. He always managed to cheer you up so quickly.

Your good mood was unluckily only short-lived, because as soon as you had settled behind your desk, the feared group of bullies came walking in. Gerard immediately noticed you tensing up, but he did not mention it. On the one hand, because he did not want to seem like he was watching your every movement, and on the other because he was convinced if he tried to make you talk about it, you would shut him out.

And so the lessons started, a continuous flow of degrading and insulting comments washing over you. At one point, Gerard had turned around to tell the students behind you to be quiet, but that was about it. You were not sure if Gerard understood that the comments were directed towards you, or thought they were about someone else, maybe he did not even hear them properly, and you only did because you were waiting for them, but by the end of the second lesson your mood was at an all-time low, and you were close to tears.

So when the bell rang you immediately got up, your things already thrown into your bag, and stormed out of the classroom, before Gerard had even manged to ask if you wanted to spend lunchbreak together again. For a moment he wondered what had happened, why you had run away so quickly, but when the students behind him made a snickering comment about how you had left, he decided that enough was enough. Glaring at them for a quick moment he packed his things and followed you out of the classroom. He was not sure which class was your next, since you did not share it with him, but he was pretty certain that you had not gone into that direction anyway. Instead he turned into the other direction towards the back of the school. He even ignored his teacher for the next class, who asked him where he was heading when he walked past him.

You liked this part of the school. It was quiet here, and nobody except for you and a few other outcasts ever came here. The football field was far enough away, so none of the cool, sporty kids ever got lost here, and the stoners hung out on the parking lot, while the rest of the students spent their breaks hanging around in the corridors or on the playground that was surrounded by the school buildings.

But out here, other than a few trees, and some grass, hardly anybody ever came. Especially not outside of breaks. You took a deep breath of the cold autumn air, triyng to bite back some burining tears, and made your way over to the big maple tree. Its leaves had turned red, and most had already fallen to the ground, creating a soft, but wet pillow for you to sit on.

With another deep breath you walked around the trunk, so if anyone came following you, they would not see you from the door, and sunk down to the floor, pulling your knees up to your chest.

You really wanted Gerard to be here now. He always knew how to comfort you, and you liked him, really liked him. He was so creative and funny and caring, and one of the only people who always understood you. And you felt like you understood him too. He was your best friend, and that only made everything so much more difficult. You were not supposed to be in love with your best friend. He was supposed to be a friend, nothing more. Not the guy who made your heart beat faster every time you merely thought about him.

All of a sudden you felt really lonely, even lonelier than before, and the tears that had been burning in your eyes finally spilled over, running down your cheeks and got caught by the trousers stretching over your knees, which you had buried your face between.

You barely heard the door opening and closing, but suddenly someone stood next to you. It did not matter who it was. Maybe one of your bullies, who had come to taunt you even more? Maybe a teacher who was going to be mad at you for not being in class? Maybe a student you did not know, asking why you were out here all alone.

The person sat down next to you, so close that your arms were brushing against each other, and that was when you knew it was Gerard. Comfortingly he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into him, encouraging you wordlessly to hug him back, which you did.

“You need to talk to someone about them,” he whispered, gently stroking over your hair, “it can’t go on like this.”

You registered his words, and you knew he was right, but you did not respond.

“(y/n), do you hear me? You need to talk to a teacher,” he told you again.

“What if that makes it only worse,” you asked, looking up at him.

The expression on his face pained you, as if he was just as hurt about what had happened to you as you were.

“Then you talk to the teachers again, and again, and again,” he explained patiently, as if talking to a little kid.

“And if they don’t believe me?”

“They will, we’ll make sure of that,” he promised.

Carefully he reached a hand up to your face and brushed your tears away with his thumb.

“Can you come with me?”

You had not even really planned on asking, all you knew was that without him you would never have the courage to talk to one of the teachers.

“Of course, sugar, of course I will,” Gerard assured you, still brushing his fingers over your cheek.

His touch was warm and comforting, and you leant into him without giving it much thought, causing him to smile gently.

For a while you just sat like this, staring at each other, your face resting in his hand, while you got lost in each other’s eyes.

“Can I kiss you?”

You nodded at his question, not completely understanding what it meant. Of course you knew it would mean he had the permission to kiss you, but only when his lips met yours carefully, almost hesitantly, you realised that it was more than just friendship, which cause you to pull away, making him flinch away from you immediately.

“Sorry, I- sorry, that wasn’t- I didn’t mean to-,“ he stammered, his cheeks turning red as he stared at you wide eyed.

“Why do you want to kiss me,” you wondered, cringing internally at how naïve the words sounded. But you could think of no better way to either confirm or deny that he like you more than friends.

He stared at you for a moment, his blush intensifying.

“I like you, (y/n), a lot. And I know this is a terrible moment, but it felt like maybe you wanted this too, and when you said yes, I thought it was okay, after all you did nod. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, or overstep any boundaries. I just was lost in my fantasy of you liking me back-“

You smiled gently at him, now it being your turn to carefully take his face in your hands.

“And I do, I do like you back,” you assured him, temporarily having forgotten how you even ended up out here, underneath the tree, “I just wanted to know if it was out of pity that you wanted to kiss me, or if it was more.”

Gerard blinked at you in surprise, but when you slowly leant in, making sure to give him time and space to back away, he did not. When your lips met his, he sucked in a breath, which almost made you giggle a little, but when he kissed you back, you had no air left for anything else. Softly he wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you closer, allowing you to feel his heartbeat against your chest, while you wrapped your fingers in his black hair. For the first time in ages you felt safe and happy, and even though your heart was beating hard against your ribcage, you were calm.

When you eventually pulled away, lips red from kissing, and nose red from the cold air, Gerard was grinning fondly, making you smile even brighter than you already were.

You kept sitting under the tree for a while, until the school bells reminded you of the classes you were missing. You were about to get up, but Gerard grabbed your wrist and tucked you back down to his side.

“They can live without us for a couple of hours,” he assured you, burying his nose in your neck.

“What if we get into trouble?”

“We won’t, and even if we do, that way we get to go to the director’s office and then we can tell him exactly what happened with the other students,” Gerard shrugged.

You liked this side of him, the one that sometimes just did not care about what others thought. But he also reminded you of the talk you would eventually have to have with the teachers. So you made a decision, and got up again.

“Let’s do it now,” you told Gerard, who looked surprised, “Let’s talk to the teachers now, then it’s over, or at least the first step is done.”

For a moment he sat on the ground and looked up at you, admiration in his eyes, then he nodded and got up as well.

“You’re right,” he agreed, “let’s do this.”

You both grabbed your bags, and walked back to the school building. When you reached the door, Gerard held it open for you to slip in, before he grabbed your hand and intertwined his fingers with yours. With him at your side, anything seemed possible.

[rayonfrozenwings]

Waiting in the Freezing Dark: Chapter 8 - Illyrian Blades

Spoiler Alert: Contains references to ACOFAS.

Authors Note: So it’s been a very long hiatus, because Kingdom of Ash destroyed me and stole all my creative energy. But I have 5 new chapters that I will post soon. :D

A Nessian Fan Fiction: Characters all belong to Sarah J Maas and her book series A Court of Thorns and Roses. This Story takes place after ACOFAS. The story has Multiple POV’s, taking place in the Illyrian camp, Windhaven, Nesta and Cassian are living together at the behest of the high lord and lady of the night court. 

Chapter 8 - Illyrian Blades 

Previous chapters are here: 1, 2, 3, 4 , 5 , 6 7 and Masterlist here.

I have also put this on AO3: Series Link  :)

WC: 2538

Chapter 8 - Illyrian Blades Nesta

Nesta awoke slowly, sleep clinging to the edges of her eyes and assessed her surroundings, her bedroom stared back at her, that voice inside asking her, ‘where else would she be?’ It had become a habit, never sure of what was a dream and what was reality. It was surprisingly comforting to know exactly where you were and that you were safe.

Stretching like a cat in the sun, Nesta rose, grabbed her clothing and headed for the bathroom. She would avoid a bath today, using her washcloth instead, no point in torturing herself if she didn't have to. The small stash of perfumed soap she had acquired in Velaris was lasting well, one of the perks of leading a sedentary lifestyle - she needed ways to avoid being submerged each day and the zesty smelling soap did the trick. At least for now, she had an eternity to figure out how to have a bath.

Ready for the day, Nesta walked into the main room and remembered - he was gone.

The hollowness entered her again.

He was a big dumb bat! She didn’t need to feel this way. Grabbing her bag and book she took off and walked up the winding road Emerie’s.

Nesta had been reading the illyrian history book well into the night and early morning. Surprisingly it was more interesting than she thought it would be. A lot of statements rang false to her ears, but she couldn’t explain why except to say she knew that they were wrong. They say history is written by the victors and it seemed the illyrians won more than they lost, but the ways they won didn't seem to be accurately recorded. Lies fought for freedom, jumping off the page like they had been held against their will. A convenient facet of her power, finding things that didn't want to be found; taking notice of things that didn't want you to take notice, seeing the truth behind a glamour. The history book was captivating and something she would keep looking into and something that she would listen carefully to, find out what the truth really was. Maybe it was just a fantasy novel hidden in between the pages and had no history to it at all.

Female Warriors walked down to the training ring, Nesta eyed them up and down, chin raising in disapproval as she passed - a seemingly late start for them since they were supposed to be training with the males and they started at dawn. She couldn’t help but think that they were wasting an opportunity. One of them smiled at Nesta and the second one crashed into her shoulder while passing as neither her or the illyrian had given way to the other.  Nesta watched them go, silently cursing them and hoping they received their due in the training ring.

Their illyrian leathers appeared to be of an older style; older than anything she had seen Cassian or Azriel wear, clumsy and large. Possibly even made for the males as they didn’t seem to fit their bodies quite right. How on earth were they meant to train if their armor didn’t fit correctly? Nesta could feel her anger rise, females being treated as less than the males. Temper rising with the bile in her throat at the injustice.

The world tipped and the ground came up to meet her, a hand shot out and grabbed her, the smell of leather taking over her senses, protecting her from falling flat on her face. Nesta turned and looked to her saviour. A beautiful illyrian with warm brown skin and golden eyes was holding her still, the muscles corded in her lean arm from the effort. Nesta blushed and stood quickly, brushing her skirts down.

“Thank you,” she quickly huffed out, her heart still racing from her fall. The female just looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Next time you really should look ahead - you know,” she made a pointing gesture ahead of her with her hand, “at where you are going.”

The smile she wore was brilliant, her perfect teeth gleamed and a pair of slightly elongated canines caught Nesta’s attention, like this warrior was about to devour her prey and Nesta struggled to take a breath.

“Or perhaps you rather like gawking at us all walking down the street? Are we really that damn attractive? I’ve seen a few good asses in my time, but none of these lot have what I would call a perfect one.”

Nesta’s shock flashed across her face, she hadn’t had the chance to meet many illyrian females as they were always busy with chores or training, Emerie was an exception as she didn’t train. It was the first time in a while that Nesta had no words. Her grey eyes wide and open trying to figure out the situation.

“Look, I can stand here and look stunning all day, but I actually have somewhere to be... and I’m already running late, so i’m just going to go and catch up with the others. I won’t mind if you watch me walk away.” She said with laughter in her voice and off she went down the street, with Nesta watching her go, still stunned in silence.

Emerie

Emerie had been waiting for Nesta to arrive all morning. She wasn't a gossip but needed to know how her talk with Cassian went, especially if she was going to ask him for a favour. Having Nesta and him on good terms would make it infinitely easier than if they were at war.

Mara had been in earlier, trying to persuade Emerie to join her in the training ring but it just wasn't convenient. Her friend just could not see it from Emerie’s point of view no matter how often she told her. She found it hard to see what held Emerie back, Mara had jumped at the opportunity to train, why didn’t Emerie? And although Emerie was technically in the same position, the shop and her ambitions meant she needed to bide her time. So Mara left and caught up with the others, Emerie tidied the shop and promised her that she would meet up later, which only made Mara grin as she skipped out the door.

The bell above the door rang and Emerie turned from her cleaning and thoughts, Nesta was standing in the doorway like a plank of wood. No expression and body rigid.

“It’s not that cold today Nes, it’s warming up. Stop being a drama queen.”

“I just… I’m just trying to think”

“Think?” Emerie laughed.

“I just, I don’t know what just happened.”

“What?”

Nesta blushed and shut the door, quickly coming inside and explaining what happened. Leaving out a lot of the details. In fact nesta really only told emerie two things, that she tripped and that someone stopped her from falling flat on her face.

“That’s it?” Emerie asked, with an eyebrow raised.

“It was mortifying.” Nesta calmly reiterated.

“Nesta, sometimes we trip and fall and we actually hit the ground, you should be happy someone helped you.” She shook her head at Nesta’s stubbornness, “Sometimes you don’t make any sense, so new topic, how did the talk with Cassian go?”

“I thought you were going to tell me about your blades?” Nesta replied calmly.

“Only if you tell me about your talk.”

“If I remember it correctly, you just said I needed to go home and talk to him, but he actually wasn't at home, so it was impossible for me to perform the task and therefore no longer a requirement for you to tell me about the blades.”

“So where is he?”

“I don’t know. Don’t change the subject.” Nesta snipped.

Emerie looked her friend over and saw the rawness there still. There was something more she wasn’t saying but Nesta was never one to give up secrets, especially her own.

“Fine, do you want a drink first? Or can I get you working for me while I tell you the story?”

“I’ll clean but the story better be good!”

So Nesta and Emerie cleaned the bookshelves near the fire where black soot from the flames had built up before escaping out the chimney, and Emerie told her about the blades. Blades that she had had commissioned after her wings were clipped. After she realised that a female might need more protection than that which was offered by males. Males who held no loyalty to her. The blades had not seen a war yet or even been used for protection but they had been used in training and polished to a high shine.

“I have two fighting blades, I trained with my friends Mara and Ceinwen in the forest near the north edge of town, there is a place right before the mountain ridges form. It’s quiet and no-one but us goes there,” Emerie continued.

“When did you last train? It’s just that I haven’t seen you leave the shop and I would like to think that I noticed if you stunk up the place.” Nesta’s tact needed improving, there was a reason she kept her thoughts to herself. When she shared them she was seen as blunt and unfeeling.

“Not since the war” not since her father died Emerie wanted to say.

“Do you miss it?” Nesta raised her chin and looked at Emerie with her grey blue stare, the frosty depths seeing the truth.

“Everyday”

“Why?”

“Why do I do it? Well, when I was clipped, there was a scene, I didn’t go quietly, and that is the short version.” a lump caught in Emerie’s throat, when she was usually so sure of herself, this was a story so few knew. Then she said very quietly “No one should be forced at the hands of another, and I never. Never will be again.”

Nesta’s eyes turned glossy and distant, then quietly she said,

“I meant why haven’t you been training?”

“It’s not easy now, to make time.” she gestured to the shop around them.

“I will help you.”

“How?” the word came out on a wisp of air.

“I will make sure you can train, and that you treat people the way they truly deserve to be treated.” Nesta’s eyes had milky swirls gliding over the grey-blue and her voice didn't seem to be her own. Like some god possessed her swearing an oath. Emerie would never admit it but she was actually a little in awe of Nesta in this moment. This side to her she had only heard about but never seen. A rumor that came back from the war. The warrior witch who fought Hybern.   “But how?”

Nesta looked up at her again, the silver shadows dissapaiting and Nesta’s eyes were left as they once were.

“I ask.”

Nesta

Nesta and Emerie spent the day together, cleaning some more, and discussing ways they might enable Emerie to join the training with the other females. The hurdle of “who would look after the shop” always remained. Nesta wasn’t illyrian and it was hard enough getting customers, so the shop would still be run by Emerie during the day with shorter hours of availability. After much discussion and back and forth they realised training would need to remain secret and occur in the early evenings, the sun was staying in the sky longer, laying the way for more daylight later in the day. It worked to Nesta’s advantage as well. Having had no training of her own she would learn from Emerie and prepare herself for the day when Cassian left her alone. It was great living with an illyrian warrior but she was under no illusion that it would last. Especially since their fight. Emerie thought she might also be able to rope in Mara and Ceinwen, her friends in the camp, to join their training. Giving them some extra practise, and passing on what they learned from their day practices with the males. It all started coming together. The best part of this plan was that is was all coming together without the help of a certain overgrown bat. Emerie closed up the store early and made dinner, Nesta deciding to stay because she never did make it to the market.

It was peaceful, and pleasant, and just like the easy calm she had settled into with Cassian in their own home. She missed him… or maybe she just missed the idea of him?

The ladies finished dinner and sat down with some port, the wine was too awful last night to try a repeat performance today.

“Do you know much about illyrian history?” Nesta asked.

“I know a little, why do you ask?”

“I was reading a boo- “

“Of course you were.” Emerie interrupted, rolling her eyes.

“Let me finish! I was reading a book about illyrian history and it just seems so wrong. It feels wrong.”

“Do you have it with you?”

Nesta went and got the book out of her bag and gave it to Emerie, Emerie’s eyes lit up and she opened the book with awe.

“Why are you looking at it like that?”

“This book is the High Lords book.”

“So?”

“High Lords have books that show things as they want them to be. I mean that the books are history according to them, if it feels wrong, then the history they are passing down isn’t an accurate history of what really happened.”

“I see, that would explain why it feels like lies are slithering across the pages. How do illyrians keep their history then, if not in books? This was the only one I could find on the topic in our house.”

“We tell stories. Pass them down. Talk about heroic feats and celebrate our greatness”

“That seems a little arrogant”

“Have you ever met an illyrian who wasn’t arrogant?”

Nesta looked back at her friend who had that same grin as the female earlier, lighting up her whole face.

“Maybe if you weren’t all so beautiful you wouldn’t be so arrogant!”

Emerie let out a great laugh, “Maybe” was all she said as she went back to drinking her port and picked up her own book to read. Nesta continued to flick through the illyrian history book, getting angrier at what she read. Time ticked on and Emerie was still immersed in her book when Nesta asked,

“Will you tell me?” looking up at Emerie.

“Tell you what?”

“The history?”

Emerie closed her book, “There’s quite a bit, and it’s not usually for the females to tell.” she evaded. “The storytellers get to share the exploits of great heroes, for us all to stand in awe and feel grateful that the mighty male illyrians who came before us have done such amazing things. I wouldn’t be able to share them here incase someone came in.”

“Tell me them at training, I feel like I need to know.”

Emerie looked at Nesta and smiled, tongue in cheek she said “sure, but just remember i’m only a female and I don’t know how to tell it right.”

Nesta laughed and put the history book back in her bag, and packed up ready to go, before the darkness well and truly descended.

Tagged by request: Sorry if some of the urls are wrong.. its been a while since I updated this fic, urls have changed its been so long lol,  just let me know via ask if you want to be added or removed from my tag list for this. :) @fucking-winchester-trash @rhysanoodle @velarxs @lorcanswife @my-fan-side @wolffrising @bellsqueen @aelinashgalathynius @booksaremymate@themoonunderstoodmynightmares @prxthian @nessian-girl @fuzz-dog @archeron-queens @acotar-feels @wickedfangirl99 @empress-ofbloodshed@ame233 @tswaney17 @kefeira @rhysandsdarlingfeyre @abillionlittlepieces@ofstarsanddreams @booksaremymate @ambrosemiller@saltydreamcollector @imfandomtrash-vi @aedionashryver-wolfofthenorth @pinkjem30   @urbisie, @howtotameyourillyrian, @illyrianbeauty, @fae-queen-of-the-easton, @faeriequeenofthewest, @aqueentorattlestars, @acoaas @nephelle-warrior-scribe @librarian-of-orynth @anoverstuffedkindle, @miladyaelin, @acoaas, @tntwme @photofeesh @theyretheirthere

[a-splash-of-stucky]

good things come (to those who wait)

Link: Read it on AO3 Square Filled: Sex Machine Ship: James “Bucky” Barnes/Steve Rogers Rating: Explicit Tags: BDSM, Sex Machine, Sex Toys, Dom Bucky Barnes, Sub Steve Rogers, Bottom Steve Rogers, Edging Summary: 

If there's one thing that Steve Rogers hates doing, it's waiting. But for Bucky? He'll do anything. For Bucky, he can be good.

Word Count: 3796

Notes: Created for @mcukinkbingo Look, I know I only filled 2 squares last time, but we’re gonna try and do better this time ‘round, okay? Consider this part 2 of my unofficial Chris Evans Birthday Celebration. Gif that inspired this fic. 

Stucky Masterlist

If there is one thing that Steve Rogers hates doing, it’s being patient.

He’s not impatient, per se, he just hates waiting around when he knows that something is about to happen. Steve hates hanging around and being kept in the dark, hates how the seconds tick by and bleed into hours.

Well. Not really hours, but that’s what it feels like.

It is exactly because of his hatred for waiting that Bucky is making him do this, the little shit. Because Steve hates waiting, Bucky is drawing this out, making Steve squirm impatiently in the centre of their bedroom. Steve can hear Bucky’s soft footfalls, as well as various thuds and thumps behind him, but not knowing what exactly Bucky’s doing is driving Steve crazy.

Steve is kneeling on an area rug on their bedroom floor, ass resting on his heels. His wrists are secured at the small of his back using Bucky’s leather belt. He’d tied it snugly enough for Steve to feel the leather digging into his skin, but not tight enough that would cut off his circulation. Steve’s pretty sure that if he flexed, he could probably break the thing, but that’s part of the game, isn’t it? This is yet another way to test Steve’s patience, another way in which Bucky is trusting Steve to be a good boy.

Being a good boy, that’s what put him in this position in the first place.

When Bucky had suggested that they indulge in some play time, Steve had been one hundred percent on board with the idea before the words had finished leaving Bucky’s mouth. Within moments, they’d gone from heated kissing, to heavy groping, to Bucky shoving Steve face-down into the mattress as he yanked Steve’s jeans and boxers down his legs. Bucky had then proceeded to give Steve one hell of a rimming, turning Steve into a whining, moaning, panting mess.

Fuck, Steve’s getting harder just thinking about Bucky’s tongue. Christ, it’s sinful, the things that Bucky’s capable of doing with it. Bucky knows just how to press all of Steve’s buttons, alternating between tiny kitten licks over Steve’s hole, to actually curling the muscle into his body, teasing Steve’s rim and lighting Steve up from the inside.

Once Steve’s ass had been thoroughly coated with copious amounts of Bucky’s spit, Steve had been treated to a couple of Bucky’s fingers. They’d slipped in so easily, what with how loose and open Steve was. Bucky had curled them against Steve’s prostate in a way that had had Steve’s balls tingling within mere seconds. Just – just – as he was about to shoot off, Bucky had pulled them out, replacing the fullness of his fingers with the stretch of one of Steve’s favourite toys; a sleek black vibrating plug.

“You’ll need the stretch for what I’ve got planned for you, baby,” Bucky had husked, as he slid the bulbous toy into Steve’s body. His tone had been dark and seductive, sending a shiver of excitement down Steve’s spine.

Bucky had manoeuvred Steve from the bed, to the current position that he is in, on the floor. Once Bucky had bound his hands, he’d come to stand in front of Steve, a slow, languorous smile on his lips.

“Got you a new toy, sweetheart,” Bucky said quietly, as his fingers combed through Steve’s hair. Steve had shivered at the touch, his heavy eyelids sliding shut. He would’ve purred, if he could.

“You’ve been so good this week, Stevie,” Bucky continued, still using that special, soft tone, the one that he saves just for Steve, for only when they’re playing like this. “You’ve been so good for me and I said I was gonna give you a treat, right? Don’t I always keep my promises?”

Steve nodded sluggishly. “Yeah,” he croaked, “Yeah, Buck, y’always do.”

Bucky hummed approvingly. “Now, baby, I need you to be good for me a little longer, ‘kay?” he asked, “I just gotta go set up your surprise. I need you to be a good boy and wait right here for me, can you do that?”

The corner of Steve’s lips turned down in a frown. He didn’t want Bucky to leave him, but if Bucky wanted Steve to be a good boy, then he could force himself to wait.

“I’ll be good,” Steve breathed.

Bucky ducked down to plant a kiss on Steve’s forehead. “I know you’ll be good, Stevie,” he whispered, lips grazing Steve’s brow. “You’re always good for me.”

Yes. Being a good boy, that’s what put him in this position in the first place. That’s why Steve is now completely naked and kneeling on the floor, his hard cock curving up towards his belly, the tip flushed scarlet and coated in pre-come. As much as Steve hates waiting around, the anticipation gets him riled up like nothing else.

Steve knows that whatever Bucky has in store for him, it’s something good. Bucky’d promised that it was a special treat, a reward for Steve being a good boy.

So, there Steve sits, eyes downcast and body as still as he can make it. He strains his ears, trying to figure out what his surprise could be. It sounds like Bucky is dragging the furniture around, probably rearranging the living room to set something up – does this mean that his surprise is a big thing?

Steve clenches his hole in excitement, which makes the vibrator rub against his walls, which in turn causes a little moan to bubble past his lips. The vibrations are on one of the lower settings, but the toy is wide enough to stimulate him just the way he likes it; nothing too intense, nothing that’ll get him off, but a nice distraction all the same.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity later, Steve feels – rather than hears – Bucky re-entering their bedroom. Steve senses the weight of Bucky’s gaze on his shoulders, which makes him straighten up in anticipation. He waits with bated breath, feeling Bucky’s gaze dragging down his spine and lingering on his ass. He imagines Bucky licking his lips appreciatively.

“You bein’ a good boy for me, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, as he slowly circles around Steve.

“Uh-huh,” Steve replies, looking up at Bucky through his lashes when Bucky stops in front of him. He stands with his feet hip-width apart, arms folded over his chest. Unlike Steve, Bucky is still fully clothed, wearing a pair of medium-wash jeans and a loose black t-shirt.

Steve desperately wants to ask Bucky what his surprise is; the question is poised on the tip of his tongue. Tempting as that may be, Steve keeps his mouth shut and his head bowed, waiting for his next instruction.

“You ready for your surprise, baby boy?”

Steve nods his head fervently.

“Use your words,” Bucky orders, hardening his tone.

Steve swallows a moan — because fuck if Bucky’s voice doesn’t turn him on. “Yes,” he whispers, tipping his head back to look up at Bucky, “I—I’ve been patient, been good, Bucky, I’m ready, please I—,”

Bucky clucks his tongue in sympathy, stepping closer to stroke his thumb over Steve’s cheekbone. “I know you’ve been good, pretty boy, you’ve been so patient, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, licking his lips.

Bucky chuckles with amusement. “Okay, baby. Shall I show you what your surprise is?”

“Please,” Steve says, eyes going wide with excitement. Bucky sticks his hands out for Steve to grab hold of, then uses both to pull Steve up.

As soon as Steve has straightened up to his full height, Bucky hooks his metal arm around the small of Steve’s back and pulls him close, crushing their lips together. Steve moans, his body melting against Bucky’s, hands clutching at Bucky’s shoulders. When Bucky sneaks a hand between Steve’s cheeks and presses his fingers against the vibrator, Steve keens, breaking the kiss with a quiet whine.

“Oh—oh, Buck—,” he pants hotly, fingers scrabbling at Bucky’s metal bicep. Bucky catches his chin with his free hand and kisses Steve breathless, leaving him dizzy with want.

When Bucky pulls away, there’s a shit-eating grin on his face. “Love you,” he says, pecking the corner of Steve’s lips. “Now, stop distracting me, punk, I thought you wanted to see your surprise.”

Steve splutters. “Me? I wasn’t—you were distracting me—,”

“You wouldn’t be back-talking me now, would you, baby boy?” Bucky asks, stepping away from Steve as he folds his arms over his chest again.

“I—no, sir,” Steve says, swallowing down his protests. “I wasn’t.”

“Good,” Buck murmurs. “Now, c’mon, let’s go,” he urges, taking Steve’s hand and leading him out of the bedroom.

“What is it?” Steve asks, as they walk down the hallway, unable to contain his curiosity any longer. “What’d you get me?”

“You’ll see,” Bucky says, his tone cock-sure and smug. When they round the corner, Steve notices that the furniture in their living room has been pushed to the edges, to clear a space in the middle for—something that Steve thought only existed in porn films.

“Bucky…” Steve breathes, eyes going comically wide at the sight of the contraption.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees.

At first glance, the thing dangling from the ceiling looks like a medieval torture device. Upon further inspection, Steve realises that the leather straps hanging from the rings in the ceiling are held together by a leather panel, which is supposed to function as a seat. There are stirrups for his feet and cuffs for his hands.

“’S called a sex hammock,” Bucky tells him.

Steve snorts in amusement; creative name. The sex hammock is only half of the picture. In front of the hammock, between where his legs would be, is a contraption that has Steve’s knees weakening and his hole clenching in excitement. He wants to rip out his plug and get that stuffed inside him.

Bucky’s gotten him a sex machine.

The machine comprises of a black box, with a stainless-steel rod protruding from one end. At the end of the rod is a respectably-sized dildo. It’s flesh-coloured and veiny, probably 8 or so inches in length, with a fair amount of girth to it — nothing that Steve’s ass can’t handle, but certainly large enough for him to feel the stretch. The walls of his channel flutter in anticipation.

Steve jumps when cool metal fingers trail down his spine. “You like it, baby?” Bucky breathes, warm breath ghosting over the side of Steve’s neck.

“Yeah,” Steve croaks, “Yeah—please, I—can we?”

Chuckling at the way Steve’s excitement seems to have subsumed his ability to speak, Bucky takes Steve’s hand and leads him over to the hammock, encouraging him to sit in it so that Bucky can arrange his boy the way he wants to. The leather is supple and cool against his skin, and the straps seem to bear his weight with no problem. Bucky helps his feet into the stirrups, before securing his hands above his head, using the cuffs that are attached to the straps.

The seat portion is slightly angled, which means that when Steve looks down his body, he is looking directly at the sex machine. Up close, the dildo looks even more inviting.

“Comfortable?” Bucky asks, once he’s finished checking Steve’s bonds.  

Steve hums affirmatively, “Yeah, ‘m good, Buck.”

Bucky smooths a hand down his torso, before leaning in and pecking Steve on the lips.

“Look at you,” Bucky growls, as he pulls away. “Wish you could see yourself, Stevie, all spread out like this. Fuckin’ delicious.”

Steve preens at the praise, feeling a hot flush bloom across his cheekbones and down his neck. His eyes track Bucky’s movements, watching as he comes to stand between Steve’s spread legs.

“You ready for me to take this out?” Bucky asks, tapping a finger against the toy in Steve’s ass.

“Yeah,” Steve replies, voice trembling with anticipation.

His eyes flutter shut as Bucky hands – one warm, one cool – trail down the backs of his thighs. He moans when Bucky palms his cheeks and spreads them apart, taking a moment to look at Steve’s hole. It little imagination on Steve’s part to picture the look on Bucky’s face; dark, with wanton desire written all over it. His hole must be a pretty sight; shiny with lube and stretched obscenely wide by his toy. He clenches his muscles and is rewarded with an appreciative “Fuck, yeah.”

Steve exhales shakily as Bucky grabs hold of the vibrator and eases it out of Steve’s body. He feels empty without the toy, his hole stretched out and loose, as if Bucky’s been fucking him for hours on end.

“Fuck,” Bucky breathes, as his hands cup Steve’s cheeks, thumb pressing on either side of his hole and spreading him open. “Baby, I can see—sweet Jesus, this is too much, Stevie, wish you could see yourself right now, you look so open, so fuckin’ hot, baby.”

It’s the tone of his voice – husky and gravelly, desire coating every word – that makes Steve melt into a puddle of desire. There’s just something about Bucky admiring his most private of places that makes Steve feel like he’s worth a billion dollars.

Bucky deposits the plug on their coffee table, before pulling a remote out of his pocket. He presses a button, and Steve jumps when the machine whirrs to life. Bucky chuckles at his reaction.

He hits another button and Steve watches, fascinated, as the rod extends, the dildo moving closer towards Steve’s ass. His heart is pounding with excitement, pulse roaring loud in his ears. Bucky steps closer and grabs hold of the dildo, guiding it towards Steve’s hole. Steve moans loudly when he feels the blunt pressure pressing against his rim.

“Colour, baby boy?” Bucky asks.

“Green,” Steve replies, “Green, Bucky, so green.”

“You know the rules, Stevie,” Bucky says, smoothing his free hand over Steve’s thigh. “No coming until I say so.”

Steve whines, but nods in agreement.

“What d’you say if you need to stop?”

“Carter,” Steve says immediately.

“Good boy,” Bucky says, a smile on his lips. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Steve says breathlessly.

Bucky puts his hand back on the dildo, steadying it, before clicking a button.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, drawing the syllable out as the flared head breaches his rim. His jaw is slack, his face pressed against his right bicep as the toy spreads him open. Steve feel like he can’t catch a breath; his ass is being split in two, stretched wide around the girth of the fake cock. Unintelligible noises are coming out of his mouth, conveying his pleasure.

“Oh, Stevie, you’re takin’ it so well,” Bucky rasps, one finger tracing Steve’s stretched rim. The reverence and awe in his tone sends a wave of arousal coursing through Steve’s veins. He can feel the intensity of Bucky’s stare, trained on his little hole, his eyes fixated by the way Steve’s body stretches to accommodate the toy. Fuck, Steve gets a little harder at the thought of Bucky enjoying the spectacle.

“You good, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, gently squeezing Steve’s thigh. His touch is grounding, making Steve hum contentedly, too overcome with the sensations in his ass to be able to voice his thoughts.

“Where’re you at, baby?” Bucky prompts, “C’mon, use your words.”

“Green,” Steve slurs, “M’ green, ‘m good, c’mon, Buck, fuck me, c’mon.”

Bucky chuckles. A moment of silence pauses, before the cock inside Steve starts moving at a slow, languid pace, with shallow thrusts.

“Ah! Oh m’god,” Steve gasps, fingers twitching reflexively.

“Good?” Bucky asks. There’s a note of amusement in his voice; Steve knows that if he could see his face, Bucky would be wearing that lopsided, cock-sure grin.

“Y-yeah,” Steve grits out, “Want more—please.”

He squirms restlessly, trying to fuck himself on the dildo. Unexpectedly, Bucky’s metal hand curls around his throat, pressing down on his windpipe. Steve gasps, his eyes snapping open as a whimper leaves his mouth. The silent order comes across loud and clear: stay still.

“No,” Bucky says sharply, “You want more, baby, you’re gonna have to be patient. We’re playing by my rules.”

Steve whines in protest. Before he can open his mouth to argue, Bucky’s fingers are curling through his hair, pulling him into a rough kiss.

“It’s okay, Stevie, m’gonna let you have it, you’re just gonna have to be patient, ‘kay?” Bucky soothes, “You wanna be my good boy, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Steve rasps, nodding weakly in agreement.

“Good. Let’s see how much you like this, then,” Bucky says, as he clicks another button. The fake cock slows right down, taking the meaning of ‘snail’s pace’ to a whole new level. Seriously, the thing is probably going at about one thrust per minute.

Steve groans in frustration. “Bucky.”

“Hmm?”

“Please—please, I want more, please,” he begs, voice cracking.

Objectively, Steve knows that no amount of begging will make Bucky change his mind. If Bucky wants to draw things out, he can, and he will. Steve gets off on being good for Bucky, but Bucky gets off on reducing Steve to a blissed-out, fucked-out, begging mess. He loves to push Steve to his limits, to push him until he’s sobbing for mercy, tears streaming down his face, nose wet with snot; a blubbering, near-incoherent wreck.

Bucky strokes his knuckles down Steve’s cheeks. “Patience, sweetheart,” Bucky croons, “Nice and slow, and then we’ll build it up, okay?”

Steve whines pitifully.

Bucky clucks his tongue in sympathy. “I know, sweetheart. If it makes you feel any better, this toy has a nifty lil’ trick,” he says.

“Wha’s it?” Steve pants.

In response, Bucky presses another button.

“Fuck!” Steve shouts, eyes screwing shut when, without warning, the cock in his ass starts buzzing. “’S got a vibrator in it?!”

“Yup,” Bucky replies, popping the ‘p’. “I can control ‘em separately, too. Let’s play around with that, hmm?”

Steve groans quietly, too caught up with the vibrations in his ass to respond with words. The tingling in his ass is simultaneously too much and not enough. He’s been toeing the edge ever since Bucky put his mouth on him, but the sex toy isn’t quite enough to push him over.

The concept of time becomes irrelevant as Bucky plays with the different speeds and settings on the sex machine, testing out different combinations to see how Steve reacts to each one. He establishes something of a pattern, using the machine to fuck Steve at a slow, gentle pace for an extended period of time, before cranking up the speed and turning the vibrations to full force for a few seconds, so that Steve feels like he’s going to explode. In those few seconds, Steve’s brain whites out and he very nearly screams the roof down.

The periods in between those bursts of stimulation are the worst, though; torture in the most sadistic way possible. Sometimes, Bucky trails his fingers over Steve’s abs, or plucks at his puffy nipples. If Steve asks nicely enough, Bucky will lean over and give him a sweet, loving kiss. His hand never strays anywhere near Steve’s painfully hard cock, no matter how enthusiastically Steve begs.

Sweat is dripping down Steve’s body, pooling in the hollow of his throat. Steve’s fingers are gripping the leather straps in a vice-like grip, in an attempt to ground himself against the assault of pleasure on his ass. His chest is flushed and heaving with exertion, his throat raspy and his voice hoarse from crying out.

Despite his exhaustion, Steve wants more.

“You doin’ okay, baby?” Bucky asks, metal fingers crooking under Steve’s chin, tipping his head back, forcing Steve to look Bucky in the eye.

“Bu-uck,” Steve whimpers, “P-please, I need’ta come.”

Bucky cocks his head to the side. “You want it, or you need it?”

Steve’s bottom lip wobbles, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. “W-wan’it,” he mumbles, “But—Buck, I wan’ it so bad, m’so close, please, p-please, I’ve been good, please, I—,”

“Shh, sweetheart,” Bucky soothes, stroking his fingers through Steve’s hair. “You’ve been so good for me, Stevie, I know you have. It’s been mean of me to make you wait this long, hasn’t it? You’ve been doin’ so well, waitin’ for me ta’ give you permission.”

Steve whimpers, craning his neck up for a kiss, which Bucky gives him.

He jolts in surprise, inhaling sharply when he feels metal fingers curling around the base of his cock. “Oh,” Steve gasps, breaking the kiss. “Please, can I have it? Pl-please, can I come?”

His voice wobbles as Bucky starts to stroke him off, his grip too loose to provide any real friction. The copious amounts of pre-come trickling down the sides of Steve’s cock makes Bucky’s hand glide easily over his length, his fist making lewd, squelching noises that can be heard over Steve’s near-continuous moaning.

Three things happen simultaneously.

First: Bucky increases the speed of the sex machine, the fake cock sliding in and out of Steve’s stretched, sloppy hole at an inhuman pace.

Second: Bucky cranks up the vibrations, setting every nerve ending in Steve’s body alight.

Third: Bucky tightens his grip on Steve’s cock, creating a tight, slippery channel for him to fuck into.

“Fuckfuckfuck!” Steve screams, “I—Bucky, hngh I – please, oh m’god, please, please—need it—so bad—ohh,”

“You wanna come, Stevie?” Bucky growls, lips suddenly brushing up against Steve’s cheek. Steve yips in surprise when he sucks a mark on the underside of Steve’s jaw.

“Yes,” Steve hisses, eyes screwing shut as he strains against his bonds. “I—please, please, I wanna, please I’ve been good, please, Buck, please.”

He whimpers when he feels Bucky’s warm breath ghost over his cheek.

“Come for me, sweetheart.”

Those words flip a switch inside him. Every muscle in Steve’s body goes taut as the pressure that has been gathering at the base of his cock shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. His mouth falls open on a silent scream as his climax rolls through him, a tsunami wave of pleasure that he can’t escape. He feels the warmth of his own come splattering on his belly and chest. His brain short-circuits. His vision whites out. He forgets how to breathe.

When Steve comes back into himself, he finds his face tucked into the crook of Bucky’s neck. He realises that he’s being carried, Bucky’s arms wrapped securely around him.

“Mmph,” he mumbles, pressing his lips to Bucky’s skin to show that he’s awake.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Bucky say softly. “You okay? M’just taking you to the bedroom.”

“M’good,” Steve agrees sleepily, “Feel good. Love you, Buck.”

“Love you too, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs.

“Gon’ tie you up like that someday,” Steve slurs.

Bucky laughs quietly. “Yeah, okay baby, that sounds like a plan.”

[authenticaussie]

10 marcosabo??

10. “Teach me how to play?”

Commissions! || Ko-fi!

It starts when Sabo’s angrily dragged his violin out of storage and is basically attacking the strings with his bow, muscle memory coming back to him awkwardly at dawn 

Playing music’s never helped him calm down and right now he wants that, wants to feel angry, wants to hold onto the tenuous grip he has on his rage because if he doesn’t he’s sure that he’ll collapse on the floor and not move for the next few hours, paralyzed by the thought of what the hell he’s supposed to do next, “let go” from a job he hadn’t even liked but he’d needed, quite obviously at the pressuring from his parents to force him to come back home, and playing the violin isn’t helping because all he can remember is playing until his hands were cramped and his fingertips were bruised and his mother still sighed in disappointment as he tried to do everything his teacher had taught him

(Imagine how disappointed they’d be in you now, whispers part of him that has never been able to let go of the fact they’re his parents, and he tells it angrily to shut up because they have no say on what he gets to do with his life).

He doesn’t even care what he’s playing - is surprised and bitter about how much he remembers - until he literally can’t play anymore, hands shaking and his body exhausted, and that’s when he notices that there’s a FUCKING PERSON??? OUTSIDE HIS WINDOW??? HE LIVES ON THE FIFTH FLOOR???

He basically screams. In his defence, he’d been very, very out of it, and a kid’s head hanging through his window UPSIDE DOWN is not something that comes out of a romantic comedy.

“this is how i die….heart attack via creepy child.” 

The kid winces at his yelling, and kind of starts whining at him for screaming, and Sabo’s still panicking, and then he hears yelling from his upstairs neighbour that sounds super angry and the kid flushes and then pulls themselves out of the window and vanishes

Sabo quickly goes to the window and looks up and the kid catches him and waves cheekily and Sabo catches sight of his neighbor, Marco. 

They’ve only had a few interactions before this, but Marco’s been pretty nice, and bought him dinner one time when Sabo accidentally locked himself out of his apartment. Marco’s super busy all the time, and almost always has people over at his place, though, so they don’t talk much. 

Marco flushes as soon as he meets Sabo’s gaze and is like “i am so sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear your playing, and I didn’t mean for Becky to do that to you, I’m so sorry-”

“YOU SHOULD TEACH ME HOW TO PLAY!!!” screams the child

God No is Sabo’s first thought because alskhdgf he’s Not a Child Fan (it doesn’t help that the kid had uTTERLY TERRIFIED HIM at first meeting, either.)

Marco flushes even more and groans and buries his face in his hands and starts telling her off and she just starts po u t i n g and she looks so much like Luffy that Sabo has to stifle a laugh, for the first time since yesterday feeling marginally better.

“I’ve never taught anyone before,” he finds himself saying, and Becky grins back at him and says

“Well I’ve never learnt anyone before so we’re even!!”

“Learnt from,” Marco corrects tiredly, then looks down at Sabo, a bit confused, “You really don’t have to, she’ll forget about this soon enough, I understand that you work a lot-”

Sabo finds himself biting out a bitter laugh, reminded again of his situation and Marco’s expression softens imperceptibly with pity. “If you need, I could use someone to keep an eye on her…? You could teach her then, too.” 

and Sabo sighs but coincides that even if it’s a skill he hates it’s one he can profit from while he works his ass off to try and find a new job, and it’ll slow down the steady drain on his savings, even if only by a little. “It’s not easy,” he finds himself warning her, regardless, but she only scoffs and flips her hair. 

“Neither were cartwheels, and now I’m great at them.”   

Sabo gives up Tuesday and Thursday afternoons to babysit her and teach violin for at least an hour of that time. At first, the lessons drag on. Sabo isn’t sure what he’s doing, and Becky’s awkward and stiff and too energetic to brace herself, and he gets frustrated and tired easily. He finds a temporary job, writing for online communities and blogs and taking whatever spare work around the neighbor he can while he works on getting another better paying job, but there’s almost nothing open and while his old employment said they’d give him references, he’d called and emailed and they only very badly reply. 

His parents call him every day for two weeks, and Sabo contemplates throwing out his phone altogether.

Becky - who’d been staying at Marco’s for a week-long sleepover, apparently, delighting in stories of how awesome Marco is and eagerly spreading as many tales as she knows about him, to Sabo’s eternal amusement - still shows up for violin lessons after she leaves Marco's, and stays over for an extra hour or two, watching tv or sitting on his couch and reading and one day she drags her homework out of her bag and sits there and solves math questions and spelling tests while he works on his commission work.

Becky keeps sighing pointedly and chewing on her pencil and fidgeting as she does her homework, and Sabo sighs and drags himself next her and is like “what’s the problem” and she just points at it and Sabo starts helping her with her homework every week

They fall into a routine; they’ll work on Becky’s homework for an hour and half to two hours, depending on how long she’s staying, and then she’ll throw her books into her bag. Before she plays she carefully checks the tuning against an app Sabo put on his phone and stretches her hands, and then very seriously stands there with a slightly too-big violin looking awkward against her skinny body as she waits for Sabo’s instructions.  

Marco picks her up every day, and she’ll cheerfully tell him about whatever they learnt and how Sabo helped with her homework and what she’d done at school and did Marco know that she was going to ask for a proper violin from Whitebeard for her birthday because she wants her own so she can practice at home, and Marco always lets her go on with an indulgent smile on his face that Sabo finds himself loving the sight of, something warm and fond in his chest whenever they leave

Sabo’s still rusty, of course, and finds himself throwing lessons together for the first two weeks, but when she keeps coming back he finds himself looking up tutorials on youtube and reading articles and re-acquainting himself with sheet music and cautiously placing his bow against the strings, drawing out soft, quiet music, the kind his parents had never wanted to hear him play because it was easy

He can’t play his violin without thinking of them, but it gets easier to shut them out of his mind and shut them up with memories of the girl frowning in concentration, trying to get a particular section of music, and the low dusk light filtering into his apartment as he slowly practices songs to teach her in the future. 

One night, just as Sabo’s drawing out the last few wavering notes from his violin he hears a quiet request from the window, “Can you keep going?”

He blinks, because Marco’s never really been one to communicate through windowsills, and finds himself drawn to the window, replacing his bow on the strings and continuing to play whatever chords struck his fancy, taking bits and pieces from the music he knew and stringing them together. 

He hears almost the quietest sigh above the sound of his violin, and keeps playing until no amount of curiosity at Marco’s request can make him continue, and leans out the window to see Marco with his face buried in his hands

“Thank you,” he says, lifting up his head and giving Sabo a small, sad smile, and then goes back into his apartment

They don’t speak of it, but when Sabo plays for the next week, all he can think about is Marco in the room above him, listening to his music

Finds himself thinking about Marco whenever he plays, plays terrifyingly fast, hummingbird heart fast, fingertips flying fast, and thinks about Marco  

Wonders if Marco knows that he has songs dedicated to the thought of him, now.

Sabo finds himself surviving - almost thriving, really - on commission work and music lessons and Marco asks if he wants more students and recommends him to some people when Sabo says yes. Does babysitting work for Marco and some of Marco’s friends and learns that a lot of Marco’s “siblings” / the kids that he knows are from an orphanage ran by the same man that adopted Marco. Agrees to host some kids a few times, at the promise of Marco’s assistance, and finds himself sleeping over at Marco’s apartment during the week because he’d been too scared to take care of the kid by himself for more than an hour or two

(”You take care of Becky for six hours a week!”

“She’s different, all she wants to do is play my violin!”)  

He and Marco end up getting closer and Becky still delightedly shares stories about Marco and Sabo finds himself more and more enraptured, undeniable fondness invading his laughter and his smile whenever Marco talks to him or Becky tells him a new story and it is Way To Late for him when he realises what the warm n’ fuzzy in his chest is

In the middle of playing his violin in Marco’s lounge room with Becky listening and humming along as she does homework he imagines Marco leaning over to kiss him and tHE MOST DISCORDANT SOUND COMES FROM HIS VIOLIN AS HE MESSES UP SO OO O BADLY AND LITERALLY EVERYONE IN HOUSE JUST TURNS TO LOOK AT HIM BUT HE’S TOO BUSY INTERNALLY FREAKING OUT AND MARCO’S LOOKING ALL WORRIED AND IS LIKE SABO ARE YOU OKAY???? AND SABO JUST LOOKS AT HIM WITH WIDE EYES AND GOES 

“FUCK”

Becky gasps as though she hasn’t heard worse from the Whitebeard fam, and hasn’t gotten as equally creative with her own vocabulary, and Sabo turns bright red, and 200000x more embarrassed at Marco’s startled look

“sh I T IM SORRY SHIT- I MEAN- FUCK- NO- FU DGE  E ????”

(Becky looks about two seconds away from almost crying in laughter, but also Vaguely Concerned, because Sabo doesn’t a c t like this and she’s super confused and worried)

“Are you okay??”  Marco asks again and Sabo looks at him and kind of uselessly nods and then shakes his head and then nods again and buries his face in his hands with a groan

Suffice to say, this does Not Help their concern.

MARCO PUTS HIS HAND ON SABO’S SHOULDER AND TILTS HIS CHIN UP AND SABO’S STOMACH ERUPTS IN BUTTERFLIES AND HIS FACE IS B U R N I N G HE’S GOING TO D I E

“I THINK I REALLY LIKE YOU,” he blurts out, and then for REALS LITERALLY WANTS TO DIE. OR TAPE HIS MOUTH SHUT. EITHER OR.

Marco just b l i n k s at him again, so so startled and so confused and then this slow red starts creeping across his cheeks and Becky has lost all composure and is laughing to death in the corner and it’s not helping Sabo but also what can he do but stare at the blush painting Marco’s cheeks and the fact that Marco hasn’t moved away from him and 

oh my god is he staring??? he’s t OT ALLY STARING AT MY LIPS thinks Sabo, mortified and so happy that it isn’t funny and he carefully puts his violin to the side and leans forwards just as Marco does and their noses bump and Sabo kisses Marco and Oh God this is a lot faster than he expected but it’s so nice and he didn’t even realise he??? wanted this??? until it was happening??? and Marco’s fingers are gently tangling in his hair and oh yep, this is when he truly dies, his heart will explode from affection and adoration and the warmth building in his chest and 

“I’m going to die,” he says, in all seriousness, and Marco looks like he’s about to freak out so Sabo quickly adds, “Of happies.” 

and Becky FALLS OFF THE COUCH, WHEEZING IN LAUGHTER, “OF H  APP I ES” she cries, and Marco turns to glare at her in the annoyed sibling way when they’re being a pest and throws a pillow at her and she just la u g h s even harder and Sabo can’t help the muffled sounds coming from him now either and he bursts into laughter and Marco’s looking at him and then he starts grinning and covers his eyes and part of his steadily growing smile with his hand and THEY’RE ALL JUST STANDING IN MARCO’S LOUNGE ROOM, LAUGHING THEIR HEADS OFF AND SO SO HAPPY

[rueur]

Morning Pages (06.01.2017)

Friday 6th Jan - 6:43 a.m.

I’m up earlier today because I’ll need to go to Craigieburn to celebrate my cousin’s birthday with some good old-fashioned morning prayer, which I’m looking forward to. A little bit. I don’t like being up this early, but I guess I’ll have to get used to it some time before the new semester starts. I also had a weird night last night. I had a nightmare where there was this event I’d attended, with a musical show (sorry, I just had to turn my alarms off, they were going off again at 6:45) and the performers were all kinda demonic. They gave out these little boxed things, and I took one home with no suspicion because at the time, the musicians didn’t look fishy at all. Fish is swimming very vigorously, by the way. He wants food. I cannot feed him yet, it’s too early.

Anyway, I took this boxed thing home and opened it up and almost immediately, this little rubber something shot under my bed or under a cabinet or something, and I lost it. So I kneeled down near this crack and peered into it and saw this tiny rubber creature thing. I tried to pull it out with one finger, because that’s all that would fit under this cabinet, and I couldn’t. Then my mother walked in and she was Asian. I mean my actual mother is already Asian, but she’s South-Asian. Sri Lankan. My mother in this dream was Chinese or something. Not my real mother. But I accepted it in the dream. So I told my mother that the rubber thing had fallen underneath the cabinet and she feigned disappointment for me, and then left. As soon as she’d left, the rubber thing started to point back at me! With a long and thin finger. I grabbed it and pulled and the rubber thing instantly started to stretch out and out. It just kept stretching like a window climber, or one of those stretchy, sticky hands you get at $2 shops. I just took a pause in my writing. I’m really groggy right now, sorry. This is not my most ideal mood for writing, but I know that’s exactly why the morning pages are supposed to be so helpful.

Anyway, yes, the thing just kept on stretching. I kept pulling, and all the while calling out to my mum to come and look at this stretchy living thing. But my mum never came. The thing was also squealing, like a happy baby or something, but very alien. Then I got up off the floor, and went to find my mum to tell her it’s ALIVE. I find my mum sitting quietly in the living room, staring down at her hand which has cramped in on itself. It looks like a claw, like deformed. I ask her what’s going on, and she just shows me her hand, and for some reason we both correlate her cramped hand to the newfound movement of the rubber thing, like the rubber thing is taking her muscles. Then I said ‘We have to finish the game’ and my mother says ‘NO’ and she’s terrified. Then I think I woke up, and it was 5:03 a.m.. I tried falling back to sleep for ages but it didn’t work. I kept seeing shadows in the dark, and it was also sweltering and I’d buried myself under this thick blanket in my sleep for some reason. I was sweating like you wouldn’t believe and I just flicked on the lamp, got up out of bed, and splashed my face with some water before trying to fall back asleep. I don’t know when I fell asleep again, but it wasn’t easy. I probably got under an hour’s sleep before waking up again.

I was supposed to tell you about Andrew today! From Thailander. He was one of my more memorable regulars who worked at an office on the street, Lonsdale Street. He’d call in ahead of time so that his food was ready when he got there because I’m assuming he had a very small lunch break. He’d usually order the spiciest stir-fry and then ask for it to be ‘extra spicy’. Pick-up for Andrew! I knew him after his second pick-up order with me, because he was so lame. A typical dad telling typical dad-jokes, seeing him every lunch rush was honestly a highlight for me. He was tall, slightly muscular build, with gray hair and a slightly receding hairline. He looked to be around forty, maybe just under middle-aged; quite young. Then I stopped working the lunch shifts and I didn’t see him for a couple of months before I finally quit. On my two week’s notice though, my bosses were definitely overworking me, giving me more shifts than I could handle alongside school. I was working the lunch rush again, and I got a call in my last week. Pick-up for Andrew! Jokingly on the phone, I asked if he wanted the food ‘extra spicy’ because he didn’t say it that time, and he laughed. He said no, though. But he came in and immediately said ‘I thought it was you!’ and I was just very happy to see him. We had a proper conversation that final time because I told him it was my last day, and he congratulated me. He said he hadn’t actually been to Thailander in a while before that day because he’d had a complaint they’d never dealt with, namely that one of their stir-fries was supposed to have green beans and when he got it there were absolutely no green beans at all. I told him we hadn’t had green beans in the kitchen for a while so I didn’t know why it was still on the menu and he said I was paying attention and that was good. He grew up in Eltham, he told me. I said I lived in South Morang, and we were complaining/praising what it meant to live at the end of the train line. He now lives in Sandringham, he said. That’s where I’ve wanted to live more than anything: by the beach, close to the city. South Melbourne. Here I’ve spent my entire life in the north. As north as you can get.

I seem to have a lot more to say this morning than last, I think. Or maybe I have an equal amount to say. I gave you stories yesterday, and one continuation of a story and a dream today. I think that’s pretty standard. I went home yesterday, to get some more clothes because I was running out of clean clothes in Northcote. I don’t want to use the washing machine here because it’s communal and downstairs and I’m shy. My anxiety has very much come with me to Northcote and into the new year. Anyway! I rode home and was incredibly sweaty on my arrival. I changed and hung out with my brother for a bit, listening to his music. He’s getting into Australian hip-hop. I am proud. Then my sister and Anthony, her boyfriend, came home with some groceries and my sister said they were going to start a workout soon, if I wanted to join them. I said yes, because honestly I haven’t been doing too much in the way of staying fit whilst I’ve been in Northcote. I have a running track and a bike track in South Morang, and it took me a while to establish those too. Northcote has the All Nations Park though and I don’t know if I can leave that when I’m done house-sitting because it’s so BIG and BEAUTIFUL. I’ll definitely be spending more time in Northcote even after the summer, I think.

So we braced ourselves, all four of us, and did this thirty-minute workout. It was actually quite fun! We used the Nike training app on my sister’s phone, and a spotify playlist she’d put together for gym sessions (very techno, very upbeat). At the end of it, I used the sweat towel they’d offered me beforehand (before the workout, I’d just laughed at it and said I wouldn’t need it). Then my sister made this amazing pumpkin ravioli/gnocchi lunch with mushrooms and spinach. It was amazing, and there were no leftovers. Then I had a bath with the rose bath salts and fizzes that I was given for Christmas by Anthony’s family. It was heavenly, and worked a wonder on my sore muscles at the time. But this morning, upon waking up and leaving my bed, I realise that my legs and arms are still so, so sore!

I had a bath, packed all my things up and made my way back home once more to Northcote. My clothes didn’t fit in my backpack (which was full of fresh underwear and toilet paper), so I folded them and fitted them into a plastic bag which I then tied tightly and hung from the handlebars on my bike. As suspected, they hit my front wheel A LOT and the bag developed a lot of holes. Luckily, none of my clothes tore. On the way home from High Street, however, I had to hold the plastic bag with both arms to stop the bag tearing any further and spilling my clothes out onto the floor.

I just had to plug my laptop in. It was on 8% and it had started to go red. I just checked Facebook, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take breaks from this stream-of-consciousness stuff, I know. It was an accident. I downloaded tinder again, to talk to strangers around me while I’m living on my own, because whilst I do like having all this time to myself it still does get a little bit lonely. And Ikaros is working all the time. Actually, he’s working Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, but he can somehow stretch that out so that it feels like he’s working ALL the time. I worked like six days a week for Thailander, and still made time for him. It hurts my feelings, I’m not going to lie. But I’m not here to talk about my love life. It’s not too great right now. Which is why I haven’t told him I’m on tinder. I’m just on tinder because I’m generally lonely. I want to meet people! And I’ve met and friended two interesting people so far: Lauren and Lucas. I’ll tell you about them later though, I just wanted to say two things before I run out of space for this morning.

Ikaros called me last night when he was walking down the hill, on his way to the bank. We were on the phone for an hour. One time I was on the phone to Malith for 4 hours! And I don’t even think that’s the longest, honestly. Anyway, he was talking to me about work. It’s been tough these past few days. Then I told him about my Artist’s Way challenge and the morning pages. Then he found an interesting calico cat on the street and that overshadowed my enthusiasm for being creative. And then he told Cameron to invite me to this thing on Saturday night that Ikaros actually never wanted to go to in the first place, and I had to lie to Cameron on his behalf and just tell him I was busy on Saturday night instead. So I went to bed feeling really icky. I don’t know what’s happening with this relationship. One thing is certain though: right now, it’s draining me.

[ecotone99]

[HR] Counting Fingers

Isolation has led me to try some new hobbies. This is my first real attempt at creative writing so please go easy and I'd really appreciate feedback! Also, apologies if I have formatted or categorised wrong.

​

“One, two, three, four, five”, hairs rise along my arms as my gaze shifts to the fingers on my left hand.

“Six, seven... eight …...nine”, I don't want to look.

“Ten”.

Goosebumps explode over my arms and legs. I can feel the hairs pressing outwards, almost wanting to escape. Cold chills climb up and down my body, stretching my skin taught. What a thrill. What a rush. Still ten fingers, I'm still here, I'm still real.

“Holy shit thank god”, my relief verbalises without intent.

For months I’d been trying to lucid dream. I watched countless videos covering the tips and tricks to help you achieve your first lucid dream. I tried it all, kept dream diaries, increased my vitamin C consumption, listened to binaural beats before I went to sleep. Nothing worked. Until I started counting my fingers.

“Make a habit of counting your fingers while awake, so you'll do it while dreaming”. Our brains typically accept the oddities within dreams as reality, so if you count the wrong number of fingers, your brain realises its dreaming, allowing you to take control. It works too. Within a week I counted only eight fingers. Unfortunately, the realisation shocked me so hard that I woke up right then and there. Still, it was a start.

That would be my only lucid dream. Weeks passed and I counted my fingers daily. Always 10. No more lucid dreams. After a month or so I just gave up, maybe my brain wasn't meant for lucid dreaming.

More important things took over my life. Year 12 exams, university, starting my career as a lawyer. Between work and trying to raise a child, I barely had any time for myself. No more time for Netflix or video games. I hardly even saw my friends anymore. Are they even friends if we haven’t spoken for six months? I needed time for myself. I think that desire to indulge is what brought me back. With no time for myself while awake, the idea of controlling my own dream world became increasingly enticing.

“One, two, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

A week passed without event; I dreamt every night but never lucidly.

“You sure your pinky hasn't run away yet?” It’d become a joke to the guys at the firm.

“Hey man it worked before; this is supposed to be the best way to lucid dream.” I wasn't fazed.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine....... wait no”

I jolted awake, adrenaline flowing through my body. It felt as if I’d just been pushed off a cliff. An early morning glow illuminated a figure in my wardrobe mirror. A stranger's figure.

“No, NO!”, hoarse words grated against my parched throat. That wasn’t a stranger.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten”. My teenage figure stared back at me in shock. “This can’t be real”, my trembling lips struggled to move. This must be a dream. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, TEN!” Ten fingers stared back at me. “WHY ARE THERE TEN, THIS IS A DREAM!!! WHY ARE THERE TEN?!”.

It shouldn't be possible. Was nothing real? How do I know this is real? If that was all a dream then how do I know anything I’ve ever done is real. Everything I’ve ever worked for gone! If that was a dream before, how do I know I'm not in a dream right now? I can’t count my fingers. I won’t count my fingers ever again. What if there aren't ten.

Friction warms my knuckles as I rub them across the bed’s sheets. Legs crossed; I don't break eye contact with the mirror. With myself. The pads of my thumbs climb across the knuckles of each finger. I want to count them so bad. I need to be real. This needs to be real. I’ll never know if I don't count. Each calf muscle tenses, my pupils dilate in fear. In preparation.

“One, two, three, four, five,” hairs rise along my arms as my gaze shifts to the fingers on my left hand.

“Six, seven... eight …...nine” I don't want to look.

“Ten”.

submitted by /u/Upshot2 [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/3dYayLb

[guyawks]

Tasmariner

I fell in love with the Southern Lights, and he was kind to me.

It has become a regular occurrence for me to be asked question upon question about what I do. The curiosity of those who follow my work still astonishes me, even with me having participated in this tawdry routine for years. They want to know who I am, where I came from, what that one, secret catalyst behind Travis McArthur’s success was. Where is the mystery in a public figure nowadays? What ever happened to the culture of character? These same questions reach my solitude by airmail, email, radio interview, and I answer them all as I have learned to.

“I lived a simple life. Nothing to write home about. What you’d expect to imagine”, I say. Perhaps I’ll contribute a staple insight, another “Remember to study your trade” or “Write down every idea”. But, in truth, there will always be a second, a small, fleeting lapse, where I consider telling them the real story. Even a lifetime on, as I stare out across the rusted canyons of an east Tasmanian mining town, clad in a navy smoking jacket, it’s a story I can recall almost instantly, as if it happened yesterday. Eventually, I’ll sit down and commit it to lasting, binding print, I think. But then again, there are stories better left in one’s mind. And, selfish as it may seem, I like to imagine that I can keep his memory as mine, alone, for just a little longer.

It is of note to me how often it has been said that I have an old soul; that I seem so much beyond the thirty years I’ve lived. I never disputed this, although it is never a description I claimed, either. But, regardless, this aged mind was once young. When I first arrived in Tasmania, eagle-eyed and full of wonder, it was an eighteen-year dream realised. I don’t believe I’d ever smiled as furiously as I did the first time I stepped off that wooden boardwalk and into the shadow of Mount Wellington. Roads and houses seem to cascade from that point, inviting me onwards and upwards to whatever came next. It seemed so grand to me at the time and, I suppose, it still is. Those were my golden years; years when I was less self-important and more yielding to the world’s will.

It had always been my dream to be a writer. Back then, writing wasn’t necessarily how I gave to the world, but how I sought to realise my own. In beaches far north, under overbearing tropical warmth, I would write myself away to somewhere more my liking, with my pen as my mast and my page my sail. Somehow, it had only occurred to me during the closing flurry of my high school graduation that I now had the option to render my metaphorical departure a real one. No more would I be bound by the expectations of my parents or the bloodlust of native insects. Even if it was just for one, exhilarating winter, I could find peace and fuel for my writing in the place I’d always seen on postcards.

Unfortunately, time is rarely a patient benefactor to creative minds. The end of my trip was nearing and I hadn’t found any sort of masterstroke of inspiration. Sure, I now had a rich and detailed landscape to work with. I could visualise the fantasy world of my novel, filled with snowcapped mountaintops and bustling shipping ports, clear as day, thanks to my travels. But this epic canvas lacked human presence. All I had was my protagonist and, as far as characters go, he wasn’t particularly likable. Senick Shadowland was a sneakthief who took from every purse that he encountered to get by. He was cold and otherwise shut off to the outside world, with a high opinion of his own traits. My narrative was as empty as his morals.

Meanwhile, back on the mainland, my family had grown restless waiting for my return. I knew that there had been talk among my relatives of me going to work at a local accounting firm in the business district of Brisbane. In a sense, I was grateful to the encroaching sill on my window of opportunity. I had seen the sights, sampled the food, the wine, the coffee, and was only truly leaving without my story. Beyond that, I lacked any real reason to stay.

That was when I met Dale.

Souvenirs were always an absolute essential whenever I travelled anywhere. Regardless, I had put off searching for the right gifts during my three-month sojourn, and in my last week, needed to find them quickly.

Walking through Salamanca market at the beginning of my final week, my eyes settled on a rich, earthy-looking store amidst the painted white buildings at its shoulders. Standing outside was a tall, well-muscled man with a golden pocket watch swaying from his wrist. Almost as if he sensed my stare, he looked up to meet my look with his own. His eyes were a piercing silver-blue, a pair of barracudas that seemed as if they could hover in place for days.

“Looking for something wonderful for someone?” he beamed at me eloquently, revealing with his smile a set of bold white teeth and rugged creases in his face. Dressed in a warm maroon sweater and loosely draped scarf, he looked entirely at ease, and I comfortably followed him as he ushered me out of the winter cold and into the warmth of his shop. His store was both impeccably organised and wildly eclectic, in a way that felt inviting and inviting of questions. Each item seemed to have a story, and a character to it, arranged in a static performance of their history. Eventually, my attention was caught by a fishhook keychain that would be perfect for my older brother.

“Tell you what, love,” he said, eyes glinting. “I’ll give you half off for this one- if I see you again tomorrow.” And so I did. Each following day, I returned to Dale Breckenridge’s enchanting pawnshop. On Tuesday, I purchased an ornamental lamp for my sister. On Wednesday, I gained a silver pen for my childhood friend. On Thursday, I bought a velvet rug for my parents, and so on. With every purchase, I learned more about the salesman, who seemed more interested in me than my steady patronage. He asked me what had brought me here, sensing innately that I was not anything remotely local. I unloaded on him my passions, my search for inspiration, my aversion to my past life, and he listened intently. He was, in a word, extraordinary.

It’s embarrassing to admit that his smooth, unwavering confidence unsteadied me. Every time I entered, I felt as if I could trip and take the entire store tumbling with me. But if Dale noticed, he didn’t seem to care. If anything, it pleased him, as if every foible of mine was something he longed for in himself. It regretfully occurred to me that there was something left to explore in this man, and that if I had only met him earlier in my stay, I would be able to.

It was on the last day before I was due to leave, that Dale decided I would learn the truth. On a parchment note left outside my rented flat that sleepy, Sunday morning, he told me to meet him at a special destination, that there was something he needed to show me before I left. It transpired that this place was the peak of Mount Wellington, not far from the trails I had walked when I first arrived. Tentatively, I followed his wishes to a T. Hovering at that meeting point, the sun barely having just set over the horizon, my heart thundered when I saw him emerging over the hill. This would be it, where I finally said goodbye. But rather than continuing towards me, he paused. And together, in that moment, our lives changed.

His body illuminated by an endless stretch of stars, his physical form faded and gave way to a familiar cyan mixture of cosmic light. It undulated and rippled majestically as it spiralled into the sky, as if Aurora Australis had been there from the start. I would be the only human to know different.

Dale glowed, and I glowed as well, my neck craned backwards in awe. I was less so in shock, and moreso at inner completion, a realisation of everything I’d already hoped to be true about the world. There was more to this planet than the hustle-and-bustle of the working world, everything I’d left behind. I was in the presence of something miraculous.

While I was lost for words on that one, breathtaking night, we made up for the silence the following eve. As explosions of imitation neon shined out from the Dark Mofo festival beneath us, we camped out in grassy serenity, under the sky Dale called home. There, he told me everything; how his moments on Earth were unpredictable and painfully short, what he sees when he traverses the skies, what the meaning was behind his beloved timepiece. He explained how it had been given to him by the man who made him like this, back when he was a mortal being. One man in the all the world would become the Southern Lights, and that is how it has always been. A weary soul, Dale lamented the impermanence of his days, how he was used to people coming and going, and how such was the nature of his life. But no more would he need to worry about that.

“I won’t go. This is my home now, Dale. I will never leave you.”

I fell in love with the Southern Lights, even when our love was barred by nature and man.

It only took two weeks for my sister to arrive to bring me home. A busy public relations consultant, Laura McArthur had been harangued by our family into flying down to Hobart and talking sense into me. With my dark blonde hair and mousy brown eyes mirrored in her, we had always felt a sense of immutable kinship, despite our greatly different approaches to life. My optimism had motivated her when she was down, and her discipline had kept me grounded when my life lacked order. Out-of-place, attired in pantsuit and bunned hair, she sat for hours in a local tavern, debating with me my options. But, while I pled a convincing case, it was ultimately Dale that won her over. Strolling into the bar in immaculate form, his charm worked as effortlessly on her as it had on me. A few days later she left town, unconvinced, but convinced enough to let me stay.

Shortly after, I got a job as a bookkeeper in a nearby bookstore. It was a setting I had always sought after, and I couldn’t imagine a better fit for myself. With the store not often busy, much of my schedule allowed to me steal away to work on my writing. Adding to my content, on treasurable, rare occasions, Dale would visit, inhabiting an oak rocking chair to read a classic while I worked. It felt like the life I always should have been living. After I had settled into the parochial confines of this routine and the epic secret of my new love, that was when my journeys began.

I began charting the places across the isle where I could see Dale when he disappeared away, predicting where his aura was strongest in the Southern Hemisphere sky. In those days, or even weeks, when he was elevated and unreachable, I could be with him and be witness to his true beauty. Impelled, I did it all. I hiked to the highlands surrounding Cradle Mountain, waiting out the freezing mid-July winds bundled in polyester shields, hoping I may too be carried away into Dale’s reach. I wandered the coast of Dover, watching Dale at his strongest, most unclouded visage, hugging the shore of the island’s southernmost town and staring onto Antarctica. In later months, I travelled by steam train through the damp forests of Western Tasmania, emerging from the shroud of vibrant green into an antipode of arid brown. It was here, in Queenstown, where Dale’ colours truly shone, amplified by the copper-tinged cliffs. Normally a shower of blues and greens, Dale had exchanged these tones for violet and red, and I raptly watched this unique display until the dawn warded him off.

It occurred to me as I left, how much I could sink into the tranquillity of one of these destinations, buy a house, settle in complete isolation. Yet, that was a dream for another day.

In the midst of my love affair with the elements, success struck. A draft for one of my signature fantasy concepts, “Zanotharia”, had made its way through to a Melbourne publisher. I found myself deposited somewhere between euphoric and lost. On one hand, I was elated at the sudden follow-through in my dreams. It had been as if some missing piece in my mind had fallen into place, as if the joy and compulsion behind Senick had presented itself, out of nowhere. But, before I knew it, my first novel was published, I was considered a novelist, and my life of retreat was in question. As the campaign process begun, Laura stepped in to lend assistance, not wanting a second of my victory to slip away. It was at this point where she made her most persuasive pitch for the city.

“You can’t have career- a real career, as a writer- out here. This is really huge, Trav. Don’t ruin this.” But, alas, I had made a promise to Dale. Furthermore, the equilibrium of my life worked. I could balance writing, with promoting, with the voyeuristic pursuit of Dale. In my naivety, it seemed all but attainable.

That wasn’t to say that there weren’t obstacles.

The Kingsley family’s disputes over Dale’s property ownership had become significantly more public in recent years, and it was Vincent Kingsley, the youngest of the land baron clan, who had taken to confronting Dale at every opportunity.

“This is prime real estate, and you’re hardly even around to use it. Now, I wonder why that might be?” he questioned venomously, tilting his head ever so slightly, as his cropped red hair emanated a seething resentment that his voice did little to hide. Dale had occupied the pawnshop for decades now, and it wouldn’t take more than a wary eye to discern that something was unusual about the elusive pawnbroker. Vincent Kingsley’s suspicions were burning like a wildfire, but even with veiled threats of violence and vandalism scouring the air between them, Dale stood his ground and didn’t let his mask of calm fall.

         “Thanks so much for your continued interest in my shop, Mr Kingsley- or can I call you Vince?” Dale jabbed coolly. “I’ll make sure I’m here if you ever want to take that tour.” To this, Vincent merely scowled, turned on his heel and strolled away, his eyes flickering over me as he retreated. Throughout all of this, I had kept my head down and out of trouble. If I had thought this approach would immunise my life from collapse, I was wrong. It had to fail some time. And after this long, it finally began to.

Years passed and, without me even noticing at first, things began to change. My book had become a book series, with Senick’s love affair with a young mercenary, from whom he’d stolen, warming his heart and carrying him into grandiose exploits. But, while the well of inspiration that had propelled this intrepid character hadn’t yet run dry, I knew that it was beginning to go stale. Like the slow filling of an hourglass, I could feel a weariness growing inside me. Dale’s moments with me became, as I should have predicted, progressively more rare. On our chance meetings, he told me of how his calling to the heavens agonised him, how he wished he could stay here with me, throw everything away. I knew he longed to release me. Yet, as transcendent as Dale was, he was still only human.

Life continued. My latest novel’s reviews arrived, falling far short of my expectations. It seemed that Senick had nowhere to go, that he should have settled down long before now, that he was just biding time until a grisly death. Death proved equally present in my world, too, when I learned when of my parents’ sudden passing in a car accident. Upon returning to Brisbane, at last, for the funeral, it occurred to me more than ever how solitary I had become. Loneliness had stowed away inside for quite some time now, but was only now making its presence known. By the time of my return to Hobart, I was a thoroughly fragile human being. And fragile men are vulnerable.

Mitchell Edison was one of the few interjections of a social life into my routine. Without him, I probably would have left Tasmania long before I did. A local tour guide with a passion for community activism, we fell into rousing talks one night outside the town hall. As an admitted fan of my writing, he had nothing but intrigue for my minor celebrity.

“You’re nothing like I expected you to be” he remarked, his shroud of black hair rustling imperiously against his leather jacket. “I bet you that I can find the real Travis McArthur.” He set out to do just that, and a new series of trips began. My expeditions across the island to see Dale had long since halted, and I welcomed this immersive return to the realm of nature. Hearing that I had canoed through Northern Queensland in my youth, Mitchell compelled me to white water raft with him through the drenched temperate rainforests of Tarkine. It became a regular occurrence, every weekend without fail, as a hole I had never noticed within myself mended itself discretely. I fell asleep under glistening canopies, and felt snowflakes chill the dashboard of his truck on long, alpine highways. The thrill of youth had returned to me.

We clashed frequently, with disagreements erupting over the most menial of things. Pitching a tent, dealing with native wildlife, taking the right route; it was one issue or another. Our dynamic was so far from what I had shared with Dale. But, in honesty, the friction gave me the warmth I needed not to freeze. As Mitchell learned more about the man he’d read in book jackets, he began to form tangible opinions on him, although I was seldom interested in hearing them. I was always reclusive, unwilling to commit to him, lacked any signs of moving forwards.

“You’re wasting away”, he would say indignantly, tugging at the knotted laces to his boots. “It’s like nothing even matters to you.” How could I tell him how wrong this statement was, or just what had been keeping me here all these years? Moreso, I didn’t even know how could I answer it to myself. He was right, an increasing part of me felt.

I gave out eventually. On one midsummer night, we slept together in the back of his truck, while eucalyptus trees rustled behind us in the temporal still of twilight. Moments after, while Mitchell lapsed into slumber, I lay on my back and fixed my eyes on the pressing glare of the moon.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, I murmured. At an empty indigo sky, I murmured all night long.

I fell in love with the Southern Lights, in a place far away from the rest of the world.

Not having seen Dale in years, there was little tying me here anymore. The foundation that had defined me had almost fully eroded. I was an untethered soul, looking to label myself instantaneously. When Laura contacted me with a job offer to work for a publishing house in Melbourne, for the first time, I was unwavering. I didn’t shed a single tear the night that I left. I hadn’t cried for the loss of Dale for months, and it seemed appropriate to remain composed now. It was the flight that I hadn’t taken, and I was taking it a decade too late. Yet, I could never resent Dale. All I wanted still, deep within my heart, was to be with him.

The call soon came telling me that I never would.

I can barely remember the details of the message, what I was doing at the time, the blinding rush of the plane trip back. All I knew was that I had to see him once more, to atone and to be complete. Arriving at his shop, I found Dale’s imaginarium, the site of so many untold stories, in flames. Police ringed the blaze, evidence of an altercation clear, and a manic series of shouts rang out from the handcuffed baron I had once underestimated.

“He’s a spectre, a fiendish spirit. I saw him!” raved Kingsley wildly. A shell of his dignified persona, Vincent’s eyes mirrored the inferno he’d started, his faced a twisted mass of desperation. “That man doesn’t die, I can prove it!” Oh, but Kingsley was wrong.

Looking back, I can see no other place my love would have been. Dale could never be in bad shape. As graceful as the day I met him, he lay silently upon that same hill on Mount Wellington. A single bullet hole of blood stained into his white shirt, he had fled to the one mountaintop that meant everything, to everyone. Reaching him at last, I dropped to his side, and finally my tears were freely flowing. He was a man ready to die. Perhaps, he even wanted it. Any knowledge Kingsley had learned would die with Dale. And he would finally take his long-sought place on Earth.

“Love. I wanted…to see you one more time” Dale whispered fondly, the ghost of a smile ringing his lips. “Of all the times and places and things I’ve seen…you were the best.”

“Thank you so much for everything” I choked back. Silence overtook the scene as Dale’s century of life slowly ebbed away. Gone was the majesty of his past disappearances. All there was that night was a quiet display of mortality, exactly as it should be. That was how the journey ended; how the bountiful spill of inspiration that had defined me, set itself alight, and burned slowly out.

Pacified, I turn my head away from the window and polish my reading glasses. Focus returning, my sight catches the wall of books, manuscripts, and writings upon the selves in front of me. It’s hard to believe that all of this would never have existed if not for the presence of one magnanimous man in my life. There were those few books about Senick’s exploits; and then the tide of books that sprung from it, after Dale’s passing, about every character, place and adventure that fell in his wake. These figures have become my only true companions. I wasn’t ready for solitude back then, but I am now.

Sensing the imposition of approaching sunset, I swiftly exit my cabin. Walking into the ruby embrace of the town I once dreamed of settling in, the full circle journey of my life is not lost on me. I soon arrive at the border of the town, a rocky cliffside spiralling down into the mines.

“You shine. You are always shining”, I whisper gently. As I gaze into the distance, I grasp the pocket watch that he’d given me in exchange for one, meaningful favour. My eyes are now two stonefish in their focus, ready to wait out eternity. But they needn’t have to. I can tell, instinctively, that I am expected. As the last blood red embers of the sun die, I feel my body ascending, branching into flaxen tendrils of light, yielding to same celestial force that commands the universe. It is a force that I never truly understood, but never needed to. All that I need to know is that I can see for miles around me, all of the world for what it is, and for what I am as well. I am light in the coming dark and, regardless of where I am taken; I will set foot on Earth again to tell my tale.

I am the Southern Lights, as was he. And we will never want for inspiration again.

[unifiedsocialblog]

Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You? – Blogcentric #86

Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You?

Could becoming a better writer be similar to going to the gym to get fit? Could challenging and exercising that writing muscle lead to better more inspiring writing? That’s what we’re going to look at in this four part series of the blogcentric podcast

Morning Pages – Flexing Your Writing Muscles

http://ift.tt/2v1rPQ6

Around ten years ago I trained for and ran the Dublin Women’s Mini Marathon. I set myself a modest goal, I wanted to run the whole thing, no walking, no stopping. I started from nothing, I couldn’t run at all but after exercising and practicing I made it. I ran the mini-marathon.

Learning to write well is similar to preparing for a run. When you start you might struggle but over time as you stretch your writing muscle you get better.  Your words flow, you find better ways of communicatingoi.

When I was training for the mini-marathon I did a lot of running. I trained on the tread mill and I went to the local rugby club and ran in circles over and over again. But I also swam, cycled, used the cross trainer, the rowing machine, lifted weights, managed to do sit ups, press ups, the plank. All these peripheral exercises built up my strength and muscles so that when I did run it was easier.

That’s what this, and the following three episodes of the blogcentric podcast are about. Don’t worry I’m not going to ask you to run a maarathon but I am going to ask you to join me in a series of exercises that although aren’t blog posts could lead to us all becoming better blog writers.

This week, in part one we’re going to start with ‘Morning Pages’

Wait what are Morning Pages?

Morning pages are a writing exercise developed by Julia Cameron in her 1992 book ‘The Artist’s Way’.

The idea is a simple one. First thing in the morning before the ego awakes (according to Julia), every morning fill three A4 pages with longhand stream of conciousness writing.

Write down whatever comes into your head and if nothing comes into your head start writing something like ‘I don’t know what to write’.

Ok, I know it does sound a bit hippyish but I’ve heard so many good things about the technique I think it could be worth a try.

What are the benefits?

Three pages of hand writing will make my wrist hurt! Before I embarked on this challenge I wanted to know what the possible benefits could be. Here are some of the claims made by advocates of the technique:

1. Creative thinking better first thing in the morning

This does make sense, some of my best ideas appear in the shower in the morning. Perhaps if I’m doing a creative act rather than just washing my hair more creativity will arise.

I’m not quite sure what ‘first thing in the morning means’ but we’ll discuss this later on.

2. Release the junk from your brain

Not many people know this but I can be a big ball of anxiety. Being an anxious person isn’t always a negative thing. Anxiety can drive you forward to finish tasks and work hard to be the best you can be… or something. Obviously anxiety is a negative thing too and maybe, just maybe releasing anxieties through Morning pages could clear your head for the rest of the day.

Because you are writing just for you, you can reveal all your secrets all those embarrasments and let them out.

If you’re worried about putting this stuff on to paper, you may not want your anxiety hanging around for others to read, don’t be. It’s perfectly acceptable to destroy your pages once they are written.

3. Banish negativity

If like me you are a tad on the grumpy side in the morning this could be a good way to get rid of the grump. Scribble you anger and negativity onto your morning pages and you’ll be cleansed and ready for the day.

4. Spark new ideas

When you force your brain to start writing, when you force it to come up with something to write you could be surprised with what it comes up with. Sure there’ll probably be pages full of nonsence but could it shake loose a really good idea.

What others think

People who try Morning Pages rave about the technique.

Author Jennifer Blanchard reports some quite stunning results from her Writing Pages experiment.

YouTuber Lavendair found that they improved her clarity, creativity and productivity.

Small Business Bloggers community member (and contributor to this blog) Sinéad Noonan (follow her on Instagram here) finds they stop her over editing:

I’m an over thinker and perfectionist so morning pages allows me to just blurt out everything in my mind without having my over active editor kick in. Because when I write normally, my constant editing gets in the way. Morning pages gives me a freedom and creative outlet that I can’t recreate anywhere else. I think it’s really improved my overall writing.

Reading and watching these testimonials sealed it for me. I decided to give it a shot.

What you need:

I did think about buying a fancy A4 notebook for the task but I realised this was just putting off the task at hand. Instead I found a bundle of scraps of old A4 jotters in the bottom of a drawer. I had planned to put them by my bed so that I could write before I got up in the morning but I doubt my snoring other half would approve of being woken up by the scraping of my pen.

And that’s the second thing you need, a pen or pencil or writing implement of some kind.

There are apps available if you want to do this online but it’s not recommended. The physical act of writing long hand is supposed to exercise a muscle that is neglected if you do most of your writing online.

Getting started

I stalled on getting started. I had expected to have written and documented a number of days before this podcast went live. Instead I forgot about it, twice! Not an encouraging start but this morning I ensured I had the pad and paper sitting on my desk to jog my memory.

Choosing a time to write was tough too. I have quite a strong morning routine and this was going to get in the way. I really can’t do anything until I shower in the morning, the cogs in my brain don’t connect until I’ve had water flowing over them for a few minutes. So I chose to write them directly after showering and dressing.

How did I get on? Listen to the podcast above.

So far…

I’m glad I didn’t buy a fancy notebook because as soon as I started writing I knew I wanted to destroy them. If you listened to the podcast you’ll now I was slightly underwhelmed when I finished writing, but shortly afterwards, after destroying the paper I knew that there were tasks I’d written about that I needed to schedule. That I needed to work on as soon as possible. They weren’t new tasks but they were tasks that had been on the todo list for way too long.

From one day it’s impossible to know if I’ll see benefits and as I’m going away on holiday for a week I’m not going to be able to do a proper test until I return.

When I do I’ll give it a shot for a week. I am looking forward to seeing if there is an improvement in my writing as a result.

Over to you

This is the first of four exercises I’m going to be trying in the bid to become a better writer. Will you join me? If so come and join the ‘Small Business Bloggers’ group on Facebook and share your experiences with us.

  Improve your blog. Follow my weekly blogging challenges as I try to create a better blog. Subscribe on iTunes or Subscribe on Stitcher

  Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You?

The post Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You? – Blogcentric #86 appeared first on Spiderworking.com - Social Media For Small Business.

Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You? – Blogcentric #86 published first on http://ift.tt/2rEvyAw

[bizmediaweb]

Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You? – Blogcentric #86

Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You?

Could becoming a better writer be similar to going to the gym to get fit? Could challenging and exercising that writing muscle lead to better more inspiring writing? That’s what we’re going to look at in this four part series of the blogcentric podcast

Morning Pages – Flexing Your Writing Muscles

http://ift.tt/2v1rPQ6

Around ten years ago I trained for and ran the Dublin Women’s Mini Marathon. I set myself a modest goal, I wanted to run the whole thing, no walking, no stopping. I started from nothing, I couldn’t run at all but after exercising and practicing I made it. I ran the mini-marathon.

Learning to write well is similar to preparing for a run. When you start you might struggle but over time as you stretch your writing muscle you get better.  Your words flow, you find better ways of communicatingoi.

When I was training for the mini-marathon I did a lot of running. I trained on the tread mill and I went to the local rugby club and ran in circles over and over again. But I also swam, cycled, used the cross trainer, the rowing machine, lifted weights, managed to do sit ups, press ups, the plank. All these peripheral exercises built up my strength and muscles so that when I did run it was easier.

That’s what this, and the following three episodes of the blogcentric podcast are about. Don’t worry I’m not going to ask you to run a maarathon but I am going to ask you to join me in a series of exercises that although aren’t blog posts could lead to us all becoming better blog writers.

This week, in part one we’re going to start with ‘Morning Pages’

Wait what are Morning Pages?

Morning pages are a writing exercise developed by Julia Cameron in her 1992 book ‘The Artist’s Way’.

The idea is a simple one. First thing in the morning before the ego awakes (according to Julia), every morning fill three A4 pages with longhand stream of conciousness writing.

Write down whatever comes into your head and if nothing comes into your head start writing something like ‘I don’t know what to write’.

Ok, I know it does sound a bit hippyish but I’ve heard so many good things about the technique I think it could be worth a try.

What are the benefits?

Three pages of hand writing will make my wrist hurt! Before I embarked on this challenge I wanted to know what the possible benefits could be. Here are some of the claims made by advocates of the technique:

1. Creative thinking better first thing in the morning

This does make sense, some of my best ideas appear in the shower in the morning. Perhaps if I’m doing a creative act rather than just washing my hair more creativity will arise.

I’m not quite sure what ‘first thing in the morning means’ but we’ll discuss this later on.

2. Release the junk from your brain

Not many people know this but I can be a big ball of anxiety. Being an anxious person isn’t always a negative thing. Anxiety can drive you forward to finish tasks and work hard to be the best you can be… or something. Obviously anxiety is a negative thing too and maybe, just maybe releasing anxieties through Morning pages could clear your head for the rest of the day.

Because you are writing just for you, you can reveal all your secrets all those embarrasments and let them out.

If you’re worried about putting this stuff on to paper, you may not want your anxiety hanging around for others to read, don’t be. It’s perfectly acceptable to destroy your pages once they are written.

3. Banish negativity

If like me you are a tad on the grumpy side in the morning this could be a good way to get rid of the grump. Scribble you anger and negativity onto your morning pages and you’ll be cleansed and ready for the day.

4. Spark new ideas

When you force your brain to start writing, when you force it to come up with something to write you could be surprised with what it comes up with. Sure there’ll probably be pages full of nonsence but could it shake loose a really good idea.

What others think

People who try Morning Pages rave about the technique.

Author Jennifer Blanchard reports some quite stunning results from her Writing Pages experiment.

YouTuber Lavendair found that they improved her clarity, creativity and productivity.

Small Business Bloggers community member (and contributor to this blog) Sinéad Noonan (follow her on Instagram here) finds they stop her over editing:

I’m an over thinker and perfectionist so morning pages allows me to just blurt out everything in my mind without having my over active editor kick in. Because when I write normally, my constant editing gets in the way. Morning pages gives me a freedom and creative outlet that I can’t recreate anywhere else. I think it’s really improved my overall writing.

Reading and watching these testimonials sealed it for me. I decided to give it a shot.

What you need:

I did think about buying a fancy A4 notebook for the task but I realised this was just putting off the task at hand. Instead I found a bundle of scraps of old A4 jotters in the bottom of a drawer. I had planned to put them by my bed so that I could write before I got up in the morning but I doubt my snoring other half would approve of being woken up by the scraping of my pen.

And that’s the second thing you need, a pen or pencil or writing implement of some kind.

There are apps available if you want to do this online but it’s not recommended. The physical act of writing long hand is supposed to exercise a muscle that is neglected if you do most of your writing online.

Getting started

I stalled on getting started. I had expected to have written and documented a number of days before this podcast went live. Instead I forgot about it, twice! Not an encouraging start but this morning I ensured I had the pad and paper sitting on my desk to jog my memory.

Choosing a time to write was tough too. I have quite a strong morning routine and this was going to get in the way. I really can’t do anything until I shower in the morning, the cogs in my brain don’t connect until I’ve had water flowing over them for a few minutes. So I chose to write them directly after showering and dressing.

How did I get on? Listen to the podcast above.

So far…

I’m glad I didn’t buy a fancy notebook because as soon as I started writing I knew I wanted to destroy them. If you listened to the podcast you’ll now I was slightly underwhelmed when I finished writing, but shortly afterwards, after destroying the paper I knew that there were tasks I’d written about that I needed to schedule. That I needed to work on as soon as possible. They weren’t new tasks but they were tasks that had been on the todo list for way too long.

From one day it’s impossible to know if I’ll see benefits and as I’m going away on holiday for a week I’m not going to be able to do a proper test until I return.

When I do I’ll give it a shot for a week. I am looking forward to seeing if there is an improvement in my writing as a result.

Over to you

This is the first of four exercises I’m going to be trying in the bid to become a better writer. Will you join me? If so come and join the ‘Small Business Bloggers’ group on Facebook and share your experiences with us.

  Improve your blog. Follow my weekly blogging challenges as I try to create a better blog. Subscribe on iTunes or Subscribe on Stitcher

  Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You?

The post Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You? – Blogcentric #86 appeared first on Spiderworking.com - Social Media For Small Business.

Writers Workout – Do You Do Morning Pages? Should You? – Blogcentric #86 published first on http://ift.tt/2u73Z29

[rueur]

Morning Pages #9 (13.01.2017)

Friday 13th Jan - 9:13 a.m.

So typing out the date just made me realise that it’s Friday the 13th, and I definitely have to go to the Laundry Bar tonight just because of that. I got drunk last night, and watched Girls, and was kind of outraged at how many attractive guys Lena Dunham gets to make out with. I should get into television writing, eh, and write a character just for me. Like Mindy Kaling as well.

Vacuuming yesterday went very very well, I should mention. No vomit, but Romy did hide under the bed for the next two hours or so, long after I’d switched the vacuum off. And I woke up to Bruno’s vomit this morning, for no reason. He just felt like vomiting, I guess. I emptied the rest of the pretzels into a big bowl and waited for Marcus but he never showed up. The bus came by and he just didn’t get on it, he said. It was an off day for him. I understood and I sympathised, but it didn’t stop me from having an off day myself for the rest of the day. Really. I sent some explicit photos to Ikaros out of pure boredom, and then went out and bought under twenty dollars worth of food, and then made myself a sandwich for dinner. After dinner, I knew I wanted a drink. So I used the lemon I found on the way down to the apartment, and some ice, and drank some otherwise straight white rum. I ended up passing out on the couch at around 9, and waking up at 4 a.m., realising that it was very cold outside and that the balcony door was still open. One cat had pissed on the rug again and I just couldn’t deal with anything at that point, I just went straight to bed. My legs feel really weird right now, like my muscles feel tense. I have to go to rehearsals again today too. I really don’t want to. I don’t like this show we’re working on, and I have a very minor part in it anyway. I don’t like Paul. I don’t think he’s a great person to work with on creative projects. He’s taken control over our latest one, picked the theme himself before doing any real work with us and seeing what concerns we hold, what kind of ideas we would want expressed in a show. He’s also not as physical and interactive as Emily or Martin were. First Impressions is supposed to be a very tactile group, very hands-on. Paul does everything from a distance and I don’t love that. Kat has also said some things about him, like this one time we had a girl with learning disabilities come and join our group for a few sessions after Paul began his reign. This girl, I forget her name now, was obsessed with anime (namely Pokemon and Dragon Ball Z) and kept offering inane suggestions along the lines of monologues taken straight out of those TV shows being used in our original productions. It was very disruptive and everyone kind of acknowledged that amongst themselves non-verbally, but we also kept in mind the fact that First Impressions is supposed to be a very inclusive group. It was also obvious that her knowledge and interest in those shows acted as a connection for her to the real world. I don’t doubt that she used those shows to talk to people, have something in common with them and make real friends. I felt a little bad for her; I also knew it would be impossible to develop a show with her. Martin would usually talk to the parents of children like this and see if they could figure out some kind of inclusive but still productive path. To be quite honest, I don’t know how Paul dealt with this issue. All I know is that after one session, he spoke to all of us when that girl and her mother weren’t there, asking how we felt about her. That placed us all in a very awkward position where we were forced to complain about how her learning disability affected us. It was a horrendous experience. The next week’s session, she wasn’t there. She never came back. I have no idea who spoke to her mother and what they said, but I know it was way too abrupt for it to have been good. Since that incident, I’ve been wary of Paul.

Another reason why I don’t want to do the show is because rehearsals are scheduled every Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 1-5 p.m., which would’ve been fine for me if I was still living in South Morang but I’m not right now, so it’s just an abominable pain. It’s inconvenient as anything, especially if I’m really doing nothing for four hours. My role in this thing is so tiny that I have no idea why I need to be there so long at all.

I’m just complaining at this point, I’m sorry. My legs still feel really really weird. Still complaining. I had been typing this lying down, so I just moved to the living room to try writing someplace else and in a different position. I feel light-headed, not light-headed because I’m hungry though. I think I took care of myself enough yesterday, foodwise. Today it’s probably just a slight hangover: a bit of a headache, tired joints, a little fatigue. I bought greek style frozen yoghurt with figs and raspberries for when Ikaros comes over on Sunday. He was supposed to come over on Saturday, but because we’re meeting up with Lauren and Jacob on Monday, he said he’d come over on Sunday. I was a little sad about this at first, but then realised it’s probably a good thing, no definitely a good thing. It means that I am free to go out on Saturday night, I guess. I don’t know with who. Maybe just on my own again. Maybe this time, I’ll actually get to dance with some girls. Selwyn is still talking to me on Snapchat. I might ask him what he’s doing on Saturday, I don’t know. He seems like a douche, though.

Malith said he might come out tonight. I don’t know if he will though. I hope that he does. I want him to. We haven’t gone out, just him and me, in a long long time. I think the last thing we did together, just us two, was go and see Adam Hills? Or it was that time we walked from Thornbury station to my house on a whim. Either time was incredible fun and I miss having that fun with him. I’ve recently realised though, that he has that fun with everybody. He seems to have a lot of people who care about him, more people than I’ve got, I feel. That’s just because everyone is very busy all the time now. Toni and Sam are always working, Ikaros is working, and I used to be always working and if I wasn’t always working, I was always studying. This is a very rare period of inactivity for me. If anything, it’s kind of sweet that I get to at least spend it away from home, in Northcote. Being here on my own actually feels like I am doing something, gathering new experiences before the new semester starts and I go on my way to fulfilling the learning requirements of my degree. I can’t wait to graduate, but at the same time I am terrified of what life outside of school will be like. It’s taking everything in me to stop myself going straight through to my masters. I know I’ll do that eventually, but I just want a year or so to myself, to see what I can do. I want to see what adult life is like. I want to move out properly, hopefully with Ikaros. I want to write professionally, and I will see what steps I have to take to get there.

I’ve just been trudging through these morning pages for the past few days, and thinking about how they’re going to work when I’m back at uni and facing 6 a.m. starts. Would I be typing on the train? I think it would be a good idea if I kept my data plan for the year, maybe a smaller plan like 3 GB a month rather than 7. It’s been a godsend having internet on my phone, and having a phone that can actually access the internet. I do miss the simplicity of my old Nokia brick though, and taking photos on it was something else. The picture quality was so low it was actually interesting. The camera on my new phone is horrendous. The front-facing camera has a knack of distorting anything that’s at the edge of the screen, and the landscape setting is completely skewed and stretched out. It takes a minute to focus after you press the capture button, so you’re holding the phone there weirdly, wondering if it’s taken the photo or not. I told my brother I might lend him my iPod so that he can keep using the internet while he waits for a new phone, but I don’t know if I can give up my iPod because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to take any decent photos at all, and I’m the kind of person who takes photos very liberally out in public. Not selfies, but things that I see that I want to share with people. Once, I saw a spider hanging onto the outside of the window on my train, and I posted a photo of it on Facebook and captioned it ‘fare-evading scum’ and it was a big hit. PTV (Public Transport Victoria) has always made such a huge deal about persecuting fare-evaders and at the time of the post, there were a whole bunch of new ads showing fare-evaders as blurred out, or fuzzy non-humans, basically dehumanising them like there was going to be a new genocide. Death to fare-evaders! It’s ludicrous (great rapper) how extreme they got with it. It was reminiscent of those piracy warning ads they run at the beginnings of DVDs, with that dangerously upbeat music. ‘You wouldn’t steal a car’, so on and so forth. The extremism of those ads just makes the message you’re sending sound really comical rather than serious. It was the same deal with PTV. Back when they were still called Metro, they had another ad campaign that gained global recognition for being equal parts adorable and informative: Dumb Ways To Die. It’s a song, and now two apps and I feel like everyone is on the way to forgetting that it was coined by a transportation service and it’s original message was that you have to be safe around trams and trains. Don’t you just love it when that happens? When something fantastic comes out of the mundane. I think that’s why everyone’s in love with memes right now, because they usually take something like stock photos and road signs and people cooking, and they find something obscure in all this mundanity and they turn it into something flexibly hilarious. By flexibly hilarious, I mean that thousands of other people can play around with this one image and somehow make it even more hilarious than that first original isolated image. Modern comedy.