#while the other half keeps insisting that these are common disorders

[wkemeup]

Sunrise (1)

summary: After an explosion takes his arm and his only sense of belonging, Bucky is content to live out the rest of his days in the hollow comfort of the dark. This is, until Sam drags him down to the local VA and he meets you. (Modern AU) pairings: bucky x reader chapter word count: 3.5k warnings: heavy focus on Bucky’s PTSD/anxiety, the first splinter in the wall around Bucky’s heart 🧡 series masterlist / series playlist

This was a bad idea. A monumentally bad idea.  

Bucky closed his apartment door behind him, pausing for a moment at the top of brownstone steps as a chill of autumn air swept by. Brittle to the touch, cool on his skin, it nestled into his spine and ached deep in his bones— in ones that had been long abandoned, too. The sun reflected against the shine of the pavement from last night’s rainfall, forcing Bucky to squint his eyes.  

Was it always so bright outside? Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t left his apartment for nearly a week before Sam threatened to turn him over to Steve that he’d forgotten how unpleasant the streets of New York could be. Loud. Cold. Chaotic.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, slipping out of the path of a jogger who nearly ran him over and had the gull to flip him the bird. Bucky groaned, curling his right hand into a fist and digging it deep into his pocket as he tried to calm the sudden racing in his chest. The free arm of his army jacket swung down by his left side, empty.  

Not even a few steps outside the sanctuary of closed curtains, warm bedsheets, and the unattended static of a decade old television, and Bucky was already regretting ever knowing Sam Wilson.  

Bucky turned towards the busy street ahead, staring up at the hustle of pedestrians and rush of taxis for a moment longer before he dared to take a step. His feet felt remarkably heavy and he had more than half a mind to tell Wilson to shove it and head back up to his apartment. He had better things to do than make a completely unnecessary trip to the VA.  

What those things were, he couldn’t say, but they didn’t make his heart feel like it was about to beat straight out of his chest. He could stare at a wall for a few hours, for example – see if he could find the crack in the drywall again and follow it to the ceiling.  

“Don't be a coward, Barnes,” Bucky grumbled to himself, earning a strange look from an elderly woman as she passed by. Her eyes held on him longer than she should; clearly a woman who had little shame in her degradation of strangers. 

He gritted his teeth and commanded his legs to move. Those worked, at least.  

As he made his way to the main street, his palm started to sweat inside his pocket. He could see his breath in every tense exhale, and still, he was boiling hot under his jacket. There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d remove it, because even with a sleeve hanging loose off his shoulder, he could at least keep up the pretense there was something inside. People would have to look twice before they realized. Wasn’t so easy to hide a missing arm in a short sleeve shirt.  

Still—he was thankful as he weaved his way upstream through the crowd that he wasn’t as broad as he used to be. A couple months' worth of weight loss, diminished muscle mass, and one less limb will do that do a guy.  

He used to be the sort of man that women would glance at as he passed by. Charming smile. Infectious energy. He could make a woman bite shamelessly at the edge of her bottom lip with a single trail of his eyes along her figure. Extend a hand, offer a drink and a dance. He used to hold confidence in every ounce of his body.  

Now, he kept his eyes on the pavement. He hid from the sun and the curious looks of strangers under the brim of a baseball cap. No one looked twice in his direction. He was invisible these days and that was just the way he liked it.  

By the time he reached the VA, he was surprised to find it a little less than pristine. The windows were dirty with handprints and smudges, the window panes covered in soot. A few of the roofing panels were missing from harsh New York winters. Even some of the outer brick wall had seen some weathering.  

Though, if he were honest, it wasn’t usual at all. Made some sense that the VA was left to wash and wear on its own, deteriorating in front of a busy street of onlookers, right out in plain sight. It was how Bucky felt after he’d come home from his last tour— discarded. Placed upon a pedestal, but only as long as you wear the uniform, only as long as you’re staring down the other end of a barrel. Once you’re shipped back home and cast out from desert, you’re made to fend for yourself. Pull up your bootstraps. Adjust.

Bucky wasn’t sure how to do that anymore. Sam insisted this would help. The people at the VA were good, he’d said. They were like him. They’d understand.  

While Bucky was suspicious, it was enough to drag him a couple blocks from his apartment. It was more than he’d done in weeks anyway. Sam would put on his makeshift shrink hat and call that a meaningful step. Bucky would call it pathetic.  

He stared at the double doors, focusing on dark red rust on the metal hinges. He wondered if he put enough pressure on the latch if it would snap clean off. It looked sharp on the edges, too. Someone could easily cut themselves on it if they weren’t careful—

BEEEEEEP!

A jolt surged through Bucky’s chest enough to nearly knocked him off his feet.  

Sudden flashes of a sweltering heat, the unnatural vibration of the desert under his feet. The car horn echoed into the back of his head, longer than it should have, and his ears started to ring. His vision felt tunneled and Bucky quickly stumbled his way through the double doors just to escape the blare of the horn outside.  

It took a minute to adjust to the dim lighting. It was darker inside than what he was expecting. He blinked a few times, hand resting on the wall to hold his balance as he looked around, shaking himself from the memories.  

Lamps were spread throughout the common room to offset the abrasive overhead lighting left untouched. Bucky started to wonder if he maybe it was on purpose, if he wasn’t the only one who had become sensitive to these things, when Sam walked into the room.  

He froze.  

“Holy shit!” Sam’s mouth rose up into that goddamn know-it-all smile, wide enough to show teeth and the dimples in his cheeks, and Bucky winced. Sam started to laugh as he crossed the space to where Bucky was standing. “I didn’t think you’d actually come!”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky shrugged, “I’m here. Don’t make this a big thing.”

“Who me?” Sam scoffed, feigning offense. “You know Steve’s the one who’s going to blow this up. He might throw a welcome party if you ever show up to the support group.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s not happening.”

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Sam nodded, though he was still smiling. He looked almost... proud? It didn’t sit well in Bucky’s stomach. “Still, got you out of that cramped apartment, didn’t I? You open those curtains yet or are you still living like a vampire?”

Bucky glared at him. Sure, Sam was right... but he didn’t need to know that.  

“Come on, I’ll show you around.” Sam put a hand on Bucky’s back to guide him down the hall.  

He was only one of two people Bucky tolerated touching him at all and he was lucky he didn’t flinch anymore. Even an innocent touch from his own mother when she tried to hold his hand after he came back from his final tour had nearly left him in a panic attack. She’d cried as Bucky desperately tried to gather his breath, shoving her away as if she’d burned him.  

Sam and Steve didn’t give him much of a choice. They didn’t handle him with kid gloves or treat him like he was about to break. Even if he was splintering at the seams, you’d never be able to tell with how Sam and Steve were around him; like old times, like nothing had changed, like they were still three kids dressed in fresh uniforms with chips on their shoulders and a whole new world ahead of them.

After a while, the small pats on the back and the nudges in his side became a small comfort; not that he’d tell them. It was a strange feeling to both be repulsed by touch and crave it. But the topic didn’t come up much these days outside of his friends anyway. No one tried to touch him and he didn’t seek it out. It was easier that way.  

“The kitchen’s over here,” Sam said as he pointed into a room that had likely once been covered in white tiles and appliances, though now resembled more of a pale yellow. Two men were hunched over at the table, nursing coffee out of Styrofoam cups as a woman waited eagerly by a toaster.  

“Everything in there is free rein,” Sam added. “Always stocked with food from donations, though I would make sure to check the expirations on the milk before adding it to your coffee.” He shivered at an unpleasant memory and Bucky found the edge of his mouth curl, though he suppressed it rather quickly. 

The next room was mostly empty save for the wooden lined floors and chairs folded up against the wall. A sheet covered the small window peering inside that read ‘group in session when closed.’

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sam started, to which Bucky narrowed his eyes, “but I’m not going to force you into the support group, Buck. You go when you’re ready. If you ever are. Talking about this stuff, or even listening to it... it isn't for everybody. Steve will get that, too. We all find our outlets eventually. You’ll find yours, too.��  

Bucky nodded, a swell of relief in his chest. He’d been forced into a mental evaluation by the army docs shortly after his discharge; something about routine testing, but he knew what they were looking for – what all those shrinks were looking for – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  

The nightmares came first, soon after he’d returned to the States. It started in screams that burned deep into his throat, waking up neighbors at two in the morning, finding blood in his bed from injuries he’d caused in his sleep. Lately they’d manifested into sweat drenched in his sheets and a heart rate that couldn’t seem to even out until the sun rose.  

Then came the jumpiness – the flinching at every loud noise, thinking it was a bomb or the latch of a safety. He’d broken more glasses than he cared to admit, knocking them straight of his hand at the sound of a gunshot on the television.  

Then the paranoia settled in, then the hypervigilance. The anxiety in crowds and tight spaces was new, though. Add it to the list, he supposed.  

Through all of it, he never let the shrink catch on. He’d put on a smile and tell them he was proud of his service, that he’d serviced his country with honor and he was thankful to return to the civilian side of things for a change.  

It was bullshit.  

He was pissed. He lost an arm and half his mind to a war that recruited him young and idealistic right out of high school, when he was looking for a better life than what his neighborhood could offer, to put food on the table for his ma and sister. Pissed was understated.  

He wouldn’t find himself in Steve’s group; of that he was certain. You don’t talk about those things after you leave the desert. Hell, you barely acknowledge them while you’re there. It’s just how it works. It’s how you deal with it. Bucky didn’t allow himself to consider whether his method was doing him much better.

Sam walked him through the common areas, the lounge space, even a room with a pretty decent sized television and a shelf filled with DVDs. It was a nice enough place. Quiet. But so was his apartment.  

“Now this is the best room in the house.” Sam opened a door on his left, the hinges squeaking under an old wooden frame as he stepped inside.  

Bucky followed in closely behind and was surprised when a subtle scent of pine brushed his senses. A small candle was burning at the center of a coffee table, surrounding it were a few couches, all with mismatched fabrics, laid upon a carpet that looked to have been donated from an estate sale. The walls around him were lined with shelves, though they were completely empty. Cob webs hung in the corners and dust lined the wood.  

What caught his eye was a single cart at the edge of the room. It was filled with books, all in bright colors on the binding and tags from the Brooklyn Public Library piled high on top of one another, far beyond the confines of the cart itself.  

“Y/n? Where you at, kid? We got a newbie!” Sam called, nudging Bucky in the side with a playful wink he did not return.  

A figure suddenly jumped from behind the couch with a book in hand covered in layers of dust and crumbs. The sudden movement forced a flinch deep in Bucky’s chest, his breath held tight in his lungs, though he kept himself firm on the surface, like stone. It took a minute before he realized how tight he’d barreled his fist and he slowly released his grip before Sam could notice.  

“Been looking for this one for over a year!” you exclaimed, holding up the book for Sam to see. You brushed off the cover, restoring the original vibrant hue of the artwork. “Can’t even imagine the overdue fees I’ve racked up on this sucker...”

There was a strange lightness in your voice Bucky didn’t expect, a tenderness and a sunshine that didn’t belong amongst the dark overcast of the men and women who occupied these rooms. It certainly sat in dangerous contrast to the gravel and stone in Bucky’s voice and the clouds that usually followed in his wake.

He glanced down at his clothes as you approached; a pair of old ripped jeans from a few years ago, a faded t-shirt, and his army jacket hung over his shoulders. Dull and raggedy, ripping at the seams.

But you? Dressed in the warmest shade of a red knit sweater, a gentle glow on your cheeks, a softness about your movements, you resembled the sort of sunset at the end of a highway one would stop the car to capture on film. Inviting. Tender and ethereal. Lovely.  

You stepped closer and he noticed the knees of your jeans were covered in dust, your palms too. Messy in the pursuit of happiness, like a child on a playground. You didn’t seem to mind the dust as you brushed it off your knees, holding the found book close to your chest like an extension of your own heart.

“Blame it on Lang. He's always losing stuff around here,” Sam offered as you set the book on the cart. You started to laugh and swatted Sam in the arm. A pout perched on your lips, though it didn’t seem to last long. Your laugh was infectious.  

Bucky swallowed as he watched you; the way your smile wrinkled up into your eyes as if a face like yours was drawn and designed to curve at the lips and push dimples to your cheeks. It shined into the bright hues in your irises and Bucky wondered if you would keep smiling like that forever, if it were possible that he could stare into the sun and not be burned; if instead, he could find warmth in its embrace.  

His heart stammered, his breath shallow, but it wasn’t unpleasant like it had been on the busy streets. It was something new, a sensation he hadn’t had since before he signed his name to a cause that took his arm and his dignity.  

Y/n, Sam had called you. It was a beautiful name. He didn’t know if he could even find things beautiful again after what he’d seen overseas. You were the first, he supposed.  

He must have been staring too long, because your lips were moving to words he didn’t hear, and suddenly two pairs of eyes were on him. His heart skipped, frozen in embarrassment.  

“This must be your first day of school,” you teased, extending your right hand to him.  

Bucky stared down at it, heart pounding, and before Sam could politely tell you that Bucky didn’t really do that sort of thing, he pulled his hand from his pocket and shook it. You had a firmer grip than he was expecting, but still soft. Your fingers were like ice and it was a nice contrast to the swelter he felt under his jacket.  

Sam raised an eyebrow, surprised by Bucky's sudden willingness to take the hand of a stranger, though thankfully he didn’t say anything. A shit eating grin curved up upon his lips and that, Bucky could have done without.  

“Thought it was time I checked it out,” Bucky said, his voice a little dry. You let go of his hand and Bucky found he missed the contact almost instantly.  

“Dragged him here by the skin of his teeth is more like it,” Sam interjected and Bucky’s ears burned red. He shot Sam a glare, who only shrugged, unbothered by his humiliation of his friend. “Been trying to get his sorry ass through the door for a few months now.”

You nodded, though your smile never wavered. Your eyes remained on Bucky, listening to Sam, but intently studying the lines on Bucky’s face. It left him feeling exposed, but somehow, even as his own gaze trailed to the floor, he didn’t mind you watching him like that, like maybe you found worth in what you saw. He adjusted his stance, suddenly remembering the startling absence on his left.  

“Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” you said, brushing Sam off in his teasing. “I’ve been volunteering at this place for a little over a year. We got good people here. I’m sure you’ll fit right in...” you paused, biting on your lip.  

“Bucky,” he offered because he could tell you were waiting for it. You smiled at his name and a sense of pride burned bright in his chest. God, if he could just make you smile like that again...

“Bucky’s a cool name,” you grinned, though Sam rolled his eyes. “That short for something?”

“Don’t lie to the new kid, Y/n. We all know it’s corny as hell,” Sam interrupted playfully before Bucky could get a word in. You wacked Sam on the shoulder and Bucky felt the edges of his lips curve. It felt strange, achy, like he hadn’t done that in a while. Maybe he hadn’t.  

“Buchanan,” Bucky answered, though he quickly added, “but my first name’s James. James Barnes.”

“Well, James Barnes,” you started, exchanging a knowing look with Sam that made Bucky’s stomach twist in knots, “I run a book club of sorts on Sunday evenings around six. You should swing by. We’re always looking for new members.”

“Y/n works at the Brooklyn library most days,” Sam explained. “We’re lucky to have her. Never thought I’d see so many tattooed men with biceps the size of my head sitting in a circle talking ‘bout books, but Y/n works magic. Everyone loves her. Helps that her book club is pretty unconventional.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Unconventional?”

Sam started to say more, but you pouted your lips at him and he left the words on the edge of his tongue. He held up his hands in defense and took a step back, returning the smile to your face.  

“Don’t listen to him,” you said, laughing so sweetly Bucky was sure his knees might give out at any second. “It’s a good time, I promise. No pressure at all.”

Bucky nodded, considering his options. The idea of seeing you again could make the walk down to the VA worth it, but he wasn’t sold on the concept of sitting in a room full of ex-combat vets probably using a shared book as a proxy for a support group. He wondered if you had them reading something about PTSD or adjusting to civilian life or a memoir of some guy embellishing his time overseas to make a quick buck.  

But he wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, so he asked, “what are you reading?”  

You shrugged. “Depends on who you ask.”  

Bucky raised an eyebrow, confused.  

“Just think about it,” you suggested as you unclicked the lock at the bottom of the cart. The front wheel was broken and you struggled to get an angle to move in the direction you pushed it. “I should head back to the library. It was really nice to meet you, Bucky. I’ll see you later, Sam.”

Bucky nodded, finding himself searching for something else to say, some kind of excuse to get you to stay longer, but came up empty. You smiled at him, all bright and starry eyed, and his knees felt weak again. Shit.  

“Don’t let Stark talk your ear off on the way out,” Sam warned, a laugh in his voice.  

“I think I know my boys around here by now, Samuel,” you teased back. Bucky couldn’t quite tell if it was a pang of jealousy in his stomach or an eagerness to be included. It was a strange rush of feelings he hadn’t tapped into in years; not necessarily unpleasant, but certainly unfamiliar.  

You paused by the door, turning back and capturing Bucky’s eye one last time. “Sunday at six, alright? I’ll see you there.”

He didn’t say anything, but you seemed to take his silence as confirmation. You gave him a final wave before you disappeared into the hallway. He could hear the click of the broken front wheel on your cart echoing down the hall.  

Bucky and Sam followed you out of the room and hung back by the makeshift library doors.  

“What did I tell you!” Sam cheered, nudging Bucky hard enough on the side to knock him off his balance. He was too fixated on watching grumpy old men and stone-faced women pass by in the hallway with smiles on their faces as they saw you.  

“It’s, uh, it’s not bad.” Bucky waited until you disappeared out the front doors and onto the busy sidewalks before he turned to Sam. He was watching him with a sort of I-told-you-so look that made Bucky want to slap the dimples straight from his face. “...what?”

“Nothing, man.” Sam shrugged, though there was something lingering in the smirk he wore, like maybe he knew something Bucky didn’t.  

He didn’t care for that one bit.

[danielxricciardo]

Can you do one with Max, with 46 and 55 from angst list?

Summary: You are suffering from depression and Max tries to be by your side

Warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of suicide, depression

Word count: 3.6k+

46. “I’ll leave, and the world will move on. I just wish I could see it. See how much better everything is when I’m gone.”

55. “You’re good at finding things. Find me a reason to stay.”

Depression feels like a lot of things.

It feels like sadness, which is what everyone will tell you. It's a pretty common thread.

"I'm worthless."

"Everyone thinks I'm a horrible burden."

So on and so forth.

Everyone in the world is happy but you, and in the end, you are a worthless piece of shit that doesn't belong in this otherwise glorious and happy place. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and you are lying there on your bed in the same unlaundered pair of pajamas, wondering why you are even allowed to keep living any longer. Some meteor strikes or lightning bolts should be reserved for people like you because you are taking up space and oxygen and food and other resources that real, happy, productive people need.

It feels like emptiness. You have all these possibilities and none of them seem interesting. You could do some art, or play some music, but that just doesn't feel right. There's no joy in it. You could have sex with your significant other, but you can't muster up the desire. You could play video games, or read a book. But what's the point? There's no real benefit to all of it but passing the time. You could get up and make lunch. But no, you're not that hungry, and if you close your eyes, time will pass a little faster. You can lie there. That works. It doesn't require active effort to do something fruitless. Everything is as empty and fruitless as lying and staring out your window at the clouds and the shifting shadows of tree branches, and so why do anything else?

It feels like fatigue. Standing up out of your bed requires the same amount of bodily effort as climbing several flights of stairs. Managing to get dressed and walk outside is like running a race. Heaven helps you if you try to go to the store or a friend's house -- that may as well be on the other side of the continent. Every step is heavy. Every muscle motion requires ten times the work it used to. Exercise becomes difficult, and control over your body expires quickly. You become clumsier, so heavy lifting is right out. You daze out randomly, daydreaming, even dozing, so biking or running is hard. You feel most at home when you are entirely relaxed, so you lie down...and don't get up again until something like your bladder compels you.

It feels like a loss of control. You have no idea why your brain and body are doing this. You don't want to feel sad. Nobody wants to feel shitty and tired and empty all the time. People will look at you and say, "It's like you don't want to get better." Those people are idiots. You truly, deeply, from the bottom of your soul, have no idea why this has happened or what to do. It's not logical. It makes no sense. You woke up like this, or it crept in overtime or something like that. It's like a fog, a force of nature that sweeps in, occludes everything, and there's not one thing you can do about it from where you stand. Trying feels like taking a paper fan outside and trying to blow away the morning mist. Someone has tied puppet strings to your brain and is playing this hideous dance with it, and you don't have the scissors to cut them away. The dance doesn't make sense; it's arbitrary and rhythmless. If you had any sort of reasoning behind it, you could take control. But you don't.

It feels like desperation. You can't find a way out. You lie there at night, keening into your pillow like a wounded animal, making all sorts of noises that no human being should be able to make. You claw and scratch at the sheets, or at yourself, as the pain wrings itself out through bodily expression. The tears won't stop. You don't know why. All you know is that it hurts, it really and truly hurts, and you think if it goes on any longer, you're going to die. Right there. Bleed out on the floor. So you grab up your phone, and you call someone at 4 AM, and you beg them to please just make it stop. You bury yourself in books and movies because at least then you can imagine something else than yourself. You read nonstop. You have to have your fix. It's like an addiction, no, more like a life support machine. Otherworlds, fantasies of happiness, and real experiences that aren't your horrible existence become the iron lung keeping air flowing in and out. You are alive because you can stop thinking for a while. Your friends come over to comfort you. Their stories keep you sane and well, like dialysis for all the toxins in you. Your mind has failed at being independent, and now it relies on a thousand little machines to keep itself running. You rely on one machine until another comes to save you. You read books until your friends come by. You stretch out your time with friends until you have to bury yourself in a movie again just to keep the thought of real-life away.

It feels like untamed anger. Your friends can't keep this up forever. You fall further and further, and you eventually start dropping commitments. You have become That Person, the flake that everyone knows will back out. People start getting annoyed at you, annoyed at how they have to spend so much time just keeping you afloat, annoyed at how often you're causing them trouble by constantly disappearing and backing out of appointments, and so on. Your workplace gets annoyed at your lack of productivity. And then you can't take it anymore, and you want to scream at them, grab them by the throat and shake them because IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT! You start having twisted fantasies, the ones where you walk up to that person who keeps telling you he can't do this anymore, you're just too unreliable, putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger. Just to make him know, for once, that FUCK HIM, your problems are REAL, DAMMIT, REAL, and he better FUCKING RESPECT that. And when you're gone, he'll fall to his knees and cry, and he'll say, he wishes he had understood, that he didn't mean to be so unkind, and the scar on his heart from his own failure will remain fresh and knotted for eternity. And then you shake yourself out of the daydream, and you wonder why you have turned into such a horrible person, someone who even considers ending their own life just to spite another human being. Then it creeps back in, the knowledge that the world is getting fed up with you...and the cycle begins again. You start thriving off these daydreams, because at the very least if you can't be happy, you can throw caution to the wind and get the petty, oddly satisfying revenge buried under all those layers of morality that are becoming worn and flaking away. It's just a fantasy, right? And it helps pass the time...

It feels like forever. You have forgotten what it's like to truly be joyful. You can imagine it, but it's not really you in those thoughts. This is who you are. This is your life. This is you.

It feels like you have only one thing truly under your power: your existence. You cannot choose what life throws at you. Your brain and body have betrayed you. Your friends have worn away, and you've fled from your job and any commitments you have.

It feels empowering. You can jump whenever you want.

But he accepted you the way you are. He never reproached you for negatively influencing his mentality or life, even though you knew he felt it too. He always listened to you, he was with you even at 2 in the morning when you were crying on the bathroom floor with your knees to your chest, and you knew it wasn't right. It wasn't right for him to go through, basically, what you were going through. But no matter how much you told him you could do it without his help, Max was coming back more insistently than ever.

He came up with the idea to start therapy. "You have to find out why you feel this way. Go at least once, see how it is, if you don't like it or feel that it doesn't help you, you will give up, okay?" That was a year and a half ago.

The psychologist gave you a diagnosis from the first session: Major Depressive Disorder. Sure you knew what the three words meant, but you didn't know what it meant to have a label on your condition.

"A major depressive disorder is characterized by one or more of these depressive episodes. the diagnosis of major depressive disorder requires depressed mood or anhedonia which is the loss of interest in pleasure and five or more signs or symptoms for the SIGECAPS mnemonic for a 2-week period. (SIGECAPS) Sleep Disturbance, loss of Interest, feeling Guilty, feeling fatigued and low in Energy, having decreased Concentration, decreased or increased Appetite and been agitated and slow and having Suicidal ideation."

It sounds incredible to you. Suicidal thoughts? Not everyone has a thought, somewhere, behind their mind 'What if I disappeared?'

You were prescribed Prozac and Zoloft and it helped. You weren't always sad anymore, you could go to the races with Max and support him as a normal girlfriend does. You apologized to my friends who tried to help me and whose lives you made impossible and you managed to get back to work, from home anyway. Sure, you still had moments when you felt like you weren't 100% yourself but not like before. You did therapy twice a week and the psychologist was happy with your evolution.

But being the stupid ass that you are, you stopped taking the medication. You took the last pill on Friday. Because you were fine. You felt ok, everyone around you told you you were better, you were doing amazing, so you were cured, right? Or so you thought. Saturday was normal. Sunday was not. Your mood and energy were very low. You woke up at like 2 in the afternoon. That is not unusual for you. You’re used to it. You were sad. You were exhausted. You knew that feeling like this was “no excuse” so you tried to force yourself to do it anyway. Typical of your life. You feel like you had already taken so much off work because of the triple-header, you were for three weeks attached to the hips with Max.

The only thing you thought of was dying. And that terrified you. And Max senses something was wrong. But he didn't want to tell something and ending up being wrong and you being upset by his misinterpretation. But, yes, he sensed that you were becoming your old self.

"Hey, babe," he snapped you out of your daydreaming. A tragic one, where you were finally at peace and Max was crying for you. You were on the verge of crying yourself at the mere image of Max in your head. But you pushed it far from your mind, somewhere in a dark corner for you to find it at an appropriate time to fantasize about your dying. "How about we go to a picnic? It's sunny outside."

Yes, the wheater was amazing. It was finally summer and you could go outside and spend some time with Max. But your brain literally is tricking you into thinking you don't deserve to enjoy the sunny day. Why? You don't have an answer.

"I'm not really in the mood, Max. Sorry."

You are not in the mood. That was his affirmation. You are not ok.

"You feeling good?"

"Yeah. Just tired I guess."

"But you just woke up."

You shrugged. He was right. You just woke up, so why do you feel like you were carrying a ton of bricks on your shoulders? You couldn't walk. You almost felt like 18 months ago. And that is when it hit you. And Max, at the same time.

"Still taking your meds, I hope."

Silence. Your mind was like overcrowded and you couldn’t take it anymore. You grabbed your head and pulled your hair because you wanted it to stop. You were thinking that you didn’t know what to think. You didn’t know how to think. You didn’t know how you felt. You were like anxious-depressed-angry-miserable-irritable all in one. Your head was spinning with thoughts. Thoughts were talking over thoughts. So fast that you couldn’t even make out one complete sentence. It was just too much for you to handle. You just wanted someone to kill you.

Max came to you and he hugged you so hard you thought he could crush your bones right there and then. You calmed down eventually. But now you were embarrassed. Because Max saw you, again, at your lowest. Because you promised you'll get better, and for a while, you were better, but now you are fucked and back into square one. All those money on therapy and your pills, for what? For you to stop taking them because you thought you were feeling better? Well, you definitely were not ok, nor you'll be. So, yeah, being fucked sounded good.

Max brought you the medicine and a glass of water. Taking the pills again? For what? The pills only fuel the feeling that everything is fine and that you are a normal person. Nothing was good and you were not a normal person.

But you took the pills. And you looked Max in the eyes and you wanted to die. He seemed crushed. He was sad, devastated, maybe angry but definitely disappointed. In you. Because maybe you don't realize this, but while you were doing good, he was doing great. He knew you could be on your own so he stopped worrying that much, and that could also be seen in his driving. He was winning more races, he was at his best and now he was at his lowest. Because you were at your lowest; co-dependency and shit.

"I'm sorry, baby. I thought I was doing well enough to stop taking the meds," you say in a broken voice but the tears are yet to appear. He stroked your hair and kissed you on your forehead.

"You should have told me. You don't have to go thru this alone. I am here."

"Yeah, you are here. But you don't have to be!" you snapped. Irritability, one thing your depression came with. "I am just a burden for you. And no, this does not come from the fact I stopped taking my pills. You took care of me like I was a child, and, fuck it, you don't deserve this."

"Stop talking like this, alright? If I would suffer from depression you would have done the same thing. You would have taken care of me. Or am I wrong?"

"You are not wrong. To be honest, I don't think I would be here if it wasn't for you, but I don't want you to be. It's obvious that I would never get better. This is me. I am fucked in the head, half wishing I was dead and I am just bringing you down."

"Don't tell me this is a fucking break up, Y/N." he narrows his brows and looks at your features to make sure you were being serious.

“I’ll leave, and the world will move on. I just wish I could see it. See how much better everything is when I’m gone.”

"What the fuck are you talking about? Is this a break-up or a suicidal vocal note?"

You broke down. Crying can be cathartic and healthy, but if it goes on too long it can lock your body in a feeling of despair. Even if your mind works through the problem that caused the crying, because your body is still feeling the physical effects it will cause your mind to revert to the negative state. It's not sadness. It's dread and paralysis. You had a certain feeling of emptiness and purposelessness.

“You’re good at finding things. Find me a reason to stay,” you say between sobs.

"You want me to find you a reason to stay alive or to stay in this relationship? To be frank, I can name a thousand reasons, but it all depends on you."

Max hugs you from behind and you lay your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat that was stronger than ever. You allowed yourself to inhale Max's scent, a soothing scent you could get drunk on.

"I want to believe you love me. I mean, I love you and I consider you the love of my life, you know? We are so young and I know it doesn't feel like it, but I promise you, I'm gonna marry you someday, even if right now you don't think you're gonna make it till tomorrow. So, yeah, this is reason number one," he said and pressed a kiss to your cheek. "This is not the worst you have been through in life. Remember where you were 18 months ago; you had no idea what was wrong with you. Now you know and you know you can be better. I know you get sick of those pills, but maybe, in the future, you won't need them. Isn't that exciting? This was reason number two," he said and pressed another kiss to your cheek. He was going to do that every time he would give you a reason. "Have you been to all the beautiful places around the world? Sure, you came to a few Grand Prix, but you never saw Great Ocean Road in Australia, you know Daniel promised he would take us there someday. You never saw Pamukkale in Turkey or Japan in Cherry Blossom season or the Blue Lagoon in Iceland. There are many places you need to visit, baby. So, yeah, this was reason number three. I don't know if you want me to continue but I can give you one more reason. Reason number four. Do it for you, baby. You deserve to live and be happy. I know you can be happy and I promise you I will do my best to help you. You just have to take it one step at a time. You just have to let me in. Let me help you, baby."

You turn around, facing him now. You loved him, with all of your heart. You love him for who he is. You love him because he literally came into your life as your lifeline. You love him because he helped you crawl up the deep bottomless abyss of depression. You love him because he had the patience and the audacity to bear with your depression, anxiety, and panic attacks, your phobias, your mood swings, your temperamental and short-tempered nature, your overthinking, your being overprotectiveness, and possessiveness. You love him because never once he thought of giving up on you in your hard times. You love him because he stands by you like a rock of unwavering support and he’s someone you can fall back on. You love him because he listens to you talking non-stop about your past, your pains, your fears, and your losses without complaining even once. You love him because he rediscovered you and helped you find yourself again when you were lost in darkness. You love him because he filled you with confidence and hope and strength and belief and determination. You love him because he believes you are the best when you set your mind on something and no one can stop you from achieving your goals. You love him because he is protective, caring, understanding, loving, and easy to be with while never being too suffocating or taking up your space. You love him because sooner or later he does everything you ask of him and does with his whole attention. You love him because whatever endeavor he engages in, he likes to give his 100% and hates doing half-hearted things. You love him because he can decode the nuances in your voice and judge your mood just perfectly. You love him because he read you like an open book and he can hear your silence. You love him because he never doubts your loyalty, your intentions, your hard work, and your million issues. You love him because no matter how busy he might get he never forgets that you are waiting for his message or his call. You love him because he keeps you in his priorities. You love him because he gave you a passion you never knew you had. You love him because he very strongly believes that you deserve the best of everything. You love him because he is empathic, kind, magnanimous, thoughtful, and down to Earth. You love him because he has eyes for no one but you. You love him because he wants to see you healthy, wealthy, prosperous, famous and he wants you to hold back at nothing, for no one, he wants you to be a Go-Getter. And most importantly you love him because no one ever loved you like he did.

"I will let you in," you say and you kiss him hard. "I'm sorry for the scene I caused."

"Don't be. It happens."

[cyokie]

Jack Vessalius as a Symbol for Depression

Ever since I first read PandoraHearts, I have interpreted Jack Vessalius as at least a partial symbolic representation of depression, especially in his relationship with Oz. 

(Skip to “keep reading” to go straight to the analysis; this beginning portion is little more than a disclaimer.)

Jack is a complex, fascinating character, and it is precisely due to this that I believe any number of interpretations regarding him contain merit. Whether you view Jack as an abuser, a manifestation of mental illness, or an extraordinarily-written character that does not require a figurative understanding to be interesting, I think this is valid. 

I am saying this first and foremost because I want to be clear: this is not a persuasive essay. I am not trying to change anybody’s minds about liking or disliking Jack Vessalius, nor am I trying to devalue any other interpretations of this extremely nuanced character. Some points may be a bit vague and connections disjointed, though I attempted to minimize this. Any discussion of mental illness and abuse is based on either my personal experiences or those of people I know. I do not intend to offend anybody. 

This post is simply the product of years of disorganized yet in-depth thoughts about this concept. I hope some of you will be interested.

Major spoilers for the entire manga below the cut. Manga panels are from the Fallen Syndicate fan translation. This...is going to get very long.

Emotional Abuse

Jack exists within Oz’s mind. When these two interact, it almost always occurs within Oz’s head, providing every conversation with an inherently emotional and symbolic element. 

Jack initially appears to Oz as an unknown but crucial figure. Whether he is trustworthy or even harmful remains to be seen, but his input is necessary. He is the only insight Oz has into his lost memories; he knows something Oz does not. Oz is suffering an identity crisis, realizing he has endured something he does not completely understand, something that could potentially change his entire life once he does understand it. And yet, this mysterious voice within his head understands it.  

This desperation makes it almost irrelevant whether Jack is credible, whether his advice is well-intentioned. Normally a rather cynical and distrusting young man, Oz follows Jack from the beginning despite wanting answers. He does indeed receive answers, but they are perhaps not quite what he bargained for, in more ways than one.

Once Jack’s true nature is revealed, the extent to which he has used Oz’s memories and emotions against him becomes apparent. Jack does present Oz with new insights into his experiences, but he only ever provides Oz with enough information to convince him to act a certain way. He never willingly gives a fair, all-encompassing portrayal of an event from Oz’s past. He manipulates Oz’s perceptions of his memories to fit a particular emotional narrative, one that is inevitably perplexing and demeaning to Oz. 

This bears a resemblance to the way depression warps how we view past events. When we look back at our experiences, we don’t see the entire picture--though we are convinced that we may. We see a skewed version of an incident that actually occurred. Perhaps this incident proves little to nothing about ourselves in reality, but viewed through the lens of depression, everything about it seems to scream that we are useless. And it is nearly impossible to try and perceive these events any differently, because when depression overtakes our minds, this perspective appears to be the only one through which it is possible to examine any of our pasts. 

By the time Jack’s intentions have been exposed, he is also explicitly emotionally abusive towards Oz. It is easy to recognize Jack’s statements as not only psychologically damaging, but disturbingly similar to what we hear in our own heads when suffering depression. Think about these assertions without the very literal plot elements that support them: Jack declares Oz less than human, insists that nobody loves him, and claims that he has no future because the only thing he’s good for is hurting those around him. He convinces Oz that he is useless, hopeless, and worthless. 

Jack drills these ideas into Oz’s head when he is at his most vulnerable. This is when Oz breaks down and becomes convinced that all of Jack’s statements are true. He is not who he thought he was; he never has been, and so his life is meaningless. 

This is arguably when Oz reaches his all-time emotional low. While it was already addressed that he had been struggling intensely with his mental health and was probably suicidal, up to this point, he always retained some level of self-preservation (however slight). Now, he silently accepts that the world would be better off without him and offers no physical or emotional resistance to his own execution. Jack’s words worm their way into his heart and corrupt his self-image to the point where his only reaction to Oswald’s sword swinging towards him is a blank, unflinching stare. 

Trauma Response

It’s not uncommon for Jack to manifest during catastrophic moments--that is, whenever a situation triggers (or comes close to triggering) overwhelming memories of Oz’s trauma. When Oz is losing control over his emotional and physical faculties, Jack often encourages him to make the trigger disappear using the quickest and easiest method available. Unsurprisingly, this method generally takes advantage of Oz’s extraordinary powers. In other words, the “tactic” Jack advises Oz to use is simply mindless destruction.

In the second half of the manga, Oz is at his least emotionally stable. It is not a coincidence that this is also the point during which Jack gains the ability to completely hijack Oz’s body. This development allows Jack to commit impulsive acts of aggression through Oz, while Oz himself retains little to no control.

Jack overwhelms Oz with unnecessary flashbacks to traumatic events and makes an excess of harmful connections between past and present circumstances. Oz’s panicked, distressed responses to this are tools he uses to further coax Oz into acting in a self-destructive manner. These tendencies may not only connect Jack to the concept of depression, but the concept of post-traumatic stress disorder as well. 

Identity Crisis

Although Jack is introduced extremely early in the manga, one of the story’s main mysteries is the exact nature of his connection to Oz. This relationship shifts several times, especially with regards to who is “in control” and who is the true “owner” of the physical body. 

Once it becomes public knowledge that Jack is “within” Oz, the identity of the former overcomes the identity of the latter in the eyes of the general populace. Figures who never before gave Oz a second glance begin to pay incredibly close attention to him; many directly address him through his connection to Jack rather than as a separate entity. 

Oz is deeply troubled by the way others ignore him in favor of an aspect of his identity that he feels does not truly represent him--an aspect of his identity that is at least partially out of his control. However, he is also relatively resigned to being judged in this manner. He lacks knowledge of how to change this circumstance because even he does not truly understand the extent to which he and Jack are connected. 

It is true that at this point in the story, Jack is practically worshipped. His destructive actions and devastatingly selfish nature have not yet been exposed. Because of this, Oz as Jack’s “vessel” is typically viewed through a positive lens. Still, this situation reflects how people with depression are sometimes reduced to nothing more than a mental illness by their peers. Because others do not understand (and mental illness is stigmatized), they start to see us as “different” in some indefinable but undeniable way, and our existence becomes that particular part of ourselves in their eyes. 

As time passes, the line between Jack and Oz becomes more and more blurred. Questions are raised about whether they are the same person or, on the contrary, whether they are similar at all. At what is arguably the climax of the manga, Jack declares that Oz’s body is, was, and will always be his possession; he claims that in reality, there is no “Oz,” only “Jack.” 

This thought haunts Oz intensely and sends him into a rapid downward spiral. Like the sentiments expressed near the end of the “emotional abuse” section of this analysis, the idea that Oz’s body belongs to Jack is backed up by rigid, literal plot elements. However, if we view this emotional catastrophe using a symbolic perspective, it is a representation of yet another common struggle endured by those with depression.

We come to ask ourselves who we really are. Was there truly a time when we weren’t “like this?” Could we truly escape this misery in the future? Who would we be if we were to stop feeling this way? Do we even exist without depression? Does Oz even exist without Jack?

Visual Symbolism

It is a classic literary device to represent hope through light and despair through darkness. The manga is rife with this exact type of symbolism, utilizing it to describe how the Abyss has changed throughout time, Break’s dwindling eyesight, and the oscillating emotional states of various characters. 

As I stated previously, Jack and Oz interact almost exclusively within the latter’s mind. The landscape drawn in the background of these conversations initially possesses a watery, clear appearance. However, as it becomes increasingly clear that Jack’s presence is deeply damaging to Oz’s psyche, this same landscape becomes overwhelmingly tainted by dark, ink-like shadows. 

Closer examination reveals that this “pollution” originates directly from Jack--and it reaches its peak once Jack’s intentions have been fully disclosed. Not only is Oz’s mind visibly corrupted by darkness, but Jack himself appears as an almost inhuman figure composed of these shadows. 

There is another level of visual symbolism as well--namely, the fact that Jack becomes increasingly physically aggressive and disrespectful towards Oz. In the first half of the manga, he primarily speaks to Oz from a distance, occasionally reaching out a hand in his direction. This is clearly not so in the second half of the manga, at which point Oz begins to defy his influence and it becomes vital that he subjugate him as quickly as possible.

By this time, Jack is almost always seen either restraining or caressing Oz. Even in the latter situation, when his touches are lingering and vaguely affectionate, they are possessive and constraining. In other words, though they appear different on the surface, both actions are ultimately methods of forcing Oz’s submission. It can be said that this represents his desire to gain complete control over all aspects of Oz’s being, as well as his total lack of respect for Oz’s physical and emotional autonomy.

It can be argued that both of these aspects of symbolism reach their pinnacle even before this point. Oz realizes his own worth when Oscar says he loves him and reveals that his greatest desire is for him to be happy. When Oz is at last able to grasp that he is loved and there is hope within his life, Jack immediately reaches out to grab him. And in one of the manga’s subtlest but most poignant moments, his hand crumbles to dust upon touching Oz. 

What follows is an extremely impactful display of Oz’s character development. He recalls Jack’s previous statements declaring his achievements worthless, denouncing the love he received from others as fake, and degrading his worth. Then he furiously rejects all of them, thrusting out a hand to push Jack away from him and consuming Jack in an explosion of light. 

The conclusion to be drawn from this is that Jack essentially lives off Oz’s misery. When Oz understands and is able to accept that he is not worthless, Jack is suddenly rendered utterly powerless. 

The manga culminates in a scene that coincides with this symbolism. This late into the story, Oz has succeeded in transcending Jack’s influence almost entirely, but Jack is not quite ready to let go. Though they stand together within a void, glimmers of light linger around Oz--despite everything, his life has come to be surrounded by hope and love. 

As Oz floats towards the path of light above, Jack reaches out and takes hold of his wrist. But his grip is feeble and hesitant, representing how little control he truly holds over Oz at this point. Perhaps attempting to provoke guilt or regret, Jack asks Oz if he is certain that he is prepared to move on without him, but Oz has grown too much to succumb to this manipulation. 

Without delay, Oz replies that there is no reason for him to stay, and Jack finally releases him. He escapes into the light--into a world full of people who care about him, into a life where he is happy to be alive. 

[goonandfightme]

Numbers Pt.1

After a particularly horrifying case involving a serial killer starving his victims, Spencer Reid of the BAU relapses into old habits as past trauma resurfaces. The team slowly catches on as Reid falls further into his eating disorder and addictions but will they be able to help him before it's too late?

Pt.1 Concentrate

Trigger Warnings - EDs, drug use and addiction, child abuse.

Spencer Reid knew he has a problem at age 10. He had a routine, and once Spencer Reid had a routine it became part of him. He would wake up at 6 am, ensure his mother was asleep, pick his outfit for the day. His messenger bag would be packed with textbooks, notes and pens. He would brush his teeth, shower, then get dressed He went through this mental checklist, these motions were fluid, practised and precise. The clock would read 7:30 am, he would leave the house to grab the bus to go to school. High school. He was two years short of graduation, his mother had insisted on it, he was smart, he was special, he could be anything he wanted, he could have anything he wanted.

He would leave his lunch behind.

He would get picked on, laughed at, kicked, bruised all too easily, then go home. If his mother was lucid, he would have a proper meal, if not, whatever he could reach from the cupboards. He was malnourished, the corner of his lips cracked from b-vitamin deficiency, the rims of his eyes white from anaemia, his hair messy and breaking. People only knew him as his shadow of himself, no concerns were raised.

He would complete his homework, lay on his bed, his heart would palpitate, his world would spin. No one noticed, his grades hadn’t slipped, he never participated in sports. No one noticed.

His alarm sounded; it was 6 am. He started again; his lungs screamed, his heart pounded, and his headache came back, he always had a headache, but Spencer Reid had a routine, and he would stick to it. He went to check on his mother.

--Present Day--

It was six-thirty and Reid was getting ready for his day at work, removing his pyjamas while he waited for the shower to heat. The top came over his head easily, it was baggy, it was more than a couple of months old, it didn’t fit him anymore. He looked forward towards the full body mirror, tossing the clothes into the hamper, his face was thin, as it always had been, even when he was a healthy weight he’d always struggled with his figure. Brushing his hair out of his face he looked closer running his fingers over his features, saw how his eyes were more hallow, he pulled the lower lid down the reveal the ghostly white colour it had become, his cheekbones slightly more pronounced and painful to press against, his jaw slightly sharper in contrast to how he felt. His hand dipped and traced over his ribs, he could count them all, name them if he wanted, then his hand lowered to his wrist. His thumb and middle finger enclosing the joint, measuring how far he could raise it, whether it would come past his elbow, would it fit past his bicep. It stopped just after his elbow and he squeezed as if trying to rip his flesh after, from the bone, the white marks lingered across the already pale limb.

“White marks that last after applying pressure to the skin suggest poor blood circulation, common among those with anorexia nervosa.” There was no one there to hear him but when he was alone, he liked to talk aloud it helped him think through things slower, it helped keep him calm. “It also causes the exterminates to become cold and discoloured,” he looked down towards his feet. He removed his trousers, the shower warm and producing a numbing white noise as Reid continued his routine. Checking how each bone moved under his skin, thin, grey and translucent. He had so much more to lose.

“Grey skin indicates poor blood oxygenation, which can be caused by anaemia, a low level of iron within the blood that prevents red blood cells from delivering oxygen effectively. A common symptom of malnutrition.” He breathed out slowly to calm himself as he turned on his heel to enter the shower, it was much warmer than his apartment, the floor cold and unwelcoming, he was always cold anyway. He made quick work of scrubbing down his body, no longer wanting to look at it, feel it. He spent longer on his hair, it no longer sat right, it would always fly away as it became more brittle, he wasn’t the biggest fan of the longer-haired look but it suited him, made his face slimmer, so he kept it.

Reid turned the tap off and jumped out as quickly as his legs would let him, he swiped his towel off of the rack and placed it on his face, holding the weight in his hands as his head stopped swirling, then used it to finish drying himself off. He walked back into his bedroom where his clothes laid neatly. He placed on his underwear socks and trousers, a cream shirt and striped tie, a thick soft orange jumper to go with it, then blazer, then belt, he tightened and placed it through the newest punched hole. It was a nice belt he didn’t want to get rid of it. Checking that the apartment was in order and that everything had been done, everything he needed was in his bag, he picked up his keys from the dish and left after briefly sorting his hair in the hallway mirror.

It was another day at the BAU for Reid. Walking over to the staff space he started the kettle and placed his bag down, he retrieved his favourite mug and placed three teaspoons of coffee in. Once the water was boiled he filled his mug and let the thick scent waft through the air, he grabbed the sugar and poured, originally he would have counted the spoons of sugar but decided that cutting out the middle man would save time, he was slightly late as it was. “Want some coffee with that sugar?”

“Had a long night, need something to keep me functioning” Reid retorted as he turned to face Morgan who stood behind him placing his lunch in the fridge. “Nice one pretty boy, what was she like?” Morgan smiled. “Not that kind of long night,” he picked up his bag and walked towards his desk before Morgan had a chance to reply. He slouched down into his seat while taking another sip of his coffee and reached down to grab a file from the bottom of his desk drawer and after rummaging for a while he found it. A wave of nausea hit and Reid lent forward over the desk to stop his stomach from protesting, his body wasn’t used to this level of starvation. He’d lowered his intake from 700 to 500 yesterday, it was taking time to adjust.

The BAU hadn’t had a case for over two days so the team was catching up on all paperwork that needed doing, anything that had been shoved in draws to be forgotten was to be finished and filed.

He opened the file and glanced over the first page, thumbing over the papers to spread them out. Emily Moore, aged 25, died of malnutrition after a serial killer had starved her to death. Reid placed his right hand beneath his chin and ran his thumb over his mouth as he traced a finger over the outline of her body and closed his eyes. That was four months, two days and three hours ago that case started, and it was four months, two days and three hours since Reid had relapsed. He could see them still so vividly, all of them hung up like puppets, so skinny and frail. He still couldn’t bring himself to finish the file.

“Reid?” Hotchner asked, Spencer, opened his eyes to see the team filling into the meeting room as Hotch stared at him from across the room. Reid quickly snapped the file shut and followed behind everyone else, Hotchner joining the line afterwards. Spencer enclosed his hand around his wrist to help his heart stop beating as fast. It calmed him down, he didn’t even realise he had done it. Hotch was absorbed in his paperwork.

Reid sat down next to Morgan in his unassigned assigned seat as Gideon began the brief and Reid for one of the first times since he had met Gideon, didn’t listen to him.

I shouldn’t have had that much sugar, how much did I have, right, the coffee cup was about 5cm in diameter so that means the area of the cup was five multiplied by pi, then to find the volume of sugar the cup raised about 1cm.

“The victim was found face down lying in a pool of her own blood.” Gideon turned to the board displaying pictures of the woman.

The volume of sugar would be 15.7cm squared, which equates to about 25 grams of sugar which is 80 calories.

“Nothing was left at the crime scene, but her hands were bound with what appears to have been some sort of rope shown by the burn marks.”

“Could have suggested the killer was physically weak, needed to restrain her to get his way” Elle interjected. “Judging that the unsub took the rope it probably means he also brought it, premediated, definitely an organised killer,” Morgan added.

Why didn’t I just measure it out it would have made this so much easier, I’ll round it up to 100 just in case.

“Local police teams have already sectioned off the scene,” Hotch added, “alright but why call us, nothing about this case seems extraordinary, seems like a run of the mill homicidal rapist,” Elle questioned while looking to Gideon. “Well,” Gideon started.

If I can get home by 8 pm I can burn off that coffee, wait no if I run home then I can leave later but still burn it so if I have the 500, well now I can have 420 no 400, then I can-

“Right let’s go, the jet leaves in half an hour.”

With that the team all stood up abruptly, creating a whirlwind around Reid that made him snap out of his thoughts, his head and eyes darted around the room trying to figure out what was happening. He jumped out of his seat to follow everyone out but was stopped at the door.

“You alright Reid?”

Spencer spun back round to face Gideon who was looking at him, seeming to expect an answer. “Sorry, what was that?” Gideon's face became stern as his eyebrow slightly lifted along with his chin, he was not just looking at him, he was analysing. “I just wanted to know if you were alright?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine” Reid frantically looked across the room trying not to meet the other man’s gaze, “I’m just going to go grab my stuff” he stated while starting to walk backwards out of the room, pointing behind him with his thumb. “Uh yeah, see you on the plane,” he turned almost bumping into JJ “sorry JJ I uh didn’t see you sorry,” and with that, he took off to go grab his bag.

JJ turned to Gideon with a questioning look. “Keep an eye on him” was all he said before also going to grab his bag. Gideon wasn’t a man to say anything unless he was sure unless it was important, but he was worried. His intuition was screaming at him that something was wrong, but Reid would be at least three steps ahead if he didn’t want anyone to know. Damn profilers.

They had all swarmed into the jet and had taken their seats. Reid lay in the long seat reading a book, but not at his normally inhuman speed, it was slower, only just noticeably. Hotch sat next to Gideon reading all the information they had on the case thus far again, making sure nothing was missed. Gideon watched. They were sat at the other end of the plane with Reid’s back to them, the other team members preoccupied with their activities.

“Something’s wrong with Reid.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look at him.”

Hotch looked up from his papers and looked towards Reid, Gideons line of sight hadn’t wavered since he sat down. Hotch looked back from Reid to the man next to him. “What makes you say that?”

“He’s anxious, jumpy, overreactive,” Gideon still looked over to the boy and Hotch joined back, “I asked him this morning after the brief, he didn’t turn his back to me once until he was out of the room.”

“He was being defensive, wouldn’t turn his back on the perceived threat,” Hotchner added, “he knew the answer but couldn’t tell you, he looks at you as a father figure you know, he doesn't want to disappoint you”

Gideon paused, “he probably does, he doesn’t know much about his father,” he said shaking his head, they sat and observed in silence.

“He’s not turning pages as quickly as he normally does,”

“He’s not turning pages as quickly as he normally does,” Gideon repeated, “how’s his paperwork?” he finely looked away from the younger man. “Still exemplary, maybe a little less than normal but handed in on time, it hasn’t suffered any more than anyone else’s while we’ve been busy.”

Gideon nodded “somethings eating away at him, I just don’t know what.” There was a pause.

"There was one file I never got back."

[demigoddessnation]

Can we stay like this a little longer?

Thomas x reader

genre: angst

word count: 1,228

A/N: any feedback is highly appreciated and valued! also, enjoy!

"Thomas?"

The woods whispered their usual afternoon nothings, the last beams of daylight sprinkled across the ground in gilt droplets. Your voice was hoarse and his name ached to shout, but some unnatural strength held you on your shivering legs and carried you into the vacant denseness of the Deadheads.

Perhaps Jeff had been right to joke about this cold giving you superpowers, or you were so out of your damn mind that you were resolute to leave the cot and wander off in the rain, all to find the boy who'd gone missing since returning to the Glade mere few hours ago.

Thomas could've been freezing out there. As far as you knew, Minho said he'd wounded himself while in the Maze. Of course it could be nothing but a scratch. But hell, were the odds taking their awful toll on you. Thomas wouldn't let a scratch get the best of him and you knew that.

Eyes watery and skull pounding with harrowing headache, you pushed through the low-hanging, gnarled branches and over the mossy logs with nothing but him in your disordered thoughts. It wasn't like him to disappear, much less to miss checking up on you in the Medjack hut after coming back. For the last three days Thomas had stopped by at least once every afternoon, oftentimes bringing food with him and insisting that you eat together in the hut, away from the others. You weren't quite keen on the idea of them seeing you sick.

Pity was just too much to deal with.

"Thomas? Please, I'm starting to worry."

But the forest spared no reply, not even a bird's song to acknowledge the heart-rending concern that held you from falling in pain amid the verdure.

For a few moments the need to lie down poked on your common sense, pressing and unyieldingly strong, yet you suppressed it. The scary anxiety did, actually.

Please, let him be okay. Please.

The rain began to lessen, the puffy clouds shutting the downpour away as if they'd cried it all out and their cold sorrow was now finally over. The sun was still dying out somewhere beyond the tremendous walls and night was slowly settling in, inconsiderate of how cold and sad you had grown. You'd been searching for at least half an hour now.

It took so much not to give up that when some twig crunched in your silent vicinity, though dully, you nearly snapped your neck in the whiplash of hope. Weak feet dug into the wet soil. Some slouchy, hunched figure was seated few strides away, both its hands clasped behind the neck as if poisoned by regret or thoughts unnaturally dark.

"Thomas," you called out, but the dryness of your voice gave you away before your reddened face ever could. You barely managed to sigh in relief.

"Y/N. What--Why are you--You should've rested, like Jeff said."

He had been crying.

"And let you disappear? No."

"Okay but you sound even worse. Being here won't do you good. Just--Just go and rest, okay? Please."

"Thomas."

You had approached him at last, facing him as he sat on some thick, but drenched and darkened with rainwater log. You couldn't muster the vigour to sit by his side. He couldn't gather the will to look you in the eye either.

You coughed. "What was that about?"

"I needed time to myself. I've had too much to think about. But I was just coming back, I swear."

In one way or another, Thomas' personality ran rather close to yours. The god-damned reluctance to have anyone see you fragile - or broken - kept you uptight and somewhat together for the most part because avoidance felt less difficult, explaining - too risky. No one could stitch you up if you were tearing at the seams. No one had the steady hands to do so.

Thomas' face was flushed with the strange afterglow of letting go - finally embracing one's vulnerability instead of keeping it at bay, but he still wouldn't look at you.

At that moment you would've expected yourself to stray from the seriousness of it all, crack a joke maybe or blabber your way out awkwardly enough because that's what usually felt right. Right now, however, you couldn't help but look at Thomas and see through him like you never had before. As I didn't fail to remind you, you two were more alike than either knew.

Instead of struggling to find the right words to comfort him or the most mature way to talk whatever was bothering him out, you tried to let go of the fear of breaking down at least this once. At the end of the day, sometimes the best solace came from letting others know they have you, rather than forcing them out of their lows.

Hand slightly trembling, you lifted Thomas' chin so his dreamy, bloodshot eyes locked with yours.

"It's okay," you said. "I understand."

He didn't utter a word. His shoulders suddenly relaxed, chest started rising and falling more steadily as opposed to the frantic panic of seconds ago. You moved closer to him and his head aligned with your waist, eyes gazing at yours beyond the expanse of time and emotion.

Something within you dictated your every motion, something that felt like utter peace amid the turmoil that was this whole uneasy day. Maybe you did know what to do after all. But the knowledge lay so deep inside you that you'd never dared to rely on it. Maybe not when you yourself had needed it, that is.

But when Thomas did, it didn't feel half as forced or embarrassing as you'd believed.

With one hand you cupped the side of his face, and with the other you gently wiped away the remainder of his tears, as softly as one would caress the tender petals of a flower in the snow. You could feel him press his cheek deep against your touch, his eyes resting closed as he shyly demanded some more of it.

You both stayed like this just a bit longer, before he pulled you in his trembling embrace - his arms around your waist and your hands in his brown locks. He was damp with rain still, and so were you but neither had felt warmer today. Neither had taken this much comfort in being completely and utterly vulnerable.

Somewhere between Thomas' softened sobs and the vocal frenzy of the rest of the Glade, you must've teared up yourself. This time it wasn't the cold, but the warmth.

"It's okay," you let out huskily. "It's okay."

"It's okay," Thomas repeated. His voice resonated in your skin. He was still snuggled up and slightly shaking, but you were too deep in the moment to ever mind.

There it was. The innermost peace.

It lay in Thomas' brown eyes, in his hands on your lower back and the sound of his every inbreath too.

"Can you--can we stay like this a little longer?" he asked.

"Mhm," but sudden worry washed over you again and you husked. "What about the wound?"

"It's nothing."

"You'll go get fixed up though."

"Yeah. Later."

Your hands roamed his hair still. "Later."

For once bringing solace upon somebody else felt simple, natural. You could stay like this forever, until you made sure that every single one of his tears was long gone and forgotten.

[scribbleseas]

The Indignant Pawn, Chapter II: The Woman In Beige

Description: You are Y/n Y/l/n- formerly known as Princess Helena, the runaway princess.

You're an assassin for hire who only agrees to find the worst of London's criminals at the business end of your knife; until a mysterious woman hires you to end the likes of Ciel Phantomhive, the King of the Underworld. You find yourself trading your weapons for your abandoned family crest in order to infiltrate his home as none other than Princess Marie-Louise, your twin sister. What's to happen when you find that the young Earl is more than a callous businessman?

OVERALL STORY WARNINGS: sexual assault, objectification, death, detailed description of blood/gore, detailed description of murder, lying, impersonation, theft, weapons, detailed panic attacks, symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.

Author’s Note: If you have any questions or concerns about these warnings, please don’t hesitate to contact me! Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

-Dan

⇠ PREVIOUS CHAPTER  | NEXT CHAPTER ⇢

. . .

DECEMBER 17TH, 1891

LONDON, ENGLAND

The outside of the Globe theater was alight with bustling crowds as Oscar Wilde's London premiere of Salome had just concluded for the evening.

You were never partial towards theater. In fact, it made you wonder how a show could captivate such a diverse audience, as you watched formally clothed aristocrats and their servants cringed amongst the middle-class plebeians as they exited the theater through the matching front doors. Little did they know, the real show would take place inside of the closed carriage you waited in, peering through the red blind that covered it. Your thumb ran over the smooth pommel of your dagger. You focused on its smooth entirety as you sat back in the carriage to wait, distracting yourself from the consuming darkness.

Thankfully, Felix Keating, the wealthiest factory owner from Birmingham, valued his privacy. He opted for a carriage that had a single window on the door. This made his carriage an ideal place for you to intervene and elude any potential witnesses, considering the man had little to no time alone. In your case, it was less than optimal, but strategically, it was going to do the trick.

You stared at the wall of the carriage across from you before squeezing your eyes shut. You tried to focus on something concrete- perhaps the weight of your weapon, the tickle that your wool scarf gave your lip as it concealed the bottom half of your face. You inhaled deeply, reaching out for the drape of the window to let a fraction of light, but you froze and for a moment, you were...gone. When you opened your eyes again, you found yourself in the hallway of your home, a lantern burning dimly in your hand as you heard two men talking- one voice familiar, the other strange.

'Lass? I haven't the slightest-'

'Just hand over the money and we won't have to blow no one's brains outta their skulls.'

Gunshots. Blood.

'Has she already been broken in? Lord knows what she was doing here with that old bum.'

'Doesn't matter, she's ours now, isn't that right?'

'Whore?'

Cold.

Piercing pain in your neck reminded you that you were in a carriage with years of difference from that morning. You had a job to do as you heard approaching steps and the posh voice of the factory owner himself. Before sinking to the corner furthest from the door, you took a generous inhale of the drafty air and focused on how it filled your lungs, rather than the poorly timed panic that the darkness insisted on showing you towards. You wiggled your toes in your black boots and wrinkled your nose, which served as tics that you had cautiously picked out years ago to help ground yourself when necessary. You held the dagger in your hand, the blade ready to pierce a sinner's flesh.

"That playwright will bring tears to the steeliest of lads. Quite brilliant. I must write to Wilde," Felix Keating's dulcet voice sounded as his coachman greeted him. "Reckon I could stick my nose into the theater enterprise, Her Majesty is quite interested in renovating these rubbish theaters," Keating mused, his muffled voice growing closer by the step.

"A clever investment, Mr. Keating," the coachman validated as you hugged your legs, making yourself smaller in the corner of the carriage, your head down and hood up. The door opened and you held your breath, as your heart pounded against your ribcage in protest. "May I offer you extra linens for warmth? The wind's just startin' up."

This wasn't the first time you've had to hide in order to carry out an assignment, yet the adrenaline between waiting and pouncing was always riveting.

"Ah, no Horace, I'll be 'right," Keating took his seat, more focusing on lighting his cigar. The scent caused you to tense, reminding you of the conman, someone smoked as if his life depended on it. He was a smart man that would scold you for the way you grew past his death. He'd be disappointed in you, a relentless advocate for diplomacy. Ask questions, shoot later.

"Right. If you change your mind, you gimme a holler," Horace, the coachman, shut the door as Keating settled himself with an exasperated sigh. He pushed the short drapes that were concealing the window, allowing the city lights to illuminate the small quarters and simply watched the street go by as Horace told the horse to "get walkin".

Without wasting another moment, you got to your feet, your dagger precariously reflecting light that shone through the window.

"Who is it? Who's there-" Keating started to shout, immediately sitting to attention as you used the whole of your arm's strength to shove him back against the wall that he was previously reclining against. Your nondominant hand barely fit around the circumference of his clammy neck, but nevertheless you were able to force his head back completely, his torso following in suit. You squeezed firmly, your fingers digging into the warm flesh and you could feel his hurried pulse with ease as you kept your back straight and legs strong. The angle was awkward, seeing as you were bent over in a moving carriage, but your balance was more than you gave it credit for. "Why- please!" he gasped for air, his glasses low on his nose, threatening to fall to the floor. "Stop! I have...money! Take anything you want. H-Horace!"

"Shut up!" Unintentionally, your grip tightened as you shoved his head back into the wall again, causing Keating's extinguished cigar to fall on the cushioned seat next to him. His hands flailed in panic as his chest tensed with effort as he tried to yell out to Horace again. "Maggie Calvert," you snarled as your petticoats moved with your short steps closer. Your nose could have touched his while you held his sightline. You adjusted your hold on the wooden handle of your dagger in your dominant hand before impelling the blade between his fourth and fifth ribs and close to his midline. "This is for her."

His body froze, his mouth agape. You couldn't tell if he recognized the name, but you wanted him to. A greedy businessman of his caliber deserved to think about someone other than himself during his last few moments alive. You pushed your dagger until both quillions were making contact with his white shirt. You have the dagger a small jerk for maximum damage before pulling it out, allowing blood to immediately gush out of his wound. Finally, your heart rate was beginning to slow with the rush of merely completing the task and you let go of his neck, your fingers aching from being tense. Keating was choking as he tried to yell or scream, or perhaps curse you, but the blood that was rushing into his collapsing lung was going to keep him from doing so.

"Maggie Calvert," you repeated solemnly, using Keating's long coat to clean off your dagger and tuck it into your pocket bag, one of the two large pouches that were nestled between your skirts. The body was limp and the strangled hacking had finally come to a stop. After all, the blood had stained your stomacher as it had come up through his mouth during his final moments of struggle. However, the compensation you were about to receive for this task would more than cover it. Unfortunately, it left Horace with more than a mess to clean up. Blood was a stubborn substance.

. . .

DECEMBER 20TH 1891

BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND

Before you could knock, the door of the brick building flew open, causing you to jump in surprise.

"Miss Y/l/n," Eric Calvert's muddy green eyes were glassy with unshed tears as you pushed the hood of your cloak off of your neck out of respect for the modest home. The housing in Birmingham, an industrial town, was much different than London's. It was more compact, the air was more polluted with factory smoke. The Calverts seemed to be better off than most common families, but that meant nothing in this case. Factory conditions were poor, even after the reform laws from the 1830s. You were blessed to be introduced to more lucrative work upon your arrival- drawing money straight out of pockets with the most genuine man to have strolled down the cemented walkways of the city. "Please, come right in," he gestured with his gloved hand, moving out of your way as he removed his hat and bowed.

"Mr. Calvert," you offered a tight-lipped smile at the bowing man. In the hand that pressed against his chest, Eric pressed his grey hat into it, like a proper gentleman. The gesture had only fed into your discontentment, while Eric seemed no better off. You weren't blind to the pallid shade of his face, the withheld energy in his stance. "You mustn't bow to me," you assert, waiting for the man to right himself as he frowned.

"Oh, please... Mr. Calvert's my father." Eric said with a miffed shake of his head, raking his fingers through his sloppy waves of hair. The two of you walked down the short hall that led into a big foyer. A fireplace was on the far side with several articles of outerwear hanging on the mantle to help warm them from snow, you presume. The scent of the burning wood brings you a foreign nostalgia that ideally, you would've failed to notice. The past deserved to stay where it belonged- in the past. The only hearth you were to be a part of was your own.

"Evelyn, dear! Draw some tea, she's come back!" Eric called his wife, who seemed busy in the kitchen that was located in an attached room. "Hurry!" You presumed that he felt apprehensive about being left alone with you, which was fair.

"Just a minute!" Evelyn called from the attaching room, the door left ajar. You were right to assume that it was a kitchen of some form, seeing as the general layout of this building resembled that of your own home, the fuss of her brown petticoats catching your eye. You wished she'd move with more urgency. You had yet to eat properly, seeing as you were more occupied with moving efficiently over the past day or two. At least the vicinity was warm, allowing you to pull off your thick gloves and tuck them into either pocket bag as Eric led you to a small area near the fireplace. There were two big loveseats across from each other and with a rug in between. The cushions were patched together with random sheets of fabric.

There was a single photograph in a hanging frame over the fireplace's mantle, the glass dirty. It was Eric and Evelyn, jubilant in light, fancy clothing as they cradled their baby girl between them. You understood how the couple found themselves in such desperation to acquaint themselves with someone like you when they had once smiled without any semblance of malignity. She was stolen from them, and it had seemed that the world was prepared to let the men at fault see their own children grow up. You were the one to right that wrong- by driving your knife between the ribs of Felix Keating and watching him choke as blood filled his lungs. His eyes tearing as he begged for mercy when Maggie Calvert, who was no more than nine, died in his workhouse because of his cheaply built machinery. She wasn't given a chance, so who was Keating to think he deserved one?

"She'll be uh...right out," Eric smiled at you again, repeating the words of his wife, those of which you had no problem hearing. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the uncomfortable way he held himself, as opposed to the haughty attitude he sported during your first meeting. He was dubious that a mere lady like yourself (months shy of twenty) could hurt a fly, much less hold a body count to her name. Yet the morning prior, the bustling headlines of The Daily Telegraph reached Birmingham, selling quickly as they covered the murder of Felix Keating, owner of many iron manufacturing factories who narrowly escaped an immense prison sentence for a major accident in his Birmingham factory a week before.

"Oh my, Eric," Evelyn entered the main room, precariously balancing a steaming teapot and a modest spread of small bites on a tarnished, silver tray. "Where have your manners gone?" she tutted, setting it down on the oakwood table before turning her attention to you. Her blonde hair was tied in a disheveled bun, droopy and with tendrils falling out of it like spider legs that swayed as she moved.

"My manners?" Eric began to protest, only to be interrupted by his wife again. You found their dynamic as a couple quite refreshing. After all, you would not have been there, had Evelyn worked to contact you without her husband's knowledge.

"Miss Y/l/n, allow me to take your cloak," Evelyn gestured to the many hooks that were nailed into the fireplace mantle where there were drying articles of clothing hanging, narrowly dodging the short flames.

It was difficult to compel yourself to smile, but the corners of your lips turned upwards anyhow. There was a line where social niceties ended and another where gullible kindness started. This was the latter as they knowingly welcomed you, a murderer into their home because you made an ally out of yourself. "Don't trouble yourself any more than you have, Mrs. Calvert. My time here is brief," you found satisfaction when she shook her head and began to pour you a cup of the steaming tea, despite your words. Thankfully, she made no attempt to sit with you.

"Brief?" Evelyn repeated, gently passing the delicate teacup to you. The warmth spread over your palms on contact as you brought the rim to your lips. Your hold was improper, though necessary, seeing as the finest details are what make the best disguises. Only the wealthy held their teacups with so much consideration. Besides, the warmth was much more satisfying when it went beyond the tips of your fingers. "I reckon a woman such as yourself is a tad busy," she concurred, causing you to tense in surprise. You were rarely referred to as a woman.

"Quite," you mused after her, taking a contemplative sip of your tea. "I ought to be at the station in less than an hour," you lied, gently tapping the tips of your short nails on the warm cup. All that was necessary was payment and crucial parting words. The assorted bites on the tray were beginning to seem unappealing, the longer you stood there. "But we must discuss a few things-" you start, only to be interrupted by Evelyn, which was common.

"Your fee. We have the first installment," she gestured to Eric with her chin, her smile long gone as he offered a small pouch made of different, threadbare, fabrics. While you had already discounted your normal charge for the couple's situation, they could hardly afford a fraction of the sum.

"We've tried to save as much as possible. Take it. It's the least we can do at the time," Eric spoke, linking his arm with his wife's. Reluctantly, you hold your cup in one hand and deftly slide the pouch into the pocket bag between your petticoats. They would have felt worse if you refused to take their money. After all, you avenged the silenced death of their girl.

"It's plenty, thank you," after finishing the rest of your tea, you proceed with your original thought before they could try to pass their relief for protest. You had to recite the practiced discourse that you gave to every one of your patrons before making your leave. "Now, the two of you will be suspects to the Yard, be cautious," you put emphasis on your words by meeting each of their gazes. "You must avoid London and keep your heads down. Do you understand?"

"And... what happens to you?" Eric asked, sipping out of his own teacup. His shoulders were still unnaturally squared and attentive as he actively avoided your sightline. "Where are you off to?" his focus quickly turned to Evelyn, who was untangling her arm from his and bringing the tray back into the kitchen.

"The distance from Birmingham to London is great, she'll starve before she returns!" Evelyn stopped to yell from over her shoulder before leaving the door open behind her. In the kitchen, she promptly began to wrap the biscuits in napkins.

"Nevermind me," you coaxed Eric back to the conversation by answering his question. You smiled once again as you put your cup on the table and begin to put your gloves back on their respective hands. "You need to make certain that you both have an alibi for the night of December 17th, I cannot stress this enough, Mr. Calvert," you looked up from your gloves, pulling them so they covered your forearms again.

"I assure you, Miss Y/l/n. We were both working in that refinery- until dawn," you had no doubt about the truth to that statement, though any Peeler would press further. That part was to the Calverts to handle, seeing as you had played out your role. Pursing your lips, you took a generous inhale to soothe the ominous pit of anxiety that had settled in your stomach.

"Sure," you pulled your hood back over your head as Evelyn returned with a minute basket. It was covered and you wished you still had your appetite from when you had entered their home.

"Here you are," Evelyn allowed you to take the handle in your non-dominant hand. In a city, it was always smartest to have your dominant hand free, which was yet another insignificant habit that you had inherited from the old conman. What was the date? December 20th, which meant there were still a few weeks before it was the anniversary of his death. Otherwise, the most difficult twenty-four hours to bear out of a calendar year.

Evelyn was smiling, but it didn't reach her eyes. After all, for most women, motherhood was a privilege and it had been torn away from her. She was attempting to care for you as she would have for Maggie...had she lived to nineteen. Tears were welling in her eyes as she watched your hand extend to briefly touch her shoulder. "Take care," you said, finally meeting Eric's green hues that were tearing up as well. "I can show myself out," you shook your head dismissively when he moved to go to the front door with you. Evelyn needed to be coddled more than you did.

. . .

JANUARY 5TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

Evenings at home always unsettled you, being the start of an all-too boring night, which made you feel restless- itchy for action. Rather, your quiet home always put you on the height of your guard, even as you were sitting behind the short shed, submerging your assorted gowns and petticoats into the warm, soapy water that bubbled in your wooden tub. It was a tedious, once a week process that perhaps irked you more than cooking. With a huff, you directed your stress into the iron grip that you kept your washboard upright with, rubbing fabric over its ridges.

The water made your fingers prune and the stool under you caused your bottom to grow sore, the longer you had to sit there, toiling away until each article was hanging on your makeshift clothesline- fastened with pins. When you were a girl, you had about twice the amount to wash and yet, you enjoyed the task because there were two more hands to make light, fun work of it. The conman liked to sing to pass the time- the lyrics had taken you ages to comprehend, seeing as your English had challenged for years. He was anything but a schoolteacher.

You cringed as your hand slid down the washboard too quickly, causing the hot water to splash back up at your face. The weather was foul, the winter in London was always tempestuous and the warm water on your face had only reminded you of how little warmth your wool scarf provided. It was wrought with holes by now, but you couldn't bring yourself to give it away, you've had it from the day you arrived...nine years ago. Dismissing the thought, you allowed the cooling water to run down your forehead, passing the slope of your nose, until it finally fell and assimilated with the top of your stomacher.

You squeezed the wet petticoat, turning it in order to ring the water out. Although you could have been more thorough, the boredom that came with domestic chores was causing you to rush and find something more occupying to start. The tranquility of the night was eerie, an uneasy contrast to the violent life you led.

The sound of approaching voices caused you to pause, your hands pulling the washboard out of the water to hold, ready to swing. The petticoat that you had been wringing out fell back into the wooden tub with a quiet splash. The soap suds ran down your forearms, dampening the brown sleeves of your gown.

"No entiendo por qué la señora quiere una chica. Podríamos bombardear el sitio de Phantomhive más rápido que esta pérdida de tiempo," the voice of a woman spoke quickly, in a language that you couldn't identify. A denomination of Latin? Knitting your eyebrows, you conceded, deciding to focus on what you could understand. Bombard, Phantomhive. Bomb?

Vaguely, you recognized the name 'Phantomhive' from the newspaper. The Earl Phantomhive ran the Funtom Company, children's' toys and confectionery.

"Quiere su nombre lo más lejos posible de esto. La chica es una asesina exitosa, así que sería más discreta que los explosivos," a masculine voice responded, a stiff twig cracking beneath one of their shoes. You scowled as you shifted your weight from your left side to your right. The washboard was a viable weapon, but it was simply a matter of timing. Their silhouettes were getting closer, each short and clad in neutral earth tones.

"A menos que te interese en enredarte con ese mocoso," the man chuckled. He wasn't secretive or trying to be discreet. By the way he trudged, he was probably leaving deep tracks in the slushy excuse for snow.

"No tengo un deseo de muerte, a diferencia de ti. Callado!!" The woman said, her voice suddenly at a harsh whisper.

"Ah. There," the man spoke in English, finally a language that you could comprehend. "Y/n Y/l/n?" He asked, pulling down his scarf to expose the rest of his face. In comparison to yours, his accent was much thicker. Your grip on the washboard didn't waver.

"Who are you?" You demanded, stepping forward to stand your ground as they approached you. The pair wasn't visibly armed, their figures weren't particularly threatening to you. The man merely smiled at you while the woman to his side scowled.

"Diego- and uh, Carmen. Peace! We come in...uh, peace," Diego stammered, stopping at a respectful distance from you while showing you his empty hands as they beckoned with his rapid words. He seemed amused with your choice in weapon and assertive stance. "Carmen," he elbowed the sour-faced woman, causing her to grunt and hold her gloved hands up as he was.

"What brings you here?" They must have knocked at your door and came around when there was no response and a dim light behind the shack. Their winter gear suggested that they had some tier of wealth or deft hands in thievery. If it was business, this wouldn't be the first time you were asked to aid in stealing. However, as tempting as the offers were, you turned each one down. 

"Business." Carmen answered this time, her hand slowly reaching into her jacket pocket. "No fret. Is just a letter," her English was just as mediocre as yours had been, years ago. Your eyes followed her hand as she pulled out an envelope with a dark red seal. "Business for our...líder?" She explained and looked at the man, leaving a long pause before her last word. It was essentially 'leader', but the stress was on an 'i' sound instead.

"Yes. Leader," Diego cleared his throat in a weak attempt to mask a laugh as you dropped your washboard back into the washbasin with a short splash. You ignored him as you took the letter from the woman, your wet hand causing the ink on the front to smear. It read your name, Y/n Y/l/n, in a pompous script, the illegible type that royalty and aristocrats penned. "All you needa know is there."

The Undertaker was supposed to be the partition between yourself and clients. Who did he think he was to give these servants your address? You'd have to give him a stern reminder for the next time you cross paths. With a frown, you pushed the envelope into your pocket bag, allowing it to jut out due to its dimensions.

"Is this all?" You asked as you waited for them to either leave or proceed with more broken commentary. Your lips were pressed together in a tight purse, a fresh lump of apprehension growing in your stomach. However, you couldn't let it show as the man sheepishly removed his hat with a shallow bow. It was more unctuous than anything as it only caused your scowl to deepen.

"Yes, Miss. We can... be going now," Diego righted himself and put his hat back over his dark curly hair. You didn't offer either of than a proper dismissal for the favor of going back to your washing and ruminating over the letter. It merely had a location, date, and time with no further information. No explanation of identification. You could appreciate the impudent nature of it, as this 'leader' assumed you had no plans for January 10th or presumed that you would handle any conflicts yourself when they were approaching you for your services. It was crude of them to assume that you still took orders.

. . .

JANUARY 10TH, 1892

READING, ENGLAND

Perhaps it was curiosity or a lapse of judgment that led you to board a train and throw caution to the wind. Whatever it was, your default prudence seemed to abandon you at each instance you dared open the letter that you were given- if you could call it that. The paper inside merely had your name, a distinct address, time, and date all in a presumptuous formality that made you want to tear it to shreds. But you refrained and instead, rolled your shoulders back and down as you knocked on the painted door of the lofty residential home that coincided with the address in the letter. The walls were constructed with sturdy brick and there was smoke wafting out of the chimney. As you predicted, the entirety of the property before you suggested wealth, just as the note and the delivery had.

You knocked on the door, the letter in your hand as you waited several long, cold moments before a woman greeted you. Most of her features matched Carmen's, deep olive skin and brown hair that was tied back. "You are late," she spoke, disdain clear in her voice as she ushered you through the open door and into a foyer. You were only late by a few minutes, according to the clock on a passing wall. "My mistress is impatient," the woman added as an afterthought as if that fact was supposed to faze you into an apology. Her accent was quite notable, pronounced, and sharp like the other servants.

As she led you to a winding staircase as your gaze trained on each room that you passed. They were each decorated in a modest fashion and the colors were left to a simple tan palette. It was more simple than you would have expected from the manor's proud exterior. The woman cleared her throat, "Doña, she has arrived," she knocked twice on the closed door before opening it, revealing another woman. She stood behind a mahogany desk, watching you with relaxed shoulders. The bay window behind her illuminated the silk of her beige dress, contrasting her tan skin as it hugged her slender figure. Beige was uncommon at the time, given the dullness of it, although this woman wore it like a badge, using the simple color to allow other parts of her appearance to stand out.

"Leave us, Andrea," the woman's gaze had yet to leave yours, causing you to look away in mild discomfort. Once the door was closed again, she extended her hand to you, speaking again as you cautiously shook it. Her grip was confident and warm against your bare palm. "It is my pleasure, Princess Helena. I feared you would disregard dear Carmen and Diego." You retracted your hand, the name causing you to meet her eyes again.

"Y/n," You corrected, your mouth running dry as you calculated each of your words, down to the syllable. This foreign woman was able to unravel each of your lies within the latest nine years and frankly, it took every bit of your skill to remain composed. The conman would assess the person standing in front of him and decide if they were entitled to the truth that they were trying to extract. He would run through each advantage and disadvantage and return to the same conclusion- murder was always an option. After all, it was the only sure way of containing sensitive information. "Y/n Y/l/n," you repeated, causing the woman to laugh, her rounded cheeks eclipsing her eyes.

"We may both employ our pseudonyms, then. Address me as Doña," she sat in the red, cushioned chair behind her. Doña raised her eyebrows at you expectantly as she motioned towards the decidedly less opulent wooden chair across from her. You complied, frowning at her as she leaned towards you. Her smile only seemed to expand. "I have a task for you, Y/n. Only you can complete it for me."

"I know there are other services in London you might have requested," you contradicted, sitting back in the uncomfortable chair as you showed no qualms in testing her.

"No," Doña said with a simple shrug of her slender shoulders, "I need you to eliminate the Earl Phantomhive- the Queen's Guard Dog who puts an end to anyone she names. The graveyard to his name exceeds even yours. Although... it seems to be watered with the blood of the innocent, instead," her smile finally melted, causing her red lips to lay in a natural frown. In the streets of London, her lip color was enough to impose any of the filthiest assumptions about her.

"How does this concern me, specifically?" You asked. As your interest piqued, your eyebrows furrowed and you found yourself leaning towards the edge of the desk, rather than sitting slack against the wooden chair. The notion of the proprietor of a children's company having blood on his noble hands was more endearing than anything, especially to someone such as yourself, living substantial evidence that no one was who they appeared to be.

Your eyes followed Doña's hand as she opened a drawer in the desk, pulling out a pristine, folded newspaper. The masthead read 'DIE SUEDLlCHE POST' (THE SOUTHERN POST), a German newspaper with the headline of 'PRINZESSIN MARIE-LOUISE GIBT IHRE VERLOBUNG MIT PRINZ ARIBERT VON ANHALT BEKANNT' (PRINCESS MARIE-LOUISE ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT TO PRINCE ARIBERT OF ANHALT). There was a picture within the columns of words of your twin sister as she sported a gaudy dress and faux-smile as she beckoned the public into her personal life. Seeing Marie's matured face resemble yours so flawlessly was disarming and you only remembered to release a breath you had been holding when Doña spoke again. "The Queen trusts the Earl implicitly- enough to put the safety of her granddaughter in his...capable hands. At any mere threat, the Princess will come overseas to stay under his protection," she paused, smiling again as she unfurled the groundwork of a meticulous plan. "The monarchy is quite predictable, no?"

You had to give her credit for her unwavering confidence. The idea that she implied was beyond mad and yet, she sold it well. "We intercept her transportation before she reaches the port," Doña raised her chin as she explained, her expression smug to challenge you. Someone had trained her to manipulate others, just as the conman had done for you. She was reflecting your body language, while keeping her own polished mannerisms as a subtle attempt to establish trust, but express her own certitude.

"And you intend for me to take her place," you finished mapping out her plan for her, almost speaking in disbelief. Reclaiming your past? Your sister represented the whole of what you had resented in Germany; the wealth, the social faux pas, down to each ruffle of every gown. "Kill the Earl within his own estate," you bit the inside of your bottom lip, keeping yourself in the present.

The door opened behind you, the startling sound of a crying baby caused you to jump and turn your head to the source. A frazzled Andrea, the servant who greeted you, held a crying infant in her arms as it squirmed. "Doña, su hija te necesita ahora," she said, offending you as again as the two individuals conversed in a foreign tongue, ignoring your confusion.

At the sight of the distressed child, Doña's expression curled such as milk did. Her nose wrinkled, her eyes staring at it in disdain. Her glowered response came quickly as she gestured with her hands, "debes llevártela. Andrea, deberías saber mejor que interponerme cuando estoy ocupado con los negocios."

Immediately, and to your relief, Andrea left the office with a mumbled curse that you couldn't decipher. The baby was still crying. "You never learned Spanish?" Doña mused, her hands slowly returning to the wooden surface that separated herself and you. At least you had been correct in assuming it was from a Latin dialect. "That was my daughter," she explained with a careless shrug, causing you to frown. Your mother always spoke of you with the same amount of indifference, if not more than what this woman expressed, calling her daughter a 'that'. Bearing witness to that treatment left you vulnerable to frustration, an emotion that distracted you from the clear thinking you were trained to maintain.

"Earl Phantomhive," you said, bringing her back on topic before she could fiddle with your strained heartstrings any more. "It's a personal vendetta, is it not?"

"Ah. Correct," her face grew serious again as she brought her heavy stare back to yours. For a moment, you looked down at the newspaper- at your beaming sister and her Prince. "The Earl killed my husband after my whole family," Doña said as she shifted in her seat. Her eyes pried into your soul as if she was weighing each of your sins and virtue against each other in that moment. "I cannot rest until he feels the same anguish. What do you say?" She asked, raising her thin eyebrows, leaning forward in her seat.

For the first time that afternoon, you understood the woman sitting before you. You understood the lingering pain behind every smile, the loneliness behind her confident handshake. For that, you didn't need her to prove that the Earl was deserving of just intervention when normally, you required a means that ensured you that you weren't being sent to murder an innocent. The Calverts allowed you to read the court records of Keating's failed prosecution. But in this case, you recognized the raw emotion in her face. You saw it weekly in your employers and it used to stare back at you in the mirror...before you grew.

"Fine," your shoulders relaxed as you shifted in on the wooden chair, tempted to retreat, the more she invaded your space.

"We will begin our preparations immediately, then. We may discuss the finer details over tea."

. . .

JANUARY 17TH, 1892

READING, ENGLAND

"Diego and Carmen have returned," Doña entered your room without the formality of knocking, even though Andrea was in the middle of preparing you for your arrival to the Phantomhive Manor while you were attempting to keep yourself present. You gave your toes a discrete wiggle while they were crushed in tall heels. At least the slight pain was grounding. "Your personal effects will be included with ours," she added as a suggestion for you to respond. Over the week you had spent in her presence, you learned that talking to her was an exhaustive endeavor when most of the time, all you needed to do was listen. Meanwhile, Andrea was finishing your complicated hairstyle behind you. She tied strands of your hair into braids that led into a single low ponytail behind your head. Frankly, the steps she took had you standing there for ages, but you didn't protest, as opposed to the riot you always threw in Germany.

"At last," you stared at your reflection in the mirror before you, willfully ignoring the addition of her behind you. It was almost difficult to recognize yourself, considering you were staring at the visage of your sister, Marie as you dawned a sky blue gown that was embroidered with white designs around the bodice and top petticoat. The neckline had simple ruffles that covered the top of your stomacher, alternating with lace. Your skin was smooth to touch, almost delicate with the amount of cold cream that Andrea had insisted on smothering over every inch of you each morning and night. Even the apples of your cheeks were lightened with a gentle hand of pink rouge. "Putting that off to the last day was careless."

"At least our princess needs not to remember her privilege," Doña smarted, her red lips pursing in a sardonic grin. "Only her grace."

"And what of the princess?" You asked, turning away from yourself to give the packed trunks in your room a quick once over. They were each packed with fine clothing and luxury products that Doña had procured over the week, whilst important belongings of your own had just arrived, according to the woman herself. The conman's watch stayed with you for each task, whether you wore it, forced it into your pocket bag, or wrapped around a garter.

"Her steamship was supposed to dock about an hour ago. It should be in the process of sinking in the North Sea." The words had no effect on you, other than perhaps, relief. While Marie was your sister, you grew up in her looming shadow, her constant jibes, and haughty smiles. Her death secured your role in perhaps, one of the most complicated schemes you have ever dared take part in and did well to rid the world of another self-absorbed leech. Doña's hand gave your shoulder a patronizing pat as she smiled, "peace, Y/n. Your face is too young for frown lines. Remember, princesses haven't a care."

"You would know?" you asked, pressing your lips together and gathering your breath in a shallow inhale. The statement affected you more than it should have, but you blamed the superior tone that Doña attempted to pull over you. Although there were many years separating the two of you, it gave her no right to treat you as a child. You believed that Evelyn Calvert said it best- you were a woman, a lady that deserved every brutal sentiment that the world had to offer. "I believe the monarchy in Spain ended years ago."

"Someone did their reading."

"Enough," you glared, "I believe it would be best to allow Andrea to finish here. Before I stain this gown with your-" Andrea gave your hair a slight tug to tighten the hold before she gave you a quick once over. She seemed proud of her work- turning a runaway back into a princess. Quickly she patted a bit of power over the exposed junction between your neck and shoulders, adding some to your throat. Rather than making you appear paler, it was mostly translucent and served as a more natural aromatic while hiding blemishes. Andrea then left and quickly returned with a white coat that ran down to your mid-thigh. Deftly, she buttoned down the middle of it, closing both sides with little effort, seeing as it was made to be snug over all of your tight layers.

"-No, I believe that is quite enough, Y/n. Don't forget- we are allies, love." Doña reminded you with a smile. "In fact, I retrieved something else of yours to prove it," her hand disappeared into the deliberate fold of her pocket bag, revealing a small box. It was a black velvet that was soft in your hand. "Go on, she prompted, nodding at the box with her chin, "open." Slowly, you opened the box as it revealed a breathtaking emerald ring. The band's soft rose gold shone in the sunlight that came through the windows as small diamonds lined its circumference and outlined the expensive gem itself.

It couldn't be-

Your breath hitched as you took the ring out, putting the box on the vanity to your side as you looked at the interior of the band, your eyes wide as the engraving read 'Prinzessin Helena Victoria, 5/3' (Princess). It was your family ring, the exact one that you had given to a young boy because he was too poor to buy himself a proper jacket. All he wanted were a few coins for you to buy his newspaper, but you had no currency at the time. Instead, you gave him the ring and changed his life, rather than allowing the damned thing to burden you any more than it already had.

"That ring has seen...nearly all of Europe before returning to you," Doña said as she watched you slide the ring back over your satin glove. It fit your ring finger perfectly. Marie was made a completely identical ring, emerald, rose gold, and diamonds. You shared the same birthdate with her, being twins. "It would have been wiser to procure hers, but we must make do. You may never take it off." She was right. Though the ring was in fact, a smart decision to make your appearance more legitimate, the engraving could just as easily be the end of you.

"I understand." You confirmed, with a generous inhale. You felt your chest expand against the confining corset you wore.

"Andrea, ¿está lista ahora?" (Andrea, is she ready now?) Doña asked the servant, who was cradling her daughter, a chubby infant in her skinny arms, seeing as she finished tending to you. Andrea was not given enough credit, seeing as she took care of you, the baby, and everyone else within the household. She seemed to be around the age of Doña herself, perhaps younger, though missing a ring on her own finger. You owed her more respect than Doña, seeing as she took the time to teach you bits of conversational Spanish. Sitting in that house for a week while most individuals spoke in their native tongue was frustrating to you, and she cared enough to alleviate some of that pressure.

"Yes. You all should be going. Marie would have been near to our destination." Andrea said, before leaving your room to presumably, get Diego and Carmen to load the carriage with the aforementioned trunks. She left you and Doña alone, in temporary silence.

"Diego and Carmen are escorting you," she spoke, ushering you to leave the room behind her and start to the carriage that waited in front of the brick manor. "They are dock workers to you since the Queen called for finesse; minimum security." Marie's steamship was private- it made sense that she'd only have a few individuals as personnel. Although, they were likely dead at the bottom of the sea with the intended princess. "I will be in contact," her eyes, once again, stared into you, but you refused to falter. At a time like this, it was important to appear confident, even when there was residual panic racing through you.

"I won't be long," you replied, quite sardonically. The Earl Phantomhive was just a boy, about two years younger than you. He had a butler and four servants and an opulent estate that gave you plenty of opportunities, space, and minimal witnesses. You have surmised much harder conditions in the past, considering you've posed as a maid and drowned a woman in her own bathtub since she kidnapped and sold little girls to the highest bidder. That case had reached a particular soft spot within you, although it made you sensitive to the scent of rose water.

For a moment, you were back in that bathroom. The steam of the heated water hit your face in droplets as the curvaceous woman thrashed, her knees peeking out of the water, kicking. She was screaming, but it was garbled by the water as she choked on it. You had to use both of your soapy hands to press her forehead against the porcelain tub and apply moderate pressure around her trachea before she went limp...

"I'm sure," Doña rolled her eyes as she opened the carriage door for you. Diego and Carmen came out the front door with the small trunks in their arms. Carmen's tan features were still warped in her perpetual scowl, but Diego beamed at you, his eyelashes fluttering. You squeezed your eyes closed before opening them again, repeating the process multiple times while wrinkling your nose. It was, naturally, still cold and unlike the staff, you were only given a coat and gloves to stay warm. How Doña stood her ground without sleeves in this weather was lost to you.

"Andrea, fixed you up real good, Your Highness," Diego said, leaving Carmen to finish packing the carriage as he approached you. He bowed at his waist, over-exaggerating the movement. You had come to the conclusion that he was an excitable puppy dog, personified in a man. It was hard to imagine a man like that had the nerve to use the handgun in his holster. You frowned, the sight of firearms never failing to unsettle you, despite your line of work.

Trap the gun.

You urged yourself to focus on the people in front of you and the task that was rapidly coming into fruition. "You ought to ask her for a hand," you shrugged dismissively, the jab subtle as you shrugged and showed yourself through the carriage door. You sat down on the cushioned seat, closing the door and staring out the window of the carriage. Though you could have afforded a simple goodbye to the staff, your growing demand to be alone was overwhelming. Even the carriage, though it was white and an unassuming beige upholstery lined the seats, you had to force yourself to stay present.

Felix Keating.

"Y/n, we're pulling out now!" Carmen's grumpy voice announced as she knocked twice on the closed door to get your attention. She and Diego were to be driving the carriage- as Doña said, they were acting as port attendants to substitute Marie's dead servants. Your fingers wrapped around the pommel of your dagger, giving it a long squeeze.

"Fine!" You responded, watching the street from your window as it slowly passed by, paired with the trotting hooves of the horse that dragged you to your possible demise.

. . .

JANUARY 17TH, 1892

LONDON, ENGLAND

The Phantomhive manor was on the outskirts of London, shielded within the countryside by a thin forest line. As it rolled into your sightline through the small window of the carriage, you shamelessly allowed yourself to gape at the sheer size of it- the height of the walls, the militant stone masonry, and expansive stone garden that surrounded the cobblestone path. The cobblestone caused the carriage to bump clumsily and you could hear the sound of the packed trunks shifting around, even though they sat in the front with Carmen and Diego. To you, having so much space for one person was simply a waste- you made do in a shoebox that was going to be comparable to a linen closet on this property.

There was no describing the intimidating grace of the noble manor that stood proudly before you- although it was the furthest from your first complicated infiltration and as much as you tried to repress it, grew up in a castle. However, even Glücksburg was feeble in comparison to the fortress that your carriage slowed to a stop in front of. Diego wasted no time in opening the door, allowing more of the afternoon light in. You shuddered as the cold, once again, attacked your face and outer extremities, despite the petticoats that Andrea had precariously piled under your gown.

"We have made it, Your Highness," the joke was obvious in Diego's face, the apples of his cheeks too perky with his enthusiastic smile. He needed some of Carmen's restraint while the latter required at least a semblance of his warmth.

Your Highness. The form address was foreign to you. It was nothing but a burden that weighed just as much as the genuine metal around your ring finger and the tight corset that restricted your torso. But this was your role- at least for the next week or so. Your smile was small enough to not seem horribly forced, though anything but enthused. Restraint was something Governess Lydia always stressed, making it one of the single things she had in common with the conman, who never let you forget about the strength of words. This task required you to heed lessons from the both of them, which was unfortunate, considering the conman represented the best two years of your life, while Governess Lydia was the embodiment of your poisonous girlhood.

"Your prudence is more than appreciated," you accepted his hand as he helped you down the two, rather short stairs of the carriage. This was it- now you were Princess Marie of Schleswig-Holstein. Her identity belonged to you- rather than a withering corpse in the sea- however Doña had managed to get her there. For your own sake, you found it easier not to ask. You didn't need the blood of your sister on your conscience while you embodied her likeliness. Or at least...what you could recall from your spoiled bias and hourly etiquette classes in the castle. "Thank you, Diego," you let go of his hand once you stood on your own feet. You didn't need to look at him to know that he was shaking his head, discouraged that you were being kind to him simply because you had to. Prior to the carriage ride, you'd told him to see Andrea and give her a chance to improve his scraggly appearance.

"Of course," he responded with a hasty bow. Diego shut the door with a slam, clumsier than he needed to be. You pretended that all of your doubts were conveniently left sitting on a cushioned seat- as dispensable as a glove. Confidence in your own vast skill sets was going to get you through this and the blade of your dagger between the Earl's ribs. "To the door, Your Highness. You'll catch cold." Diego led you to the door, leaving Carmen to unload your baggage. The door opened immediately after he knocked, revealing a simpering man.

"Wir heißen sie herzlich willkommen, Eure Hoheit. Ich hoffe, dass Ihre reise bis zu diesem punkt angenehm war.," (Our deepest welcome, Your Highness. I do hope your journey was pleasant to this point,) he spoke, his German succinct as if he was a native speaker himself. Following his practiced welcome, he bowed, the silver accessory that was pinned on his lapel moved as he did. A gloved hand pressed politely over his heart as he righted himself at your nod. In this case, you would have preferred him to speak to you in English, seeing as the whole of the experience was already quite out of body for you. "Bitte, treten sie ein." (Please, come in).

You complied, reluctantly crossing the tall threshold. Diego was behind you and silent as you took a moment to look over the barren foyer around you. "Sie haben ein schönes anwesen. Danke, dass sie mein Refugium beherbergen - Ihre Majestät kann mehr als exzessiv sein," (You keep a lovely manor. Thank you for housing my retreat- Her Majesty can be more than excessive,) you replied, noting the butler's endearing features. His face was pale as if the moon decided to bless him with natural illumination and in contrast, his hair fell in black tresses that framed his face. His smile was too perky for his darker disposition.

"Es ist unser privileg, mit ihrer sicherheit betraut zu werden." (It is our privilege to be entrusted with your safety.) The unctuous pleasantries were in excess. A little went a long way, especially for you, who tended to be brief towards every accessory- every pawn. As a girl, that efficiency labeled you as ill-mannered, as Lydia, the uptight Governess, cautioned you.

"Gibt es einen namen für sie?" (Is there a name to call you by?) It was more appropriate for his master- the rudely absent Earl, to introduce him properly, but you were growing weary of having no name to associate with the man. You tilted your head, thinly smiling at the butler who immediately stood to attention to respond. He had more effortless poise than you did, but at its essence, it couldn't be hard. Between your intense life in the monarchy was nearly a decade of living amongst the middle class and working for anyone with the fortune to pay you.

He bowed again, the palm of his right hand returning to his heart. "Natürlich. Mein Name ist Sebastian, mein meister-" (Of course. My name is Sebastian, my master-) he was interrupted by the door opening again, proceeding with three individuals and Carmen entering the foyer, bringing the trunks that were in the carriage. There were only six boxes, but the shorter boy out of the group was holding three heavy boxes instead of one.

"Sebastian! Where should we be putting these?" A woman asked rather loudly, as opposed to the smooth dulcet of Sebastian's German. Her voice had a clear, animated quirk of an English accent and it took you a moment to return your brain to the language, seeing as focusing on one at a time rather than two at once was simpler. Then you entered her sightline, causing her to shriek in surprise as she gasped. "Princess Marie- Your Highness!" she dropped the box, sinking into a clumsy excuse for a curtsy. At your side, you could hear Diego attempting to stifle his laughter. As for yourself, you weren't one for sudden noises and had to feign understanding. By the end of the day, your cheeks were going to ache from constantly having to smile.

"Your Highness, these are the other servants of the house," Sebastian finally spoke in English as he gestured with an arm to the two men and the woman. As the three other servants put the trunks down. The woman's face was red under her disproportionate glasses as she looked from the older man to the younger one at her sides, searching for validation for her abrupt enthusiasm. "Our gardener, Finnian-"

"-Finny!" He interrupted with a bright smile, before meeting Sebastian's eyes and shrinking. Finny cleared his throat, his gloved hand rubbing under the hat that covered the nape of his neck. "Please, um...call me Finny, Your Highness." In front of him were the three trunks that he had been carrying- stacked vertically. One alone was heavy for even yourself, but he seemed unaffected.

"Right...Mey-Rin, the maid," Sebastian continued. Mey-Rin's face was still red as she looked at Sebastian and then you, uncomfortable with the attention of the room on her. "Our cook, Baldroy."

Baldory seemed to be the most composed of the three. Notably, there were strands of grey in his blond hair as he regarded you with an easy simper, his shoulders relaxed. "Good to meet ya," he said with a simple nod of his head. His voice reminded you of the conman's- perpetually at ease.

"And ...Tanaka- the executive director of the Funtom Company," Sebastian said, guiding your attention to a small man that watched you from behind Baldroy's legs. He wore a monocle and seemed to hold a cup of tea as he bowed. The executive director of the Funtom Company was a frail man?

"Oh but, that's how he is- he rarely goes into his full size," Finny chimed in, once again, cutting himself off at Sebastian's pointed gaze. He only gave you more questions than he had answered. How was such a large estate taken care of by such a small cast of individuals?

"Might I ask about the Earl himself?" You didn't feel the need to properly introduce Carmen and Diego, seeing as they were only supposed to be distant dockworkers to you. Marie wouldn't have thought twice about them, seeing as she was her own sun, moon, and savior. Instead, she would be miffed that a mere Earl had the self-importance to show tardiness in meeting her.

"Our master should be with us in a moment. Please allow me to show you to his study," Sebastian said, easily making a transition from the exhaustive introductions to sitting in. "In the meantime; you three, take Her Highness's belongings to her quarters." This time, Baldroy picked up Carmen's neglected box as she stood at Diego's side. The three of them responded enthusiastically as if they were excited to be given a laborious task from their superior.

"Sure," you agreed, more than aware that this was going to be a temporary goodbye to Diego and Carmen, the final allies you'd speak to before heading into a minefield of social complexity, corsets, and lies. You turned to Diego, almost unsure of how to let him depart. It was almost pathetic of you, growing tongue-tied from a simple goodbye. The duo had no semblance of sentimental value to you. All you had was yourself, a dagger, and a large sum of money waiting for you.

"We leave you in capable hands, Your Highness," Diego smiled as he bowed, before quickly winking at you.

"Farewell," Carmen added, her expression illegible as she too, bowed and left with her counterpart.

"Right then," Sebastian led you up the massive staircase. Each step was narrow and troublesome but you attempted to tread smoothly. "Would you care for tea? You toiled through quite a long trip..."

. . .

Tags:

[yinzxs-wonderland]

A World in Spirals

Turtles All the Way Down is John Green’s most recent release. It was published on October 10, 2017. The story is about a sixteen-year-old girl named Aza who is always, in her own words, in a thought spiral. She has an OCD or Obsessive Compulsive Disorder which she calls the demon inside her. She never intended to investigate the mystery of fugitive billionaire Russell Pickett, but there is a huge reward. Together with her best friend, who is the exact opposite of her, they started to investigate through Pickett’s son and are eager to solve the case like they are some Sherlock Holmes. Aza is always trying. Trying to be a good daughter, friend, student, and maybe a detective, while also living within the walls of her thought spirals. This paper claims that the author wants to convey to the readers the reality of the people who have mental illnesses.

There is a wide range of mental illnesses or mental health disorders. Common examples of mental illnesses are depression, anxiety disorders, schizophrenia, eating disorders, and addictive behaviors (Mayo Clinic). Many people have mental health concerns, and if these concerns would not be addressed, they turn into mental illnesses. Like other illnesses, mental illnesses also have signs and symptoms. Having a mental condition hinders a person to function. Another type of mental health disorder is Obsessive-compulsive disorder. According to the International OCD Foundation, it is a disorder that “occurs when a person gets caught in a cycle of obsessions and compulsions.” This cycle of obsessions and compulsions gets extreme, and if not treated, it could get in the way of the person’s life who has this. Even though there are many reports regarding the rise of people who experience mental health disorders, it is still stigmatized even today.

Turtles All the Way Down is a psychological and mystery novel. The story takes place in Indianapolis, Indiana's capital city located roughly in the center of the state. It is also where John Green lives. The characters Aza and Daisy are students of White River High School. Though the school is fictional, the White River actually exists. Aza tells in the story that the river is “50 percent urine. And that's the good half.” In the story, Aza lives along the river on the side that is flooded. On the other hand, the other character, Davis, goes to a private school and lives on the other side of the river where the stone- gabled walls push the rising water to the side where Aza’s house is located. The atmosphere of the story is anxious, frustrated, remorseful, and serious.

Aza Holmes is the main character of the novel. She has a constant fear of bacteria, specifically C.diff which sends her in her thought spiral, and spends most of her time thinking if she is real. Aza has Obsessive-compulsive disorder which is a type of mental health disorder that is a cycle of obsessions and compulsions. Aza calls her OCD the demon inside her and she wanted to escape from it. Aza is a dynamic character as she changes at the end of the story. Daisy, another character from the novel, is Aza’s best friend. She is bubbly, outgoing, and a big fan of Star Wars. When she heard about the reward for those who can help them find the billionaire, Russell Pickett, she asked Aza to team up with her. She asked Aza to visit Davis, son of Russell Pickett because Aza and Davis met before and hoping that Davis knows something. When Davis gave them money to keep quiet, Daisy spent so much money, and Aza told her of her irresponsible choices, but she told Aza how horrible of a friend she is. They reconciled at the end of the story. Daisy is a round character as she showed many different traits in the story. The last main character is Davis Pickett Jr. He is the son of the missing billionaire in the story. Unlike Aza and Daisy, Davis is rich, lives in a mansion, and goes to a private school. Davis, like Aza, lost one of his parents. Davis is a dynamic character because he was blinded by the privileges and wealth, but at the end of the story, he realized that that being a good brother to his younger brother is more important than money.

The story has a linear plot. It starts on a normal day in Aza and Daisy’s school, White River High School. Aza, Daisy, and her other friend, Mychal, were talking about the billionaire, Russell Pickett, who disappeared after being accused of bribery and fraud. The story starts to complicate when they heard on the radio that Pickett Engineering rewards $100,000 to anyone who could give any information about Mr. Pickett. Daisy tells Aza to team up with her to investigate. She also tells Aza that they should visit Davis as they met at the “sad camp” and that maybe he knows something about his father’s disappearance. When they asked Davis about his father, Davis thought that he should not trust others because they might be after his money. He gives Aza and Daisy $100,000 each. Daisy was ecstatic because she can now go to college. Aza and Davis continued to get to know each other and decided to unofficially date. The climax of the story was when Aza came across a Wikipedia article saying that gut bacteria communicate with the brain and so she drank hand sanitizer thinking that the bacteria inside her would die. The doctor said that she lacerated her liver so she needed to stay at the hospital. The conflict starts to resolve when Aza went back to school, and she and Daisy talked. Daisy told her a story about a woman who insisted that the world rests on the back of a turtle, which rests on the back of another turtle: turtles all the way down. Aza thinks it perfectly describes her mental state. The next day Daisy invites Aza to go to an art show in the sewer. As they walked, they realized they were in “the jogger’s mouth” which was what they discovered in Russell Pickett’s phone when they were still investigating it. The stench made them walk back. Aza tells Davis that they might have found his dad’s body. After that, Aza never heard about Davis again. Months later, the police discovered Mr. Pickett’s body. Aza immediately texted Davis saying they did not do it. Davis told her that they were the ones who told the police. Davis then visited Aza and gave her a spiral painting and told her they will move to Colorado. Aza addresses the readers that she wrote this story when a psychiatrist told her to write how she got where she is now and that through writing, she learned that she is just a singular being and there is no other identity inside her.

The major conflict of the story is man versus himself because, throughout the story, Ava continues to wonder if she is real and fights her OCD. Identity, Selfhood, and Mental Illness, Chaos vs. Order and Control, Language and Meaning, and Privilege, Power, and Wealth are the existing themes in the story. The novel is told in the first-person point of view which also contributes to the style of the author. Through Aza’s perspective, the author can convey and demonstrate how paralyzing and dangerous this type of disorder can be. The symbols in the story are the bacteria or C.diff., the Iron Man figure, the Sky, Stars, and Astronomy, and Circles and Spirals. The bacteria or C.diff. symbolizes Aza’s knowledge about bacteria because of her illness. Aza identifies the bacteria as someone who is trying to control her. The Iron Man figure represents how others look at Davis because of his wealth and his wealth makes him strong. However, the plastic material of the figure represents powerlessness. Davis feels powerless because of his inability to get a hold of the wealth of his father. Furthermore, the Iron Man figure's paint has worn off, making it faceless and featureless. This symbolizes how others see Davis, not as a person, but just as a money figure. The sky, stars, and astronomy symbolize each character differently. Aza sees the sky as fractured because most of his dad’s photographs of the sky are through tree branches and so she sees the branches as obstacles to see the sky clearly. While Davis views the sky from a treeless estate and through his telescope and so for him the sky is vast, endless, and full of opportunities. Lastly, circles and spirals symbolize Aza’s thoughts, which she calls her thought spiral. It also symbolizes how Aza perceives the world around her.

The significance of the story is that people who have mental health disorders go through different hardships. The story conveys how hard and dangerous these disorders to the people who have them. John Green mirrors the main character, Aza, because he also struggled with severe anxiety and obsessive- compulsive disorder for as long as he can remember. Once in a while, it consumes him, but he keeps it in check with medication and therapy. Green said in an interview, “I couldn’t escape the spiral of my thoughts, and I felt like they were coming from the outside.” When he was starting to recover, he also started writing Turtles All the Way Down. Green said in another interview that he does not want to be embarrassed about it, instead, he wants to talk about it. Hence, the novel was published to tell his readers and everyone who would come across the book that it is not easy to have a mental illness.

This just proves that the author wanted to convey to the readers the reality of the people who have mental illnesses. The author gave his personal experiences to the main character as her qualities in the story. Through the main character’s perspective, the author conveyed and demonstrated how having a mental health disorder is paralyzing and dangerous. Also, the author was able to share what he is going through, through publishing the book. Analyzing the novel using the formalistic approach helped in getting to know the story and through the biological approach, the paper discovered that the message of the story is that having a mental illness is not easy, but it can be fought.

Works Cited Websites

“3 Key Differences Between YA Fiction and Adult Fiction.” Writers Edit, writersedit.com/fiction- writing/3-key-differences-between-ya-fiction-and-adult-fiction/.

“About John Green.” John Green, www.johngreenbooks.com/bio. Alter, Alexandra. “John Green Tells a Story of Emotional Pain and Crippling Anxiety. His Own.”

The New York Times, The New York Times, 10 Oct. 2017, www.nytimes.com/2017/10/10/books/john- green-anxiety-obsessive-compulsive disorder.html#:~:text=Green%2C%20the%20author%20of%20the,a%20while%2C%20it%20consumes%20him. Cart, Michael.

“The Value of Young Adult Literature.” Young Adult Library Services Association (YALSA), 15 Nov. 2011, www.ala.org/yalsa/guidelines/whitepapers/yalit. Doll, Jen. “What Does 'Young Adult' Mean?”

The Atlantic, Atlantic Media Company, 30 Oct. 2013, www.theatlantic.com/culture/archive/2012/04/what-does-young-adult-mean/329105/.

“John Green Books.” John Green, www.johngreenbooks.com/books. Lindquist, David. “John Green's 'Turtles' at Home in Indianapolis.” The Indianapolis Star, IndyStar, 13 Oct. 2017, www.indystar.com/story/entertainment/arts/2017/10/11/john-green-made-turtles-an-indianapolis-story/754951001/.

LitCharts. “Turtles All the Way Down Study Guide.” LitCharts, www.litcharts.com/lit/turtles-all-the- way-down.

Martin, Julia. “Turtles All The Way Down: A Story about Mental Illness with the Backdrop of a Mystery.” University News, 7 Nov. 2017, info.umkc.edu/unews/turtles-all-the-way-down-a-story-

January 2021

[solesurvivorkat]

FC5 Deputy GFH Dialogue

(Quickie ‘Katie IRL’ Update: So sorry for lack of writing... to be succinct, I might have a sleep disorder, possibly Sleep Apnea - been very tired/lethargic for several months now, finally have a test scheduled for late August. Will have to ‘make do’/power through fatigue until then. I will do my best to jump-start my writing {and my YT channel} until then!

Also - as for ‘I Need to Tell You’ (FC5 no-cult AU fic) - I don’t think I have a ton of readers for that one, so I’m just gonna stick to the movie-plot where I can & finish it up {the end is nearing!}. If anyone wants to read anything else from that ‘verse, lemme know & I’ll whip something up - otherwise, I’m gonna finish that up & get back to working on ‘The Book of John’ again, which is loooong overdue {poor Sarah’s been in John’s bunker forever, lol!}. THAT said... )

~~~~~~~~

Deputy Sarah Rook

(NOTE: My apologies if Sarah’s dialogue is similar to anyone else’s OC’s... I promise and swear that if it happens, it’s purely coincidental. I am adamant about not {purposely} stealing anyone else’s creativity! <3  Also, this is quite long... but it’s not everything in FC5, so if you like it & want even more, just lemme know, lol.)

With Fangs for Hire:

Boomer: “Aww, who’s my sweet, brave boy?” (kisses forehead) - “Good boy, Boomer!” - “I know what it’s like to have someone you love taken away from you... but don’t worry boy, you’re not alone. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure you never are again.” - “I won’t let Eden’s Gate use you, I promise.” - “Boomer, go!” - “Rae-Rae won’t have died in vain, I promise you.”

Peaches: “I’m... usually more of a dog person - but as long as I get to keep all my fingers and limbs, I’m satisfied.” - “Peaches, attack!” - “Us girls gotta stick together, right?” - “Hmm... one blue eye, one brown. Unique!” - “Needless to say, a cougar’s a very dangerous pet. Miss Mable never should have tried to raise you in captivity. Still... it can be handy to have a cougar for an ally.” - (gives affectionate pets) “Aww, my sweet little ‘danger kitty’...”

Cheeseburger: “You’re like a... big, dangerous teddy.” (laughs) - “Cheeseburger! How are ya, buddy?” - “Wade was sweet to look after you. I promise I’ll try to do the same.” - “I will not let Jacob take you.” - “Ohh, those big brown eyes of yours...” - “I can’t believe Wade not only found a collar to fit you, but also one that had cheeseburgers on it. Wow.” - “I’m glad you’re on my side, boy.” - “No, I can’t give you any more cheeseburgers. ...Stop looking at me like that, you know they’re not good for you. ...You’re on a diet, remember? ...  (sighs)  .....Okay, ONE burger. Don’t tell anyone.”

With other Guns for Hire:

Sharky

(serious) “Sharky... just between us... you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” - “Sharky... never change.” (smiles)

“Sharky, I know fire is your, uh- ‘specialty’, but... you need to try not burning down half the forest with us!” 

“Anything you say, Charlemagne.” 

“You and Hurk are a dangerous duo - in more ways than one.” 

(horrified, after hearing about his mom/parents) “Anyone who'd do that to an innocent baby doesn’t deserve them. You’re better off, Shark.” 

(cheesy grin) “I hope Eden’s Gate stocked up on ‘Shark repellent’!” 

(when fighting together) “Time for a ‘Shark attack’!” - “You’ve got us between a rock and a shark place!” - “Sarah and Shark, makin’ their mark!” - “You might be better off using your gun here, Sharky.”

“Disco, Sharky? Really? (sighs) ...All right, to each his own.”

“Hey Sharky, got a bad joke for ya - what’s a shark’s favorite bible story? ...’Noah’s Shark’!”

“Ride or die, buddy!”

“No matter what, I’ve always got your back, Sharky.”

Grace

(chuckles nervously/anxiously after seeing ‘serious/deadpan Grace’) “Sorry, I... joking around is kind of my ‘defense mechanism’...”

“A medal in the Olympics... that’s amazing, Grace. ...Er- no pun intended.”

“For what it’s worth... thank you for your service to our country.”

(after Grace mentions destroying copies of ‘Only You’, Sarah chuckles sadly) “Y’know, it’s funny... I actually used to like that song...”

“I know you want to protect your dad’s grave, I do completely understand... but we also need to help protect innocent people that’re still living too, you know? They need us... need you.”

Hurk

"Hercules Drubman Junior - as I live and breathe." (smiles)

“Hurk, I... don’t think a rocket launcher is the best weapon to use right now...”

“As... ‘tempting’ as ‘Hurk’s Gate’ sounds, I... don’t think it’s quite for me.”

(at a loss for words) “...Oh Hurk...”

“Y’know Hurk... there is a lot more to life than beer, drugs, and sex...” - (Hurk {looks horrified}: “...Say whaat? What’choo talkin’ ‘bout, Dep??”)

“Hurk, just... be careful.”

(stares blankly, then slowly raises an eyebrow) “...Monkey... King/God??”

“No offense dude, but... if your dad doesn’t stop talking I may have to ‘accidentally’ shoot him.”

(sneaking around) “You’re not exactly the ‘king of stealth’. Why don’t... you hang back here for a minute? I’ll signal you or call out if I need you.”

“To each their own, but ‘partying’ is... not really my thing.”

Adelaide

(pointing in turn to Sharky, Hurk, then Addie, during ‘tongue-in-cheek’ suggestions for Sarah) “No, no, and HELL no.”

(Addie: "Punch it Chewie! ...Bet you got a kick out of that, you fuckin’ nerd.") “Hey- I love the reference, and I’m proud of who I am. ...Mostly.” (smiles)

“Addie, for the last time - no, I did not inspect John's underwear drawer when I was at Seed Ranch. I was a little occupied at the time.” (turns bright red as Addie looks thrilled) “...That- that’s not what I meant!”

(reluctantly) “Addie? I kind of need some... ‘womanly advice’.” - (Addie, eyebrows raised: “And you came to me?? Oh hunny...”)

“While I appreciate your... ‘openness’, no - I do not need ‘tips’ from you and Xander about ‘positions’.”

“Addie... ‘showing more cleavage’ is not going to help me with the Seed brothers or Eden’s Gate, despite your insistence.”

“...I am not playing ‘Fuck, Marry, Kill’...”

Nick

(after flying Carmina - and puking once landed) “Nick... if you ever make me do that again... I don’t know what I’ll do, but it’ll be bad.”

“Flying may be great for you, but I’m much happier with my feet on the ground.”

“I’ll protect you and your family as much as I can - that’s a promise.”

“Defending your business, plane, home, family, and friends like you have been... I’m sure your family would be very proud of you.”

“There he is, ‘King of the Skies’!”

“You and Kim... you’re lucky to have each other. I kind of envy that.”

“Rook and Rye - on land and in the sky!“

“I know fighting Eden’s Gate is important, but... don’t forget to be there for Kim too. We’ve [the Resistance] got this... Kim and your baby need you more.” 

(After Carmina's born) "How's Kim and the baby? You'd better be taking good care of my goddaughter!"

Jess

“I know we grew up in very different ‘environments’, but... I also know what it’s like to feel alone for a long time. No pressure, but... I’m here if you ever need someone to lend an ear.”

(re: Jess’s insane survival skills) “...You’ve got to teach me that/how to do that sometime.”

“You’re related to Dutch? Wow, that’s... kinda cool.”

“I thought I swore a lot, but... wow.”

“Yeah... I’m not one for small talk, either.”

In Combat

(to herself, stressed) “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph...”

“Aw shit...”

“Fucking Peggies!”

(to herself, quickly and quietly) “You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day...”

“Let’s kick some Peggie ass!”

(to herself) “I can do all things through him who strengthens me...”

“May God have mercy on you.”

“I don’t think my soul is the one that needs saving!”

Driving

(hears ‘Oh John’ on the radio & starts humming along. After a couple seconds, realizes what she’s doing and shakes her head, murmuring to herself) “...Damnit...”

“I’m driving? If you say so.”

“ ‘Roads? Where we’re going, we don’t need... roads.’ “ (smug grin)

“I used to like driving. Found it kind of relaxing, most of the time. ...That was before I started having to get used to being pursued and chased down by Eden’s Gate trucks.”

“Time for... LUDICROUS SPEED!”

“Fasten your seatbelts... it’s going to be a bumpy ride!”

Idle

“...So...?”

“Everything okay? Do you need a break?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but I spent most of my life in New England - Connecticut, actually. Born and raised. I moved out to Hope County only a few years ago, when the Deputy job opened up. Thought it’d be... a ‘fresh start’. ...Definitely didn’t expect anything like all this to happen.”

“I used to roll my eyes - or want to - every time the Sheriff and the other Deps called me ‘Rookie’. They thought it was so funny, on account of my last name and all, and me being the newest addition to the department. Now that we’re all spread out and fighting against the cult... I think I kind of miss it.”

“Some of the most horrible things imaginable... have been done by people who claim they had ‘good reasons’ behind their actions.”

“There’s an old proverb that states, ‘Hell is full of good meanings, but heaven is full of good works’. ...There’s a lot of wisdom in that.”

“God has a reason for everything, even if we don’t always understand why...”

“The right thing to do is not always the easy thing to do...”

“Faith is believing in things when common sense tell you not to.“

“Imagine the things we could accomplish... if we would just try.”

“ ‘Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering.’ ...Make fun of me all you want, but it’s true.”

“I do love nature. ...You know... when it’s not being interrupted by religious idiots.”

“Courage isn’t the absence of fear... it’s deciding that something is more important than fear.”

Recruiting/Greeting

“I’ll do everything I can... you can count on it.”

“Good to see you again.”

“Let’s do this.”

“Stronger together!”

Dismissal

“Until we meet again - stay safe.”

“Call me if you need me.”

“Done already? Aww, you’re killin’ me, Smalls.”

Injured/Down

“God damnit... not yet...”

“FUCK!”

“This can’t be it...”

“I’m sorry... I tried...”

“I need some help!”

Revived/Assisted

“Thanks... now let’s teach these assholes a lesson they won’t soon forget.”

“Never tell me the odds!”

“Never give up, never surrender!”

“Thanks for the help!”

“Thanks... our work’s not done yet!”

Stealth

“Shh... ‘silence is golden’, remember?“

“Keep a low profile!”

“Be cautious...”

“Don’t let ‘em see you comin’...”

“ ‘Even a fool who keeps silent is considered wise...’ ”

Being aimed at

“Watch where you’re pointing that.”

“I’m a much better shot than I let on. Just remember that.”

“Two hits - me hitting you, and you hitting the ground. I suggest you aim elsewhere.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Location-Specific:

By any body of water: “When I lived in Connecticut, I loved seeing the ocean. The lakes in Montana can be beautiful, but... it’s not quite the same.”

The Henbane: “Freakin’ Bliss.” / “Please promise me... that you’ll never, ever let me end up like one of Faith’s Angels.” / “Exploiting people’s weaknesses and fears to get them to do what you want... it’s wrong on so many levels.” / “Rachel Jessop wasn’t the first, or even the second ‘Faith Seed’... I wonder if she’s ever afraid of ending up like them.” / “God wants people to follow him willingly, to choose to do good - not be forced into it with trickery and fear. Even if - in an insane world - Joseph was right, it doesn’t excuse the things that Eden’s Gate has done. If they have a message to spread, this isn’t the way to do it.”

Holland Valley: “Saying ‘Yes’ to everything doesn’t make you a better person.” /  “Many people know the seven deadly sins... but few people can name - let alone even know about - the 'seven virtues': chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness, and humility. ...But you don’t see John tattooing those on people.” / John is... he’s done some horrible things. Committed heinous acts. But knowing the life he had to endure as a child when the Duncans adopted him... I hate so many of the things he’s done, but... part of me can’t help feeling sorry for him, too.” / “Underneath all those layers of ‘jackass’, way, waaaay deep down... I think there’s a lot of hurt and pain in John.”

The Whitetails: “Jacob acts like having feelings, friends, caring for things and people makes you weak. It’s just the opposite... having things to fight for - people to fight for - is a strength. More than just a ‘purpose’ - it’s a blessing.” / (angry) Jacob turning me into a weapon of destruction... he’s going to pay for that. / Forcing Bliss on animals to turn them into Judges... it’s wrong on multiple levels. / “I’m ‘weak’, Jacob? I’ll show you what a ‘weak’ person can do.”

[sofiahanover]

— ♔ In the past, people were born royal and for SOFIA HANOVER, nee KAISER, the TWENTY-NINE-year-old CROWN PRINCESS of GERMANY, that is a tradition SHE intends to keep. To others, SHE looks an awful lot like EMILIA CLARKE and has been painted as THE KING’S LOVE-CHILD but behind closed doors, SHE is QUIRKY & UNPREDICTABLE but also ADAPTABLE & CARING. It has also been said they are NOT BETROTHED.

BASIC INFORMATION

NAME: Sofia Emilia Hanover [nee Kaiser]

NICKNAMES: Sofi, Princess Love-Child [by her siblings], The King’s Love-Child [by the tabloids]

DATE OF BIRTH: October 23, 2091

AGE: 29

HOME TOWN: Hohenschwangau, Bavaria, Germany

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Russia

OCCUPATION: Crown Princess of Germany

LANGUAGES: Primarily German & English

PARENTS: King Luis Everett Hanover (father); Marie Lilly Kaiser (mother)

BROTHERS AND SISTERS: 3 younger half-brothers, one of which is deceased and a half-younger sister.

HUSBAND OR WIFE: N/A (not currently betrothed)

SIGNIFICANT OTHERS: Her dog, Stewart named after James Stewart. Her best friend from back home.

RELATIONSHIP SKILLS: Sofia is loyal to those whom she cares about. She would do anything for them. She has a kind heart and cares about the people around her, and even though she’s faced much ridicule and cruelty from both her father’s side of the family, including her siblings, and much of the public, Sofia still wishes the best for those around her and would try and help them to the best of her ability. However, she can have a very sarcastic and cheeky side, especially if someone upsets her. While doesn’t go out of her way to be mean to anyone on purpose, she will stand her ground and refuses to let people walk all over her, especially in light of the information that has come out in recent years about who her father and her family is.

PHYSICAL CHARACTERISTICS

(TW: Sleep Disorder, Alcohol Mention)

HEIGHT: 5′2″

HAIR COLOUR: Brunette, sometimes blonde.

EYE COLOUR: Blue

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: Sofia’s eyebrow game is like no other. She’s very expressive in her emotions. And if she’s truly happy, you’ll know it by the smile that lights up her entire face. She’s been told many times that her laugh and smile are infectious. Good luck keeping a straight face around her.

DRESS STYLE: Sofia dresses for comfort. She can often be found in sweaters and jeans. And even though she’s recently taken her place as Crown Princess, she does know a good heel when she sees one. Getting dressed up in the fanciest outfits has been one of the best parts of this entire lifestyle change, including getting to wear designers she could never afford before.

PHYSICAL HABITS: Aside from red wine and chocolate, Sofia has tried marijuana, before and sometimes smokes it to relax. A little secret she’s kept hidden from her father. Her mother doesn’t mind it as much.

MANNERISMS: Sofia’s biggest tell, when she’s nervous or anxious, is one or both of her legs shaking. She’s been scolded multiple times by her etiquette teacher, since becoming the Crown Princess. She also likes to chew on her cheek or bottom lip. Her eyebrows are also a big tell for her when she’s happy, sad, or upset.

HEALTH: Sofia is in good health. She prefers fruits, veggies, and if any kind of meat is available, she orders fish and other seafood. Though she does have a weakness for a glass of red wine and dark chocolate. She exercises daily. She loves to snowboard and ride horses. Running has also been a hobby for her since she was a teenager having ran in several races over the past several years. Sofia does have Sleep Apnea, which has been undiagnosed, and often leaves her feeling groggy in the morning from waking up multiple times throughout the night. She’s talked to several doctors, including the ones who work for her father’s family, but no one has cared to officially diagnose her, most believing she’s making things up for attention, as a lot of people still don’t trust her.

HEADCANONS

Sofia Hanover, nee Kaiser, is the illegitimate daughter to the King of Germany. A young prince, who was once wild in his ways, had spent a drunken, euphoric summer with a sweet, village girl by the name of Marie Kaiser. But when word got out that he was in an affair with the young woman, he was immediately reprimanded and sent back to the castle to fulfill his duties as the future king. However, what he didn’t know was that Marie had gotten pregnant and nine months later gave birth to a baby girl who was almost the spitting image of the future Germanic King. Fast forward several years later and Marie found herself struggling to raise the young and rambunctious child. Reaching out by letter to the man, who had just been crowned the King of Germany after the death of his father, Marie got no response. However, Luis, whose heart was torn at the thought of having a child in the world, held the letter close under lock and key praying no one would ever find out.

It wasn’t until the death of his second eldest son, that Luis realized life was precious and he had a daughter somewhere in the world who deserved the best life had to offer. By then, however, Sofia had grown into a young woman, who had dreams for her future, but unfortunately not enough funding to reach them. It was then that she received a letter that would change her and her mother’s life forever. King Luis Hanover wanted to meet Sofia and her mother.

Reluctantly accepting his offer to become a part of the royal family, especially after her mother had insisted to the point of them arguing, Sofia’s life took a complete 180. Word had gotten out of the bastard child of King Luis from a previous relationship, before he was ever crowned as the King or married. At the age of 24, she became known as the German King’s Love Child and tabloid after tabloid was written about her. But what seemed more like a curse than anything was the realization that because she was the King’s first born, she held the rights to the crown; snagging the title by being just a few months older than her predecessor and younger brother. Her life, as she had once known it, was over, and while both her mother and Luis had only wanted what was best for their daughter, life for the young woman was growing increasingly dangerous.

After nearly five years spent in the castle, and commuting back home to see her mother when she could, it was decided that Sofia was to be sent to Khatanga with her half-siblings as a means of safety with the increasing tension growing around them. It wasn’t easy saying goodbye to her mother, and she had almost renounced her spot as the future Queen of Germany, but not wanting to let Marie down, and knowing that she had a solid future laid out for her, Sofia tearfully left Hohenschwangau for a small village in Russia.

Since arriving, things haven’t exactly been the easiest for the young woman. She feels as isolated as ever with her siblings treating her like an outcast. While she learned proper etiquette and was well on her way to becoming a princess, there are still many things she struggles with. But the hardest part to bear has been not having her mother nearby or being able to communicate with her regularly. Only time will tell if Sofia can weather this shitstorm of a new life she’s found herself in, or if she will renounce the crown hoping to go back to the life she once led.

Sofia is an avid horseback rider and snowboarder. She also likes other extreme sports, including skydiving, most of which she’s had to cut out since becoming Crown Princess.

Before accepting her father’s offer to the Crown, she was working at a small holiday themed shop in her home village. Her goal was to save up enough money to attend university for a degree in Art.

Speaking of Art, Sofia can often be found with paint all over her hands. She’s an avid painter and has even sold some of her work, including being hired to paint a mural on the side of a local house. Not enough to make a huge difference in her finances, but enough to help her get by with her job at the Christmas shop.

Most people, including her own family and other members of the royal party in Germany, as well as the press, believe Sofia just accepted her title for the money. While that’s partly true, she mostly did it for her mother and to get to know her father. While she does hold some regret and anger towards him, she’s starting to find out he genuinely cares for her and wants what’s best. He also believes that because she has lived as a commoner most of her life, that she would understand what the people of Germany genuinely need as opposed to his legitimate children who were originally in line for the throne and have lived more lavished lifestyles.

Sofia has a dog named Jimmy Stewart, James for short. He is named after the actor James Stewart, because of her love for his movies and the memories they hold spending time with her mother.

She loves music and loves to sing. Sometimes she can even be found dancing around her room in an oversized t-shirt to classic rock and other songs that she finds are true bops.

Red wine and chocolate are her true weaknesses in life. Well that and puppies and kittens. But she loves to unwind with a glass of red wine at the end of the day. And put chocolate cake in front of her, and she goes weak in the knees.

The Brothers Grimm hold a special place in her heart, just like Jimmy Stewart, because of the book her mother passed onto her before she left for Khatanga. Though the tales often scared her as a child when her Oma and mother read them to her, she grew to love and respect them as she got older, which has also led to her being an avid fan of horror movies and books.

More to come...

[seeaddywrite]

malex + “Please, be gentle with me. I’ll break if you aren’t careful enough.” please! 💕

this one was really hard, because neither of our boys are generally the openly mushy type! but i tried – i hope you enjoy! :) & look, a rare sighting of Alex’s pov on this blog! also, this one is a companion fic to this one. 

warnings for ptsd, panic attacks, self-hatred & an unreliable narrator. 

The thing that no one tells a stupid kid about to enlist isn’t that going to war fucks you up — everyone knows that. It’s broadcast through the media, in television shows and romance novels, and hell, there are even commercials about vets with post-traumatic stress disorder. As a kid, Alex was privy to the more intimate details of what that looks like; he’s pretty sure Jesse Manes wasn’t born with a mindset that allowed breaking his own son’s bones. That, Alex figures, came from what he did to survive during his own tours of duty.

Alex doesn’t like to admit that he’s got anything in common with the psychopath who fathered him, but it’s hard to ignore, lately. As a kid, despite the constant fear that his own father was going to go too far and actually kill him one day, Alex was pretty optimistic. He had plans — leaving Roswell came first, followed by pursuing a music career in a real city, without the small minds that came from small town living. Later, it had been finding a gorgeous, guitar-playing guy to create a life with far, far away from his family and the insanity that seems to run rampant in their genes. Because young Alex wasn’t like his father, or his grandfather, or even his oldest brother. He was sane, and he wasn’t going to get sucked into the violence and rigidity of a military existence chasing aliens.

Military service changed all of that. Some of it for the better — Alex isn’t stupid enough to say that there was nothing good about his time in the Air Force. Enlisting showed him the aptitude he hadn’t known he had for computers, had introduced him to some of his closest friends, and given him the skills and courage he needed to realize that Jesse Manes wasn’t nearly as powerful as he liked his children to think. He’s proud of his service.

Unfortunately, pride isn’t enough to stop him from realizing that not all of his internal changes were positive ones. Some days, when he looks in the mirror, all he can see is the negative — how the circles beneath his eyes tell everyone of his newly complicated relationship with sleep, and how the crutch he leans on constantly denotes weakness to anyone who looks at him. But, more than the physical, Alex hates the emotional changes  from who he used to be. Anxiety has become an inconstant companion, coming and going as it pleases and leaving him shaking and pale for no external reason. Even when he’s feeling stable, it’s so much harder to feel excited, or even content. Every happy moment is constantly overshadowed by the question of when it will end, and Alex loathes that more than anything.

Because while everything else has changed, his feelings for Michael Guerin are still as deep and passionate as ever, and Alex can’t enjoy it. He tries, God, he tries. But every time he thinks he can do it, when he’s confident in his own ability to be what Michael needs, something sparks that same anxiety that has sent him running a hundred times before. Michael kisses him at the reunion? Alex panics when Isobel Evans might find out. Michael takes him on an actual date, in public, and stares at him with obvious affection, uncaring of who can see — Alex lets his father get under his skin and hurts Michael enough that he can actually see the heartbreak in his eyes. One would think that after all that, Michael would punch Alex when he comes around, asking questions about his past and who he is, but the other man still lets him in … and, yet again, despite his intentions, Alex runs away as soon as he realizes there’s a chance that Michael might abandon him. It’s a miracle that Michael doesn’t seem to hate him even now; God knows that Alex hates himself.

It’s a cycle he can’t break, and Alex is resigned to the fact that he’s not meant to figure it out. He works alongside Michael and the others, helping them fight back against Project Shepherd and his father as his penance, trying to show Michael how much he means to him without trampling all over his heart, but some days, he aches with wanting the other man’s arms around him. On the hard days, when he hurts to much to wear his prosthetic and can’t leave his house, or when he’s curled on the bathroom floor, gasping through the aftermath of a nightmare and trying to ground himself with the stupid techniques his military-appointed shrink assigned him before deeming him fit for duty, Alex always has to resist calling Michael. He knows he would come. Of course he would. It’s like a law of the universe: whenever Alex needs him, Michael Guerin comes. So Alex can’t ask, can’t need him, because he’s got nothing to give back.

So the night that the guy Maria has nicknamed ‘Racist Hank’ punches a guy and sends him sprawling into Alex’s bad leg while he’s spending some time with the others outside of working and running for their lives, Alex sucks it up when the immediate throb in his residual limb sends him spiraling. Pain doesn’t always have this effect on him; Alex’s usually as calm and competent with pain management as he is with hacking. But every ache in that leg sends him straight back to Baghdad, to the crash and the adrenaline, to waking up in a German hospital to find himself missing a limb – 

Alex cuts off that line of thinking quickly. It’s not quite a panic attack, not yet, though he knows that if he doesn’t get a handle on himself, it’ll become one. He’s gotten good at hiding his weaknesses behind a mask of competency and detachment, and it works that night, too. Liz glances at him once, from where she leans against Max’s arm, but she only flashes him a smile. Michael, though – Michael’s eyes, as always, track his every movement, and seem to know way too much. Alex does his best to ignore the fog creeping into his mind and the way his fingers shake when he releases the beer bottle in his hands. He keeps up with the conversation around the table for a few minutes, nodding when Isobel declares that they all need more drinks, and smiling woodenly when Max kisses Liz on the mouth – but soon, he can’t manage it. It takes all of his focus to stay seated, to keep his stomach from overturning. His leg aches, though Alex can’t be sure that it’s a physical pain, and he’s desperate to leave before his heart beats out of his chest and shows everyone what a coward he is. 

Salvation comes in Michael’s quiet voice. “Hey, you good, man?” 

Alex wants to answer. He simultaneously wants to insist that he’s fine and walk out of the bar under his own power and to burrow into Michael’s arms and hide there until he can breathe normally again. Fuck. He flinches at Michael’s calloused hand on his, and guilt at the way the other man yanks his hand back as if stung adds itself to the heap of negative emotion in his head. 

Michael doesn’t say anything about that, though. Those uncannily perceptive eyes just watch him as Alex struggles to find his voice, to find any words to get him out of this situation – 

And again, Michael saves him. “You want to get out of here?”

Alex’s answering nod is desperate, and he’s not sure he cares. His breath is starting to stutter, and it’s going to become impossible to maintain any sort of dignity if he starts hyperventilating in the middle of Maria’s bar. After all of his hard work to show his friends that he’s fine, that he came back from war with all of his faculties, and that they don’t need to worry about him, that would definitely be a blow to his pride. And at this point, Alex feels like pride is one of the few things he’s got left. 

Michael turns around to talk to the others; Alex doesn’t know what he says, but when the other man turns around expectantly, he finds himself stuck in the chair. The low-level ache in his leg is still there, and he doesn’t want to stand – he’s not sure he could, even, without help. So, swallowing past the lump in his throat, he waves at his leg in vague explanation and asks hoarsely, “Think you could give me a hand?” 

He’s expecting Michael to haul him out of the chair, and part of him is excited for the prospect – it gives him an excuse to let Michael hold him together, if only for the few minutes it takes to make it out the door. But instead, Michael just puts his hands out and waits. 

It’s harder than he’d like to reach out and take the offer. It’s stupid, since Alex is the one who asked for help, but this – this feels like he’s asking for too much, admitting to weakness. But Alex reaches out anyway, because he can’t fall apart in the middle of the Pony, and he trusts Michael. 

They make it out the door pretty quickly after Alex throws a half-hearted wave at the rest of their friends, and he all but falls into Michael’s chest when they’re alone on the dark street. Alex presses his face into Michael’s neck, inhaling the familiar scent of sweat and motor oil and laundry detergent like it’s smelling salts or something. It works – or maybe it’s just the warmth of Michael’s body, and the sturdiness of his muscles, holding Alex up while he can’t quite manage it alone. 

“Hey,” Michael’s voice is low, and Alex can feel it rumble through his chest. “You okay?” 

Alex chuckles, and knows the sound isn’t a happy one. “You already know the answer to that.” His voice sounds raspy, like he’s been screaming – and Alex supposes he has, though the noise has all been internal. 

“You checked out on us during that fight. You faked it pretty well for a while, but I – I could tell something was wrong.” Of course he could. Michael’s always been able to read Alex so, so well. “You want me to take you home? Maria won’t let anyone tow your SUV.”  The offer sounds so good that Alex’s exhales in relief, his pounding heart easing slightly at just the thought of being in a safe, isolated place with Michael. 

“I can –” But Michael doesn’t let him finish, and the accusation that Alex is trying to push him away again, to insist that he’s fine when it’s blatantly obvious that he’s falling apart at the seams, stings. He goes rigid as his lungs stop cooperating, and he yanks himself out of Michael’s embrace, nearly tumbling down to the sidewalk when his weight is put back on the prosthetic. He catches his balance, though, and looks at Michael even when he’d rather avert his gaze. 

“I was just going to say that I can send her a text tomorrow and ask her to have someone drive it to the cabin,” he tells Michael in a soft voice. “I’d appreciate the ride. If you don’t mind.” It sounds like every too-polite interaction they’ve had over the last few months, since Alex insisted they be friends, and maybe that’s what Michael wants. The way he stomps over to the driver’s seat of the truck doesn’t really seem to support that theory, but Alex ignores it and clambers into the other seat, biting down hard on his cheek when he’s forced to use the prosthetic to push himself into the cab. 

Once inside, Alex sits with his hands clenched on his thighs to keep himself from reaching out to Michael as a way to anchor himself. His breath is once again coming too quickly, and he has to keep his mouth shut, because he’s not sure what embarrassing things would fall out of it, otherwise. But Michael isn’t content with the silence, and Alex ends up telling him what happened at the bar, about the panic that creeps up on him sometimes for no real reason. He expects to be swamped with embarrassment, but Michael’s calm assertion that panic doesn’t always need a reason keeps the mortification at bay. 

“Anything I can do to help?” 

The casual question, the offer insinuated within it so easily, makes Alex’s eyes sting. There are a thousand things he could say, each of them dismissive and right, because he has no business dragging Michael into the shitshow that is his life right now, not again. But he can’t stop himself from grabbing at Michael’s hands as soon as the engine turns off in front of the cabin, even when he realizes that the strength of his grip is probably hurting him. He stares intently into Guerin’s eyes, letting him see pat the walls and the facade and into the swirling anxiety and desperation that’s doubling as his mind. 

But letting him in isn’t enough. Michael wants the words, and Alex doesn’t know if he can give him that. “Don’t make me ask,” he begs in a whisper. Don’t make me admit it. Just - please be gentle with me. I’ll break if you’re not careful enough, and if you put me back together, I’ll never be able to let you leave. 

Alex doesn’t know if Michael’s being stubborn, or if he’s finally hit the point of no return with the man – maybe this is when he’s going to get shoved out of Michael’s life, instead of the other way around. He’d deserve it, he knows he would. But he says the words anyway, when pushed, spilling all of his anxieties and unwanted desires when Michael points out that he’s not a mind-reader. His hands shake harder than ever as he speaks, but there are strong fingers supporting them, clasping them against Michael’s chest and holding him steady, so Alex gets through it. 

When Michael whispers against his hair that he’ll stay, that Alex is okay, the latter gives up and weeps openly into the strong shoulder beneath him. The embrace is exactly what he needs in that moment, strong and gentle, warm and soft, with Michael’s ridiculous curls tickling his damp cheeks. Alex isn’t ashamed to admit that he clings, his fingers scrabbling against the collar of Michael’s button-down shirt to get at skin. 

“Easy,” Michael murmurs again, and there’s a hand against his back, rough fingers stroking along Alex’s spine. “I’ve got you.” It’s impossible to disbelieve him like this, with their chests pressed together to tightly that Alex can feel Michael’s heartbeat against his own. He nods jerkily, his own hands finally giving up on the buttons and sliding down Michael’s sides to delve under the fabric and press against the flat, strong planes of his stomach. While normally he’d be appreciating the other man’s physique, this time, it’s all about the warmth and comfort another man’s skin against his brings. 

“You ready to go inside?” Michael asks, an indeterminable amount of time later. Alex’s breathing has returned to normal, and his hands no longer shake – and, most importantly, he can think straight again. 

He nods once, starting to disentangle himself from Michael. The look in the other man’s eyes makes him pause, though, and Alex raises an eyebrow. “You said you’d stay,” he says plaintively, when it’s clear that Michael’s questioning his welcome in Alex’s home. “I’m hoping you meant longer than half an hour. Especially since I spent most of that time ruining your shirt.” Alex jerks his chin at the wet patch on the shoulder of Michael’s flannel, his ears feeling hot with shame. 

“That what you want?” Michael asks, and there’s a wariness in his voice that makes Alex furious with himself all over again. If he hadn’t left before, over and over again, Michael wouldn’t need to ask that question. He would trust Alex the first time – but that’s Alex’s cross to bear. 

“You’re what I want,” Alex says firmly, catching Michael’s good hand in his again. He’s learned his lesson tonight about verbalizing what he wants, and while he fully anticipates forgetting it the next day for his dignity’s sake, tonight, he’s willing to keep talking if it proves to Michael that he’s serious. “I want you to stay with me tonight. In my bed. And tomorrow, too, if you want – you might change your mind, because I don’t sleep worth a damn much, anymore – but yeah, Michael. That’s what I want.” He catches his lower lip between his teeth, chewing at it uncertainly before adding, “Please?” 

Michael leans back and unlocks the truck’s doors, then disappears outside for a long minute. Alex’s heart begins to pound as he realizes that he might have just been rejected – but before he can figure it out, Michael’s back, on his side of the vehicle this time, and opens the door. “I’m thinking pancakes for breakfast,” he says, once both of Alex’s feet are on the ground, and he staring up at Michael, hopeful and confused all at once. “C’mon, Alex,” he finishes, shaking his head. “Don’t look at me like that, like you don’t already know the answer. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me to stay for ten years – you can’t really think I’d say ‘no,’ now.” 

Alex’s eyelids fall closed for a moment in pure, unadulterated relief, and once again, he tucks himself into Michael’s arms, trusting that he’d hold him upright. Because, there it was in action, the single law of their universe: whenever Alex needs him, Michael Guerin is always there.

[dustedandsocial]

One thing and an Other thing

The One Thing:

After many failures in the world of responsible adulthood, I decided in 2010 that I would go full throttle into music distro and record label management. And for a fleeting moment, things were working out in my favor.

But let me back up. I had been having bizarre sleeping patterns going all the way back into my childhood, that no insomnia or depression diagnosis nor medication could ever fix. I never got an answer from a doctor that explained my sleep problems.

Essentially, my body and brain think that a day is 25 hours long. If you pause on that fact for a second, what becomes clear is that my sleep schedule rotates around the clock in a never-ending cycle. This had been the case for me from the age of 10, but clinical research studies were few and far between for most of my life.

Then in the summer of 2011 I learned for the first time that my vague sleeping issue was in fact a disorder, although I didn’t yet know the full extent of the limitations it imposed. Which is why for years I kept thinking there would be some way for me to keep working, despite being fired every time I tried to do so. I mostly lived on an annuity until I was 20 ($1047 per month), which came from a court decision when I was little (my mother committed suicide in a hospital and a court found them responsible, granting settlements to each of my family members). I kept thinking I could dance around extreme sleep fluctuations and pull myself up from the ground by my bootstraps, but I only ever fell back on my annuity.

When I was 12, the cops would show up at my house, wake me up, and drive me to school (my dad was a welder and made an early exit to work at 4:30am). Those near-truancies — as well as all the successful truancies! — along with my insistence on bringing alcohol in my backpack to school, smoking in the bathroom, getting high before school with friends, and stealing car stereos from the high school parking lot, all led me to multiple arrests, finally getting me the boot form junior public high school. There was also the despair of losing my mother at the age of 9, which was certainly an important aspect to all of this maladjustment, if not the most central factor. 

But without a cop showing up at my house, I’d wake up around 5PM.

At 13, I was placed in an “alternative school” (aka a program for trouble makers and drug dealers). Most students would sail though towards a diploma, being graded on video game scores, pick-up basketball games, and honest-to-god fantasy basketball gambling leagues (that I several times created for school credit!). We had smoke breaks twice a day in school, and I even sold one of my teacher’s pot. I only showed up half the school year, yet somehow graduated a half-year early at the age of 17. Basically, our ”alternative learning program” was a way for the school district to fudge numbers and make it look like they had rehabilitated kids. I managed to graduate High School easily without my disability playing a major factor. It all felt like being home schooled but with no parents or curriculum to help. Hence why five years into a dedicated leftist education, I can still barely understand Marxist arguments around value theory.

It would still be 11 years from my graduation until I learned about my sleep disorder, so the following years would be spent tossing and turning, going to work and class after being up 24 hours, often crashing at hour 40, then sleeping 24 hours straight to make up for massive sleep deprivation. I’d get fired left and right, girlfriends and family members had no idea what to express to me other than their lack of faith that I could ever get my shit together (and I believed as much myself, because what other explanation was there?)

I decided to work online in 2010 as I began 80/81 Records, as well as work part-time in physical space, all just to scrounge up enough money for distro items and record pressings. I started off with some relative success. I was the first in the US to distro Australian titles like Deaf Wish, Woolen Kits, Mad Nanna, Teen Archer, etc (all even before Bruce’s Easter Bilby!). I had a plethora of reissue releases from the Memoire Neuve label, as well that beautiful Les Olivensteins reissue LP. I even sold a sketchy Chosen Few bootleg to True Anon’s own Brace Belden (aka PissPigGrandad). 

By the age of 30, my body started to fall apart.Within a few years, despite a few solid releases on 80/81, I had to give up on a slew of planned record releases and call it quits. All were thankfully rescued by a couple of friendly labels, with masters sent off to a few others. These were: Mosquito Ego’s “Plomb” LP (thanks @ever-never-records), Pustostany’s “2012″ LP (shout out to the great Sweet Rot), Shovels S/T (thanks to Homeless Records), and Expert Alterations 12″ (Slumberland), and the Virvon Vavron EP, later taken care of by Girlsville Records. There was also the Human Hair "My Life As A Beast And Lowly Form” LP, which came in lieu of a 7″ I had planned for them (still streamable on the 80/81 Bandcamp). Sorry to all these fantastic bands! There was no label in the last decade better at not releasing records!

Nearly as long as I’ve been using this tumblr, I’ve been disabled. However, I didn’t realize I was *officially* disabled per the US government until last year, nor did I know that my condition was an incurable neurological disorder. In fact, it’s technicality not a sleep disorder. If earth had the rotational position of Mars, my circadian rhythms would be perfectly in sync. I've never brought it up here, I never wanted it to be a factor in how I presented myself, and I never wanted this to be a personal blog about my plight. But I can't in good conscience hide this aspect of myself any longer, while so many other disabled folks are engaged in fights for all of our rights, including those beyond the disabled community. 

Oh, and the other thing: 

I figured out last month that I am NOT a heterosexual guy. Queer? Omnisexual? How about "not straight”? Why did it take me so long to face up to this? Well, growing up in a poor and violent neighborhood meant that I needed to latch onto anything at a young age in order to keep myself safe. I could under no circumstances continue to endure the abuse that happened when I was very young, that I thought would come back my way if I opted out of a "straight"  “tough” identity. And even with that identity, I felt an inexplicable terror at all times, that seemed like it was seeping through the air, like it was the blood gushing from behind the hotel walls in “The Shining”. In order to avoid the terror, I had to act out in an extreme way so no one would question me. I’d always be the first to tell adults off. I’d always be the one to break into a house. I always be the first to steal, or mouth off to a cop. I did get choked by a cop once, which was also tame compared to the beatings my black and Hispanic friends received. But I also hated fighting, so that style of acting out was mostly a dodge and redirection of attention.

But so many toxic ideas overtook me over the years. While I may not have been outwardly homophobic as an adult, I no doubt policed my own behavior for decades, not allowing myself vulnerability, not allowing myself comfort, robbing myself of joy. And it took me three decades to shake that straight identity loose.

I think this straight identity I adopted though trauma is common for men, even though whose childhoods weren’t as traumatic as mine. That isn't to say that those who adopt it are closeted, but the ideology driving performative straight male expression can cut off naturally heterosexual men from understanding themselves and what it is that they most desire, who they want to connect with, what makes them complete. Heterosexuality as ideology is a giant fucking scam. You get nothing out of it, maybe an early death from a heart attack.

But I’m also happier now than I’ve ever been. When I gave up the straight identity, I completely gave up fear, and in ways far beyond matters of sexuality. That straight identity also policed how I though of women, and since I’ve been free of it, my relation to women has changed significantly. 

And now

I’m fighting month after month to get on disability and food stamps (I’ve been denied for disability seven times in eight years, and food stamps were just cut in RI). When all is sorted I’m going to join radical orgs in Providence. From here to there and beyond, it’s class struggle.

Had our welfare state not been decimated, or had we decommodified health care and housing, I would have never had to jump through so many hoops for ultimately no help. When I lacked diagnosis, I could have lived with dignity while I waited for an explanation of my issues, if only the society had a non-bureaucratic solution to personal crisis. I’m a “lumpen” of a sort, but I’m also now a committed small-c communist and queer. Sorry apolitical people, but the fight will be intense for the remainder of all our lives.

[theguineapig3]

End of Year Writing: M T W

Thank you for asking!!!

M. Meta! Have any meta about a story you’re dying to throw out there?

Oh man, oh man, I’m gonna throw this under a cut after the rest of the questions, because it’s long. But tldr: the more I play of Tales of the Abyss, the more I realize that “Ida” from Perigee (and by extension Anna in both Perigee and Equilibrium) is a replica. And the point at which both the characters and the narrative recognize the replica as the original Anna is debatable and kinda... weird to think about, actually. Keep reading at the end for that.

T. Themes, motherfucker, do you have them? What are they?

I wasn’t sure whether I did or not, but looking at the character motivations in all the stories I’ve worked on this year, there is a common thread, I think...

Equlibrium: Lloyd wants to embrace the Dwarven side of his family, but has trouble given his father’s (Dirk’s) past experiences with losing his previous families and what they represented to him. Colette and Zelos butt heads with Yuan over what family means to Adora and whether her blood family is really the family she needs- Colette and Zelos having had extremely different experiences with their own families in the past, which colors their opinions. Kratos and Anna are in conflict over their own future and the prospect of rebuilding a family that, at one time, they both considered lost. Sheena wants to pursue her relationship with Lloyd and the rest of the outside world without giving up her Mizuho family as well. Genis and Raine, when they find themselves struggling in their romantic relationships, realize how strongly they rely on their family for support.

Stare Decisis: The main focus of the story is on Zelgadis rediscovering the family he thought he’d lost, and in his parents and brother doing the same. There’s also Gourry, still struggling with the loss of his brother, learning to accept help from his current family (Lina and his friends), and Lina accepting her role in offering that help. Pokota wants to help Adelaide leave the destructive legacy of her family behind so that she can be accepted by the people of Taforashia.

Fugitive Guardian: Syaoran is struggling with the pressures placed on him by his family and their legacy, and through his love with Sakura and his friendship with the other characters, he is finding a way to express himself on his own terms. His interactions with Stephen lead him to reflect on his family’s past, and are building to a realization of the complicated nature of his family’s relationships at which point Syaoran will have to decide how he wants to approach his role as the future head of the family.

W.  Who are your favorite writers?

It’s hard to say specifics, because I get a lot of my media in the form of comics and television shows. But I suppose that’s enough to give at least some writers- I’m extremely impressed by the writing in Satoru Noda’s Golden Kamuy (I’m not totally caught up with the manga yet; oops) in the way that it develops such a large cast and doesn’t have any real “good guys” and “bad guys,” instead leaves you to root for the protagonists while their companions and enemies both support and betray them. Grey morality is something I like in both what I read and what I write. On the total other end of the media spectrum, I’m really impressed by Terri Minsky and the rest of the writing team of the show Andi Mack. I love-love-love the characters and relationships they’ve set up, and the way they lovingly depict such a diverse cast. Andi Mack is the first show I’ve ever seen that depicts a character with Panic Disorder (or, at least, who experiences true panic attacks), and not only are the scenes extremely accurate- at least in my own experience as someone with that disorder- but they are treated respectfully and with such skill that they don’t ever strike me as a piece of media just trying to have a “token mentally ill character.” I want to be able to depict diverse characters in my stories in ways that will make people happy the way Andi Mack has made me happy.

As far as published books I’ve recently read, Haunted Ground by Erin Hart and We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson were both VERY GOOD. Highly recommend.

OKAY, META.

Ignoring the major “scientific/magical” differences between Symphonia and Abyss’ worlds and assuming that we can equate mana-exsphere interactions with fomicry, “Ida” from Perigee could absolutely be considered a replica by Abyss’ standards. She’s a perfect genetic copy of Anna, but lacks the memories and is like a young child in her mentality. The difference, however, is that she is connected to Anna’s soul via the angelus exsphere, and the soul of the original Anna is slowly transferring into the replica body. That means her personality traits are coming from the original, and she can’t necessarily be considered an individual completely separate from her original- nor does she want to. “Ida’s” whole story involves searching for her “true identity,” and when she finds out that she’s a replica merely sapping Anna’s soul, she insists that it’s “just like I’m Anna- no, I am Anna!” In her internal monologue, as given by the text, she refers to Anna’s soul as her own, thereby asserting herself as the original.

Lloyd is the first of the other characters to acknowledge her as the original (he calls her “mom” in chapter 18 and insists to Kratos that his mother is “RIGHT THERE!”) But the narration in the story doesn’t actually refer to her as Anna until chapter 20, when Kratos- for all intents and purposes- asks permission to treat her as the original and she states that she wants him to see her as the original as well. From that point on, all the characters (perhaps with the exception of Yuan) treat her as the original, but it could be said that she doesn’t truly “become” Anna until the final chapter, when the angelus exsphere is shattered and her soul fully inhabits the replica body, fully restoring her memories.

DESPITE THIS, she acknowledges the original’s death when she demands to have a “second” wedding with Kratos, indicating that she doesn’t quite see herself as the same Anna as the original Anna. In Equilibrium, Yuan expresses surprise at Anna’s pregnancy because he assumed that her “replica” body wasn’t quite the same as a real human body. This brings up a really weird question about the child’s familial relations. Biologically and genetically speaking, the kid would be Lloyd’s full brother. But in a practical sense, would he be considered more to be Lloyd’s half-brother? Or, because Anna’s body perfectly replicated the original Anna who had given birth to Lloyd, could we practically say that the two are full brothers even though “this” Anna was not the Anna who actually gave birth to Lloyd?

My head hurts now; I should probably stop. Why can’t I find an easier way to bring characters back from the dead?

[lighthouseofthewanderess]

Father

I’ve been contemplating writing about this. Not because I didn’t know how to write it all, or the words that would do justice. But because it’s one of the things lesser known about me, and saying it here is akin to giving a piece of my heart to all of you reading. But here goes; I’ve tried to keep it short. Tried to make it less ‘white’. These, despite the amazing roller-coaster of a journey I’ve had, are the willingly forgotten bits about me.

I saw it on a movie. ‘Gardens of the Night’. While the plot was around pronography and prostitution that I largely skipped for some unspoken reason, the girl and her emotions mirrored mine. The more I saw, the more I understood that something had happened to me as a child. Something wrong. Abuse. Facts state that more often than not, in most sexual child abuses the offender is someone close to them. My father. And I couldn’t look away from the screen. Here were instances, things that were framed wrong. All that touching, why is someone other than the father doing it? Isn’t that what fathers did? See in my head, the way my father treated me was what I assumed every other girl was going through. That this was life, and that I had to listen to him. After all, he was the reason I was alive, wasn’t I?

It took me some more movies and observations of daughters with their fathers to understand that I was insanely wrong. He makes you sit on his lap to put his hand under your skirt. He doesn’t give you baths because he’s taking care of you. He only talks nice when you’re doing him a favor. It was frankly, too much to process. I lingered around the fact that I am making up things in my head, that I missed my mom and everything my father did was looking wrong to me only because he didn’t do it like a mother would do. Then, when I accepted his nature, I was met with a wall of disappointment. That the one person who was to look out for you and your safety was the only person harming you. That the years supposed to be filled with laughter and love was spent with belt marks and stained clothes. When I was about 14, that feeling turned into anger. I wanted him to know only one thing. That I knew. Knew what he did every night, and that I dare him to try it with me again. But it was late. The daily affair and routine of fetching me from the servant quarters in the dead of the night and throwing me out before dawn, had already messed up my head a little.

I had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and was walking around with repressed memories that could shut me out anytime. I got used to the process -- there would suddenly be an incident that triggered something from my past, and I would just shut down. I would faint for anywhere between 10 minutes to 2 hours and nothing could wake me up unless I went to the hospital and they revived me. In that blackout, I wasn’t safe at all. I would revisit all the little things that my mind had safely tucked away hoping I will never find out. And why with such vivid details, why did I have to remember his voice and every move he made? That’s right eidetic memory.

I had bangles on my hand in a park. Glass bangles. I remember him walking to me with this long lanky legs covered by a brown trouser. I looked at him, my vision had my two chubby hands with bangles on their wrists. He wasn’t smiling, he was angry. That was my singal to keep quiet and do as he asks. He pulled my hand and dragged me behind a big cement building. Maybe it wasn’t too big, I was just a kid; it looked pretty big to me. He undid his belt and forced my hand between his legs. I yelled, he clamped my mouth. I fought, he placed one leg around me. I couldn’t remember anything other than the pain in my wrists as he held them firmly and the speed. It felt like my skin would come off anytime. When it was done, my bangle broke. And in a rush to hide the incident altogether, he pulled them off both hands and threw it in the garbage that stung me eyes. That’s how I got my first scar on my left hand. When I wake up from these blackouts, I am exhausted to have relived the moment again. I can’t feel the air in my lungs and everything is plain cold. I shiver, I feel numb. Then, I look around at the faces around me and know I’ve survived it yet again. He was miles away and he couldn’t touch me at all. Most of the school and the teachers in India attributed my fainting spells to being weak and underweight. They laughed, it became a long-standing joke. I let it be. It’s easier than having to explain what I saw. The thing is, I wish it all played out a little differently. That day in the park was the only time I resisted him; to me resistance equalled more pain. I’d rather just keep quiet and wait to be away from him. His drinking, his smoking, his rants afterwards about me and how he hated me all led me to wish only one thing. I wanted his love. I wanted to be on my best behavior and hear him tell me I was his daughter, a good little girl, and that I’m the best thing in his life. I heard two of those when he was busy fulfilling his needs with me in the picture, but I never heard him call me his daughter. Turns out the story ran long back, to when I was even littler. In Pune when Prerna and her friends, who had come down for her birthday, all sat around the table, I joined in the conversation. All was fine until they started talking of beaches in Mumbai and how one of her friends took her dog walking in the evenings. I shut down and entered another repressed memory. Here I was, walking with my father into the sunset. Well, almost. Here he was propping me up on a stool next to the bajji vendor parked on the Marina Beach. And there he went, only to reunite with another woman who was not my mother. He only came back when the sun was almost setting. And my blackout fast forwarded into so many evenings just like that where I would sit on the sand, play with a stray dog, and smell the fumes of the oil from the vendor. My father. Happily on the beach. Having an affair. In front of his daughter. To every other eye, it must have looked like we were a happy family of three. Little did they know that I wasn’t of her blood, or that smile on his face was only when he was with her. When I snapped out of this spell, a lot of things made sense. His resentment towards me and my family. His shedding of parenthood for I was not a child he ever wanted. His insistent nudges to send my mom off to the US so he could be free. What didn’t add up was -- why did he find pleasure in me. What a twisted thing it was, and how twisted was it to hear that after the divorce he went on to marry again. Yes that’s right. My mom hearing the story, rang up a friend in the Income Tax Department and he traced him down to a government college. Where he worked with his new wife. Did I want to see her picture? No thanks, the memory of her ID card around her neck was the last puzzle piece I needed. It broke my heart even more to know he had one son and one daughter. And that they were a happy family. Was I not enough? He didn’t hurt his children from a second marriage and decided to ruin the life of his first child? That validation I was seeking from him all those years crumbled away. It was no fault of mine, I could've borne every piercing pain and scar and yet that wouldn’t have made him a better person. Couldn’t have made him love you. When mom and I came back from the US to give the marriage another shot, I cursed my life over and over. My mom was unaware of everything because she had fled to the US. Her side of the family supported my dad because they had tossed the responsibility to him. It was all a big mess, a bomb that was running out of wick. In India, my mom didn’t work. She stayed home and tried to be a good housewife. And just like I feared, my father went back to his old ways. I had grown up now, I wouldn’t even have to kneel. The hunger in his eyes, the way his adam’s apple bobbed up and down when he saw me getting ready to school -- these are the things that stuck with me and made me fear every guy. That look, what a common look it was in the world, feasting on bodies, drinking the fear. I tried so hard to not be at home when my mom went to buy groceries. As soon as she stepped out, a game of cat and mouse would ensue. I would run through the rooms, the corridors, trying to make it out of the house and to the terrace. Most times I failed. His stealth always surprised me; his otherwise lazy attitude would disappear and in its place an irresistible urge would build up. My clothes have torn, and he has had me quickly change in the 20 minutes it took mom to come back. I would make up a reason for the new dress, or a scar or two. She always believed me. I saw him again, when I thought I far from him. And what are the odds, he walked straight into my grandpa’s house in Erode. This was supposed to be a safe place, where my mom grew up. If he would come and go as he wished, could they even be trusted? What have we been doing believing them all our lives? My mom had many thoughts at that moment, but I watched her keep her calm and did the same. Inside I was disappearing. My aunt rushed my mom and me into a room and locked us on the outside. When I heard his voice, I wished I was mistaken. That same raspy, half croaky voice. Saying that he wants to see me again, that my mom was wrong to deny seeing his own daughter. There. I heard it. Half of me despite it all, wanted to go see him. I wanted to walk across the corridor, down the steps and up again into the patio. I would be shaking all over, cold and numb, but I wanted to see his face as he said that again. This time in front me, his daughter who had grown almost to his height. But I was locked in and that was that. He spoke, he left. The door was unlocked, and we blocked out the only family we had for turning on us dead wrong. That night, I saw my mom breakdown. She yelled in the middle of the house and demanded answers. A lot of things surfaced. The fact that she wanted her parents to take care of me and not my father was new. I heard it and a little joy bloomed within. Distant relatives came from all over, all hosting their own panchayat. They wanted her to make it work again with my father, the situation was that of family honor now. My mom grabbed me from the corner in the middle of all this and said

“If you think I married to lay with him one night then let it be. This life in my hands, this little girl is the only good thing out of this marriage and I cannot give any more to him.” How powerful. That made sense. In fact, that’s the possible the only way to look at it. Why they got her married to a man like him, against the wishes of the entire town, we will never know. Why my mom didn’t listen to her litter sister and take the bag she had packed to run away before the marriage, we will never know. It was mom and me again, just like it had been in the US. We were fools to think years changed anything at all. I think that’s why when I caught my mom giving her life a second thought, I brought up divorce. It was all for the good. That’s why, when we came to India for good we picked Bangalore and not Chennai. That’s why, in almost every relationship, I ended up imagining my father when in bed. I couldn’t shake it off. I went to therapy like my mom advised. I switched therapists because the minute I unraveled my tale and brought to life every incident with horrific detail (what’s here is the surface) they needed a day or two off before they could see me. I broke the news to my mom at 19 on the insistence of my permanent therapist. My mom broke down and couldn’t look at me the same. She swore on all her family gods. Then I started healing in ways that were too painful. My then boyfriend cheated on me because I couldn’t ‘just do it’. I learned I was more than my body, and freezing up was okay. I started mingling with boys at school only after I knew I could defend myself and throw a few punches if it came to that. Little by little, I watched movie movies with scenes from an abuse. I accepted, I processed, I hugged myself and promised never to let it go through something like that again. I learned that there was no point seeking the love of a father because in this life I was gifted with a monster. When I think of the times in kindergarten in India, I remember the way other kids babbled about their fathers. How they got gifts, and how they went to the movies. I made up stories to stay in loop and imagined a father so pristine. I did that for most of my life actually. He would walk two steps behind me, and push a stubborn lock of hair behind my ear. He would buy me cotton candy, and advise me on dating boys. He would say I looked the prettiest in white, and hated it when I wore dark lipstick. Half of this was Pradeesh Uncle, and the other half my mom fulfilled. She became my father and mother and tried so very hard to not make me miss a father figure in my life. That’s the only problem with her. She believes that’s possible for me to do. Accept her as a double parent and never want for anything at all. And that’s where she goes wrong. As strong as a woman she maybe, and as well as a father she may play, some things just don’t become right with a lot of good. The cigarette he ashed on the left side of my neck when I refused to undo his belt. That I pass off as a birthmark to those who ask. His picture taking when I was old enough to take bath. I still can’t bring myself to look at the mirror in my bathroom. Any tall, skinny man; the restlessness that brews inside I just can't deny. It doesn’t matter if my mom is around me. If I know I can take down that man. The mind is used to forgetting, the heart used to forgiving, but the body remembers. Father: a wish I wasn’t granted.

[real-fakedoors]

under leaves so green - CHPT 12 - Miraculous Ladybug

After the Dupain-Cheng family purchases a flower shop around the block from the Agreste mansion, Chat Noir frequents the spot in search of company from the manager-but-not-really Marinette. Beneath the mask, Adrien starts to struggle with how cute she looks in that green apron. (AKA: the not-really flower shop AU where basically everything is the same, but Marinette is extra stressed by her job and Adrien tries to be supportive)

Cross-posted on AO3 and FF.net

Chapter 12: A Needlepoint Peony

In which, Adrien stresses out, Marinette makes a confession, everyone is embarrassed, Tikki disappears, and Plagg fixes his whiskers.

Adrien felt, admittedly, a little bit strange.

Standing in his room with each corner dusted, polished, and achingly quiet, the place begged for the stasis to be broken. Not a sound stirred - not even the guttural gnashing of a kwami inhaling camembert, yet beyond his door there was an unusual bustle of activity.

Generally speaking, Adrien preferred for his room to have a bit of a lived in look; everything felt a little less hollow and empty if he asked the attendants to keep his bed a little unmade, or if he didn’t hang up a towel after a shower just so. Right now, though, he was the one actively scanning every surface for signs of disorder, ready to right any wrong.

He couldn’t recall any girls ever being in his room before, save Ladybug once or twice, but that had been during akuma attacks so it’s not like she had been admiring his DVD collection or cuddling with him on the couch.

At the very least, Adrien could say with certainty he’d never had his girlfriend over to the house, ever. He was only coming up on 24-hours of having a girlfriend, period.

So waiting, knowing Marinette was coming... it felt strange, definitely.

But it wasn’t bad.

“Are you ready yet?” Plagg called eventually, hovering down from the bookshelves and sporting a predictable scowl.

Adrien watched as the little kwami combed through his whiskers, and one of his tiny ears kept twitching. The behavior seemed conspicuous, considering Adrien had just been doing very much the same sort of grooming before getting dressed in fresh clothes.

“Wait a minute…”  The blond narrowed his eyes, and Plagg froze. “Are you... fancying up for Marinette?”

“Pff. No.” The kwami rolled his eyes and turned away, only making Adrien more suspicious. “That’s stupid, kid. It’s not like your girlfriend is coming to see me. Cat’s gotta look good for his own sake, thank you.”

Adrien hummed skeptically, but decided to return to the task at hand. The ebony nuisance in his life had been increasingly excited every time they went to see Marinette, and it was starting to seem rather conspicuous. Maybe it was just the tempting offers of cheese bread and croissants?.

Bouncing around his room, the tap of Adrien’s hard-bottomed shoes rang off each wall. He took time to inspect every surface, adjust and readjust the arrangement of things he had on his desk, and repositioned his desk chair to be perfectly squared up to the monitor.

Really, it was all perfect, so seeking mistakes was a wasted effort. It was just a deliberate use of time that distracted him while waiting for Marinette to arrive. Part of him wishes he thought to offer to pick her up, but the opportunity was gone.

So now… waiting.

Glancing at the wardrobe, Adrien pressed his lips together and approached the full-length mirror. In the Agreste home, formal was normal, and vice versa. He never really knew that wearing “day clothes” until the moment before he went to bed was unusual until he started visiting Nino’s, Alya’s and Marinette’s houses. There, he was free to walk around on plush carpets with or, when he felt especially daring, without socks; the concept seemed so foreign to him in the beginning.

That being said, his attire didn’t bother him - a soft, simple white shirt and a slate-colored overshirt, paired with a plain pair of navy slacks. He selected one of his pairs of well-worn dark shoes, deciding against any that seemed too dressy or that would need breaking in.

Comfort was a must.

He had plenty of support for their first date. Between the help of Alya, Nino and the others in pulling off the Attack of the Loam, his father’s surprising approval of Marinette, Chloe’s reluctant agreement to be nice, and knowing he was going to have several hours of resigned privacy with her had all worked wonders in boosting his confidence.

And, of course, there was the small encouragement he’d gotten from Marinette herself, considering she had confided in Chat Noir that she had some romantic interest in his civilian form. To use his superhero side to gain an advantage in pursuing her seemed a little unfair, like using a stimulant in a sporting event, but he couldn’t say he regretted it. One touch of their lips together had been enough to dash any harboring guilt.

And, all-in-all, the date had gone better than he could have hoped. Adrien couldn’t keep his enthusiasm contained, and when she agreed so promptly to go out with him again, he seriously considered cheering.

Yes, you absolute dork. We can go out again, anytime.

Her words undermined his typical faculties and reduced him to a twisted bunch of nerves. The mess that fell from his mouth came more in the way of reactionary instinct than rational thought, blurting his desire to have her as his girlfriend. Adrien hadn’t intended to ask her to be in a relationship so soon, but miraculously, she agreed.

Did she think he seemed adorably inexperienced, or like a anxious mess? Had he asked her too soon? It had only been one date, though they’d spent hours and hours together in the past week alone; that’s to say nothing of the past three years. How long do people in relationships usually ‘date’ before they were considered ‘dating?’ Why hadn’t he thought to ask Nino for tips on the quintessential final element to any date, the “walk her to the front door” moment? Why wasn’t there a manual for this? Had he seemed too eager? She didn’t feel pressured to agree, right?

Alas, there was no guidebook, no easy instruction kit. He couldn’t pick up “101 Ways to Ease Through Awkward Social Interactions” at the library, and there was no magical deity of romance or young love to pray to that might appear to him in a vision from the sky to answer his questions and grant him sage wisdom on new love or family dysfunction. The closest thing he had to that was a turephilic kwami, who was, at present, floating crossed-legged near his desk with an expression of irritation.

The jittery, fierce happiness that spurred Adrien on yesterday since been replaced by titular worries of the evening ahead.

First of all, they weren’t going to be alone, and he had only a few hours to prepare.

They were having dinner with his father.

He, his father, and his girlfriend, sitting around the dining table together.

The most uncomfortable iteration of the Last Supper came to mind, but he quickly shook away the inane thought.

Second was the prospect of dinner it self. Adrien hardly ever ate with company, let alone the aberrant match that was Marinette’s soft-spoken kindness and his Father’s critical, cutting commentary. What should they talk about? He could only hope the two would find enough common ground in fabrics and fashion to carry them through the evening.

Unwittingly, Adrien had begun to pace his room, the metronomic clap of shoes on tile providing a backbeat to his mounting anxiety. Plagg said something and the blond glanced up, but Adrien didn’t quite catch it.

When their gazes met, a random train of thought popped into his head. The kinds of question you never think of until you’re living through the moment. “Did you want to come in my pocket down to dinner?”

Raising a brow, Plagg tilted his head. “Why would I do that?”

“Er… you usually do? Most of the time it’s just you and me, though.”

“Oh.” Plagg tapped a black paw to his whiskers. “I guess I do, don’t I? Uhh…nah. You got this.”

“Something is up with you,” Adrien squinted his eyes at the black cat, who merely pointed his chin and looked away.

Adrien waged a finger at him. “Whatever you’re hiding, I’ll find out eventually!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his kwami insisted, flying away.

“Adrien?” A voice beckoned not a moment later, in time with three rapt knocks.

He did a final check of himself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and walked towards the door.

“Yes, Nathalie?” He answered politely, already knowing what she was going to say. Marinette was here, probably looking so lovely he’d forget how to speak. She could show up in her dirty work jeans and he still would swallow his tongue.

Just gotta relax.

It’s only dinner.

When he opened the door, he was greeted by his father’s assistant’s typically perfected posture and a small smile, but bowed besider her was head of black hair, half-pinned back to keep the tresses from her face.

“Mme. Dupain-Cheng is here,” stated the lean woman, stepping aside to present his guest. Every ounce of confidence he had as Chat Noir evaporated into a dizzying headrush when she peeked up from beneath long lashes, looking as flushed and as he was nervous. How do people on television or in Disney movies sweep girls off their feet so easily? Adrien could barely manage not to stare.

“W-welcome,” he cleared his throat, trying to focus on the woman between them who was scrolling through her tablet absently. “Thank you, Nathalie.”

“Yes. The chefs are saying dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes, so come down soon.”

At that, she promptly turned and left them alone, her heels receding in the otherwise clipped silence.

Marinette looked more beautiful than he could have imagined - she was more than that, her whole appearance was scenic. A mid-length skirt skimmed her calves, pleated and pastel pink, making her look more sophisticated than her usual capris or work jeans; her torso was wrapped in a seamless array of breathable cotton, accented at the seams with white lace that complemented her porcelain skin like a subtly harmony to his favorite song. The top floated over her skin and stopped just as the skirt reached her waist, extending up and hugging her collarbone snugly. The neckline kept close to her neck, exposing most of her shoulders, though his attention was drawn mostly towards the careful embroidery in the center of the bodice. A sprig of hand-woven flowers, dyed in tones of subdued greens and gradiants of pink, comprised in needlepoint, brought the ensemble together.

Where she looked hauntingly alluring yesterday night in cuts of crimson and black and white stripes, today she seemed dreamy and pastoral.

“Is it… too much?” Marinette glanced up, brushing her skirt and picking at invisible loose strings. Blue eyes dodged away from his when Adrien met her gaze.

A little more quietly, she added,  “I didn’t know how… fancy to get. Sorry.”

“S-Sorry?” Adrien swallowed hard on his throat. He extended a hand, a careful and shaky invitation to step forward. She cracked a tiny smile and accepted.

The blond was already smiling, apparently, because his cheeks were starting to hurt. “How could you apologize? You look so… so pretty, Marinette. Did you embroider that yourself? It’s really amazing.”

Cheeks matching her skirt, she giggled and entered his room, eyes scanning the tall ceilings and giving him the chance to breathe. “T-Thank you! And, yes, I did. You look really nice, too.”

His heart swelled at the compliment, though he tried vehemently to seem casual.

“Thanks, just some of my Dad’s clothes. I mean - not my Dad’s clothes, but Gabriel brand.”

Marinette wandered over to the arcade machines, but paused to tilt her head in his direction. She wore a confused smirk.

“I… just tried to imagine you wearing your Dad’s… suit. The one he always wears.”

Adrien snorted, brightened by softness of her voice when she laughed. Somehow, it both filled him with happiness and anxiety, but it was enough to give him some foothold of confidence. “Ascots aren’t exactly my thing, I’m afraid.” He moved beside her and gestured to the classic systems. “I know you like Mecha Strike, but what’s your take on the current ‘retro craze’?”

“They’re great, of course. Though I’m not nearly as skilled as dodging barrels and saving princesses as I am at whooping giant robot butt.” Marinette said, poking one of her cheeks with a finger.

“I’d ask if you wanna play, but dinner’s soon and these are designed for one-player.” He rubbed his chin. “We could play some video games after dinner? I’ve got… uh, a lot.”

“Oh?” She seemed curious, so he gestured for her follow. They promptly ascended his twisted staircase and he brought her around to the bookshelf beside his rock-climbing wall. Divided by console and sorted alphabetically, he waved a hand at the hundreds of games he’d accumulated over the years.

“Holy brioche…” Marinette muttered, craning her neck to take it all in. Beside her, Adrien permitted himself to feel just a tiny bit proud of his collection, glancing at her wide-eyed wonder.

“The systems are downstairs in one of my closets, so, you know, we can pick out a few and play them after dinner. Whatever sounds good.”

Mutely, she nodded her head and moved to the ladder and squinted up at a certain section. Adrien followed her gaze.

“Nintendo 64? I don’t know why, but I took you for a Playstation girl.”

Already a few steps up, she murmured. “Actually, I mostly played computer games. I didn’t get to play Nintendo much growing up, I’ve tried a bunch of emulators, but they’re always a little sketchy… It would be so cool to play some of the originals. Like… Mario Party! Yes. You have it!”

“Pff, of course,” he said, amused by her enthusiasm. “I have them all, sort of out of habit really. I almost never played those.” Marinette snatched the cartridge from the shelf, handing it down to him. Adrien started a pile on the corner of an eye-level shelf for games to bring down later.

Humming as she selected a few more games, he mused to himself. “You know, growing up with just Chloe to play with, we didn’t spend a lot of time on video games.” He paused when Marinette laughed.

“Yeah, I know - you must be very surprised to learn that Chloe wasn’t a gamer.”

“I can hardly contain my shock.” She chirped back sarcastically, scanning the shelves. Adrien was about level with her calves, and tried not to focus on the bit of skin her skirt left exposed down to her honey-colored ballet flats.

He said the first thing he could think of to distract himself. “But - y-yeah. I mostly played single-player games, campaigns or adventure mode or whatever. Sometimes I would play games with my Mom. She liked them, or at least, pretended to since I did. She could even get Father to play them with us occasionally - but a lot of Nintendo’s stuff is designed with groups in mind.”

Marinette responded thoughtfully. “Hmm… I suppose it’s not much of a Mario party if it’s just… Mario.”

Biting his lip, Adrien knew this was uncharted conversational territory. Without compass or guide, he didn’t really know where to go when it came to talking about his parents.

Marinette, thankfully, took the task of navigation upon herself. “What character did you like to play as? In Mario Party, I mean.”

His brow arched, her hands still fluttering over the cartridges at her level.

“Hmm… that’s a good question. I always liked green, so mostly Yoshi, or sometimes Luigi.”

“Good,” she responded, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “I wanted to be Princess Peach, and I was prepared to fight you if I had to.”

Wearing a grin, he raised his hands in defense. “She’s all yours, Princess!”

Marinette stopped her searching, and Adrien’s eyes went wide.

Ooh. No, no, no.

His Chat side peeked out by accident, and Adrien blushed and stuttered to make up his mistake. “P-P-Princess… Peach! Yes. She, Princess Peach, is all yours. She was my Mom’s favorite too.”

Marinette’s brow had furrowed momentarily, but she seemed convinced by his explanation, and Adrien exhaled a small amount of panic.

“Okay, I think I’ve looked enough,” she said, starting back down the ladder. A shoe clattered to the ground in her descent, followed by a shrill squeak and a much louder clatter of skin and arms smacking into each other.

Marinette missed a step when her shoe came off, slipping back and crashing right into Adrien; cat-like reflexes can only get one so far with a girl as clumsy as Marinette.

By some small miracle, he didn’t get thrown over the railing, though his current posture was plenty uncomfortable. Leaning back over the glass ledge, the edge of the bannister pressed painfully up against his spine, Marinette’s body weight was basically crushing him further into it. The best he could do in the way of catching her was keep her head from smacking back into the railing or collapsing straight onto the floor. Her now slightly-tousled hair and exposed upper-back from the cut of her bodice were pressed up against him and she had half-bent and gripped her hands on his thighs in support to keep from hitting the floor.

Her perfume greeted him, rising from her silky smooth hair and bare shoulders. From this angle, he could basically feel every inch of her body pressed up against him, and he was aware of it in - ahem -  more ways than one.

Chuckling weakly, Adrien forced himself to put a safe, chaste distance between them. It was more difficult than it should have been, rather enjoying the way her hair tickled his chin as she scrambled to standing. It was easy to admire the smooth skin of her collarbone, or to appreciate the warmth that radiated from her body. It was like the world’s best, most beautiful blanket.

“Ooookay, up you go,” he said, supporting her from beneath her elbows and resting a delicate hand on her back. Her skin turned prickly under his touch, and it was stupidly thrilling.

You haven’t even made it to dinner yet and you can’t keep it together.

Exhaling slowly, Adrien affixed his face into a mask of sympathy and concern. “Mari? Are you okay? Are you hurt at all?”

She blinked several times, looking at her own hands numbly, and he started to fear maybe she had hit her head when she broke out into a smile. Wide, glittering, and plenty embarrassed.

“No - no I’m fine. Thank you, Adrien. I’m sorry I fell on you.”

“Better me than the floor,” he said, chuckling and sighing in relief. She joined him for a spirited giggle, both laughing until they were breathless and dizzy. Maybe that was just the intoxicating effect of being with her, though - Adrien almost always felt light-of-head around her anymore.

By the time they were both properly righted - skin tinted pink from the euphoric giggles that swept up both of them - and standing on their own, Adrien retrieved the stack of games Marinette had selected and led the way back to his ground floor.

“Okay, just the Nintendo 64 for tonight?” He noted the very distinct shape of all of the games, and she nodded.

“If… if that’s okay. I, um,” she fumbled with her thumbs, and Adrien thought it was adorable. “I figured we could… play different systems another time. You know, since we’re, um, together now…?”

She peeked at him, and Adrien positively beamed, walking across the coffee table and wrapping his fingers in her own.

“I’d love that. We’ll play our way through all of them.”

Eyes sparkling, a blue more vivid than any sea, she looked like the human iteration of the most tranquil night across France. Soft skin, a gentle smile, an exuberant mood, and dark, rich hair like a painted, starless sky.

Slowly, Adrien focused on his composure, inhaling through his mouth and letting out the air through his nostrils. “Ahh… right, so just to warn you - my Dad can sometimes be… um, abrasive. He’s sort of polite to the extreme, but if he says anything that hurts or offends you, don’t be afraid to say something - even if it’s just a signal to me or something. The last thing I want is for you to be uncomfortable.”

Marinette nodded a few times and scurried behind him out of his room, Adrien catching the eye of a jerkish kwami across the room as he closed the door. Plagg was sticking his face out of the camembert cabinet, puckering his lips and making his whiskers dance in the mocking display.

When he turned back to his - his girlfriend (it was still impossible to believe) - she was wearing a cute smirk and had a hand at her hip.

Marinette’s voice was low. “I did survive over an hour on Sunday with just me and him, or did you forget?”

“I didn’t, not exactly,” he grinned and led them down the stairs. “I’m just still not convinced it happened. A very thorough prank, perhaps.”

She snickered and rolled her eyes, the way she always does, and he loved it.

“I can barely walk in a straight line - you seriously think I could cook something like that up?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured as they approached the dining room, peeking his head in. His father was sitting at the head of the table, speaking quietly with the chef. The food in the room smelled heavenly, and oddly out of place. “You continue to surprise me, Mari.”

She pinked slightly, and Adrien pulled her into the room with a smile on his face. His Father stood up when he noticed them, and the chef gave a hasty farewell.

“Father,” Adrien said, palm feeling a little sweaty against Marinette’s. She untangled their fingers to take a bold step forward, positively radiant while she did so.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Agreste,” Marinette greeted brightly, bowing her head politely. Adrien studied his father’s expression, hardly believing the small smile he saw there. “Thank you so much for allowing me over for dinner tonight. It’s an honor, sir.”

Posture rigid and hands folded behind his back, his father stepped away from the table slightly to greet them. “That is a kind of you to say, Mme. Dupain-Cheng. Or, would you prefer just Marinette?”

Adrien respected how composed she managed to be before Father, especially when his attention flickered down; her hands were shaking.

“Marinette is perfect, sir. Thank you.”

Feeling his heart squeeze slightly, Adrien couldn’t pass the chance to half-tease, half-compliment her. He sidled up beside her again, wrapping a careful arm around her waist and met her startled stare with a cheeky smirk.

“Marinette is perfect. You’re definitely onto something there.”

She turned the color of her Banks’ roses and ducked her head, and Adrien’s attention returned to his father. Aside from a raised brow, his expression appeared only amused.

This is so weird. Adrien thought, wrinkling his nose. But good.

“Well, if you are ready to eat…” His father gestured for them to sit, and Adrien almost turned back to the other end of the table for his usual spot. Marinette was too quick, though, and she started to sit down two seats from his father. The middle spot was clearly intended for him.

Settling into the chair, Adrien pursed his lips and looked down at their plates. Everything was, of course, perfect. The table had been perfectly prepared for a classic four-course meal, and it almost made him want to roll his eyes - he’d have to remember to mention to Marinette this was not a typical dining experience at the Agreste house.

It was sort of sweet, though, as he examined the varieties laid out for the first course. Each serving was small, from the Tapenade Noir a la Figue and Pissaladiers to the Brandade de Morue au Gratin. The fact that his father had gone through the trouble to entertain Marinette - to make such a gesture of meeting his girlfriend, formally? It brought an appreciative smile to his lips.

Scratching his cheek, Adrien popped a tart in his mouth and thought about something to talk about.

“So… did Marinette mention to you that she makes clothes?” He asked his father, and he could see Marinette fidget in his periphery. She hastily shoved some of the potatoes in her mouth.

Raising both brows, his father looked at Marinette and then back to Adrien. “Well, no, not exactly. Though I figured as much - she was most helpful the other day with a design of mine.”

“Oh yeah?” Adrien turned to Marinette, whose gaze flickered up to him helplessly. She looked so cute when she was embarrassed, he found her hand under the table and squeezed it in reassurance.

“She made the outfit she’s wearing right now. Isn’t is incredible?” He grinned at her, at least having enough mercy to blush.

“Adrien!” She hissed, turning even redder. “It’s - it’s not much, really. Just something I threw together, heh, since I work with flowers all day. Not really original. Nope. I’m sure you get inspiration from much more interesting things.”

His father smirked and ate quietly, watching them carry on like he wasn’t even there.

“Don’t be modest, Mari. You’re really talented.”

“I… I just dabble! That’s all. R-really.”

“Let’s be honest,” Adrien said, turning slightly to better face her. She was pouting, cheeks stuffed with figs and bread. “Do you just dabble in anything? You’re basically an expert in flowers, baking, and fashion, and you could ruin just about anyone’s self-confidence playing Mecha Strike.”

“Adriennn...” She covered her face with her hands, voice squeaky. All he could do was laugh, feeling a little guilty for flustering her, but he couldn’t help gushing about her.

“How did you get interested in fashion, Marinette?” His father cut in, and Adrien practically flew back in his chair. He had almost forgotten his Dad was beside him.

She lowered her hands, still red as a tomato, and reached for her cup of water.

“I… um… I’m not sure, actually. I’ve always liked drawing and designing,” she began slowly, and Adrien used the chance to catch up on his appetizers.

“When I started to pay more attention to how other people dressed, I sort of just… decided to teach myself to sew. I didn’t like the way other clothes fit me. I’m sort of on the short side, like my mother, so anything that fit me looked too childish while everyone else started to grow, I guess, and anything I liked was too big.” She hummed momentarily, chewing a tart. “So I decided to make things I knew I would be comfortable in, and reflected me best.”

“That’s very utilitarian of you,” his father commented. Marinette blinked, apparently unsure if that was a compliment or not.

Adrien decided then to jump in. “What’s your favorite thing to design?”

They both answered, which surprised him.

“Dresses.”

A pause, and the chef came out to switch their course for the main course. Adrien hardly paid attention while the plates changed, too interesting in the curious turn in conversation.

“And why is that, Marinette?”

“Uhh…” she cleared her throat. “Well… I’m not sure, actually. Probably because they’re the hardest to design; it’s extra rewarding when you get it right.”

“Hmm. I find menswear more challenging, personally,” his father mused, rubbing his chin. “But I do see your point. To me, a gown is a perfect canvas - the rules are only that it must be a single item to be worn, but otherwise, there are no limitations.”

“It’s the definitely the thing I have to try the hardest to be creative with,” Marinette replied with a furrowed brow, nodding. “The fact that it’s so flexible is what I find challenging about it.”

They both ruminated on that while stopping to eat some of their meal, and Adrien felt much more relaxed for how easily the conversation was flowing. Of course, Marinette was so sweet - it was hard to resist a charming, intellectual conversation with her, but it was still bizarre to see it have an effect on his characteristically stoic father.

Adrien caught her eye as she dabbed her lips with a napkin, so he decided to shoot her a wink. Marinette scrunched her nose up in response, her wordless disapproval downright adorable.

“So, if I am remembering correctly,” his father said after a pause. “You both met in Mme. Bustier’s class, at Francios Du-Pont Academy?”

“Yes,” Adrien said, tilting his head. “Although we sort of got off on the wrong foot.”

His father seemed surprised. “Oh, and how’s that?”

Adrien deferred to Marinette to answer. “Well…”

She got his meaning, chewing her food and swallowing. “Yeah, it was kind of my fault. I thought, because he was friends with Chloe, he was trying to pull a prank on me. So I sort of gave him the cold shoulder, but I realized I was being unfair to him.” Scowling, she glanced over to the blond. “I still am sorry about that, by the way.”

“Don’t be,” Adrien shook his head. “I could see why Chloe’s association might have not painted me in the best of light.”

Marinette smiled kindly, the gesture reaching her eyes.

“Well, I am glad to hear you reconsidered your assessment of my son. He was very nervous when he expressed interest in taking you out for a date.”

Almost kicking the table, Adrien turned an impressive shade of scarlet. “F-Father! Please.”

Marinette giggled at his distress, hiding a wide smile behind her fingers.

Despite his plea, his father didn’t hold back. Instead, he tucked both hands under his chin and leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Now son,” his father said, chuckling. “There are a few crucial things I am responsible for as a father. Embarrassing you in front of your girlfriend is one of them. I’ve had stories saved in my back-pocket for years.”

Practically bouncing in her seat, Marinette’s hair danced around her shoulders. “Oh, I’d love to hear a story!”

“Noooooo…” Adrien groaned, and now he was the one to cover his face with his hands. “Why did I agree to this?”

Slyly, Marinette took one of his hands and patted it gently. “There, there. It’s only fair after all of the puns I’ve suffered because of you.”

The remainder of the meal passed with more cheer than Adrien could have imagined, Marinette being positively tickled by his chagrin. Several of the stories recounted his mother, a few of which Adrien had forgotten himself. A small part of him was feeling grumpy for being the butt of the joke, but the overall mood was too infectious, and to see his father smirk and laugh occasionally was a refreshing change. Adrien, resigned to his fate, let himself enjoy the food and tease along until dessert was served.

Marinette sighed after a particularly airy wave of laughter. “Aww, so you and Chloe would play dress up?”

She put her hand on his shoulder and rested her chin there, pseudo-pitying him.

Adrien pointed his own chin forward while their plates were taken away so dessert could be brought out, fighting to hide a smile. She looked so pretty, perched on his arm like that.

“Yes, as a matter-of-fact. I mentioned Chloe didn’t like video games, and growing up in a literal fashion house granted a great opportunity for fun when it comes to clothes. Mother would encourage it, if I recall?” He partially asked the question to his father, who sighed and nodded, looking absently at the chandelier.

“Oh yes. If your mother wasn’t modeling the clothes, she was putting them on you. Large boas, daring furs, expensive heels - anything and everything you wanted to put on, she would let you pick it out and model it on the runway in my office.”

Marinette bit her tongue and tried not to laugh, though it was in vain, and he felt himself redden slightly. Trying to brush off the embarrassment, Adrien remarked, “Well, I suppose I can make anything look good.”

“Definitely,” she replied with a dreamy smile, leaning probably a little closer than was appropriate with his father present, and they broke apart when the chef re-emerged from the kitchen.

“Well,” he announced, clapping his hands. “We had only planned for the Crème brûlée, but since Mme. Dupain-Cheng was so kind to bring Pain au chocolat, the kitchen is pleased to serve both this evening.”

“Thank you, that will be all,” his father replied briskly, and the man bowed and brought out the two choices. Each looked picturesque, like the sort of desserts one might see on a classic French cookbook, and Adrien was glad to have eaten light on the earlier courses.

“I didn’t know you brought anything,” Adrien directed the comment to Marinette as he snatched up the Pain au chocolat almost the moment it was presented on a humble gray platter. It seemed out of place from the rest of the meal’s china, so he assumed it belonged to the bakery.

“Maman and Papa insisted,” she replied shyly, tapping the top of her Crème brûlée with a spoon. It granted her a very hard, satisfying knock in return before cracking. “And really, it’s the least I could do. I didn’t expect such a meal. Thank you, Monsieur Agreste, Adrien.”

Trembling fingers patted around the edge of his chair, clamping down when they found his hand. Adrien rubbed the back of her knuckles with his thumb.

“It’s a pleasure having you, Marinette.” His father answered.

“Oh, this is so good,” Adrien spoke with his mouth halfway full, and two sets of eyes rolled at him.

“Manners, son.”

Hastily chewing, he managed a sheepish grin towards his father. “If you try the Pain au chocolat, you’d know it defies etiquette.” He cleared his throat. “But Father is right - I’m glad you agreed to come over, Mari. This has been so nice.”

Even though she ducked her head, hair partially obscuring the soft features of her face, he could still see the rosy hue that colored her cheeks. She was too beautiful to bare, and his grip on her hand tightened only slightly - a protective, loving sort of grasp.

You’re mine.

All mine.

She squeezed back.

His father had selected one of the Dupain-Cheng treats, and Adrien pursed his lips suspiciously. He had half a mind to point his finger and ask what this man had done with his real father.

After a slow, thoughtful bite, the man impersonating his father offered his compliments. “Your parents make an excellence Pain au chocolat, Marinette. Please give them our thanks.”

“I’ll be sure to pass it along the kind words,” Marinette offered warmly, practically buzzing in her seat as she savored the carefully prepared burnt cream. “They are always so touched to hear things like that.”

“Of course.”

Adrien ate another of the Dupain-Cheng desserts, preferring the light fluffy dough to a rich cream, and Marinette sighed happily when she sat back in her chair.

Releasing a low exhale of his own, Adrien’s father stood, indicating dinner officially over. “So, are you doing anything else this evening, or should we have a car come around to take you home?”

“We were going to play some video games,” Adrien offered, and Marinette nodded. “If… if that’s alright.”

“I don’t see why not,” he commented, leading them into the foyer. Marinette politely excused herself, seeking the bathroom, so he was left alone with his father in the hallway.

“Just be sure to have her returned home in time for her curfew.”

“That’s 10:30.” The blond glanced at his watch out of habit. It was just passed eight in the evening.

“I can let Nathalie know that you’ll need the car by 10:15.”

Before Adrien could thank his father, the man grimaced.

“Adrien?” His voice was off, and he studied the stairs like they insulted his designs. “She is a… very sweet girl. I’m, er, happy for you.”

Suddenly, Adrien found his thumbs very interesting, but managed a respectful response. “... I’m glad you think so. She’s really special to me, so… thanks for taking the time to meet her.”

“Your mother would have really liked her, I think.” The man added wistfully, and Adrien’s thought he sounded strained. He wasn’t exactly surprised; they had talked about her a lot tonight, probably more than they had since she disappeared.

Adrien bit his lip, hiding a grin. “You think so?”

His father’s response was decisive. “I know so.”

For what felt like the first time, the two men met eyes and shared a real, knowing smile. It was heavy, and appreciative, and tired. It was filled by absence and regret, unasked questions with untenable answers. Tonight, though, the tension felt a little less like shackles and a little more like hope. Like forgiveness, and apologies, and a handshake or a hug. It was just a look, but it felt like more than that.

A beat later, a lively pair of blue eyes re-emerged from a hallway, carried by the sound of her soft-bottomed shoes tapping against stone marble. Adrien’s father turned promptly towards her as she peered around the doorway, and his voice returned to its usual even tone.

“I have some work to return to, so I’m afraid I won’t see you out this evening. Nathalie and Adrien will see that you get home safely. Do take care, my dear.”

Stuttering, she bowed. “Y-yes, of course. Thank you! It was a pleasure. An honor, really, sir.”

Adrien wore a bemused smile as the two interacted, thinking he could get used to this side of his father, and certain he would never tire of Marinette’s blush when she flustered.

Again, his father glanced in his direction, holding his gaze for only a moment. He nodded towards his son and receded quickly into his office.

“Phew,” Adrien exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath until Marinette was in front of him. He should have taken a larger inhale, because the way she peered up at him took the air right back out of him.

“Ready to lose?” She smirked, and Adrien raised a brow.

“It seems it’s time to get the Party started?”

She deflated. “Take me home.”

“Mari!” He laughed, but she maintained a straight face, marching up the stairs towards his room. Adrien felt his stomach flutter as she walked away, the back of her blouse cut to expose a large part of her back. Gulping, he trailed after her, feeling a thrilling sense of nerves when she smiled smartly down at him.

 --

 “Agh,” Marinette muttered, her tongue sticking out in frustration as the results rolled in.

She hates losing. She really, really hates losing.

Especially to someone like Adrien, or Chat Noir, or Nino -- those that she could think of offhandedly. The kind of people who rubbed it in her face that she lost. The kind of people who got freakin’ smug when she lost. Oh, boy, did she hate that.

So during the closing ceremony, it was that much more thrilling when Toad announced that she, in fact, had won. Princess Peach managed to win by a slim margin of exactly three more coins than Yoshi. There was no way of keeping score of the bonus Stars until the end, and they had tied in everything else that was measurable. It was sort of incredible how evenly matched they were, flat out bulldozing the computer players in the process (to be fair, they left their difficulty on easy since she had never played and it had been so long since Adrien had either).

“Oh. Oh!” She had already put down her controller in defeat, which was probably for the best, because she leapt up from the couch with such force she probably would have ripped the Nintendo from the T.V.

Adrien groaned and leaned into the arm-rest of the couch. “Damn you. Hooooowwwwwwww?”

Marinette couldn’t help her excitement, always relishing victory (it was a quality you almost had to have being a superhero), but she at least kept the gloating to a minimum.

She sat back down and took one of his hands in her own, pressing her lips to it softly. “I’m sorry, Adrien. If it’s any consolation, I really thought you won.”

Peeking at her, though his face was still mostly in the sympathetic comfort of the couch cushion, he responded, “I’m not consoled.”

“What can I do?” She teased, still holding his hand; normally she’d be way too bashful to dare something so bold, but she was too overcome with the waves of triumph to bother.

“I feel like I need a win, or I’ll never get out of my mood.”

Pursing her lips, she smiled devilishly and turned his hand over, closing his fingers into a fist.

“Thumb war?” She challenged.

Smiling, Adrien chuckled and sat up, locking their hands together. “Thumb war.”

They both adjusted slightly on the couch, Marinette having kicked off her shoes over an hour ago. Adrien had joined her, wiggling his toes through dark socks, looking adorably foolish.

Positioning her skirt in front of her knees and crossing her legs carefully, Marinette watched as Adrien crossed his left leg over his right to better face her. They sat so close their knees touched, but Marinette refused to let herself be distracted.

“Ready?” He smirked.

“Ready. But I’m not just going to let you win. You have to earn it.”

In unison, while trying not to laugh, they started their tiny wrestling match.

“One, two, three, four…”

“I declare a thumb war!”

Adrien had a clear advantage, she soon learned, and began to regret her suggestion. While her thumb was thinner, it was also shorter, so it was harder to gain leverage against the back of his thumb. She almost had him at one point, but he faked her out and quickly captured her beneath him.

Marinette knew she wouldn’t be able to win, and in fairness, she should have been okay with that. Adrien said he wanted to beat her, but that’s simply not how she operates. After all, she’s Ladybug - it’s not like she could just… give up! Surely Paris would forgive her if she cheated just a little to win, right?

She shot out her other hand and brought it to the side of his abdomen, scratching and tickling him with her nails. Adrien began to laugh immediately, and tried to swat her hand away, but she used his distraction to her advantage and quickly claimed her victory.

“Hah!” She leaned back, laughing as the confusion and subsequent realization washed over him. Adrien scowled, one hand still touched his ribs where she tickled him.

“Oh, Mari, I wish you hadn’t done that.” His voice was deadly serious, and Marinette raised both brows.

Playing innocent, she cupped her hands together and pressed them to her cheek. “Oh, and why’s that?”

“Because it is now my right to tickle you.”

Before she could so much as breathe a word of protest, Adrien launched himself at her and his hands tasered her rib cage, though the startling sensation of his touch did even worse damage to her heart. Marinette was pretty sure she’d need to invest in a pacemaker to fix the steady arrhythmia that had her blood working overtime, pumping erratically, nonstop, since Sunday.

She tried to kick and squirm and tickle him back, but the effort was futile. The thumb war should have told her this was going to be a bad idea, because much like their hands, he was simply bigger than she was - maybe not stronger, (although, her hyperventilating lungs argued, he does have some pretty amazing muscles) but size definitely mattered in a tickle fight.

“S-Stop!” She said through a flurry of laughter, her face twisted up to a smile with cheeks so red she probably could have passed for Ladybug if she had worn something more form fitting.

“I’m afraid you lost the right when you cheated, Mari,” he said through his own laughter, unable to keep the giddy grin off his own face.

“Nooooo!” She squealed, hands frantically batting his away. “I’mSorryI’mSorryI’mSorry!”

Adrien sighed contently, wearing a smile that radiated with victory. “That’s better.”

Her lungs ached from the waves of giggles, and he was in much the same state, but instead of catching her breath she felt the last of her spirit leave her body.

Adrien was on top of her.

On his couch.

In his room.

She flustered to get up, and Adrien apparently caught on to their compromising position and almost fell back off the couch in his attempt to release her.

“Sorry,” he said, scratching his neck nervously. “I got a little carried away.”

She sighed and closed her eyes, covering her heart with a hand in a conscious effort to slow the frantic beating.

“Don’t be…” she mumbled, taking in another deep breath. “I probably deserved that.”

Her eyes fluttered open when she heard Adrien shift slightly on the couch, and he turned to look at her with sincere, sparkling eyes.

“Did I tell you that you looked really beautiful in that outfit? I probably did, but it’s worth saying again.”

Marinette covered a cheek with a hand, suddenly timid. With Adrien, it was like a pendulum between her shyness and her self-confidence; she wasn’t insecure because she thought poorly of herself, but rather, she felt humbled by the attention he gave her.

“Thanks. That… means a lot. It’s supposed to be a peony, but it ended up looking more like a rose.” She glanced down, tracing a line down the needlework she had worked a long time on, sort of frustrated with the end result. It had been a project she created during the winter months, a daydream of what Summer could bring. Marinette had never imagined it could be this good.

When she managed a glance up at him, he was impossibly close. Their noses almost touched, but he kept his eyes on hers.

A whisper. “It’s lovely, Mari. Really suits you.”

Marinette felt a timorous smile spread on her face, and she nodded, not sure what else to say.

She turned her face to his, this time letting their noses touch. His warmth was practically spreading through to her, his cheeks ablaze with a lustful color. In truth, Marinette had to imagine her’s looked much the same, and her flush only deepened when she tasted a tiny inhale of his cologne.

Hesitant, Marinette fluttered her eyes closed and leaned forward, seeking the soft reprieve of a kiss. She wanted to be the one to initiate it this time, wishing she had the sort of brash confidence he had the times before, but to her it still felt so new that there was still need of an invitation. A silent request, a nervous but passionate interest, to be reciprocated by him.

Adrien released a tiny sigh, a sound of pure happiness, and it spurred her to erase the distance and seek his lips with a confused mix of delicacy and urgency. When she found them, they were forgiving and the sensation of honey running over her mouth clouded her mind. She tried to keep a focus, count off the ingredients to her favorite cookie recipe, picture her disheveled clipboard at the shop, remind herself of the thrill of capturing an akuma, but the pressure of him so close zapped it all from her memory. It was just him, and his taste, and the wonderful smell of him flooding her senses.

A small part of Marinette’s mind wanted to deepen the kiss - okay, maybe more than a small part. A very loud, very clear part of her brain was demanding to understand his tongue by way of interrogation, to push herself against his impossibly toned torso, to indulge in every fantasy she’d dreamed up over the past three years. Pining was hard, and now that she’d taken the first step into the swirling emerald pool, it was like trying to force the rain to stop during a thunderstorm, or to resist the sunrise at dawn.

She deserved this, right?

She waited long enough, and some forces of nature simply cannot be stopped.

A languid, almost inaudible gasp fell from him when Marinette swiped her tongue against his lower lip, and the sensation of their breathing mingling together made her hairs stand on end.

Who needed food? Marinette would gladly sustain herself on nothing but his lips for the rest of her life if given the choice.

Adrien brushed some of the hair from her shoulder, moving his hand to her jawline, holding her carefully while she explored his neck with her fingers, crawling her hands up to his hair and digging into the soft blond waves. While the wanton sensation was intense, Marinette lavished every moment, even the most subtle ones. A tiny dance of his lashes across her cheek, the clumsy, inexperienced knocking of their teeth, the soft brush of fabric each time they moved on the couch. She would never forget the quiet hilarity of the Mario Party victory music playing in the background as Princess Peach was showered with confetti.

After perhaps a full minute, Adrien finally pulled away, and Marinette nearly groaned in protest but managed to punch down the urge. This was only their second date and she was hardly able to control herself, so with a quick internal beratement, the girl found her forgotten strength of will tossed aside with her shoes.

“Um,” she said after they stared at each other for several seconds, quietly gasping for breath as her heart thumped madly against his ribcage. Her skin felt hot and sensitive from the suddenly intimate moment. “I… er, you want to keep playing?”

“Hmm?” Adrien replied, blinking a few times and following her gaze to the television. “Oh. Right. Uh… let’s see what time it is…”

The blond reached for his cell phone and laughed abruptly, so Marinette leaned over curiously. She could see Alya’s name on the screen, and it was about to turn 10.

“It’s later than I thought,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Oh, my phone has been in my bag all night…” She murmured as he flicked through the messages, adjusting the screen so Marinette could read along with him in the group chat.

 Nino (7:31 PM):

Now remember kids, your mother and I are trusting you to spend the evening responsibly. Don’t do anything Father Nino wouldn’t do!

 Alya (7:33 PM):

That’s not really setting a great precedent, considering…. You know what? Nvm.

 Laughing, Marinette covered her face with a hand. “Oh my god, they’re the worst.”

“They really are,” Adrien agreed, continuing to scroll.

 Nino (7:40 PM):

Okay but really now I’m having second thoughts. Double-dates would be nice and all, but what about bro time? Who is going to keep me company while I play pokemon go???

 Alya (7:42 PM):

because people actually still play that. Keep up with the times why don’t cha.

 Nino (7:43 PM):

For your information, Adrien does - tell her, dude!

 “It’s true,” he nodded gravely. “Although not as much compared to when it first came out. Nino keeps me going when he finds a good catch somewhere in town.”

“God, you’re lame,” Marinette commented. He laughed and continued to read.

 Alya (7:56 PM):

Looks like your “bro” has vanished into the arms of a sexy young female. Sorry babe.

 Flushing, Marinette shielded her eyes.  “Oh my god, I can’t stand her sometimes!”

Adrien nudged her with his hip on the couch. “I can’t say she’s wrong…”

“Adrien!” She squeaked, blushing even harder.

 Nino (8:01 PM):

Why must I suffer for you to be happy?

 Alya (8:02 PM):

Are you talking to me or Adrien?

 Nino (8:02 PM):

I’m actually talking to Nette, TYVM. gosh not everything is about you

 Alya (8:04 PM):

k

 Nino (8:06 PM):

I’VE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE

 Absently, Marinette’s hand went to her throat while they continued to read through Nino’s angst, tracing the places he had touched her like they had been licked by flames. Much the same, the tips of her fingers burned, thinking of how warm and soft he felt in her grasp had been. She risked a glance at him while he penned a response, wondering what he would do if she repeated the action, or if he felt the same tingle beneath his skin when she touched him.

“Poor Nino,” he frowned. “You might want to back me up on this to appease the both of them.”

Brows raised, that dark-hair girl stood and sought her phone in her purse, set down on Adrien’s desk, but froze.

Tikki was gone.

“Mmp!” Marinette squeaked, digging around frantically. “Oh no, oh no, oh no,” she pulled out everything, horrified at the thought of her kwami disappearing. What if something terrible happened? This wasn’t like the shop or her room, where her red companion could hide but reappear easily. This was Adrien’s house, and who knows where she could be.

“Marinette? What’s going on?” A blond head of hair stood, looking concerned. “Did you lose your phone?”

“What?” She shook her head, forgetting herself. “Oh - oh! N-no… hah. No no… Just… thought I did. It’s here. I’m sure glad I didn’t lose it though!” Marinette was almost shouting, and she cringed.

Adrien moved closer, looking at her carefully. “Are you sure you’re okay? The car isn’t going to be ready until 10:15, but if you’d like to go home early...”

“No! I- I mean, n-no. I think, um, the food isn’t settling in my stomach well. Excuse me…” She averted his eyes, scurrying off to the bathroom with a very real pit in her stomach. If her kwami had been near enough, she only prayed that she’d be followed into the bathroom by a flash of red.

Inadvertently, she stepped through the door and caught sight of her appearance, and she was a little surprised. Her skirt and blouse had remained neat and pressed, but the half-pinned back locks that framed her face were a lost cause. The tickle war had done her in, and she quickly began to unpin her hair, trying to keep herself from shouting for Tikki at the top of her lungs.

By the time she completed taking her hair down and brushing it out with her fingers, Marinette nearly shrieked when her kwami appeared through the ceiling.

“G-g-ah…” Again, the girl clutched her heart, too overcome with relief to bother with much else than a swift hug of her kwami against her cheek.

Quietly, Marinette whispered, “Oh my god, Tikki. Don’t scare me like that! Where were you?!”

“Oh, you know… around?” A red face scrunched up at her, and Marinette felt her lips grow thinner.

“Around? Just around in Adrien’s house? What if someone saw you!? What if I left and you weren’t back!”

“Shh, Marinette, it’s okay.” Tikki looked apologetic, and touched a paw to her lips as her voice began to grow in volume. “Take a deep breath, and I promise, you don’t need to worry. I… thought I saw a little pest, but it turned out to be nothing. I was only gone a moment, and an inopportune one at that. I’m very sorry.”

Unprecedented tears started to well in her eyes, but she gave Tikki another loving squeeze against her cheek. “I’m… I’m just glad you’re okay. I got really freaked out!”

“Don’t worry! It’s all fine now. Just go ahead and finish your date. If you can distract Adrien, I’ll fly back to your purse immediately. Okay?”

Gulping down courage she didn’t have, Marinette nodded once. “Okay.”

With a quick light tap-tap against both of her cheeks, shaking the nerves from her bones, Marinette grasped the handle and re-entered Adrien’s room.

It took her a moment to spot him, a ninety-degree angle from the bathroom, standing in the corner at the windowsill, and he turned at the sound of the door opening.

“Hey, are you feeling better?” Adrien said with a small, concerned smile. Marinette nodded shyly and approached when he gestured for her to come nearer.

“Oh!” She breathed when he stepped aside slightly. “The hydrangeas. They look beautiful.”

And so they did. Smoky darkness framed them from the evening beyond, the moon providing a perfect soft source of illumination to their amaranthine petals. This pair in particular had been some of her favorites of all the ones she grew, loving how full and round the bulbs had come with the spring yield. In full bloom, she couldn’t have imagined a better choice to represent her feelings for him.

“Yes. Beautiful.”

The tone he used struck her as odd, and when Marinette looked over at him, her knees nearly gave way. Intense and curious, Adrien’s gaze studied her with an admiring sort of security.

The pop of green seemed deeply happy, while stirring with the mystery and mischief of his goofy and kind-hearted side, and it filled her with an ache of love so intense she felt the words of sweet confession start to form on her tongue. Thankfully, there was no air in her lungs to support to syllables, so they died as they inched up her vocal chords.

Three years of unrequited, or, at least, misunderstood feelings, clamped down hard on her heart bitterly, and yet, Marinette knew she would do it again. Every lifetime, if she had to. Again and again. She would have waited forever for him to look at her like that, and three years had been long, and slow, but in the gentle curve that tempered his eyes when he smiled at her, because of her, she knew it had made each second worth it.

He broke her stupor, gesturing below her chin. “Why did you choose the peony?”

“The… peony…? Oh. Right.” She traced the outline of the flower, feeling a tint of pink stain her cheeks. “I actually picked it… well because of you. I made it in the winter, but I-I’ve… I really liked you, Adrien. For a long time. Years. Since the day you gave me that umbrella, actually.” Marinette squeezed an arm across her chest, unable to stop the sudden avowal from spilling off her tongue. “Peonies are supposed to be a mark of good luck, and when I made this, I hoped one day… well, maybe we’d be here. Together? I guess it worked?” She chuckled from embarrassment, averting her eyes.

Adrien didn’t say anything, and she grew increasingly nervous. “T-there’s legends and stuff! Some people say it’s from a Greek legend about medicine, and another about a nymph… both end with someone getting turned into a peony though, to protect them and to embody their spirits. And, nowadays, you know, a bush of peonies that thrives is supposed to be a sign of good fortune! And - and, um, i-if your peonies wither and don’t survive through summer, it’s a sign of bad tidings. Unlucky. Unlucky.”

Too bad it’s impossible to throttle yourself, Marinette thought as her brain continued to fill an anxious silence with even more anxious words. She shouldn’t have admitted how long she wanted this - it made her seem desperate, didn’t it? A clingy, useless thing, like ivy, latching to life and refusing to let go.

“Annnnnd, you know, I figured since I sew, I could make my own peony. Avoid the risk of growing them. One that would never wither. A chance for luck. ‘A Needlepoint Peony’, get it? If it’s big and bold, and never fades, it could let me be happy, right? Even though I’m not superstitious - how stupid! What am I saying? What was the question?”

Marinette forcibly covered her mouth with a hand, trying to stop the verbal flood.

Brow furrowed, the blond simply stared at her in mute silence. What was he thinking? That was too much. This was all too much, wasn’t it?

Marinette shivered when he touched her cheek.

“Marinette... ” He started to speak, but she thought a flicker of frustration colored his tone. Instead, Adrien pulled her closer and ghosted his lips over hers - the gesture was much more delicate this time. A bee buzzing over a flower, the rush of feeling was almost enough to make her cry at how long she’d wanted this, how happy she was to be here, to show him and shower him in the love she had to give. Instead, their lips pulled apart, and sweet emotion tickled her throat with the taste of sunshine and spearmint.

“I’m sorry you waited so long. I’m - I’m so glad you did. But I don’t think it’s the peony; it’s just you.” He laughed a bit at her dazed expression, squishing their foreheads together. “It’s you. Lucky. Pretty. Smart. I’m just stupid for not noticing sooner.”

Leaning away, Adrien stood up slightly and pressed a gentle kiss into her forehead.

“Thank you for giving me a chance.”

A rapt knocking broke them out of the moment, and Nathalie spoke through the door. “Adrien. The car is prepared for Marinette.”

The pair blinked a few times, words processing a little slower as reality returned from their private moment. After a slow breath, Adrien smiled.

“Let’s get you home.”

Marinette could only nod and let herself be led from his house, grabbing her purse and floating down the stairs. She was unable to do more than share a few warm glances with him when they sat down in the car.

Marinette felt so happy that it actually hurt when the door shut, like finishing the chapter of a great story; why did it have to end? Anything she could do to savor the last moments before they said good night were worth it, and when they settled in the backseat, she eagerly took his hand.

“We should do something this weekend.” She stated, failing to sound casual with the pitchy tone of her voice. Adrien didn’t seem to mind.

“I’d love that - oh! That reminds me!” He blinked a few times, little green twinkles in the dark interior as they rolled past darkened Parisian streets. “I actually - well, it’s a long story. Basically, I got my schedule messed up, and I realized I can go the reception on Saturday. The one for the museums, for Le Nuit. Go with me, please?”

Marinette balked, staring at him. Was he serious?

“...What? But, we’d… well, you know,” she cleared her throat, aware of the two adults occupying the front seat. “People would see us together. Are you sure? Maybe you should talk to your Dad… And isn’t at Le Grande Paris? Chloe’s not exactly my ‘BFF,’ you know.”

The blond leaned over the center console, voice low. The whisper in her ear sent a current of electricity down her spine. “I’ll talk to my Dad if it’ll make you feel better, but I want to go out with you. I want people to know. I want everyone to know.” Drawing back, Marinette released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

He repeated his earlier invitation. “Please, go with me?”

“I- O-of course. Of course I’ll go.” She beamed, wondering when her alarm for school was going to wake her from this amazing dream; there’s no way it was real. Any minute now, she guessed.

The minutes passed, and no alarm interrupted them. They pulled up to the bakery, and Marinette scoffed irritably. Her parents were framed in the doorway, waving at them in the car.

“The welcoming committee is here this time,” she pointed out, and Adrien laughed as he sprang from the car, racing to get her door.

As she rolled her eyes, he quipped, “Rye is that a problem?

Marinette decided to ignore that. “Thank you, Madam Sancoeur. And, um, Monsieur... Driver.”

“Bonsoir, Marinette,” Nathalie answered as Adrien shut the door.

Marinette tried to seem perfectly grumpy as they approached, which wasn’t entirely difficult when Adrien made another joke, urging her to “crumb on.”

“Hi, Maman, Papa,” Marinette said as she pushed open the door to the bakery, and the Dupain-Cheng’s stood with bouncing heels and excited smiles, spotting Adrien’s hand on her lower back.

“Good evening, Madam Cheng, Monsieur Dupain,” Adrien greeted formally, bowing slightly. The movement was interrupted when her father captured them both in a hug, strong enough to lift them both from the ground. Maman barely managed to not get caught in the flurry.

“There’s my girl! And so happy to see you, son,” her father beamed at Adrien when they both were returned to solid ground.

Her mother grasped her husband’s arm, leaning into him dreamily. “Look at the happy couple! You both look so cute together. And about time, too!”

Red crept Marinette’s neck, burying her freckles in a fury of distress. “Maman! Stop it!”

Adrien chuckled and smirked and her chagrin, and she thought about forcing him out the door.

“I can’t stand you - all of you!” Marinette groaned, putting her face in her hands.

“Now now, sweetie,” her father consoled her with a less crushing embrace. “Your mother and I are just excited for you and Adrien. All we wanted for you is a sweet, nice gentleman, and you found him. Can you blame us?”

Clearing his throat, Adrien sounded a little off. “W-well, thank you, Monsieur Dupain. That’s such a nice thing to say. I’m really happy you’re so accepting of me.”

Marinette peeked at the boy from comforting spot against her Papa’s chest, eyeing her mother suspiciously as the woman took his hand and patted it with her other. “You’re a sweet boy, and we trust you. Please, come over anytime for dinner or to a… what do the kids say, ‘Netflix binge?’ That.”

Marinette considered drowning herself with the gardening hose tomorrow when she got to work.

“Maman, you can’t say things like that! There’s a-a-a connotation to that, and it’s inappropriate! Adrien, I’m so sorry!”

The woman was unphased, merely shrugging. “Adrien, thank you for making sure Marinette got home safely. You take care, and if you ever want to stop in, we’re always happy to have you.”

“Our little girl’s first boyfriend!” Her father sighed, squeezing a struggling Marinette into him. His large stomach was making it impossible to breathe, and when she finally resurfaced, some of her hair got squashed into her mouth.

“Pff -” she said, spitting it out and untangling herself from her parents, pushing them towards the back of the store.

“Okay, thanks, bye!”

Marinette could barely look him in the eye. “I am so sorry about that. Please ignore them.”

“It’s okay,” Adrien reassured her, walking across the store to meet her. She peeked up at him and he was smiling, his halo of blonde hair almost making him look angelic. “I thought it was sweet. Your parents are always so nice.”

“Nice is one word for it…” she grumbled, crossing her arms.

Adrien laughed and shook his head, wrapping the petulant girl in his arms. “I had a great time tonight,” he whispered.

Marinette gulped, and dropped her arms from their childish pouting position. She wrapped them around his middle, nuzzling softly into his shoulder.

“I did, too…” biting her lip, she confessed a burning question. “We’ll see each other Saturday, but… maybe we could try sooner? I-I really like spending time with you.”

Pulling apart, his features lit up, brilliant and pure. “Absolutely. I’ll figure out my schedule and we can do something. Even if it’s just spending time at the flower shop - I guess I’m not such a bad employee after all!”

“Don’t get too big for your loafers, Buster Brown,” Marinette warned, putting a hand at her hip. Instead of a silly response, Adrien peeled with sudden laughter.

“That was a fantastic pun, Mari. Well done.”

Squinting, she had to process his meaning.

Don’t get too big for your loaf-ers, Buster Brown.

Rubbing her temples, Marinette’s voice was sour. “This is how I die. A slow, subtle descent to madness.”

Adrien kissed her forehead once again and the bitterness fell right off of her.

Quick and sweet, his presence was so close, everywhere in her senses, and he murmured to her softly. “Good night, Mari. I’ll see you soon.”

“I- o-okay. T-thanks again for... tonight. For everything.” She stuttered through a response, feeling like the wind had just been knocked out of her. Adrien swiftly disappeared into the night, and Marinette, thoroughly dazed, listened to the bell at the door, his dismissal, fade away into a quiet peace.

   Bonus Scene:

 “This way, come on,” Plagg phased through the ceiling wall, and Tikki was about ready to throttle him.

She shot a quick whisper at him when she caught up, breathing in the scent of fresh air.

“Where are we going, Plagg?”

They had been floating around all evening, mostly in the upper corners of Adrien’s room, and Plagg seemed not at all himself. The kwami’s tail twitched occasionally, he smiled too frequently, and Tikki suspected he was up to something.

“Almost there. Just be patient – geez. Drama queen.”

Inhaling sharply, Tikki’s antenna twitched. “What did you just say to me?”

“N-Nothing! Nothing at all!” Plagg’s eyes went wide and he phased through yet another wall, much to her dismay. They had only gone up a floor and through one room, but she hadn’t been able to warn Marinette of her departure, and that made her nervous.

“We had all night – why would you wait until the last fifteen minutes before Marinette has to go home to… Plagg, are you even listening to me?”

The kwami’s ear’s twitched a few feet in front of her, and he turned midair. Tikki quietly noted their surroundings; it seemed like an old music room, and the air was musty with dust. Dark particles flew around them, oddly pretty under the streaming light of the lunar light from the tall windows. It was like floating in an ocean of dark stars, and the look of apology Plagg gave her made her blush.

“I-I’m sorry, Tikki. I had a surprise for you, but I kept getting nervous and backing out of it! But, ugh, I hate this stupid emotional crap. We’ll make it quick, just, cm’here…” He grumbled the last part over his shoulder. Taken aback, Tikki blinked and sneezed at some dust, but sped across the room to catch up with him.

Plagg sat on a rather modest-looking box in the corner of the room, set squarely in the center of an extravagant dresser. The dark wood reflected some white-blue illumination from the windows, and it cast the black cat in an oddly somber light.

Gentler than before, Tikki lowered herself next to him. “What is this place?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered slowly, rubbing a paw along the box. “I think it was important to Adrien’s mom, cause her name is written all over this stuff. Pianos and violins and junk, though it’s all terribly out of tune.”

“Like you’d know how to carry a tune,” she nudged him. “I’ve heard your singing.”

“I happen to be a fantastic singer, thank you,” he grinned. “Ask Adrien. I sang him a ballad about camembert once, and even he said it was fantastic.”

The red kwami giggled, “Suuuuure.”

They sat for a moment in silence, and Tikki admired the room. It was probably the size of Adrien’s ground-floor, wide with tall ceilings. Most of the services were covered in sheets, probably to keep the dust off, and it made her a little sad to think about.

Abruptly, she sneezed with the swishing of Plagg’s tail kicking up some of the dust.

“It’s pretty in here,” she remarked as she shook the dust from her head. “But it’s sort of making me feel sick. Should we go back?”

A tiny tint of green peeked up through his whiskers, and Tikki blinked. “What?”

“There’s one more thing – okay? Don’t laugh.”

“I won’t,” she answered honestly, a little amused by his behavior.

He took a deep breath and floated up, gesturing for her to follow. Plagg then carefully creaked open the lid of the box, and a gentle little music began to play. Perhaps a piano, crisp little notes of a sweet melody rang out in the silent room, and a ballerina danced inside the box.

“A music box?” Tikki questioned, scowling down at the display in confusion. When she looked up, Plagg was smoothing out his whiskers, and he cleared his throat.

“Sure, whatever. It plays, and I can’t figure out anything else in this room. So are you going to dance with me, or not?”

Scarlet rushed to her already crimson cheeks, and Tikki’s blue eyes grew even wider. “Dance?”

“Dance.” He repeated, floating up to her and taking her paws in his. His over-confident voice deceived his drawn brow, the frown of his lips.

The best she could do was smile warmly and resist the urge to sneeze, floating a bit closer.

It wasn’t like the sort of tangos or slow dances humans entertained, complicated by steps and disproportionate bodies. They just held hands, paw to paw, and twirled in the dusty sea, dark twinkles sparkling around them in a soft light of night.

The balance had never been so secure.

[fuck-customers]

This is going to be a bit lengthy, and even though it was a small purchase and only a few bucks, I caught a scammer and im proud of myself. Plus the whole thing was insanely extra and annoying so I’m just gonna share it with you.

So onto the story…

Last night I was working a closing shift. Around 8 (2 hours before closing), a woman and her son come up to my register to check out. At this point there are no other customers. She has 12 red mangoes, and that’s all.

I go to ring them up but halfway through me typing the produce code for them, she asks, “these are the ones that are $3 for $1, right?” So I pause mid-code type, change it to a price inquiry, type it in, and inform her, “errr, no, they'e 88 cents a piece.”

Sooo… here’s where it gets good. We’ll refer to my coworker in produce by the name “Richard”. It is extremely important to note that Richard always wears a black company hat while on the clock. Next to no one else does this.

She tells me, “well Richard over there in produce said they were 3 for $1.”

Okay… at the time I wasn’t really thinking about it, but looking back I think my subconsious kicked in and smelled something fishy. Here in good old Colorado, and at my store, mangoes are never 3 for $1 unless we’re having one of our special 3 day sales… in the summer. They haven’t been that cheap in I don’t know how long, and my 2 year anniversary is in February, so I’ve been there long enough to know about that. Additionally, There’s been no other customers coming up with complaints about the price, which if it’s wrong, mangoes are popular, so I would have heard about it by now. And it was the last day of our weekly ad cycle so, what even?

So as a recap - at this point, I have a woman and her son at my register, claiming the mangoes are 3 for $1, and she’s specifically using an employee’s name to convince me she’s right, but I am doubtful. Already the beginning of a good scam story, right?

Well, here’s where it gets even better. Let me tell you how our conversation went.

Her: Richard in produce said I could have them for 3 for 1.

Me: err, okay well let me call and see.

Richard (over the phone): hello?

Me: hey, man, so what’s going on with the mangoes? Like, What price are they back there?

Richard: um… 88 cents. Wait… let me double check and look at organics too hold on.

Me: okay. *puts down phone and turns to woman* well, he’s saying they’re 88 cents a piece as well but he’s double checking.

Her: well I just talked to Richard back there a minute ago! Richard told me that I could have them 3 for $1. He was wearing a hat! Richard told me that was the price!

Richard (calling me back on the phone): yeah the regular ones are 88 cents. Organic 98.

Me: and there’s no sign anywhere that says 3 for 1? I have a woman up here saying that you said she could have them at 3 for a dollar. 

Richard: ..no? They'e 88 cents.

Her: Richard back in produce told me!

Me, knowing I was speaking to Richard but asks anyway: right uh.. is this Richard?

Richard: yeah..?

Me: well there’s a woman up here claiming that YOU told her that the mangoes were 3 for a dollar.

Richard, annoyed: is it (brief description of woman at my register)?

Me: yes.

Richard: I saw her in my department but she didn’t speak to me. I haven’t talked to anyone. I’ve been on lunch for the last half hour.

Me: okay, thank you. *sets phone back down, turns, faces woman, and looks her right in her eyes*

So I just got off of the phone with Richard, and he says that he didn’t tell you that, and that he’s been on lunch for the last half hour.

— so at this point she seems to understand that her scam isn’t working, but refuses to back down. At this point in getting a line but I’m INVESTED in this at this point, and there’s nothing I can really do at this point anyways because she won’t back down, so i am stuck there while she changes her scam from “Richard in produce told me” to now we are at -

Her: *turning towards the store and looking around* well it must have been somebody else then!! Who was it? I know he had a hat…

Me: …right well, Richard is our produce manager, sooooo….

She begins scanning the store for employees to pin this on, but hilariously, since she picked 8pm on a Tuesday night, the store is practically a ghost town void of both customers AND employees. Literally the only other employee that she can see besides me and Richard is a guy working in the meat department back room behind a glass wall.

Now, the thing is, is that the meat guys basically never leave their area, and they don’t rove the floor either as right next to the meat counter there are double doors leading to the back room. While they do face produce, they’re not exactly close to it. They have a coffin case in between them, and the doors for the back room that produce uses are literally on the opposite side of the store that meat counter is.

To her credit, I think the woman knew that trying to pin it on the meat guy, Who actually conveniently was wearing the same color and type of hat as Richard was, was ridiculous and wouldn’t have made any sense because she didn’t try to blame him for this. So not as stupid as you’d think, but still pretty questionable.

Anyways, I feel like at this point ive done all I can do, and she STILL won’t leave or accept me all but calling her a liar (all over wanting to pay $4 for almost $11 worth of mangoes, like really lady if you'e gonna pull a scam do it for something that’s WORTH IT), so i call the manager on duty.

However, I was trying to get to the MOD before this woman did, because in MY EXPERIENCE scammers and liars will absolutely talk and walk all over you as soon as a manager shows up and lie to their face - and unfortunately managers always believe the lies and get away with it. I knew if I was able to explain the situation first, it would be different - given that my current manager WILL bend rules, but is also known to stick up for us cashiers.

Luckily, I spot her pushing a cart down an action alley towards us, so I book it over and explain everything as fast as I can. At the end i say, “but you know, She’s…” my manager tries to finish, “She’s being rude?” But I reply, “She’s lying is what she’s doing. She’s lying.” And my manager says “oh, okay. Call (supervisor) up here to deal with the lines.” So I do, as at this point we had accumulated a long one.

So she walks up and asks this woman what’s going on, and in the SNOTTIEST, RUDEST tone she says, “Who are you?” It kind of surprised me because at this point while the scammer was being mind numbingly annoying, she had been reasonably polite, so for her to get so hostile over a manager kind of surprised me, but at this point, thank god, said manager was in charge and dealing with it now.

I took care of a few other customers while they were talking, and as soon as my line was done i excused myself and hung out by my supervisors register, which happened to be close enough to listen but far away enough to not be involved.

And I can hear what they'e saying - my manager having been informed of the scam, is holding firm on the 88 cent price, and the woman, for some unfathomable reason, is still insistent on the price. I think at this point she knew she was caught and was trying to leave gracefully by making it seem like a mistake, but it was really annoying.

Her: it must have been in the online ad.. unless the online ad is wrong.

Manager: they haven’t been that price for a while, MAYBE it was like that 2 weeks ago… (so not in any recent ad she might have “gotten confused” about.)

Even better was that… now, I didn’t find this out until afterwards as my supervisor started to ask me what was going on and since I was explaing it I didn’t hear this part of the drama… but my manager came up to me afterwards after she was done talking to the woman, that apparently the woman switched tactic again, never mentioned Richard, and instead said that she had called the store and asked about the price and whoever was on the phone, was now the magical entity that told her the mythical price of 3 for $1

Absolutely fucking hilariously, said manager said that she had gotten a call like that, answered it herself, and knew for a fact that she did not tell this woman they were 3 for a dollar.

Fucking OH MY GOD WOMAN, you got caught! It’s been obvious for the past 10 minutes that you'e not fleecing any of us! You can save yourself the most dignity by just… FUCKING OFF!

The whole thing was super obnoxious, but handle-able and im proud of myself for sticking to my guns and glad that my manager backed me up and stood firm, as orginally, before i said that the woman was lying, she started telling me to just give them to her for that price. So it was nice that she took me seriously and stood her (our) ground.

The only frustrating thing is that since I have borderline personality disorder… I’m not afraid of confrontation by any means (obviously) but sometimes my body overreacts to my emotion as well. So while I was keeping a cool and level head on the outside (believe it or not) my body was giving me away… my face was flushing, my voice was uneven, my body became stiff and weird and gangly, on top of shaking… too much adrenaline. But other than that I’m happy on how it worked out. Luckily I think my supervisor saw I was a bit jittery and sent me on my break to cool off.

And may I also say, that there’s few other customers that I hate as much as ones who name drop when the person they’re naming didn’t do what they claim they did. Richard seemed mad but cool and collected.. I know if someone did that to me like she did to him I would be stomping over and being like “she said WHAT now? No I did NOT!!!!!!” Back tf up. But that’s just another reason I don’t wear my name tag… can’t use my name if it’s not broadcasted!

But anyways kids, just keep in mind that name dropping is actually a really common way of scamming, it gives the illusion that they really did talk to someone when they didn’t. So it never hurts to double check with that person.