#at work im always so aware of my sweat stains

[tskumoyuuma]

anxiety is so stupid. been dreading n putting off doing this one stupid thing for literal months cause I'd never done it before. finally forced myself to do it today n it took like 10 minutes, most of it walking to n from the place. was shaking the entire time

[fanaticsnail]

Oh snail, i know you already have a long list of WIPs (i can't wait to read them) and your Inbox is probably already full with requests, so i understand if its not in the cards right now.

I was just wondering what the kid-pirates would do, or how they would react if ther precious doc-reader is the one that was injured badly or was very sick. Especialy how Killer would react after that romantic tention between them (i need more of that 😩). I don't have a particular song in mind, because the seires already has a vibe to it, hope thats okay.

I wish you a wonderful day/night/evening! 💕Sooo looking forward to your next work, whatever it may be 🐢

I love you for this prompt, @daydreamer-in-training. Thank you!

Sit your ass down, would ya, Doc?

Hey Doc Masterlist here

Word Count: 2,000+

Synopsis: You've taken care of your crew and nursed them back to health from their flus... but now it's your turn. The Kid-Pirates do their best to take care of the worlds worst patient, their doctor: you.

Themes: platonic!kid-pirates, eustass kid x gn!reader, swearing, illness, comforting, taking medication, kid is a bit of a dom, doc is a bit of a bra, you're the kid-pirate doctor: the crew calls you 'doc'.

Notes: I am currently struggling with the flu myself, and this was simply too cute to not write about. Thank you for your ask, it's been fun to write about!

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @sinning-23 @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @nerium-lil

“Hey, Doc? Did we need any more petroleum jelly from the-...?” the fire breather called beside you, hating when you turned to face him, “...-Shit, Doc. You look like absolute balls today.” 

Rolling your swollen, glassy and red eyes at him, you draw another tissue from your counter and sneeze into it. The silky tissue felt like sandpaper over your leaky nose, the skin splitting surrounding your nostrils and leaving small stains of red on the pale paper.

“Always so full of compliments and kindness, Heat,” you huff out, your voice sounding hoarse and cracking along with every word. Heat cringed, recoiling away from you with eyes narrowed in sympathy. You attempt to breathe through your blocked nose, no air passing through the dual nostrils.

Treating the crew for the past two weeks, and nursing them to health in recovering from the flu, had finally caught up with you. You felt both cold and hot at the same time, your skin both dry and sticky with sweat. Mind swelling and cracking behind the tense throbbing throughout your brain caused a dull ache ringing in your ears and fogging your mind.

“I-... I’m just saying, Doc,” he reiterated in defense of himself, “You don’t look too good. Maybe you ought to sit out from the in-land trip to restock. Stay home on the Victoria Punk?” Heat suggested with a soft smile and a subtle shrug.

“What?” you grunted out a cough, “And leave you lot to restock my clinic for me? Not fucking like-...” coughing into another tissue, your glassy eyes pricked at the corners and began to spill out and down your cheeks, “...-likely.” 

Heat’s smile fled from his face, his lip downturning in sympathy. He shook his head and extended his hand out to you, gesturing you to follow him out through the door towards the deck. You attempt to sniff back another intake of air to reopen your nose to no avail. Following on, you trudge somberly towards the top deck where the crew were all waiting to step foot onto the pier. 

Without drawing attention to yourself, your eyes squinted lazily to compensate for the pain the sun caused your mind. With each achy step, you attempted to bite back the ache your body was going through. Barely aware of your surroundings, you gesture in the medicinal remedy booths at town square for herbs, ointments and aromatic fragrances. 

As you reached into your pocket to pull out your small folder of Berry, a large right forearm reached over your shoulder and paid the vendor before you could. Rolling your eyes, you turn to look at the scowling grimace of your captain, Eustass Kid, baring his rage down at you. Attempting to roll your eyes at him again, you clenched them tightly shut instead as the world became far too bright to process.

“Captain,” you acknowledge him with a clumsy nod, fighting the urge to not to fall over with the vertigo overcoming you. He growled at you immediately, gesturing to Wire beside him to gather the supplies and walk back to the ship. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ idiot, aren’t ya, Doc?” he spat, scolding you with his heavy growl. You laughed at him, shaking your swirling head and beginning to walk beside him. Your overexertion and sleep deprivation caught up with you as you tripped over an uneven divot in the rocky path.

“I'm not into degradation, Cap,” you respond in a half-joking hum, your eyes feeling heavy and weighted, “Not my kink. Might be yours, though, considering the amount of times I yell at you to hold you accountable.” That comment earnt you another low growl from your captain, his face turning a few shades darker than his hair. 

He turned to face you at his side, his lips curling as if to speak. As he opened his lips, he was lost for words as you fell into him, bracing yourself against him to steady your walk. He caught you in his right arm, bringing his face down towards you and brows knitting with concern. Turning towards Wire, he cocked his chin to the side to usher him on towards the ship. 

With no further warning, Kid dipped at the knees and hoisted you up into his chest beneath your thighs. He curled his bicep and hooked your head beneath his chin and cradled you firmly into him. Under usual circumstances, you would’ve fought this tooth and nail.

You do not enjoy being manhandled by the crew, especially by your captain. While you enjoy the embrace once in a while with your more sensitive crewmates, particularly Bubblegum, the Captain has only ever been this close to you when he’s sparring with you.

“C’mon Doc, I'll get you seen to,” he grunted down at your position curled into his chest, “I’ve-... And the-...” his words trailed off, the fever raising your temperature higher and prompting you to seek out sleep against his pectoral. 

Voices and words fade in and out of your ears, a slow drawl and murmurs of several of your crewmates swelling around your assumed resting spot for the day. The room wasn’t physically moving, even though your vertigo suggested it was. 

“When was the last time Doc’s had a day off?” you recognised the feminine voice of Quincy in the room beside you. Several grunts and incessant babbling reverberated around the room, prompting you to flutter your eyelashes open and push through the pain. 

“Doc!” you cringed as a body almost flew into your bed, sitting on the plush sheets beside you, “You’re awake! I’m so happy to see you’re up!” You wince, slowly waving Bubblegum away, swatting at his zig-zagged head.

“Off, off,” you shooed him, wincing as you shrugged your duvet off your thighs and swung your legs over the side of the bed. As you began to wobble to your feet, the booming voice of your captain called over the chatter of the room,

“Sit your ass down, would ya, Doc?” he growled, striding over in intentional steps and giving you a shove from his right hand in the middle of your chest, “The medics here said you need a week in bed to rest. Sit down.” You growled at him, doing your best to gather the strength to growl at him. 

“If I’ve been prescribed ‘rest’,” you began, gesturing to the crewmates surrounding your current room, “Why the fuck are you all here?” Several sheepish mutters surround the room, a few members pinching the scruffs of their necks, a few more wringing their hands in front of their waists. 

Your captain clapped his hand on your shoulder, pushing you to lay back down and wrangling you into your bedsheets. Refusing to go down without a fight this time, you wriggled in his grip and fought both the fever and the strong arm of your captain. 

“For fucks sake, Doc!” Kid yelled at you, pushing and shoving you down into the very comfortable and unfamiliar bed in front of the crew. “Just lay down and rest, damn it! Go back to sleep.” You wriggled harder. 

“No!” you yelled defiantly, kicking off the duvet and fighting each and every time your captain attempted to shove you into your bed. Kid looked around to the crew, angled his chin sharply to wordlessly order them to leave the room. As they left, Kid turned back towards you and crawled up onto the bed. 

“You are more of a pain in the ass than that fucking bullet to the buttcheek,” he growled, climbing over you and baring down his weight onto your smaller frame. Straddling your thighs, he placed his knees on your open palms and successfully pinned you beneath him. He pressed his forearm over your chest and gave you a firm shove to force you to lay down. You had no choice but to thump your head back into the plush pillow behind your head. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you clench your jaw and growl behind your lips. The rumble in your throat hurt the raw swell in your jugular, but you pushed past it to air your frustrations at him regardless. The chuckle from your captain above you only served to propel your anger to rise higher. 

“Yeah, yeah. Growl and groan all you want,” he scoffed at you, pinning your chest with his bicep while reaching his hand between you and gathering the blankets in his fist. Slowly raising it up, he continued his place straddling your thighs until he thought you would no longer fight him. 

“Why are you doing this, Captain?” you snarl at him, finally opening your eyes to gaze up into his eyes. He smirked at you in response, pressing his palm to your forehead and clicking his tongue at the temperature. 

“Because,” he leaned over to the bedside, taking two small spherical tablets into his hand, “We love you, Doc.” He leaned back over you, gesturing with his chin for you to part your lips. You take a moment to snarl at him before complying, parting your lips and allowing him to place the bitter tablets on your tongue. 

He leaned back over to the bedside, finding a glass of water and bringing it down to your lips. Tilting the glass slowly as it brushed with your bottom lip, he carefully fed you a sip of water to take the pills with. Placing the glass back over on the table, he drew his attention to the small amount of water seeping from the corner of your lip.

“Now, be a good Doctor and get loved on, idiot,” he softly huffed, his voice low and husky as he leaned forward. He used the pad of his thumb to gently collect the spill of water from the corner of your lips. Your eyes never ceased its glare up at him. He grinned tauntingly down at you, arching his brow and ensuring you swallowed the tablets. 

“Get off, Captain,” you growled at him, bucking your hips up in an attempt to remove him from your body. He cackled his rumbled laugh down at you in response, shaking his head. 

“You gonna get up again if I do?” he asked, leaning down and caressing your cheek in a gentle stroke. His eyes held nothing but mischievous mockery, but his hand felt like it was gently coaxing you to comply with what he asked. 

“No, I’ll behave,” you snarled at him. His laugh was genuine this time, low and gentle. Slowly backing off you, he slid off your body before adjusting the sheets and smoothing them over. 

“Good,” he nodded, beginning to leave the room by the door off to the side of the room. Halting at the door, he fought with himself for a moment before looking at you over his shoulder and uttering, “I’ll-… I’ll get Kil to check on you in a few hours. Get some rest, okay?”

What he said next was something you weren’t expecting to come from his lips. In all the time you served with him, he only ever called you ‘Doc’, or ‘Doctor.’ You were your title, and you appreciated that about the crew. You were Doc, only ever Doc. But what he said changed all that.

After he uttered the word “okay,” it was immediately followed by your name. Waiting a few moments, you responded in a cadence just above a whisper. 

“I’ll be right where you left me, Kid,” you replied with a soft smile back at him. He closed his eyes, offering you a reflection of your smile in return before it grew back into its usual mischievous face. 

“Good,” he again offered you, scrunching his nose up at you and looking up through his red eyelashes at you, “Otherwise I would’ve gotten your doting daddy to come coddle his whiny baby.” Your eyes went wide, your jaw clenching and your eyebrows shot up to your hairline. 

Eustass Kid just laughed in response, exiting the room and giving you both the time and space you needed to recover. Your recovery was not only the flu, but of the second hand embarrassment that Killer must’ve relayed to Kid what he’d said to you in the consultation room. Either that, or you left the shell of your Den-Den accidentally activated from when you spoke with your captain earlier in the day.

Either way, you pouted as you did as you were told and huffed back into your bed and went to sleep: the paracetamol activating and stilling your swelling head and masking the undertones of pain in your body.

[transrightsjimin]

ok so ive been working on re-sorting my accessories and just in general stuff i dont use often enough and it took me way too long but i made these cardboard drawer dividers for my egl + fairy kei hair accessories, wristcuffs and waistties. i rambled too much from here on so.

it may seem rly weird to make smth so cheaply to go w lolita clothing but it works i guess. i hate how slow i was bc it took me 4-5 hours just to get that done. so i just started this now and need to do like 3 more drawers and then so much more. bc my whole room is a mess and idk if ill manage w trying to organize and keep or sell or gift or donate the clothes and random junk like i want to.

also i havent worn lolita in over a year i think(? or i forgot) and i do still love the fashion and window shop for it often and stuff but i don't interact w the dutch lolita community at all (and don't want to) since like 2 years bc i've never made good friends in it and there's too many fascists in it which supposed 'feminist' mods and event hosts didn't do anything about.

as for the clothing itself, i just don't wear it much bc it's either rly fcking suffocatingly hot and even if it isn't warm i nd even if i shower / wash and use antiperspirant, i sweat so much always bc my hormones act weird nd that was always the case but it just sucks a bit bc it stains on light clothes rly fast and i cant get it out of some blouses so i cant re-sell those when grown out of them. i just dont think im fit for wearing pastels in general bc of this issue (well that + i always manage to stain clothes bc autism / no awareness of surroundings).

and most of all i became more fat (not insulting btw. im just fat and thats ok lol i dont want any annoying anons abt that) over the years and dont fit in most of my clothes and some of them i could fit into again if i were to finally get chest surgery. but it might take another 2 years until a potential surgery would need to happen bc i first need to round up current therapist appointments for 1,5 yr and then go to amsterdam umc which is a very transphobic environment but that hospital has p much a monopoly on trans healthcare here, and then talk to another person there before i could finally get approval for surgery. and i already waited 2,5-3 years for these therapy appts and i kinda hate how this has certain required parts like bringing your parents to a meeting. but ok im going off-topic. anyway. im holding onto some dresses probably for far too long but i know my body size / "weight" (idg why its always called weight when i mean being of a certain size and not being heavier on a scale i dont have) randomly shifts and i just hope i can get rid of my breasts. but meanwhile it's been years and boobs r still on. its rly annoying

[mrs-han]

Hello!! I see your request is open, so i was wondering could you write about jumin finding out that mc has a self harm scars? And she’s been trying not to relapse into her old habit but she’s having a hard time so it’s the only thing she can think of? Im sorry for my bad english 😅 and if you don’t want to do it, it’s okay! Don’t force yourself to write it. Thank you, oh and also i like your writings a lot! Have a good day :)

~~~

You’re too sweet, thank you so much for your request! This deals with some fairly upsetting topics!

~~~

The delicate georgette sheen from your onyx long-sleeved dress rubbed harshly against your slashed arms. Of all times to relapse, this was the worst - Jumin was a guest of honor at a new hotel inauguration, and of course, he brought you along.

Palms sweating, you pasted a friendly smile towards every patron in attendance. Frankly, you were overjoyed with your husband’s success. But with you having issues of your own... it was difficult to be in a celebratory mood.

“Mrs. Han!” A sponsor quickly made his way towards you, bringing with him several other philanthropists. Anxious, you tugged the hem of your sleeve down, experiencing a sharp pain and a subtle ooze of liquid.

“It’s an honor to finally meet you,” the older gentleman beamed, hand extended towards you. “I am Tanaka Sato, a close partner of your husband.”

Again, you plastered a fake smile across your mouth. You reached over to shake his hand and shuddered as pain radiated through your right arm. Unconsciously, you tugged at your sleeve. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tanaka.”

“It seems he has chosen a new aesthetic, entirely separate of C&R’s minimalistic design. Are you the inspiration behind this?” A chirpy young woman chimed in.

“I always consult with my wife before making any major decisions,” Jumin spoke affectionately, resting his hand on your waist and lightly tugging you close to him. “This project has been hers as much as it has been mine.”

Several of the woman blushed and whispered amongst themselves as the men took a subtle step back, aware of the power both you and Jumin exuded.

If only you felt as powerful as you looked.

“Jumin?” You flashed him a subtle look of desperation. “I need to freshen up, where’s the restroom?”

“Come with me, my love. Excuse us,” he smiled, his eyes bright and full of fondness for you, ignoring everyone else.

It still confused you, how he could look at you with so much love in his eyes. A whirlwind of emotion ravaged your stomach and chest every time he did it. Were you deserving? Certainly not. But he continued to gaze at you with more tenderness than Cupid’s gaze upon Psyche.

“Are you well?” He asked, the strong acoustic voice that overpowered the venue twenty minutes ago now a low, effete tone.

“I’m okay,” you lied. “I couldn’t find the bathroom, but I’ll be out in a minute or two! Go back to your guests!”

A lie was difficult to get past Han Jumin. But he kissed your temple and squeezed your arm - and you held back a mighty yelp.

There was a first time for everything.

“I’ll be waiting for you by the grand piano,” he hummed. “Take your time.”

After watching his withdrawing figure, you pushed the door to the ladies’ room open, flew to a stall and caught your breath before slowly unbuttoning the diamond buttons on your sleeves. Pain greeted you instantly as the cuts on your wrists throbbed unbearably, each laceration making up a heartbeat on their own.

Easing the sleeves up further, you winced. Dull maroon meshed with bright red, old droplets of blood met new. Unforgiving gashes punished you mercilessly, each slice reminding you of how stupid it was to relapse now, when things were so good. Why now? You were so beloved. So cherished. You had no goddamn reason to do this to yourself.

Choking back sobs, you recklessly pushed the stall door open and turned the faucet on. The water cold, you shoved your arms under and bit your lip, desperate to keep from crying out. Determined to keep your scars from discharging anymore blood, you scrubbed with the flat of your hand. The white of the porcelain sink and marble countertops, illuminated by the overhead lights, was now stained with red hues. You had to hurry before someone else came in - everyone knew your face. Anyone could report what they saw to Jumin, especially...

“MC?”

Jaehee.

Tears blurring your vision, you looked towards the door. Her eyes wide, she stood there, processing the scene before her. Hands shaking, you turned the faucet off and, trembling, faced her with what little courage you had left.

She continued to stand there, speechless. You had presented a fairly complicated situation to her, no doubt. Finally, she pressed her hand to the door. “There you are... I will let Mr. Han know.”

“No!” You bellowed. “Please, don’t!”

Conflicted, Jaehee hesitated. “Those cuts... they look serious. It’s best that I —”

“Jaehee,” you pleaded, tears falling down your chin. “Please. I’m begging you, don’t tell Jumin.”

Jaehee’s brows creased. “But MC... he’s worried about you. He’s been standing by the piano for over twenty minutes and now he is sending others to look for you... myself included.”

Overwhelmed and angry as more blood leaked from your opened gashes, you shouted at her. “He can’t see me like this!! Look at me!! Look!!”

Jaehee blinked and flinched slightly.

“I look disgusting!! My arms hurt, I... I can’t face him like this, Jaehee... please —”

“Have you found her, Assistant Kang?”

You didn’t have time to shield yourself. Jumin stepped through the threshold and froze in place. Completely exposed and frozen with fear, you stood before your husband like a deer in headlights.

A single drop of water falling into the ceramic of the sink was the only sound that could be heard.

“Leave us,” Jumin spoke to Jaehee, his voice trembling ever so slightly - his power slipping from him.

Obedient to the end, Jaehee agreed - leaving you stranded.

“What is this,” Jumin demanded, power seeping back to his voice.

You trembled. “Jumin...”

He moved closer to you. “Who did this to you?”

What did he mean...? His eyes trembled, moving back and forth between your arms and your eyes. Did he... not believe you could have done this to yourself? Did he not want to...?

You hung your head shamefully. There was no going back from this, no more hiding from him anymore. You felt mortified, embarrassed that he could see you like this. If only you could turn back time and...

“Give me your arm.”

You flinched - he was already so close to you and you didn’t hear him move. Refusing to look at him, you limply lifted your arm - his hand took hold, making you wince.

He turned the faucet on and ran his hand through the water, checking it’s temperature. “Come closer to the sink,” he hummed, easing you closer to the sink with his other hand on your lower back.

You shuddered as your husband cupped cool water over your wounds. His fingers stroked your burning cuts, making you wince and twitch - but he remained kind and gentle throughout.

What bothered you more than anything was his silence.

He remained focused - but quiet. Hot tears flooded your vision - he would think of you differently now. He could think you were crazy, or he would put you away in a mental ward. He wouldn’t want you anymore, not after this.

The silence dragged, second to second, minute to minute. Jumin patted your arm dry, still saying nothing.

“Jumin...” your voice trembled. “I... I —”

“Give me your other arm,” he spoke, a commanding yet tender tone overtaking his voice.

“Jumin...”

His eyes met with yours and you trembled under the weight of his sorrow. “Talk to me, darling. Please talk to me.”

You moved your hand over your mouth. What were you supposed to say...?

Jumin swallowed thickly. “Are you... are you unhappy with me?”

“No, no Jumin, not at all...!”

“Then...” he took a step toward you, cradling your elbows in the palms of his hand. “... talk to me. Dearest, these wounds look fresh... days old.”

“I...” you leaned against the sink, your legs wobbling. “There are days when... when I’m the happiest person in the world because I have a wonderful life... and I have you, you who loves me more than life itself... and yet... there are days when I’m so sad, so miserable with my own existence that I... I take my misery out on myself.”

Jumin’s thumbs stroked your abrasions, his touch so gentle that you lost any will to contain your tears. You leaned into him, hands close to your chest, and you wept.

“Come here,” he cooed, wrapping his arms around you and holding you firmly against him. “I’m here, darling. I’m here.”

“Of course you are,” you whispered. “You’ve always been here...”

He cradled your face in his hands, wiping your tears with the pads of his thumbs. “I want to help you, darling.” His blinked and you gasped as tears rolled down his eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Jumin...”

He clutched your hands desperately, as if you would disappear without a moment’s notice. “I’ll do anything for you. I’ll sit with you and we can come up with a plan for you to stop hurting yourself. I’ll shorten my schedule at work just to hear your troubles, my love. I’ll do anything, so please. Don’t leave me. Whatever is plaguing you, we can fight it together... I won’t ever leave you to fight on your own, so please. Please.”

His knuckled whitened. His hands trembled. For the first time since you met him, you witnessed your husband so desperate to keep you by his side... and you realized that you weren’t alone anymore. For the first time in a long time, you felt a link in the chains that subdued you break and shatter... all because he loved you and wanted to help you.

No he couldn’t banish your demons all together. You didn’t expect him to. But at least this time... you weren’t alone.

“Thank you,” you pipped. “I only wish you found this out later, rather than... here, now, at this very moment. I’m afraid I ruined a really important night for you...”

Jumin carefully kissed your scarred wrist. “No businessman nor any proposition will take precedent over you, my love. Now... let’s finish cleaning you up, mm?”

Through tears, you cracked your first genuine smile of the evening. “Okay.”

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 12: The Mirror]

A/N: Hi y’all!! Please enjoy, this is a long one. We’re getting into the exciting stuff now, so I’ll be putting all my creative energy into BYCNL and will hopefully finish up the series within the next month. Thank you so much for your love and support! Each and every reblog/message/comment makes me smile and means the absolute world to me! 💜

Chapter summary: John gets a rap sheet, Roger gets defensive, Y/N gets suspicious, News Of The World gets a headline.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, drugs, babies, drama, angst.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​ @anotheronewritesthedust1​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

You’re not late. You’re never late.

And at first that’s okay, it’s more than okay, it’s a relief; because it was too soon to have a baby anyway, less than a year into a supposedly meaningless marriage, a marriage you and Roger never even speak of, a marriage that might have never happened at all—might only exist as a particularly vivid and pleasant dream—if it wasn’t for your freshly-minted British citizenship. At first you greeted each dark, fruitless stain of blood with a casual ruefulness—oh well, one more month of freedom, you would think, smiling a little, worrying not very much at all—content to let that milestone trophy of womanhood, of life, lay undusted and unclaimed in the cluttered pit of your mental oak trunk with a tarnished gold latch shaped like a lion’s jaw.

After four months, you start to notice things. You notice the way Chrissie’s twins have small willow-green eyes that turn down in the corners, just like Brian does; you notice how John’s children have his downy hair and that innate sort of reticence that some people mistake for banality; you notice all those pretty, anonymous young women pushing strollers through the blossoming summer foliage of Hyde Park. You notice the way Roger grins and waves at babies when you see them in airports or hotel lobbies, dazzles them like he dazzles very nearly everybody, like he still dazzles you. You notice a longing buried in your bones that you hadn’t known existed.

After six months, you are no longer casually rueful. You start ignoring the calendar, as if not noticing you’re due could stop the bleeding from coming at all, like how you’re not supposed to stare at the clock if you want time to pass faster. You start watching what you’re eating, trying to get more sleep, opening all the windows when Roger smokes as he flips through fashion and music magazines with crafty little snickers, flashing those pointy canine teeth you once assumed your children would have.

And now, after nine months—as the world hurtles towards the conclusion of the brisk October of 1977—you have begun to worry; because maybe this thing, this thing that everyone accepts as a guaranteed feature of the all-inclusive package of the human experience, isn’t something you get to have at all. Roger doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask you about it. He is as he always is: sunlight and joy and heat and raw kinetic energy. But sometimes Roger’s huge blue eyes—those eyes you fell in love with, those eyes that convinced you to follow Queen to London, to stardom, to thunderous stadiums all over the world—go vacant as he gazes out into the horizon, as the sun sets over the garden of the Surrey house, as his face is lit up in gold and amber and celestial fury like the wildfire his soul is made of.

And you’ve begun to worry about him, too.

~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rings from the nightstand. The shrill clanging, like hail on glass, makes you wince beneath the tangle of blankets. Your hand fumbles out into cool night air, which pours in from the open bedroom window.

Where’s Roger?

Then you remember his hushed voice, his bleached hair tickling your cheek, his lips pressed to your temple: Hey baby. I gotta go jam with some people. Grab a drink or two. You sleep, I’ll be back by morning.

Sure, okay, fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. One of those infinite casualties of fame.

You haul the phone to your ear. “Hello...?”

“Hello darling, are you busy?”

“Well, it’s 2:39 a.m., Fred. So not very.”

“Perfect. I need you to go post bail for John.”

You wrench yourself upright, rubbing your eyes with your free hand. “What?!”

“He was drunk driving and backed into a cop car, pure genius. I’m rather indisposed myself at the moment, and of course Veronica can’t know. And you’re so good with him, dear.”

Your feet have already swung off the bed and onto the plush white carpet. You wonder what Freddie is ‘indisposed’ with; there are so many possibilities these days. “And you know about this...because...?”

“He used his phone call on me, darling. I don’t think he wanted to bother you. I suspect he’s a bit mortified.”

“Yeah, well, he should be.” You sigh and start pawing through the safe in the bedroom closet, the spiraled phone cord pulled taunt. Hundred-pound notes shuffle weightlessly between your fingers. You remember when Queen had no money at all, when you and Roger shared a pitiful—dodgy, you amend—one-bedroom flat, when you had to assemble each bouquet and tie each ribbon for John’s wedding by hand; and you’re shocked by the nostalgia that hits you in the gut like brass knuckles. “Sure, I’ll go get him. Just tell me where he is and how much he’ll owe me.”

John is slumped on the floor of the jail cell, alone and sweated and miserable. His hair is in complete disarray. He peers up at you through the iron bars with red, swollen, unfocused eyes.

“Hey,” you say quietly, smiling although you know you shouldn’t be.

He covers his face with both hands and moans. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Too late. Freddie asked me to come get you, he was drunk or high or in the middle of an orgy or something. You are the worst drunk driver in the world, just so you’re aware. You are obviously not cut out for a life of crime.”

“So I’ve gathered.” He swipes at the strands of hair stuck to his forehead with the back of his hand, bites his lower lip, shakes his head with that thousand-yard stare that says: How the fuck did I get here?

You drop down to your knees to meet him at his level. The concrete floor is filthy, spotted with grime and dust and crushed insects and smears of what might be blood. “What’s going on, John?” you ask gently.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he murmurs. “It’s okay when we’re on tour. When we’re on tour I’m preoccupied and exhausted and too high on the rush to think about it too much. I’m numb. Mostly. But then I come home and it’s...” He glowers, balls his hands into fists, beats them clumsily against his thighs. “It’s this relentless fucking cycle of feeling dissatisfied and guilty and inadequate. A disappointment of a husband. A failure of a father. And it’s inescapable.”

“Well, the constant pregnancy situation probably doesn’t help.” Veronica is expecting their third child in February.

He waves a hand dismissively, rolls his eyes. “It’s part of the thing. The ‘being a good husband’ thing. I can’t fix that. Birth control is a sin or whatever. Jesus is too busy pissing himself over that to care about starving kids in the Soviet Union, I guess.”

“That’s a cheerful prospect.”

“Sorry.”

“No, please, by all means. Throw off all your baggage, I can take it.”

Now he smirks, just faintly. “That’s what we’ve always done for each other, right?”

“We’ll be back on tour in a few weeks, John.” And that was true; the News Of The World Tour was scheduled to begin on November 11th in Portland, Maine. The band would spend the 12th in Boston and join your parents for dinner at the Queen Anne-style house at the intersection of Apple and Arcadia that you grew up in.

He whispers forlornly: “I can’t run from this forever.”

“You might have to. I’d love to know what Slavic Jesus has to say about divorce.”

John coughs out a surprised laugh. “Thank you. I needed that.”

“Come on. I posted your bail. I won’t tell Roger if you won’t. You can put the extra five thousand pounds in your ‘fake my own death and go live on a tropical island’ fund instead of paying us back.” You’re not serious, and John knows that; he would never abandon his children, even if they weren’t old enough to really remember him yet. But it has the desired effect, which of course is lifting the mood, making John divulge that rare and beautiful smile.

“I’m a wreck. I can’t go home like this. It’d be worse than not coming home at all.”

“I’m happy to offer you one of our five superfluous bedrooms.”

“Okay,” John sighs, clutching the bars of his jail cell and dragging himself to his feet. “I’m so sorry. I owe you for this, I really do.”

“No,” you reply, grinning. “Just find a way to send me the coordinates so I can visit you on your secret tropical island once in a while.”

You drive John home to the Surrey house, get him set up in the spare bedroom with the blue-grey wallpaper and blankets patterned with seahorses, give him a stack of Roger’s clean clothes, lay out fresh towels and a tray of water and cookies—biscuits, you reprimand yourself—for him. He’s mostly sober now, which makes you feel somewhat better; still, you are aware that you hate the thought of leaving him alone, even if he’s only a few walls away.

“Thank you,” he says as you stand in the doorway, his face meditative, his hands in the pockets of his leather coat.

“Of course.”

“You’re a good friend. The best, actually.”

“You’re a good man. You don’t always know it, but you are.”

John just stares at you with an expression you can’t read. Like the ocean: always mysterious, always profound. “Goodnight,” he says after a while.

“Goodnight, John.”

As you pull the bedroom door shut, you hear erratic thumps coming up the staircase. Roger stumbles into the upstairs hallway, singing under his breath and drumming the air with invisible drumsticks, and holds out his arms when he sees you. He’s wearing his dark green suit, an unraveling tie, one sparkling pink Converse, his prescription sunglasses tangled in his hair and forgotten. His eyes are effervescent, flighty, almost manic.

“Hey, love of my life!” he cries, comically loud. “What are you doing up?!”

“Shhhhh! Your bassist partied a little too hard and needed a place to crash that wasn’t overrun with kids. He’s in the blue room.”

“Deaks? Deaks is sleeping over?!” Roger exclaims, beaming. “All my favorite people are here!”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t bother him. He’s pretty messed up, he needs the rest. I’ll make everyone pancakes in the morning or something. Come over here, let’s get you—” But the words die in your throat as you try to tug off Roger’s suit jacket. Fine white powder sheds off the emerald velvet fabric and onto your palm. You blink at it, at the residue like crushed aspirin, like the salt they scatter on Boston roads the night before a snowfall. “What is this?”

He rips his sleeve away, conjures up a smile to throw you off the trail. To dazzle his way out of this. “Nothing.” But he knows. And he knows you know too.

“You were...snorting coke...?”

“Come on, baby, don’t be like that...” He tries to embrace you; you shove him back.

“Roger, no, this is...this is...” You shake your head, shrugging off the shock, searching for the words. You’re confused, you’re exhausted, your mind is whirling. “We’re home, Roger,” you plead, like it means something.

Has he done this before? When? How often? With who?

You should know the answers. It’s not a good sign that you don’t.

“So?” Now he’s indignant.

“So it’s not like being on tour, you’re supposed to take it easy at home, you’re supposed to be, I don’t know, relaxed and recovering and, and, and content...”

You’re not supposed to have an excuse to do all those things that destroy people.

He laughs bitterly. “What, ‘happy at home’?! When has that ever been me?”

“Rog, please, I’m not saying you can’t work all the time or drink or smoke, I’m not even saying you can’t get wasted, I’m just drawing the line at cocaine and I don’t think that’s a terribly despotic place to draw a line.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I must have missed it, when did you become too moralistic for drugs?”

“Acid is different than coke and you know it. Acid doesn’t kill people.”

He glares at you, savage, almost hateful. “You don’t get to put me in a cage.”

“I’m not being controlling or self-righteous, I’m being concerned—”

“You’re being a fucking cop, that’s what you’re being,” Roger snaps.

“What do you want me to say?! I’m a registered nurse, Roger, I’m a medical professional, it’s literally my job to keep you alive—”

“No, it’s your job to make sure we can record and tour and I need it, I can’t play without it, don’t you get that?! I fucking need it!”

Instantly, John is between you, still fully dressed and sweating Manhattans out of his pores and seething. He’s taller than Roger; surely you must have noticed that before. But if you had, you’ve since forgotten. “Roger,” he threatens in a low, unyielding voice. “Go to bed.”

Roger recoils, disoriented, then opens his mouth to protest.

“Go!” John roars, pointing towards the main bedroom. He wants to say more, you can tell, he has rage burning in him like dragonfire; and if it had been Brian or even Freddie, John would have said it. But this is Roger. And you can’t remember a time John has ever raised his voice to Roger before now.

Roger can’t wrap his brain around it either, particularly in his present condition. His eyelids flutter a few times, then he scoffs—a dismissive, derisive sound, a sound that says I don’t know what to do with this information—and staggers away. He slams the bedroom door behind him as he disappears inside.

You collapse against the nearest wall and hiss in ragged breaths through your teeth, your eyes wet and stinging, your hands trembling as you press your knuckles to your lips.

“I-I-I’m so sorry about that,” you whisper, avoiding John’s eyes.

He’s going to say something, something harsh and terrible but true. He’s finally going to tell me how stupid I was for ever thinking this could work, just like Chrissie and Freddie and Brian. He’s going to tell me I deserve it.

Instead, John offers only this, his words flat and hollow: “Yeah. I’m sorry everyone is disappointing you tonight.”

And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the morning—early afternoon, really—Roger doesn’t remember; or at least he feigns convincingly that he doesn’t. He props his feet up on the kitchen table and shovels down six pancakes and theatrically relays to you all the scandalous celebrity gossip in the News Of The World magazine with his prescription sunglasses perched bookishly on his nose. He asks you three times if you’re alright, trying to read the hesitance in your eyes, to unearth all those questions that are taking up a permanent residence there. You smile and nod, sip your tea, watch the sharp autumn sunshine as it streams in through the windows and bathes Roger in luminescence that seems so benignly interminable in the light of day. And when you peer into the bedroom with seahorse-patterned blankets and walls the color of cold rain, John has vanished; but the air is heavy with the scent of a litany of cigarettes and there’s a handwritten note left on one pillow.

Thanks for everything. Hang tough, as the Yanks say. An island getaway awaits you.

~ World’s Worst Drunk Driver

At 3 p.m., John calls and asks if the Taylors would be interested in an outing to the park while he gives Veronica a few hours alone to catch up on housework without the kids. His tone is light, casual, harmless; but you suspect he’s checking in on you.

“Of course we’re interested!” Roger says, snatching his ostentatious fur coat off the back of his chair. “Baby, love of my life, go get some cash from the safe so we can buy the kids ice cream.”

Incidentally, there’s not much cash left in the safe; but you find a ten-pound note in your wallet for the ice cream man and make a mental note to run to the bank on Monday.

Hyde Park in October isn’t so different than Boston. The leaves above are a kaleidoscope of sunstone and rubies and jasper and jade, crisping and curling around their serrated edges, drifting listlessly onto pavement paths to be crushed beneath rushing feet; the roots of the trees are centuries deep. Chrissie is walking laps around the pond as she pushes the twins’ stroller; Evelyn is a fairly good sleeper, but Theodore—Teddy to his closest confidants, of which you are one—is an anxious baby and prone to whining. He’s definitely Brian’s son, you often find yourself thinking with an affectionate smirk. John’s ten-month-old daughter Anna is nestled in your arms in a semi-conscious state, having thoroughly exhausted herself by painting her face with chocolate ice cream and thereafter enduring an impromptu bath and wardrobe change in a public restroom.

Laszlo, two years old and with a mop of auburn curls, trots by the edge of the pond as Roger grips his tiny hand, periodically crouches down beside him, grins hugely and points out swans and fish darting through the dark rippling water. Laszlo shrieks with laughter and tries to steal Roger’s sunglasses, which glint in the sunlight like black mirrors.

“So your kid’s a convict too,” you say to John.

“Gotta train them when they’re still small and good for shimmying through dog doors and such.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Extremely hungover, but I’m trying not to show it.”

“You’re doing a good job, I wouldn’t have known.”

“Excellent. I don’t think Veronica noticed. She was very curious about how I ended up in a pair of Roger’s skintight leopard-print pants, though.”

You chuckle, glimpsing down at Anna, rocking her a little as her eyes flitter open and then close again. You and John are on opposite ends of a wooden park bench, your ankles crossed and resting in his lap, your hair rustling in the breeze. John peers over at you periodically, studies you like an ancient statue of Aphrodite or Perseus under a spotlight in an echoing museum, then resumes his sketching. Your smile dies as you watch Roger giggle with Laszlo, lift him high into the cool autumn air, trumpet mock airplane noises in that high, raspy voice.

“Come on,” John prompts, nudging your boots. “I’ll take the baggage if you’ll let me.”

No, I think I’ll keep this one to myself. But you don’t. “It’s my fault,” you say softly. It’s my fault we can’t have children.

John lifts his pencil from the page, his greyish eyes gentle. “You don’t know that.”

“Statistically, it is most likely my fault.”

“It hasn’t been that long, has it? Definitely less than a year. Sometimes these things take time.”

“They didn’t for you and Veronica.”

“Yes, well...” John frowns uneasily. “That’s not always such a blessing.”

“How helpful. You should write newspaper columns for depressed housewives. ‘Don’t worry about that infertility dear, you could have it worse, you could have a life sentence with someone you can’t fucking stand.’”

That was unkind, you think, immediately regretting it. That might have been too far.

But John doesn’t seem offended. His pencil flies over the paper as he glances over at you again. “Is that all? Please continue. I’m riveted to learn more about my alternative career path.”

“No, I think I’m done.”

“Okay. What’s your favorite flower?”

You consider that. “Roger always gets me carnations or roses...and I like them, don’t get me wrong...but I don’t know if I’d call either of those my favorite.”

“It’s not that deep a question, Miss Nightingale.”

“I’ll defer to the artist’s expertise. Surprise me.”

“I’m no artist,” John warns, but he returns to his sketching nonetheless. “I’m really sorry about last night, by the way. I was being stupid and dramatic and immature and self-pitying. ‘Midway on our life's journey, I found myself in dark woods, the right road lost,’ etcetera etcetera.”

You’re no great connoisseur of Italian literature, but you recognize those famous opening lines of the Inferno. “Can I ask you something?”

“Please do.”

“What is this fascination you have with Dante?”

“Truly?”

“Yeah.”

He smiles pensively with his eyes cast out over the pond. “I like that his story has a happy ending. That someone can start in hell and sweat out all their sins in purgatory and end up among the stars.”

You raise your eyebrows, taken back, impressed. “That’s awfully poetic.”

“It’s strange, probably,” John says, scrutinizing his drawing.

“No, really. I love it.”

“Yeah?” He’s doubtful, but he’ll allow himself to believe you if you insist.

“Yeah. And no more drunk driving or other acts of self-destruction, okay? Queen would crumble without you, John. And so would I.”

In reply, he rips the page out of his notebook and hands it over. The image is of you: so infinitely more lovely and at peace than you feel, eyes wise and contented and reflecting halos of sunlight, John’s daughter dozing in your arms.

Tucked behind your ear, etched in graphite shadows, is a calla lily.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Darling, what do I look like?” Freddie bats his eyelashes flirtatiously.

“A raccoon.”

His face screws into a grimace. “I’m supposed to be a cat.”

“Yes, I’m cognizant of that. But you look like a raccoon. Which is why people keep assuming you’re a raccoon, which is why you’re asking me now if you look like one.”

“Bloody hell,” he groans, puffs on a cigarette, fluffs his hair irritably, slurps a drink that is fizzy and sapphire blue.

“The problem is that you went with black and white. You should have dressed as a calico or something. Or a grey cat, oh, I love the chubby grey ones!”

“I’m a musician, darling, not a fucking zoologist.” He exhales a ring of smoke and meanders away.

Queen, the band’s associates, and various music industry figures are all milling around the night-draped mansion. It’s half a Halloween celebration and half a launch party for News Of The World, an album named for the tabloid that Roger both loathes and yet refuses to stop having delivered to the Surrey house. He can’t stand the thought of not being clued into the latest gossip, trends, fashion, awards, of missing any piece of what stardom has to offer. In the spirit of Halloween, Roger is dressed as a tiger, his sleeveless sequined shirt striped with orange and black. You are a veterinarian (not so far a cry from a nurse that you can’t repurpose your old uniform), John a shark (he’s taped a cardboard triangle to his back like a fin), Veronica a sea turtle in a teal dress and with a shell painted over her sizable baby bump, Brian and Chrissie both bright green aliens with antennae bobbing from their headbands. Mary is here as well—outfitted (quite appropriately) like an Enlightenment-era queen—but so is Freddie’s new boyfriend, a shy man named Anthony who is young and handsome and compliant and dressed as a mouse. Mary beams dutifully whenever Freddie is speaking to her, but her expression clouds over when he turns away. She no longer has a gold ring gleaming on her wedding finger, although she did gain an athletic blond date whom she seems largely indifferent to.

As Roger wanders through the crowd shaking hands and howling at jokes, you sip champagne by the snack table and devour an obscene amount of crab puffs. John and Veronica are chatting—unenthusiastically, from what you can tell—nearby with lamb kabobs in their grasps. John passes you a smirk every once in a while, an I’m so over this party and I know you are too smirk of commiseration, and nurses a Manhattan. Chrissie nibbles on disks of cucumber and baby carrots and not much else, which is very unlike her.

“You alright?” you ask worriedly. “You aren’t sick, are you? These crab puff things are incredible, I can’t stop eating them. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve had three dinners so far tonight, I’ve become a monster.”

Chrissie’s lips are a tight, humorless line. “I’m perfectly healthy, I’m just a cow.”

“Chris, honey, don’t!” You pat her shoulder reassuringly with one hand, pop another crab puff into your mouth with the other. “You’re gorgeous, and most women’s bodies change once they have babies, it’s natural!”

“Yeah, well most women aren’t married to men with infinite opportunities to upgrade.”

“Chrissie, no,” you murmur, pained; but you aren’t sure what else to say. She’s not wrong. I wish she was, but she isn’t. And she already knows that.

Dreams by Fleetwood Mac is playing from the reverberating stereo, Stevie Nicks’ sensuous, nasally voice climbing through air choked with strangers and cigarette smoke.

“Now here you go again

You say you want your freedom

Well, who am I to keep you down?”

Brian bids farewell to some record company executive he was talking to across the room and slips out onto the back porch of the house, and after a moment Chrissie follows him. You resist the temptation to eavesdrop until you can clearly hear their voices, raised and combative, through the sliding glass door. You glance to John, apprehensive.

You better go out there, he mouths, and so you do.

“Thunder only happens when it's rainin'

Players only love you when they're playin'

Say women, they will come and they will go

When the rain washes you clean, you'll know...”

Under cold October stars, Chrissie has trapped her horrified-looking husband, backed him into a fountain of a dolphin spewing an endless stream of water from its snout. “Did you think I wouldn’t listen to your own fucking album, Brian?!” She shrieks. “Who is she, huh? Who the fuck is she?!”

You grip her arm and try to lead her away. “Chrissie, babe, not here—”

“It’s Late, Brian? Yeah, it’s real fucking late in your life to still be chasing whores over in America while I’m building your family here, isn’t it?!”

“Love, please, it’s not true,” Brian attempts anemically, reaching for her.

“It is!” Chrissie rages. “It is and it always has been and I was too busy being some blind stupid idiot who loved you to see it!”

She breaks down in tears and you shove Brian away, shoo him back inside. You pitch him a fierce glare as he leaves, retreating like a kicked dog. There’s nothing you can do to fix this, you coward. Because everything she’s saying is true. Chrissie clings to you like a life raft, sobbing into your shoulder, asking what she did wrong.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her, over and over again; because that’s all there is to say.

Eventually Chrissie quiets, goes still and resigned and numb, and you help her fix her makeup and lead her back inside. You stand with her beside the snack table and swear not to leave her side until the party’s over, until the men are done celebrating yet another triumph that will take them further and further from home. Brian is nowhere to be found.

“That goddamn broodmare,” Chrissie hisses, gulping straight vodka, staring venomously at Veronica.

“Why do you hate her so much? I mean she can be dull, yeah. She’s sanctimonious and naïve and dresses like a freaking Mennonite. But she’s not horrible or anything.” And her life isn’t so perfect either.

“It’s not obvious?” Chrissie asks, her voice like a blade.

“No...?”

Chrissie’s eyes are scorching, although you’re not the person she’s furious with. You just happen to be standing in the path of the storm. “Because she’s the only one of us who’s never going to have to find out what this feels like.”

Oh, I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.

You try to spot Roger in the teeming room. He’s over by a crackling fireplace, telling stories with dramatic sweeps of his hands, bleeding charisma like sweat, and none of that is unusual at all. One of the people he’s talking to is Dominique Beyrand, and that’s not so unusual either; Richard Branson ends up at a lot of industry events, and Dom trails him around like a shadow, nodding politely and contributing little chirps of conversation in that posh French accent.

But here’s the strange part; here’s the part you’ve never seen before.

When Roger flashes that dazzling smile of his, Dominique smiles back.

~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, you’re steeping in a sweltering bubble bath as the phone rings downstairs. You ignore it at first, because the hot water is unraveling all the tension in your muscles and the lurking shadows in your mind, and also because the calendar is hanging right beside the phone in the kitchen and you’re quite committed to ignoring it this morning. But the phone rings again, and again, and you’re aware that it could be something serious; Roger is working on some non-Queen collaboration at a studio in downtown London, and something could have happened to him.

Especially considering his recreational preferences lately.

You scramble out of the tub, pull on a robe that sticks uncomfortably to your dripping skin, leave a path of bathwater footprints down the hallway and steps—slipping twice and clinging to the banister for dear life—before finally careening into the kitchen to snatch the phone off the wall.

“Hello?” you gasp, winded.

It’s not Roger, nor someone calling to inform you that Roger has overdosed or disappeared or vaulted down a staircase or been hit by a bus. It’s Chrissie.

“Have you seen the News Of The World yet?” she demands.

“Ummm, the album...?” Of course I’ve listened to the album. About a million times. You have a particular affinity for Spread Your Wings.

“No, not the album,” she snaps impatiently, although she kindly leaves out the you idiot addition that her tone implicates. “The magazine. Have you seen it today?”

“I was mid-bubble bath and almost broke my neck sprinting for the phone. So no.”

“Good. Don’t read a word. Don’t talk to anyone. I’m coming over. I’m gonna grab John and come right over.”

“Chris, what—?”

“Do not touch that fucking magazine!” she screams, and hangs up.

Naturally, you don’t listen.

You go to the main door of the Surrey mansion and open it. Sure enough, the new issue of News Of The World is waiting on the porch for you. You pluck it up with damp hands; the whirlpools of your fingerprints stick to the parchment.

On the front page is a photo of Roger, but he’s not alone. He’s scowling at the paparazzo snapping the picture, his face lit up by the flash, painfully and unmistakably stunning. He’s in some sort of alley or side entrance to a restaurant or club. He’s somewhere he’s trying not to be seen, which anyone could tell you is remarkable for Roger Taylor. Beside him is a woman you recognize; and although she’s looking down and trying to hide behind her shock of lustrous black hair, you can see her lips are smiling.

The headline reads: “Queen Drummer Spends Royally on London Love Nest for French Mistress.”

[wavbleu]

Chris Evans: Daddy issues

Kinks: Older men, rough, praise, slight degradation,  Size kink, practically anything somebody with daddy issues would enjoy.

( i decided to smush daddy issues along with the babysitter plot) also, if you want a lengthy slow burn story read all the way through, if you just want the scene😉😉😉 just scroll down and look for the sign " *~*"

oh big daddy evans, may i please suck yo big juicy monstrous cock😩‼️

~~~~

~Backstory~

This was your first babysitting gig, you never thought you'd have to resort to watching a bunch of little kids for money (As you never really liked them) but you desperately needed the money for rent. You already work 2 jobs, babysitting was just quick and easy money for you.

You live with your unfortunate drunken father in a small 2 bedroom apartment, you've been living there for years, for so long that the appliances are starting to go rusty. Perhaps it is better than living  out in the streets, but its no looker. Your father doesn't have a job and doesnt want one either, always refuses to help out around the house because its "A womans job."; Or even be there for you; He barely even deserves the title 'Dad' .

It hasnt always been like this though, your mother left him to go pursue her held-back dreams while you were 8, and left you to stay with your dad, that was her biggest mistake yet. You havent seen her since. Now he just sits on his ass all day drinking away all his problems and complaining about yours.

thats until a single father asks for you to babysit his kid...

~~~

You slowly drove through the gated neighborhood and observed all the beautiful houses and tall hills, you were in absolute awe. You could only dream living in a place this wealthy. "The pay  here must be amazing." first thing popping into your mind as you looked at all the Lambo's and Ferrari's.

You drove around the block searching for the designated house, "210"

"205..206...208....210!" You mumbled to yourself cheerfully, finally finding the house, you pulled into the drive way and put your car in park.

You took a moment of silence to prepare yourself for a long night of loud screaming and toddler tantrums, breathing in.. exhaling out. After a couple of breaths and positive affirmations, you finally gathered the courage and patience to get out of the car, when you got out; you were introduced to the beautiful sight of the house the man lived in, it looked even greater up close.

It was absolutely breathtaking, you felt obligated to take at least a second to examine and admire the outstanding beauty of the home, it was probably the best on the block. You couldn't even bother to guess how much the house was worth as you estimated its probably worth more than you as a person and everything you own x10.

You slowly walked up to the front door, still admiring your surroundings.

You hesitantly knocked and stood back, fiddling with your fingers and jacket, hoping that the owner heard your soft knocks.

You observed the fine wooden door before you, looking at the stained glass above it. Fascinated , you'd slowly graze your fingers upon the engraved designs on the wooden door. Tracing your finger on all the swirls and squiggles. "Wow.." You'd exhale in captivation.

You heard the front door loudly swing open, snapping you of your trance like state, also making you jump back a little.

"Oh-" you'd gasp before your breath fell to an immediate halt, your eyes were met with a tall well-built man, with a well groomed black suit on and a long black tie to match. His hair was dark brown, slightly gelled to the side.

You felt your palms start to sweat and your knees start to tremble just looking at him.

"Hi?" You'd mumble slightly intimidated by his attractiveness , giving a small wave and awkwardly scratching your shoulder.

"Hello little one" He smiled down at you, he noticed how nervous and shy you were, and wanted to simmer you down. But it only made it worst.

"Im the babysitter." You'd shakily say, feeling dominated just by being in his presence.

Immediately, the man took interest and began slightly leaning on the door, a subtle smirk forming on his face.. "Really? i thought you were the muffin man." You'd both let out a little laugh.

"Sorry that was a dad joke." ,"But im aware of that already." , "Whats your name again?" He looks down at you awaiting your answer. "Oh uh, Y/n" You muttered.

"Y/n." ," You have a gorgeous name." He said with a deeper , more husky voice. "Thank you." You felt your face heat up and your heart thump. "Anytime."

He'd let out a light chuckle at your cluelessness, "You know y/n, there's a doorbell right there." , he jokingly pressed it, the doorbell let out a loud ring.

"your lucky i was near or wouldn't have heard your soft knocks and would've left you standing out here in the cold"

"We wouldn't want that would we?"  He said, with that deep husky voice again.

"No, i really would not."  You would clear your throat and trembling, finding yourself mesmerized by his voice. "Come in silly girl." He invites, holding the door open wide enough for you to enter, then closing it behind you.

The interior didn't fail to amaze you with its beauty either, this home was drop dead gorgeous inside and out.

"May i?" He stops you and offers to take off your jacket, you nod; stepping in front of him and spreading your arms back.

He slowly slid your jacket off your arms, not trying to be too rough on you since you were smaller than him.

Once the jacket was off, he'd plaster a charming smile on his face and say "There you go." then going to go hang it on the coat rack. "Im guessing you want to take off your shoes yourself." He joked.

Although you'd love for him to give you that feeling again, you figured itd be weird for him to touch your feet.

"Haha Yea." You giggle, beginning to untie your shoelaces, "Thats alright, when your shoes are off put them next to those shiny black ones"

"And when your done, take a seat in the living room over there; make yourself at home." He pointed to the white chair with a navy blue pillow sitting on top of it.

You slid off your shoes and put it next to the large pair of black shiny shoes. "His feet is so much bigger than mines"  His feet were twice the size of yours, you'd take a deep gulp, as your shoe made of up half of his entire foot.

You got up and slowly navigated your way to the white chair, admiring the interior on the way, and hesitantly took a seat. Still somewhat cautious of your surroundings.

The living room was covered with legos , cars, babydolls and toys, with a loud kids show displayed on tv, the brightness was up so high that the colors from the tv made you feel like you were gonna go blind. "Shit." Youd mumble before going to shied your face, You helplessly rummaged for the remote with no luck.

Chris saw what was happening as he was passing by came to help.

"I apologize." Chris apologizes, grabbing the remote and shutting the tv off. "He always turns up the brightness after i tell him not too, hes gonna make himself go blind." , "Are you ok?" He asked with a worrisome voice, putting a hand on your shoulder. "Yes im perfectly fine, atleast i hope so." You'd rub your eyes trying to get your normal sight back.

Apologetically, he bent down to the sofas level and handed you the remote with a smile. "Go crazy, we have netflix and disney +" , "Thank you sir." You thank, he'd ruffle your hair then continued to walk to the the kitchen..

You set the remote aside and followed Chris , although you would love to keep flirting with him, you still have to do what your getting paid for.

"Need something?" He exclaims as he sees you following behind him with a curious face.

"Yes sir" You'd politely say , clearing your throat , trying to come off as more professional.

"Is there anything i need to know about your child?" You sit down at one of the seats on the island, tuning into his words and listening for instructions.

He'd open the fridge and grab out the orange juice, "Yea, His name is carson, he hates anything thats the color orange.." He takes a swish of the juice " I want him in bed by 8, no sugar before bed." He sternly demands, "Hes already got sleeping problems and giving him sugar will just make him bounce off the walls." another swish "Thats it." He finishes the bottle.

"Well sir, if you dont mind me asking where are you going." , you say hoping that you arent coming off as invasive. "A meeting at my office." ,"Corporate is gonna be there so its quite important, and far."

"Is your job boring."  Youd ask trying to keep the conversation afloat, "Obviously it is darling, its a job." he'd say in that deep tone once again , leaning over the counter to look you in the eyes "Right.." You'd mutter, your breath picking up speed.

"Anyways do you wanna meet carson?" He'd say breaking the tension, then going to toss the empty orange juice box into the trash. "Yea of course" You'd say in a shaky tone, finding yourself almost hypnotized by his deep voice once again.

"Carson?! The babysitters here!" He loudly called upstairs. Man could he yell, his voice sounded like a siren.

Minutes later, a little boy came running into the kitchen, with a barbie doll in hand. "Hi little man!" You cooed at the little boy, with the kindest smile to give off a friendly impression.

"Im y/n, your babysitter for tonight!" You said in a high pitched voice, the little boy just gave a blank stare; then smiled. "Your pretty." He'd mutter, then letting out a small giggle. You felt your heart burst open, exploding with cuteness and adorableness. Getting compliments from toddlers always felt amazing. Carson is a charmer, just like his father.

"Well aren't you the sweetest little thing?", you'd pinch his chubby cheek.

"Looks like someone has a crush." Chris joked, "Ive gotta go." Chris mutters after checking his watch "Carson, have fun with the cute babysitter." he'd wink at you, then swiftly went to snatch his case off the  island and walked out the kitchen

"Bye-bye!" Carson would wave, "Bye kid." Chris responded back. You both watched Chris leave out the doors.

"Wheres your room charmer?" You say with a soft yet fun and engaging voice, just to keep him happy.

He'd drag you upstairs to his room.

~Time skip to 8pm~

"Will daddy be home soon?" Carson whispered while tucked in bed. "Yes daddy will be home.." You'd check your watch. "Very soon!", "You'll be far in dreamland by then though." You smiled and booped his nose, "Alright!" He smiled cuddling up into his unicorn plushy, getting into a comfortable position.

"Want the nightlight on?" , "Yes please!" he responded, you switched on the nightlight, and watched as it lit up the whole room with stars and space ships. You were amazed as if you were a little kid too. "Goodnight, and the bed bugs WONT bite." You say, leaving his room and carefully closing the door.

"That wasnt as bad as i expected." You sighed. You began feeling a tinkling feeling arise in you giving you the signal that you needed to pee, "Wheres the bathroom in this place?" You question, frantically opening doors left and right with little to no luck, everything being either a closet or a guest room.

You opened another door, hoping it was the desired destination, only to find Chris' room. It was quite big for a singular person. "I shouldn't look." You say, "Curiosity killed the cat." You hopelessly reminded yourself, but something in you wanted to look around and find out more about him as a person.

So you looked.

You walked over to his dresser and looked at all the photos neatly arrayed on it. It was all pictures of Carson winning something or getting an award at school. You smirked, but felt some kind of jealousy spark in you for some reason.

i wish i had that.

You came across one photo that was flipped over to where you cant see it, you decided to pick it up and look at it. It was a family photo, this time with a woman included. She was pretty, like super model pretty. Judging from how the picture was flipped over and how she doesn't live here you figured they divorced, and it was bad.

You were gonna to continue looking through the photos until you heard an "Ahem." from behind you. You felt your heart jump, swiftly turning around and attempting to find a good excuse.

"I was looking for the bathroom-" You panicked, Your breath quickened, as he walked over with a smug smirk on his face then stopping right before you.

He firmly grasped your chin and lifted it up, "Thank you for taking care of Carson, hes never fell asleep when he's supposed to." , you slowly nodded and plastered a crooked smile on your face. "Now, what make you wanna go through my things little one?" He says with that tone again.

"Im sorry, i just got really curious and-" , "You know i could easily cut money off your good paycheck for this?" He gritted his teeth, he was pissed.

"Im sorry." You say with a nervous and scared tone, "Its alright im joking with ya." He laughed, letting go of your chin and walking away. "Man your fun to get." He chuckled.

*~*

You let out a anxious yet relieved  chuckle, trying to process what the hell just happened.

"All of your photos of you and Carson are so cute." You say hoping to clear the air, unhurriedly taking a seat on his bed, whilst chris begins undressing his suit. "Thank you, me and Carson are quite photogenic." He replies, "I even kind of find myself jealous of you 2." you say in a more depressing voice.

"Jealous?" He questions, walking over to you and takes a seat next to you on the bed. "Why are you jealous?" He asks again, "My relationship with my father is fucked." you mutter. "You do everything for Carson, you'd give your life away for him in a drop of a hat."

"My dad wouldn't do this for me even if he was paid too. He'd probably spend all the money on crack anyway." , "Im sorry." he apologized, as if he did something wrong.

"its not you its just fucking daddy issues." You laughed wiping away the gathering tears in your eyes, "If you wanna talk to me you can let it out." He says, "I think your swell." he smiles and ruffles your hair again. You'd go in for a hug, he wraps his arms around you and kisses your forehead.

You'd pull away and stare, he reciprocated. "What are you looking at?" He whispers, glancing down at your lips and back at you.

You attached your lips onto his , resting your hand on his cheek. You felt as he gripped your hips and pulled you onto his thigh, straddling it.

You exchanged pecks and tongue, letting the heat between you to flow back and forth and take control. You let out a small moan as he guided your hips back and forth; creating friction on your clit. Smiling, he kissed your neck and left a hickey as he continued to thigh fuck you.

"Fuck~" You'd moan, grinding some more for more friction, "Needy one arent you?" He whispers into your ear, "Let me take care of you." He lifts you up off his knee, then slowly laid your body onto the bed.

"Take off your pants." He commanded, you slowly began working your sweatpants off, revealing to him your beautiful figure.

"Perfect." He mumbles, "Open your legs." He watched as you slowly spread apart your legs, showing him the wet spot on your panties.

"Your already wet for me?" He smiles, pressing his thumb down on the wet spot. He hovered himself over you, and kissed you and he teased your cunt through your underwears. You softly moaned as you felt his thumb go in small circles around your clit, kissing him became a challenge as it was constantly interrupted by your moans.

"Please stop teasing me" You ask, wanting more.

"Fine~" he goes to take off your soaked panties, "Wow." He said, as he removed the white panties , strings of your juices followed it. "I dont think i can tease you any longer, i need you now." He says with a needy tone, flipping you over to all fours.

He took off his black tie and tied your wrists together, making sure its knotted but not tight.

You heard his pants unbuckle and jangle, and his pants drop to the floor, you sat there with anticipation but also with slight fear.

"I was thinking of you at the meeting." He started, "Not an innocent kind of thinking either." ,"When you called me sir it did something to me." He bit his lip, then eagerly slid into you. His thick cock becoming covered in your juices. You both let out a small gasp.

"So i want you to call me sir again." He says pulling you hair back, looking you directly into the eyes. You obeyed "Yes sir." , he smiled with satisfaction . "Atta girl."

He let go of your hair putting you back into your original position, face down , ass up.

You moaned as he gave you slow-paced yet hard and deep strokes, he watched as you moaned while he teased your g-spot. You began to whimper and whine, wanting more than that. "Please go faster." You moaned into the sheets, "What was that?" He said giving you a obviously super hard stroke as you forgot to call him sir. You let out a soft whine from the pain and quickly corrected yourself "Please go faster..." "..sir."  you say in a soft yet sexy tone.

"Alright baby."," Brace yourself." He said before beginning to pound your little cunt,  you were surprised at how fast he was going that you actually started to brace yourself.

You felt so powerless and vulnerable with your hands tied behind your back, the only thing you were able to do was moan and just take his 9 inch cock.  "You were hoping for this werent you, little slut." He talked, "You wanted me to fuck you ever since you got here." he growled "Hm?" he says waiting for your response "Yes sir i did!" You admit, he began digging his dull nails into your hips and bringing you onto his cock harder. "Well you got what you want now fucking take it." He whispered.

"I think im gonna-" You moan, "Oh no your not." He says flipping you onto your back. He began taking off the tie, enabling you to move again.

"This is gonna be deep." He moaned.

You watched as he began towering himself over you, grasping onto the headboard for better balance and stability. "You can stop when you cant take it anymore." he re-affirmed, "Just keep your legs open for me is all i need in return."you were  pretty terrified, but in the best way possible.

He slowly slid his dick back into your cunt, giving a slow pity fuck, to start. "Thats it?" You thought to yourself, expecting something rougher.

But you spoke to soon, you watched as his grip on the headboard tightened and he started to prop himself up. He started to vigorously fuck you, moving his hips back and forth in an inhuman pace. You felt like a little flesh light the way he was using you.

You'd grip onto his waist to keep from cumming to fast, "Don't be scared to leave a mark." He moaned, you obeyed and started to dig your nails into his muscular back leaving scratches, he moaned in pain yet pleasure.

You struggled to keep your legs open, it felt so good that you could hardly even keep quiet.  He had to aggressively force your legs back open. He let go of the head board, starting to kiss you and your neck as he desperately fucked himself into your tight and throbbing hole.

"Why dont we play with this thing hm?" He whispers as he reached a hand down to occupy your swollen clit. "Be a good girl and cum for me" He smiles upon you, "You can do it, cum." He asks again.

He spat onto your cunt and swirled his thumb around your clit, he bit his lip as he felt it throb and your legs shake, "Oh so sensitive." He cooed.

You started to feel that tinkling sensation again, and felt it quickly override your whole body before it exploded. He watched as your eyes rolled back, "Thats it!" He'd smile as you squirted onto his chest, making an absolute mess everywhere..

"Alright my turn." He says gripping onto your hips, making your lower body lift up, and pounding himself into your hole. Like you were a toy. You watched from below as he ferociously used your cunt, extremely needy to cum. He loved how tight you got after your climax and couldn't hold on any longer.

"Fuck im gonna-" He moans subby, "Shit-" he says again, stroking himself into you one more time before letting out a warm load into you. "Fuck-" He moaned again, falling onto you. Doing one more stroke to make sure your filled up with his juices.

"You did such a good job for me baby." He kissed your cheek, "Thank you sir.", he lifted back up to inspect the headboard. "Shit.", He smacked his teeth, "This always happens." , "What does?" You asked. "I put a dent in the headboard when i gripped it." ,"What am i gonna tell them this time." , " That i was fucking my sons babysitter and got out of hand?" , "They'd call cps on me." He joked, you both let out a laugh.

You yawned exhausted, "Im so proud of you for taking me with no complaints." He places another kiss on your forehead. "No problem." You respond.

"Now go pee." He giggles, reminding you before you drift off to sleep.

~~~

(edited)

[is-it-art-tho]

Bruce skidded down the hall, socked feet sliding on polished hardwood, and waited, listening until–

There it was again. That piercing, grating wail that had sheared through his dreams like a razor, wrenching him awake. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep in the study until he was already racing out of the room, darting down darkened hallways.

At first, the sound had seemed to come from everywhere at once, and he’d searched blindly, desperation unfurling in his chest like poison as sweat prickled along his skin until 

finally, after what could have been hours or days, he’d been able to isolate the sound.

Now his feet carried him to the closed door of a little-used guest room in the east wing. Only when his open hand was hovering just inches from the wood did he remember that no one else was supposed to be home right now. Alfred had flown out to London to attend the wedding of an old friend. Damian was spending a few days at Titans Tower in preparation for an upcoming mission. And none of the other dozen or so likely suspects had given him any indication that they’d planned to stop by or spend the night. Not that he required or even expected them to do so, but usually he would find some evidence that they were around. If not a text or a greeting in person, then a discarded pair of shoes or the remnants of a snack on a coffee table, maybe extra dishes on the rack. 

He considered the possibility of a break-in, but the thought was dismissed almost as quickly as it appeared. Bruce had long since girded the manor’s security, cognizant of every possible worst-case scenario ranging from a disgruntled Wayne Enterprises employee to one of his enemies managing to trace him back here. The gate itself was locked with an oft-changed passcode, the pale stone walls around the perimeter were a little over ten feet tall, and motion sensors and cameras monitored every inch of the massive estate, set to alert him whenever someone crossed the property line. There was no way anyone could get in without him knowing, especially an intruder.

But when gentle whimpers trickled under the door, Bruce pushed it open and barreled in anyways, driven by instinct rather than any semblance of logical thought. The room appeared empty at first, and he progressed slowly, his light steps rendered silent by the plush carpet. He circled the bed and found a small form sitting on the floor, face buried in knees and illuminated by moonlight streaming in through the window. The child trembled as he rocked back and forth, gasping and crying softly, his tiny frame drowning in a massive duster. Bruce’s first thought was 

Damian.

But that wasn’t right – that couldn’t be right. He hadn’t known Damian when he was this small, and the skin on this boy’s hands was fair rather than deep and warm. 

He crouched, debating whether or not to reach out and touch him.

“Hello,” he offered quietly, wondering if this was someone he was supposed to know. A friend of someone’s that he had agreed to look after for a while? “Are you all right?”

The boy froze. His tiny hands clutched at his arms, but he made no move to respond or lift his head.

“My name is Bruce Wayne,” Bruce continued. “Can you tell me yours?”

The boy’s shoulders began to shake again, and he mumbled something, the words swallowed up in the mess of trench coat and limbs.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“I couldn’t…” the boy whispered.

Bruce decided to take the risk and placed a hand on the kid’s narrow, quivering back. He waited, and eventually the boy turned his head just enough to peer up at Bruce with one, glistening eye. The gaze was desperate and anguished in a way that made the older man think of shattered glass and open graves; of things irrevocably broken and empty and dark. To see that in the eyes of someone so young nearly made him flinch.

“I couldn’t… save them,” the boy choked. He lifted his head all the way then and gazed up at the sky through the window, tears spilling silently over dark eyelashes and pale cheeks. His lip quivered, chest and shoulders jerking with small gasps, but he remained quiet.

When he wiped his nose and turned to face Bruce again, there was a streak of red across his face, and Bruce noticed that the boy’s hands, his too-large trench coat were covered in blood.

“It’s my fault,” the boy continued, and though his voice was thick with emotion, the words themselves were decisive. “It’s all my fault. Every time.”

Bruce couldn’t find his voice, mesmerized as he was by this bloodied stranger, by the darkness in his eyes, the grief that emanated out from him and swallowed the entire room like an entity unto itself.

A deep voice from behind him rumbled, “Bruce,” and Bruce turned and looked, squinting into florescent lights. 

The dark bedroom faded and warped into the bustling, brightly lit Gotham police station. A young detective stood over him, hands shoved into pockets, face twisted with regret and anger and sorrow. He squatted and patted Bruce’s head before gently rolling the sleeves of the trench coat up and taking the small, bloody hands in his own large, rough ones. He began wiping them off with a dampened rag. 

“Your coat…”

“Keep it,” the detective said as he worked the cloth between Bruce’s trembling fingers. “Mr. Pennyworth will be here soon.”

Bruce’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. He closed it again, watching as the man scrubbed gently at his palms and the pale rag turned rusty. When he finished, the crescents of Bruce’s nails, his skin, were still covered in russet stains, but it was just a shadow now, the ghost of what had been. By tomorrow, they would be clean. 

But something deep in the center of his chest told him that he would never see them the same way again. That in his mind, they would always be red and dripping. He was certain that it would leech into everything he touched from now on, that the rest of his life would be streaked with crimson.

A crack of thunder dragged Bruce’s gaze upwards, and he squinted into pouring rain, the dark swirling clouds. He glanced back down; his oxfords were partially submerged in mud. The police station was gone, and before him was a gravestone, new and unweathered, the grass still not having filled in the freshly placed dirt, bouquets not yet withered.

“Master Bruce.” Alfred’s voice, weary and aching, was barely audible over the storm. “I do believe it is time, sir.”

Bruce made no move towards him, his eyes now glued to the headstone, the name there. The carved letters shifted and morphed, flickering and out of focus like an illusion.

Martha Wayne. Thomas Wayne. Jason Todd. 

The name mutated almost faster than he could read it. 

Tim Drake. Dick Grayson. Cassandra Cain. Stephanie Brown. 

Damian Wayne. Barbara Gordon. Jim Gordon. Clark Kent. The rest of the League. The rest of the city.

Everyone.

Bruce’s hands spasmed into fists at his sides; his jaw locked, and his shoulders hunched forward as he released a guttural, animalistic roar. The heavens boomed their reply.

He dropped to his knees then his palms, fingers disappearing into the dark sludge, and he sobbed. He was only vaguely aware when the rain stopped abruptly, replaced by a dull pattering sound, and Alfred crouched beside him with the umbrella held over them both. 

A thin hand rubbed his back as Bruce wept, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He felt movement at his side and glanced over just enough to see the boy in the too-big duster sitting in the grass beside him, knees curled to his chest. He was staring at the headstone, dry despite the driving rain, though his face still glistened with tears, his hands still dripped with blood.

As if sensing Bruce’s gaze, the boy looked at him and there was a deep sadness in his eyes, a morbid lack of surprise as if to say, What did you think would happen? 

He realized that rain was hitting him again. Alfred was gone.

Everyone. Every time.

Bruce couldn’t tell whether it was he or the boy who spoke, but the voice rang clear and loud over the rain as if it came from somewhere within him when it said, “I couldn’t save them.”

Mud crept up his wrists and forearms, swallowed his knees and shins as he sank into the ground. And he let it happen, suddenly profoundly exhausted by the idea of tomorrow. 

And tomorrow. And tomorrow.

It would be better – just, even – to let the cold earth consume him as it had his parents, his friends, his children before him. To succumb to the fate to which he had damned them all the moment he entered their lives. They deserved that much, at least. His final act of justice. 

He had spent so much time certain that the only way he could do right by them, by the people he’d lost, was to purge evil from the streets of Gotham. But perhaps it was he, all along, who needed to be removed. He, who despite all of his training, still routinely failed to save those closest to him. He, who despite decades of work, still failed to wrest the city of his birth from the clutches of more powerful demons.

He, who had utterly failed in his mission and would continue to do so tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

The sludge progressed towards his shoulders and hips. The ground had taken on a deep, burgundy hue, and his nostrils were now full of the earthy scent of damp soil and the metallic bite of blood. He closed his eyes as it grazed his chin, his lips.

“Ah, shite!”

Stale cigarette smoke filled the air as two hands plunged into the mud and yanked Bruce back by his shoulders, away from the stone of a thousand names, away from the bloodied earth, away from the storm. The world evaporated into a pale light, and Bruce’s eyes flew open with a gasp.

He was staring at a wood paneled ceiling, his head and stomach churning. He closed his eyes again almost immediately, biting back the urge to be sick.

“Bloody told you I’d get ‘im out, didn’t I?” an arrogant, if somewhat shaken voice panted nearby.

“Batman?” This voice was too familiar; and Bruce’s mind filled with the memory of a headstone, a name. His hands still felt slick with blood and soil, his arms and legs coated in it. He kept his eyes closed and willed himself to focus on what was tangible.

“John. What’s wrong with him?” 

There was a shuffle of movement, and the arrogant voice came from much closer when it said, “He’s fine, mate. Just give the old man a second to sort ‘imself out.”

Suddenly a hand was on Bruce’s shoulder, firm and grounding. “Batman. You’re okay. You’re all right.”

Bruce took a breath and ground his teeth, bracing himself for a new horror as he opened his eyes. Nightwing sighed and smiled.

“Good,” he breathed. “You really… I was really…” The young man stopped, pivoted. “How are you feeling?”

They were in an old, unfamiliar study, Bruce laid out on a stiff couch. Entire bookshelves were toppled, a lamp shattered, scorch marks on the curtains and walls. Candles floated in the air around them, burned nearly to the quick, and the air smelled of incense and dust and the unique, almost citric tang of recent magic. In the corner, a sorceress was unconscious and bound in glowing chains while John Constantine leaned against a desk, stretching his neck and sighing. 

Slowly, Bruce began to piece things together, memories coming in broken, disordered fragments.

“Madam Luce,” Nightwing supplied as if reading Bruce’s mind. “She got the jump on us while we were looking for info about the creatures in eastern Qurac. One second, we were fine then the next you were down. She got in your head.”

“That she bloody did,” John muttered, tossing an accusatory glance Bruce’s way. “Which is why I told you lot not to get mixed up in this business in the first place. You’ll only get yourselves killed. Or worse.”

Nightwing flexed his jaw and exhaled through his nose, but otherwise ignored him. “Are you okay?”

Bruce. No, Batman. He was not Bruce now. The weight of the cowl and body armor reminded him as much as he pushed himself upright.

“Yes,” Batman said, and he noticed when John shot him another look. As Batman swung his legs around so that his feet were on the floor, John said,

“Oi, Smaller Bat–”

“Nightwing.”

“Whatever. Be a doll and ring Zatanna for me? She’ll want to know we’ve got Lucy here. The birds’ve got some history.”

“Sure,” Nightwing said. “But I don’t have her–”

John tossed him an old flip phone. “It’ll be under ‘Magic Mummy.’ Don’t ask.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Nightwing murmured, cringing a little. He glanced at Batman, a question, and Batman nodded once.

After Nightwing had jogged from the room, John leaned forward with a cigarette in his lips to light it on one the floating candles. Batman stood and found himself drifting somewhat aimlessly around the room. His mind still felt scattered, a million thoughts crashing and shattering against each other, and a distant, horrible suspicion left him uncertain whether or not he was truly back in the real world. 

Everything still felt strangely unbalanced and weightless; he struggled to discern whether this was an aftereffect of the spell or a sign of something worse. As he dragged a gloved hand along a portion of singed wallpaper, he half expected to leave a streak of blood in his wake.

“It’ll do that to you,” John said from behind him.

“What?”

“That spell. Her spell. You feel like you’re still there, don’t you? Like you’re still not sure which way is up and which way’s Canada. Who’s to say if you walk through that door right now you won’t end up in another nightmare?”

Without meaning to, Batman glanced towards the door and his stomach bottomed out. He swallowed hard and looked away.

“Do you want to… er… well, do you want to talk about it, then?” John asked.

Batman’s eyes flicked up and he watched the Brit fiddle with the cigarette in his hand as if trying to memorize something written there.

“Would you?”

“Oh, bloody hell no. But I’ve been reliably informed that I can be something of an arse and that I ought to work on my ‘people skills’ so this is me working.” He shrugged, took a long, sucking drag from the cigarette and snuffed it on the desk beside him. “But then again, look who I’m talking to.”

Batman could have smirked at that, but instead he turned his attention to the only standing bookcase, ran his finger along the spines. “What was it?” he asked.

“Hm?”

“The spell. What I saw, it was so…”

“Right.” He heard John sigh. “Well, at the risk of coming off an absolute tosser: it’s magic, mate. Plain and simple. I could try to explain it, but I’d wager that would only be more infuriating.”

“I understand that,” Batman ground out, a little more harshly than he’d intended. “What I want to know is what was the nature of the spell. I saw things that already happened. Things from my past. But I also saw things that haven’t happened. And now I just need… You have to tell me if…” He clenched his jaw again, could practically taste the mud on his tongue, could feel the grit of it on his teeth. Panic was creeping up into his throat, and he tamped it down hard.

“Mate,” John began, more gently than Batman had ever heard him speak. Somehow, it only made him more uneasy. “Are you asking if the visions were prophetic?”

Batman didn’t respond, but his assent must have been clear in the weighty silence that followed. John sighed loudly.

“Is that what’s got you so–” He stopped short. “Christ, Bats.”

“I have to know,” Batman murmured, his voice hoarse. “I have to.” He turned to look at John directly. It would be easier this way to tell if the other man was lying or softening the truth. 

There was something like pity in John’s eyes, and pain. He opened his mouth at the same time that Nightwing sauntered in, tossing the phone back.

“Zatanna said to torch her,” Nightwing said. “She wouldn’t elaborate.”

“That’s my girl,” John sighed fondly, his entire manner shifting on a dime. Nightwing paused and looked back and forth between the two of them, as if realizing belatedly that he’d interrupted something. “Should I…?”

“No,” Batman cut in. “We should go. By now the Order will have noticed Madam Luce’s absence. They’ll be sending people to search for her.”

“Now that’s a party I’d like to miss,” John said. He murmured a quick incantation and waved his hands. A moment later, Madam Luce was levitating beside him, her head limp as he strode from the room. At a glance, you’d almost think they were walking together. With the glamor, that was probably exactly what they were doing.

On the sidewalk, the early morning sky was thick with storm clouds. Batman stared up at them, trying not to think of blood and graves and sinking, sinking, sinking… 

John slapped his forehead. “Oh, bother! I’ve gone and forgotten my lighter. Smaller Bat, would you be a peach–”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nightwing sighed, turning to jog back up the steps. John smiled sweetly after him until he’d disappeared back into the old home. 

Then he turned to Batman, his gaze hard. “Invictus, mate.”

“What?”

“Invictus. The poem.”

“I am the master of my fate; the captain of my soul.”

“Precisely. Now, the shite you saw? It could happen. All of it, just like it did in your dream. But that’s just a possibility. One of trillions. Just a bunch of threads stretching out in endless directions waiting to be pulled and added to the dazzling if also terrifying quilt that is your life. It’s up to you to decide how that turns out. 

“And believe me,” he added with a wry smirk, “I am fully aware of the irony here. Me of all people prattling on about self-determination while half my job has me dealing with the powers of fate and destiny on a near constant basis. Hell, I had tea with Dr. Fate just last Tuesday. And I’ve snogged two of the Grecian Fates, myself.” 

He frowned, running a hand through his scraggly blond hair. “Hm. I should probably ring them…”

“John.”

“Right. My point is that’s just the sort of blatant, arse-backwards contradiction that I’m happy to live with. Keeps me sane.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked up as it started to rain. The drops left dark blotches on John’s pale duster, and Batman realized with a jolt how similar it was to the one he’d been given so long ago. “Gives me a reason to look forward to tomorrow.”

Batman followed John’s gaze, tipping his head back to let the drops roll over his face. He closed his eyes as he took a deep, measured breath. “Hn. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, I’m just trying to keep you from going ‘round the bend here. You’d be a bloody awful nuisance if you went to the other side.”

Batman shot him a sidelong glance. For such a prolific conman, John was doing a terrible job of it now. 

Behind them, the front door swung open. 

“There is,” Nigthwing announced, “no lighter.”

John slapped his forehead again, chuckling. “You know what, lad? I’ve just remembered I left it in my other pants.”

“Fu–”

“Tootles!” John waggled his fingers pleasantly then disappeared in a blink, along with Madam Luce.

“I really hate that guy,” Nightwing grumbled, coming back down the steps.

“He really is something, isn’t he.”

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

Cold and Broken Hallelujah (chapter 3)

Oof, sorry for the long wait, folks. Here it finally is, the conclusion. (As promised, I fixed it as best I could. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy the ride)

Link to Chapter 1 (masterlist)

Tagging  @blujicky @saphirawaffle @swanheart69 @ojedieu @gryssenielsen @totallysilvergirl @stiicck @stonequiet @giulisetta @livgg15 @collgeruledzebra @tonystark5ever @imposter-human @sharoto @guess-im-a-good-omens-blog-now @saphirawaffle @ginpaa @erdediekatze

_________________________________________________

Chapter 3

 “Crowley?” The name is a hesitant, pleading whisper that catches somewhere in the middle as it slips past his lips.  

 “Crowley!” The second call of his lover’s name rips from his throat in a harsh, broken sob, steeped in denial.

 A hurried snap of his fingers, and the holy bindings pinning Crowley to the wall fall away, leaving behind a mess of burned, bloodied skin.  The demon drops, limp and boneless, into Aziraphale’s trembling, waiting arms; the hilt of the sword that still protrudes grotesquely from Crowley’s chest pressing uncomfortably against Aziraphale’s ribs.  

The angel yanks the sword out, unthinking.  Tosses it away as if the very touch of it burns.

 Crowley doesn’t react. Doesn’t so much as twitch in response. Only his blood begins to gush faster, unimpeded, from the gaping wound.

 “No,” Aziraphale murmurs – a futile moan of protestation against the merciless truth of reality, “no, no, no….”

 And, suddenly, his legs no longer seem to have what it takes to hold up his earthly corporation, and so he sinks heavily to the floor, his precious burden cradled protectively in his arms.

 He tries, oh, God Almighty does he try.  Presses his hand against the gushing hole in Crowley chest, trying his best to ignore the blood that coats his fingers, seeming to seep under his very skin, branding him like the murderer that he is.  And he pours all of his healing energy into it, channels every particle of his angelic being into one single mission – heal, heal, heal.  And he prays, and he prays, and he prays.

 “You don’t… really think it’s going to work, do you.”

 He doesn’t turn around at the sound of a familiar mocking voice.  He doesn’t need to.  He knows what he’ll see if he does: the looks of glee, the smiles of depraved pleasure. He remembers them.  Remembers them all too well.

 “You’re almost as ridiculous as that demon of yours.”

 He hears footsteps behind him, measured, deliberate, slow – a predator circling its prey, moving in closer and closer with every pass.

 “Do you know that this pathetic creature pleaded with us to spare you?  Begged me to keep you ignorant of what you’ve done?”

 Gabriel laughs behind him, sharp and grating, even as Aziraphale hunches in on himself, crushed by the weight of the damning words.  His fingers tremble splayed out against the awful wound, his focus slipping. He flicks his gaze up to his beloved’s face – ghostly pale now, its features hopelessly slack.  Blurred for him by the ever-thickening veil of tears that fogs his vision.

 “Why would you do this?” he whispers brokenly, pulling his hand away from the wound to brush a blood-covered finger against Crowley’s cheek. Flinches, his lips trembling, as he stares at the smudge of crimson his gentle touch left behind – so vivid, so nauseatingly stark against the near-translucent skin.  “Why would you–?”

 Another sob rips from his throat, cutting off the rest of the words, and he squeezes his eyes shut, tugging his lover’s too, too still form tighter against his chest.

 He knows why.  Of course, he knows.  Because it’s Crowley.  The demon who burned his feet on consecrated ground to rescue him.  The demon who defied Heaven and Hell time and time again for his sake.  The demon who… who loved him.  Enough to forgive him, enough to let him go.

 “It’s quite amusing, really.”

 Gabriel’s voice slithers once more into his grief-clouded consciousness, and he feels something inside him stir and shudder in response.  Something dark and ugly and terrifying – a dangerous savage beast, awoken after a millennia-long sleep.

 “Watching you skewer the serpent was entertaining enough, but watching you torment yourself over it now is just… well, it’s just so delicious!”

 There’s a loud, obnoxious cackle above his ear, a horrifyingly tasteless expression of perverted pleasure at the expense of his grief.  

The beast inside him roars in agony, slashes wildly at the chains of restraint holding it hostage within the shattered confines of his bleeding soul. He moans in anguished pain, arms and wings wrapping tighter around Crowley in a futile attempt to shield them both from the waves of twisted, noxious glee that permeate the room, poisoning its very air. Tries his best to ignore the archangel, to tune out the cruel words, his whole body trembling with the effort of reigning in the dark tempest of grief, rage and despair that brews inside him.

 It’s of no use.

 The metaphorical chains snap – the sound so loud in his ears, he’s sure everyone around him can hear it – and the beast breaks free in a powerful, blinding explosion of Light that bursts forth from him in every direction, furious, scorching, decimating.  A flashover of smiting angelic vengeance.

 He thinks he hears screaming, loud wails of pure agony. Gabriel’s, the other archangels’, perhaps even his own….  But it’s all lost, swallowed up in the searing maelstrom of Light, and the angel sways and cries at the epicenter of it, white wings wrapped protectively around a lifeless form that no longer requires his protection, shielding Crowley as Crowley had always shielded him, while the world around him burns, and burns, and burns.

 And then it’s over, and the Light goes out like a candle snuffed out by an abrupt gust of wind.

 Aziraphale slumps, drained, his cheeks wet, his throat raw from screaming he doesn’t remember having done. He isn’t aware of the sudden absence of their tormentors, of the scorched emptiness of the room.  Nothing exists for him anymore but Crowley, pale and lifeless in his arms. Dead.

 Three years.  Three years is all he’s been given to experience the true joy of living he hadn’t known in all of the millennia that came before it.  The joy he’d been denying himself and Crowley all that time.  Because he was a coward! A bloody coward who foolishly believed that what he was always taught was true; that Heaven was always right, as was the Great Plan they blindly followed; that demons were all inherently evil, soulless creatures, incapable of compassion, of empathy, of love…

 He knew… in his heart of hearts he’d always known… that Crowley was an exception.  No soulless creature would challenge so bluntly the Great Plan, appalled by the idea of wiping out thousands upon thousands of the human race, drowning everyone, including the…

 “Not the kids. You can’t kill kids!!!”

 Wouldn’t look so devastated, so sickened by the sight of that young carpenter from Galilee getting nailed to the cross for nothing more than trying to get humans to love one another.

 Wouldn’t risk his own life over and over to save Aziraphale’s.

 Wouldn’t… wouldn’t have that look in his eyes whenever he glanced toward Aziraphale, the look of love – pure, unadulterated, beautiful love. The kind Aziraphale was always told demons weren’t capable of.  And yet Aziraphale felt it from Crowley. In abundance.

 And he pushed it away. Pushed Crowley away.  Despite the fact that every fiber of his being longed to be closer. Warded himself away from both Crowley and his love because he was too afraid of what Heaven would do if they ever found out.  Cowardly protecting himself from what he was sure would be a wrathful reprimand.  

 And he hurt Crowley in the process.

 He wasn’t blind. He saw the brutal impact his rejections had on his then friend.

 “Friends? We’re not friends. We’re an angel and a demon. We have nothing in common. I don’t even like you!”

 Saw every poorly hidden flinch, every dejected droop of the thin shoulders, every pained twist of the lips that didn’t quite manage to form a smile, every note of anguish in the tired voice disguised by the ever-crumbling mask of sarcasm.

He saw.  And he hated himself for every moment of pain he had inflicted so cruelly on the demon.  Vowed to himself, once he finally worked up the courage to do what he should have done thousands of years ago, that he would spend the next millennia making it up to him.

 He got three years...

 His hand trembles as he cups the back Crowley’s head.  Gently, reverently lifts it up to press an equally trembling kiss against the sweat-stained temple.  A benediction, a plea for forgiveness, a final goodbye.

 “I’m sorry, my love,” he chokes out, taking a moment to bury his tear-stained face in the matted auburn hair, to breathe in Crowley’s scent for one last time.  “I am so, so sorry…”

 He doesn’t know what he’s going to do next. Doesn’t know if there’s anything left for him to do. His one true constant, his anchor in this vast, tumultuous universe, the heart and soul of his existence is gone, and there’s nothing tethering him to this earthly world.  Nothing left for him in Heaven either. Not anymore. Not after this.

 Perhaps it would have been better if he Fell.

 “Aziraphale.” The voice that calls his name is achingly familiar and one he hasn’t heard in over 6,000 years.  One he yearned to talk to all those years he’s been on Earth.  One he begged would answer him when… before it was too late.

One he no longer wishes to hear.

 “Aziraphale,” She repeats, softer this time, and he can feel Her heavenly light even through his tightly squeezed eyelids, “angel of the Eastern Gate.”

 Slowly he raises his head, squints toward Her with a tired glare.  “Why are You here?”

 She smiles at him – a soft crinkle in the otherwise flawless glowing skin.  “It isn’t often one of my children erases three archangels from existence,” She says, and his eyes widen momentarily in stunned disbelief.

 He glances behind him, as if to make sure, even though he knows She wouldn’t lie to him.  Not about something like this.  

Turns back to her, head raised in defiance.

 “You’re here to cast me out then?” he challenges. Because he’s ready for this. Willing even. Would gladly embrace the pain that comes with the Fall with both arms if it would drown out even a little bit of the agony that’s tearing apart his soul.

 She raises an eyebrow at that.  “No,” She denies, sounding surprised.

 He shakes his head. Raises his hand to wipe away another errant tear that trails down his cheek.  “I believed in You,” he murmurs dully.  “I trusted in Your Plan, in the goodness of it, even when others… when he…” He glances briefly down at Crowley, tucked safely against his chest. Blinks away another tear.  “…when he questioned the goodness of destroying thousands of innocent souls.”  Admits in a quieter voice, “Even when I myself questioned it.”

 He looks toward Her again, a bitter smirk twisting his lips. He knows he’s pushing it.  Knows he shouldn’t speak like this to Her. And some part of him wonders with morbid glee whether She might just smite him on the spot instead if he pushes hard enough. He finds himself craving the instant relief that would bring.

 “I believed in Your Love and Your Mercy.  But I was a fool.” His chin wobbles ever so slightly, words sticking in his tear-swollen throat. “You’re not merciful… at all.  You’re cruel.  You watch humans commit atrocities against one another, and You do nothing.  You encourage your archangels to be callous and vengeful, allow them to go about plotting the destruction of an entire human species just for the sake of settling an old score. And You do nothing! And the one archangel who loved Your creations, the one archangel who cared… You cast him out and tossed him into a pit of boiling sulfur for nothing more than questioning the righteousness of Your actions.”

 He sucks in a breath, arms tightening impossibly around Crowley’s still form, and words continue to pour out of him – an unstoppable torrent of rage and grief.

 “And when he came to Earth, a demon, and You saw that he still cared despite all odds, that he still had the capacity to love, which You told us none of the demons do, You abandoned him!  You made him think he wasn’t worthy of Your love.”

 “I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. … Unforgivable, that’s what I am...”

 “You let Your other children torture him and… and kill him and… and I... I…”

 “I won’t make you Fall, Aziraphale.” Her calm, soothing voice interrupts the sob-broken ramble of his words.  

 She’s standing right before him now, Her warm, motherly gaze soft and inexplicably, apologetically sad. She seems tired somehow, he thinks absurdly as he watches Her shift Her attention to Crowley, reach a delicate glowing hand toward him.

 He tenses despite himself, moving to pull Crowley out of harm’s way, but Her touch doesn’t burn the demon, doesn’t engulf him in smiting, punishing Light.  She merely smoothes Her fingers over the unruly flame-red locks, slowly and lovingly as a mother would when she soothes her child to sleep for the night.  Smiles down at him with that same gentle, wistful smile.

 “I never meant for him to Fall either,” She confides, Her smile growing brittle as She rests her hand against Crowley’s cheek.  “It was a different time back then.  I was… young. I thought I knew everything, had it all figured out, everything set in motion as it was to be.”

 Absently, She runs her thumb along the smear of blood on Crowley’s cheek, the stain disappearing underneath her touch.

 “And this… bright, bright child of mine, he challenged me, asked me questions no one’s ever asked before, questions I realized I wasn’t ready to answer. And it… embarrassed me, made me angry.”

 Her hand drops back down to Her side, softly shimmering blue eyes rising to meet Aziraphale’s, and he’s surprised to see a hint of tears there, a pained flash of remorse.

 “I reacted poorly,” She admits, regret creasing Her features, making Her appear older, careworn.  “And it took me a little while to realize that.”

 “A few millennia?” he quips, but there’s no bite to his words, just an overwhelming weariness. Because none of this matters anymore, does it. Because Crowley’s still dead.

 Her lips twitch again, sorrowful.  “Something like that.”

 Aziraphale nods, closing his eyes against that unbearable softness he sees in Hers, a softness that looks and feels too much like pity. Swallows thickly against an ever-present bitter swell of tears.  “Why tell me all this now?” he wonders, voice empty. “Where were You when I… when he… when we both needed you,” he thinks, bitter.  “What is the point?”

 Warm fingers brush the side of his face, the touch – a soothing balm against his ravaged nerves, and he jolts, his eyes flying open in surprise as he feels that divine warmth flood into him, melting away all traces of anger and despair and filling those spaces with reassurance and hope.

 “I can’t change the mistakes of the past, Aziraphale,” She acknowledges in a regretful murmur, her fingers still lingering against his skin as flecks of golden light fall from Her hair, dancing in a shimmering mesmerizing veil in the air around Her.  “But I can make a clean slate for the future.”

 She leans down a bit to Crowley’s level, brings her lips to the demon’s forehead, pressing a light kiss against the cold, pale skin.  Gentle and chaste like the blessing of a mother’s love.

 She pulls away, the skin around Her eyes crinkling with contentment as She watches a speckle of golden light dance on the surface of the demon’s skin where Her lips have touched him a moment ago.  The light lingers for another heartbeat or two before it slowly begins to seep deeper into the skin until it disappears altogether.

 She nods, pleased; turns Her gaze back to Aziraphale, who’s been following Her movements with bated breath and desperate timorous hope.

 “Be well, my children,” She tells him, “be… Loved.” And then She’s gone – a blinding supernova that flashes instantly out of their plane of existence, leaving behind a halo of golden flecks that flutter about, shimmering, as their light, too, slowly fades away.

 Aziraphale pays them no heed.  For in that moment, in that very moment, he feels a small shudder go through the lifeless form in his frantic embrace, and his breath hitches on a sob of gasp as he watches the deadly wound knit itself closed, the gaunt chest beginning to move, haltingly at first, but steadier and steadier with every subsequent breath.

 “Crowley?” he calls, a pitifully hopeful squeak of a whisper. “Crowley?”  And nearly chokes in giddy, dizzying relief when the dark eyelashes flutter weakly in response, a thin sliver of yellow peaking out.

 “Oh, Crowley, oh, my darling, oh, thank God!”

Crowley shifts slightly within his grasp, his hand rising feebly to touch the angel’s face, a barely audible moan of frustration slipping past his lips when his hand drops will-lessly back down before making contact.

 Aziraphale catches it mid-fall, captures it gently in his own. Raises it to his lips to press a deep, reverent kiss into the trembling palm.

 “I love you,” he murmurs, leaning in to lay more grateful, tearful kisses on the dear face. “I love you s..so much!”

 His voice catches, unsteady, and he buries his face unashamedly in Crowley’s neck, his body shaking so hard, he barely registers the equally unsteady, clumsy brush of Crowley’s fingers against the back of his head as the demon tries to comfort him the best he can.

 “S’okay now, angel,” he huffs out breathlessly above Aziraphale’s ear.  “S’a…all gonna be okay.”

 He nods mutely against the side of the demon’s neck, feeling the reassuring hum of life underneath his skin.  “Thank You!” he whispers fervently in his mind, hoping that She can hear him, hoping She knows, sees how much it truly means.  

He lifts up his head once more, hungrily drinking in the sight of his beloved – still weak, still alarmingly pale, but alive, alive, alive!  Moves in to seal an embarrassingly wet, lingering kiss against his lips, his soul quivering with pure, unbridled joy when those lips move feebly in response.    

“Thank You!”

[hermannsthumb]

This is the anon from before I loved the fic you wrote about Hermann romanticising Newt, it was so cute!!! That being said could I also get a. goofier version pls :)

OF COURSE!!!!!! here is the not silly version for ref. im def stealing some of my own ideas for the second snippet in here hahahaha

Newt’s usually pretty messy, from his bedroom to his handwriting to his work ethic to his entire general aura, but there are varying levels of the kind of mess he’ll accept when it comes to his clothing. Little kaiju splatters on his shirt=totally cool, to be expected, Newt can deal with that. Dirt, sweat, blood (last one unfortunately more common than Newt would like), cool. Coffee? He draws the line at coffee stains. He’ll smell like sweat and he’ll smell like viscera, but he refuses to smell like stale coffee. Brings back too many memories of grad school.

He explains all this to Hermann as he strips out of his shirt, which is freshly stained with coffee as a result of a tragic run-in with a chair.

Hermann doesn’t seem to get it. “So you’re just going to walk around shirtless?”

Newt tosses both his tie and the stained shirt onto his desk. “No,” he says. “I’m still in an undershirt, aren’t I?” He holds out his arms to model it; it’s a little small and pretty tight over his stomach and pecs, and it’s also really dirty, but, you know, it’s a shirt.

Hermann gives him a look that’s indiscernible.

“What’s wrong?” Newt says. “Afraid I’ll be too distracting?” He flexes one of his flabby (Newt doesn’t have the time to work out much anymore, okay) biceps, then the other, and winks.

Hermann turns away very quickly. “Wear gloves, at least,” he says, staring directly at his chalkboard, unmoving.

“It’s free,” Newt says.

“It’s garbage,” Hermann says.

“It’s a whole piece of cake,” Newt says. “It’s totally fine.”

“It was in the garbage. You got it from the garbage.”

“Okay,” Newt says, and holds up his finger, “that’s true. But it’s free.”

“All the food here is free,” Hermann says, gesturing broadly to the mess hall with his soup spoon. “There are three more pieces of cake over there that weren’t in the garbage that you could be eating right now. For free.”

“Have you considered that I want the garbage cake?” Newt says. He shoves his fork into the garbage cake. “It’s a perfectly good piece of cake and it shouldn’t have been thrown out.” Newt is a very firm believer in the five second rule, and that it definitely applies to trashcans, too. “I’m recycling, Hermann. I’m saving the planet.”

“Were it that simple,” Hermann says. Newt shovels a bit of cake into his mouth, and Hermann watches him swallow in morbid fascination. An odd sort of soft fondness spreads across his face. “You’re disgusting,” he says. “And ridiculous.”

“I sure am,” Newt says. “Do you want the rest of your sandwich?”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I drop it on the floor first?” Hermann says, but slides the plate over.

The K-Science Division almost never gets invited to anything--bachelor parties, birthday parties, nights on the town--probably because they’re kind of weird and always smell funny and argue whenever they’re in a social setting, but someone finally slipped up and accidentally CC’d the both of them in an email chain for Eric’s 40th!. Newt has no fucking idea who Eric is, and a quick conference with Hermann confirms he doesn’t either, but Eric’s friends apparently rented out a private room in a karaoke bar and are offering to cover the tab of all the party guests so hell if Newt’s not taking advantage of it. Hermann, surprisingly, takes little convincing to go along with Newt’s plan.

“We were invited,” he says.

“Exactly!” Newt says. He expects Hermann needs the drink. “There’s the spirit. We’ll just buy him a gift card or a bottle of wine or something and we’re even.”

They don’t end up getting either of those things, but Newt finds an unused PPDC mug under the lab sink and he and Hermann steal some cookies from the mess hall to shove in it, which is good enough. They figure out who Eric is pretty quickly (he’s wearing an inflatable crown and a feather boa, and also he’s sitting under a large banner that says Happy Birthday Eric!) and he only looks mildly confused when Newt thanks him profusely for the invite and hands over the mug with a hard pat on the back, and also could you point him and Hermann--you remember Hermann, obviously, Eric--to the bar? Thanks, cool, cool.

(“Who are those guys?” they hear Eric say as they scurry off in the direction he pointed them in, and Newt decides he and Hermann better drink fast before Eric’s friends wise up there’s been a mistake.)

So, Newt gets a little hammered, and Hermann gets a little hammered, and they manage to go a whole hour without snapping at each other, and Newt’s feeling so good he decides to test out the karaoke machine. Hermann declines a duet, but he watches Newt with wide, shining eyes as Newt stumbles around onstage and slurs the lyrics of a song he can’t even remember the name of, and he’s the only one in the room that applauds when Newt’s done. “You were magnificent,” Hermann declares, when Newt trips his way back down to the table. “Bravo, Newton. Wasn’t he wonderful?”

Eric and Company say nothing.

Newt takes the seat next to Hermann, and Hermann still looks at him with those huge eyes and an equally huge smile. “You’re so talented,” Hermann breathes, like Newt was some sort of hot headlining act and not a short, sweaty, screeching drunk dude who tripped over the microphone cord twice. Newt’s not sober, but he’s aware enough to know that he’s a pretty shitty singer even when he is, so he’s not sure what Hermann’s going on about. But it’s nice to have Hermann compliment him. It’s really nice.

“Ha! Thanks!” Newt says. He reaches out to grab his strawberry daiquiri, but  Hermann grabs his hands instead.

“Newton,” he says. He looks very serious. “Newton.” He sways. Newt wonders if he’s gonna be sick. And then Hermann leans in and plants a very messy kiss on his cheek.

“Hermann?” Newt says, mouth dropping open.

Unfortunately, they’re interrupted by one of Eric’s friends, who seems to have finally realized Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb were invited by mistake and have wracked up a considerable tab, and they’re promptly ejected from the bar. Newt has enough presence of mind to call them a ride home (it’s weird being the responsible one), and Hermann clings to Newt’s side and leans on him as they wait at the curb for it. “Got everything?” Newt says. Hermann’s in his coat and he’s got his cane, and a quick pat of Hermann’s pocket confirms he has his wallet, too.

“Mmhmm,” Hermann says. He nuzzles Newt’s chest.

Newt can’t stop thinking about the kiss. “Hey, Hermann?”

Hermann blinks sleepily at him. Another time, Newt decides, when they’re sober. He’ll ask Hermann about it then. Maybe they’ll kiss for real after that.

“Nothing,” Newt says, and wraps his arm around Hermann.

[superjedders]

Reaching Out for Repercussions

"Jeez Gabe, ya never used to fight so dirty, s'min Talon teach ya?" The cowboy panted heavily, a gentle chuckle underlying his words as his peacekeeper leveled with the Reapers forehead. The so called, angel of death was on his knees wheezing and staring up at the gunslinger with a dark glint of hatred in his eyes. The white mask that typically adorned his features cracked and broken to allow shards of the man he was to show through. Patches of the old Gabriel Reyes masked with a smokey overtone and a scent of death that couldn't be replicated. Around the pair, a battle raged between Overwatch and Talon. Lena could be heard darting around with Genji at her side trying to take down the illusive widowmaker, Dva was teamed up with Lucio wearing down Talon agents while Torbjörn and Reinhardt took care of some hardier machinery Talon had brought to the fight. Each member had their own job to do, and for the Gunslinger, taking down Reaper had been his task. A task he had demanded repeatedly in meetings. A task he had assured other agents he was the only one capable of completing. A task that was his duty to fulfill. "It's Reaper...and lf you're expecting me to beg you're going to be waiting a long time ingrate." The deep gravelly voice of the Reaper drew an amused look to Jesse's face, the gunslinger shaking his head with a gentle sigh. He was more than aware of the blood trickling down the side of his face, a result of a blow delivered by the butt of Reapers empty shotguns not 10 minutes prior. The Cowboy took a moment to count his lucky stars that he was stood with the upper hand for once. He was still able to smell the gunpowder on him, thanking whatever gods that would listen for the luck he had been given. The cowboy had managed to avoid the brutal blasts from the Reapers shotguns and escape with just a few grazes and a new hole in the bottom of serape to show for it. " 'm not expect'n anythin' partner, and cut the act Gabe, I've known it's been you for a long time. Can't fool this cowboy I know ye too damn well" Jesse saw the Reapers clawed hand reach for the shotgun and flicked his weapon in warning tutting loudly "Leave that well alone darlin'. We're guna talk this out like gentlemen" the gunslinger rolled his eyes as a choked laugh forced it's way past the Reapers lips. "Talk?" Gabe shook his head "You've gone soft. I have nothing to say to you, so just kill me and be done with it. " he growled before a thought sprung to mind "Unless, you don't have the guts to go through with it?" his gaze met the cowboys, silently daring him to pull the trigger and prove him wrong. "Well, Deadeye? Take the shot" he goaded the gunslinger, scowling at him when the male showed no attempt to pull the trigger "Prove yourself, be the fucking hero" still the uninterrupted silence grated on his nerves, the cowboys eyes hidden by the brim of his hat, peacekeeper still leveled with between his eyes and yet not even a twitch on the trigger. "FUCKING TAKE THE SHOT!" spittle flew from Reapers lips as he barked at the former Blackwatch agent. Jesse shook his head, pushing the safety of his gun back into position with his thumb before letting his arm slowly fall to his side "No" he murmured, holstering the weapon "I ain't like you, and I ain't no hero." he licked his lips "Ima give ya a chance here Gabe" taking a moment to adjust his hat, brown orbs settled on the floor, his other hand resting on his hip before he cleared his throat and lifted his gaze again to lock eyes with his former Strike Commander. "A chance to what?" Reaper growled, eyes darting to his weapon briefly "Beg for my life? For forgivness? Because that's not going to happen-" "-im givin' ya the chance t'do the right thing." Jesse interrupted with a stern tone, his brow furrowing "Y'all gave me a chance years ago, bout time I returned the favour" Jesse sighed, scratching the scruff under his jaw before continuing "This ain't you Gabe. All the mindless killin' and torture? This shit is below even the Blackwatch belt. It's jus' not right and ye know it" a slow inhale allowed the cowboy to resume speaking "Jus' let us help ya. Angie reck'ns she can-" "-Angela?!" Reaper laughed, the noise resonating from his very core and sending a chill down Jesse's spine "She's the one who turned me into this...thing! This monster! She will pay for what she did to me, I will- "-She wants te help ye Gabe, she's been work'n on it fer months now. Jus' come with us and give it a chance"  "Don't act like you give a damn. You ran. Ran like a scared little boy all those years ago and now you're telling me to come back. For what?! TO be experimented on? Don't make me laugh. You're nothing but a coward!" Jesse pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly before shaking his head, refusing to allow the comments to spike his temper. "Y'all know me Gabe, 'm like an ornery squirrel. Can't sit in one place too long, I get all fidgety" he cracked a smile "Ye I ran, m'be I was a coward fer doin' so. But don't you ever tell me I didn't give a dam after all we did. Y'all set me on the straight an' narrow when nobody else would even look at me. Gave me s'min worth fightin' for and I can't never thank ye enough fer that" he glanced round briefly, aware that he was needed elsewhere in the battle and exhaled slowly to calm himself "Look, I'm not tellin' ye to come with me. I'm jus' askin' ya to consider it. We all wanna help ya Gabe, jus' give us the chance" the pair locked eyes, silence falling between them for a moment before Jesse cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck. "Well imma leave ye to it, I'm needed elsewhere" his word startled Gabe who had briefly let his claws brush over his gun "Think about it partner" Turning on his heels the cowboy took a meager two steps before Reaper snatched up a shotgun and rose to his feet, quickly levelling it with the cowboys back. The inaudible click of the safety drawing a sigh from Jesse and causing the gunslingers shoulders to slump slightly as he raised his hands in a meek surrender. "If yer Guna shoot me in the back, at least make it quick" Jesse chewed on the inside of his bottom lip and averted his eyes skywards, waiting for the loud bark of the shotgun and inevitable pain that would surely follow. "You always were a cocky son of a bitch. How you lived this long never fails to surprise me" Reaper lowered his gun slightly, then his gaze "I'll consider your offer....Ingrate." Jesse turned slowly and let a grin tug at his features, causing Gabe to shake his gun once in warning "Until then, if I find you at the end of my gun again I will not hesitate to take the shot. Understand?" Jesse nodded once, tipping his hat in confirmation, unable to stop the gentle smile on his face and slight smugness about him. "Take care of yerself Gabe" he nodded once at the Reaper, turned on his heels and jogged away, spurs jingling gently with each stride. O O O O "Howdy Darlin' miss me?" Jesse slid in behind cover, startling the poor Swiss medic who was seeking refuge. "Gott verdant Jesse...where have you been and what happened to your face?" blue orbs scanned his rugged features, noting the blood on the side of his head and the burn marks in his serape and on his armour. "Ran into an' ol' friend. Gave him an offer, reck'ns he'll consider it" Jesse let his back lean against the flipped over car they were sheltering behind as he rammed a speedloader into his peacekeeper and flipped the barrel effortlessly back into position. The gunslinger could feel the surprise gaze burning into him and smirked at the medic a she silently mouthed the name of the old Blackwatch commander. "Bingo" his robotic hand pressed itself against the floor as he readied to head back into the fight "Fer now we jus' wait and see. With any luck he'll see sense an' come see us" The second Angela nodded the cowboy vaulted over the car, his gun barking three times in quick succession as he took care of some Talon operatives lurking off to the side,their bodies hitting the ground second apart.  O O O O "Gah...!"  The sound of a body hitting the floor and the yell over comms drew the gunslingers attention away from firing wildly at the nearest roof top. He had been supplying suppressing fire for Genji and Tracer, keeping Widowmaker trapped behind a chimney while they worked their way over. Peacekeeper still aimed at the roof he pressed a finger to his ear "McCree reportin' yalright?" "N...not really Eastwood..." Jesse was immediately scanning the area when the sound of the Brazilian Dj echoed through the comms thick with static. Tipping his hat back Jesse scanned the area looking for the male soon had the gunslinger making a beeline for him popping off two more rounds into the Talon agent that had been looking for an easy kill in the downed medic. "Hey Partner, what's the problem?" Jesse crouched down beside the medic, wincing briefly at the mangled sound that came from Lucios damaged weapon. Low notes were warbles of noise while higher notes were like nails on a chalkboard enough to have the cowboy reaching over to silence it. "Hey Eastwood...t...thought you could all use a hand...guess it didn't work out" The medic was in pain, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow and a dark crimson stain soaking his side drawing a concerned frown from Jesse before he placed a finger to his earpiece. "Doc? We got wounded. Ima bring him to ya, be ready Angie" Jesse smirked gently "Y'all be alright. I've seen worse, jus' keep yer hand on that wound till Angies had a look" he glanced around cautiously, grateful for the rest of the team. They were stopping them from being sitting ducks on the battlefield. "Reck'n ye can stand?" an apprehensive look to the blades on Lucios feet punctuated his questions and caused the Brazilian to follow his gaze. "Ye-yeah" "Alright let's get ye up" Jesse wrapped an arm around Lucio, letting the Dj throw an arm around his neck before taking slow breath "On three....1...2.....3" He eased the man onto his feet, hearing the stifled cry of pain emitting from the medic. They took a moment, allowing Lucio to steady himself on his blades, his head hanging and pained inhales escaping him periodically. "Ready?" Jesse asked before slowly easing the man into motion actually finding himself grateful for the skates as it allowed him to basically wheel the medic towards their destination. "I'm sorry Eastwood..." Lucio gasped the apology, focusing on keeping his blades straight.  "Hey, you ain't got nutin to apologise for. Let's jus' get that wound seen to. Besides you bet me you would be able to change my taste in music, an' I ain't loosin' that bet" he felt Lucio shudder and realised it was a result of a laugh escaping him. "I'll change your mind cowboy...rest assured" he winced and lifted his gaze "Thanks Eastwood" a smile spread across his pained features, Jesse shrugging off the thanks and gently getting Lucio to stand on his own for a second while he scouted ahead. It wasn't too far, providing they could rely on the other agents distracting Talon. He was soon moving with Lucio again, the medic trying his best to ease up on his grip and apologising softly when sharp waves of pain would cause him to grip tightly, embedding his fingers into the cowboys arm. Jesse didn't mind, he'd been on both sides of this and a bit of bruising to his arm wasn't going to kill him, nor would the bullet wound lucio was dealing with- "Look out!" Jesse had a split second to react and immediately shoved Lucio away, sending the already injured Medic sprawling to the floor. His gloved hand reached instinctively towards his peacekeeper, but the speed in which the large man closed the distance was too much for the gunslinger. Brown hues widened in alarm, the cowboy taking a half step back before the large golden fist collided square with his chestplate,  his feet leaving the floor, a feeling of weightlessness washing over him followed by excruciating pain and the sweet embrace of darkness. The loud bang that echoed as the cowboy connected with the concrete wall drew a number of concerned glances. The brickwork cracked and crumbled slightly, a cloud of debris slowly dispersing skyward and revealing the scene. The gunslinger had left a dent in the wall comparable to the scenes at Numbani airport a few months prior. Sat on the floor, coated with brick dust, his head was lulled forwards burying his chin in his chest with his eyes closed. The gunslinger unaware of the large shadow approaching his unconscious form,the large male flexing the doomfist gauntlet at his side. "You should seize opportunities when they present themselves Reaper. Do not show weakness, it will be your downfall" Akande glanced back at the cloaked male, a stern expression on his brow before he reached down and plucked the cowboy hat from McCree's head. The tatty fabric drew a look of disgust from the Talon leader as he looked it over about to toss it aside when a yell from behind grabbed his attention. "McCree!" Genji was the first to try and get to the scene, leaping down from a nearby roof and running towards the pair, drawing his sword. His feet were light on the ground, silent but as Akande watched the ninja approach he simply smirked before securing the Doomfist gauntlet around the cowboys chest and beginning to tighten his grip. Genji skidded to a halt immediately, cussing under his breath and watching helplessly as Akande chuckled at him. "Try me cyborg. I will crush him like an egg if you even move an inch" he could see the anger radiating from the suit and was about to remark when a strangled cough escaped the cowboy in his grip. Blood spurred past the gunslinger lips, his eyes struggling to focus before he realised the danger he was in and reached for his gun only to grunt ad the grip around his torso tightened. "Be still...you have a very important role to play" Akande hissed. Jesse drew in a pained wheeze and shook his head "N...whassat?" His words slurred together, every breath rattling in his chest and sending shockwaves of pain through his ribcage. His brown hues shifted to settle on Genji first,the ninja more than ready to strike given the chance before he looked to Lucio. The medic had propped himself up and was watching with an alarmed expression, ignoring the blood coating his side. "Release him!" Genji spat the orders angrily, grateful when Lena blinked into view, horrified by the scene unfolding. "Why would I do that? I have collateral here and you? You have nothing." Akande hauled the gunslinger to his feet, ignoring the pained animalistic noise that escaped him and keeping the doomfist gauntlet secured on him,  the tatty cowboy hat still held in his other hand. "You will let us pass. You will allow Talon agents to leave and in return I won't crush the cowboy into dust" he could see Overwatch agents straggling in to find the scene,  nervous gazes passed between them. Deafening silence filling the air as the offer was contemplated. "Stand down. Genji, Tracer step aside" the instruction came across the comms from Soldier 76 and despite Talon being unable to hear what was said it clearly bristled the agents as fury and confusion set in. "Stand down Genji..." The cyborg growled at the command before stepping aside, tightening his grip on his sword angrily. "Smart choice" Akande shoved the cowboy into motion, watching the gunslinger struggle to stay on his feet, head hung and brown hues fixed on the floor. One foot infront of the other was difficult but he would be dammed if he was going to let himself be frog marched away like some trophy. Jesse drew a slow breath before subtly unhooking a flashbang from his side, waiting for just the right moment to- The flashbang erupted with a blinding light, Akande rearing back and shielding his eyes for a moment. Jesse rounded on his heels and pulled his gun, slamming the robotic limb against the hamer to fan the bullets. Needless to say, he was surprised when the Doomfist gauntlet slammed into his gun, knocking it from his hands and sending it skittering across the pavement. "Sombra now!" The electricity went down in an instant, plunging the area into darkness and cutting out various electronics. Genji had moved to dash forward and assist only to find his enhancements failing and sending him flat on his face, communications went down for all Overwatch agents and McCree found his robotic limb hanging unresponsive at his side. "Nice try cowboy..." Jesse heard the voice dangerously close to his ear before catching glimpse of the still functioning Doomfist gauntlet as it swung at him, pummelling him into the ground. His head bounced of the pavement violently, the blow driving the air from his lungs before Akande loomed over him. His vision was swimming, the doomfist gauntlet pressing down on him to keep him pinned against the ground. As Akande raised his other fist with a smirk Jesse squeezed his eyes shut before the blow connected with his face and the world went dark. "Move out! We're done here!" Akande hissed over comms, hauling the unconscious gunslinger over his shoulder with ease and beginning to walk away only pausing when he heard a hissed command to stop from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder he chuckled at the sight of Genji desperately clawing to try and get back on his feet, cussing his enhancements and no doubt glaring daggers through his visor. Plucking the tatty cowboy hat off the floor he gently tossed it like a frisbee, watching it skip once off the ground and gently settle in of the cyborg, his hand grabbing at it. "We will stop you..." Genji hissed the words angrily, drawing a smirk from the Talon leader. "Stop me? Like that?" He laughed "It'll take much more than that to stop me, but you are welcome to try" turning away he left the cyborg with his words and disappeared towards extraction just as the lights returned to the area. Not bad for a days work.

[1whoisvictorious]

Welcome back

Its a mystery how long its been since i’ve participated here, and im sure to whomever may be reading this that may very well not even be a matter of importance. I guess i came to say, “Hey” I hope all is well and that you’ve said you’re prayers and that even if you can’t say that everything is going your way... If you’re reading this you’re blessed. Blessed with life, blessed to be within a land that allows such freedom of accessible information and forums, blessed to be able to read.. hmm.... maybe these things are too simple for some , for the eye to percieve the blessing in just being, being here. I wish nothing more than for you to marvel at your good fortune ; that it may cause you to become all tingly inside and bring about bursting giggles and laughters. Adversity hates that: contentment. 

  With a degree of understanding , as i understand it, you child of the great i am , like me are an eternal soul in a temporal body , fearfully and marvelously formed out of dust from the earth and the work of the Almighty of Almighty’s hands. 

This next statement may seem controdictory or maybe counterintuitive- i can’t be sure due to my tendency to use big words for their taste and not always for their meaning (i ask for forgiveness for every grammar stickler who may come across my trend of thought- mentorship even if the admonishment comes gently) 

However even more so, to you vessels out there as afore mentioned, i must beg you’re pardon when i state: i dont give a damn who you think you are- with no diminishing of you’re true value which you may be lucky enough to be contiously aware of or not: From the perspective of one who’s essentricism and methedology for forming coping mechanisims amist an era of nieivety to which lack of common sense is most common: i’ve gone from jail cells, probation offices, flimsy friendships once firm for their turn in thier season seemed to fold and fumble once off season had come, and the pain that perices bone pulle me to my knees -the proper place for such an out poor and regurgitation of toxins i’d taken down like tonics for such a number of years prior.... Fuhcet whom you thin you are . because pride always ALWAYS comes before the fall- and if you’ve fallen down count your blessings NOW because you’re not only still on this ball of rock and gas flying through the known universe but THAT TO WHICH YOU’VE BEEN OUTSCOURCEING LIFE has deemed you worthy enough for business. look i can say i’m a christian or i can get in the WORD and show you all the reasons i’m not worthy of such glory. but Glory to Glory 

i was sitting on the inside of a plexy glass frame , looking into the eyes of a broken hearted mother when i found out that someone DIED , like actually relinguished their life to turn mine around. Lord forgive me because i’m not refferencing The Christ who is risen but it is because He is risen and His gospel sunk into a 106 year old man who surely hadn’t gotten glimpse of hair nore hide of me at least 15 years. But his IAM saw the  I AM within me o maybe the great I AM , was just so much within that man that, bewstoeing such great padons, he couldn’t give a damn about What image i was ashamed to say I AM , when fellow inmates looked at me.

I am a part of the system who has crossed over into the system of higher education. Fully funded, I was broken when i would speak to my  homies and fellow criminals, poorly judged and often judgmental addicts, prostitutes, and theifs; “Speak life guys” 

The power of the tounge can also produce life you know...no matter to what you’ve come to think you agree...... and like back when i was breaking down on the side of the road in my American made Ford Tarus mimicking the outside 100 degree weather , filling the resivior with jugs of water enscripted “Watch God Work” ...

i’m not going to lie i felt fake and an ass , and their was this whispering thought in the back of my head screaming “oh shut tf up and give it a rest” even when getting arrested , to its cruelty my only way of protest: Speak life.

I give this gift of memory in remembering my test trials and temptations to just die to a distortion of the lifestyle anyone forknown could’ve imagined for me. Here , a week before Sophemore semester, i’m actually working towards becoming a graduate rather that the next class charge, to which accoridng to the system i would soon be due to graduate 

To beg that with you’re consideration and acceptance you do so in accordance in agreement to the consequenses of the deal which had been cut a few paragraphs up , no backing out now, If you’re sick of breaking own weather on the side of the road or inside of your home , speak these words “ By the power of the tongue I speak life into my atmosphere.”  

Say that then. Speak that thing- too good to be true into existance. For the Great I AM  can surpass what you think yyou can consider you’re wildest dreams. From sweat stains prior to me making my place, to taking my place on the roster. Again i ust ask for pardon even though i’d foarmed ya of my absence of concern towards whatever the FUHCET is you THINK you are cause i thought i was worthless , I was as good as Dead, but today I AM as the Great I AM saw fit , The  blessings that filled once cracked lips : “ The more i speak life, the more i’m beginning to think ‘LIFE’ ; that which one can hold in the mind - I say be encouraged, for as you are , it is sure to come into your hands.....

Well, forgive me for my rant,

and speaking on with such bolddness but how could i be ashamed? 

The same one who deemed me good and blessed me upon creation, has given me such a story , as i sit here thinking of the , How dare i slip into incontentment, When i’ve gotten blessed in ways i never would of dreamed. As nothing more than a vessel made of dirt , it amazes me just how great , how awesome - cause inspite of having not yet been able to see it for myslef, I AM saw me for as i am having ben formed in his hands. And what he as for you in the midst of whatever the deceptions the adversary may whisper , YOU NEED ONLY LISTEN TO THE VOICE  the I AM  has given ya as you continue to

SPEAK LIFE

E.I.M 

[adambstingus]

5 Tips To Stick With A Gym Routine Long After The Free Classes Expire

I was 15 years old, standing in front of 20 individuals two to three times my age with dumbbells at their feet, staring at me and waiting for the next instruction.

It was my first time teaching a class, and my armpit sweat stains were particularly large.

My mouth was dry, and my face was bright red.

Although I was pretty sure I had passed through puberty, my cracking voice had me doubting even that truth.

But I did it.

I gave them a badass workout, and that threw me down a career path of personal training and fitness.

Since that first class, Ive seen many new clients come through our studio doors, looking vibrant and smiling from ear to ear.

They are so excited to begin their new exercise program.

They light up with how good they’re going to look in a few short months from now.

Pretty soon, all their friends will gather around to stare at their shredded eight-packs in awe.

Then they come in for session number two, and they arrive with a little less enthusiasm.

They move with some stiffness, and they arent as excited to be there.

Then, thats it.

No session number three.

No session number four.

Theyre gone.

I cant blame them. Ive tried and failed at countless life changes.

Ive failed at routines for fitness, nutrition, meditation, visualization, blogging, stretching and so much more.

Sh*t, I changed my college major four times before I finally graduated.

As many clients disappeared over time, I realized it wasnt nutrition, squats or kettle bells that kept people from looking and feeling better.

It was willpower and self-discipline.

We know salad is probably a better option than a burger for lunch, protein shakes are likely a better option than Cheetos and squats are better than couches (for our health, not our enjoyment).

As I built up more of my own shame from having the willpower and attention span of a 6-year-old, I began to wonder if there was something that could be done to overcome those barriers.

What can people do to stick with a program and really change their lives?

Why is it so hard to add new habits, and why do old habits die so hard?

Suck it up, and push harder?

Dont be a pushover, perhaps?

No, those words of wisdom make me want to curl up into a ball and give up trying to change forever.

So as I dug into some psychology reading and tactics for change, I found some things that helped me and my clients on our journeys for changes.

Here are some things you should try next time you embark on a change in your life:

1. Make small wins.

In psychology, there is this idea of chunking.

Chunking is the breaking up of big tasks into smaller, less daunting ones.

You can try tojust seta goal to wear your Lululemon gear around your house.

For the first week, just put on your workout clothes. Thats it.

Then on week two, put on your Lulu outfit and actually leave the house.

It’s notnecessarily to go exercise, but to get those small feelings of achievement.

You havent even gone to the gym yet!

But, youre building small habits and small wins that give you momentum to stick with your exercise program in the long term.

So many people write exhaustive workout programs rather than breaking it down into smaller, more attainable mini-programs.

For example, if you dont workout at all, theres no way youll stick with a plan to lift weights four timesper week, go on 5-mile jog twiceper week and run sprints every other day.

Instead, try to exercise one day per week, and build from there.

Dr. Jade Teta, founder of Metabolic Effect, always says,

The perfect plan that is not possible to do is not the perfect plan.

2. Prep your day.

Get in the habit of planning your tomorrow during today.

By writing out the activities you plan to do and then preparing for those activities the night before, you are much more likely to accomplish what you set out to do.

For me, I’ll write down what time I will blog in the morning and for how long, and which pair of comfortable underwear I will rock.

I set my coffee pot to go off 10 minutes before I wake up, and I have a list of five to six things Ill do that day.

I always execute on that plan right down to the undies.

But when simply I think about blogging, I often times come up short.

Students who actually write down the time and place they are going to study ahead of time will more likely actually study when the time comes.

These sorts of planning exercises release endorphins in your brain that get you excited for the activity ahead.

What time will you go to the gym? Are your exercise clothes laid out?

3. Make deposits in your willpower bank.

In her book, “The Willpower Instinct:How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, And What You Can Do to Get More Of It,” Professor Kelly McGonigal (winking at you, “Harry Potter” fans) talks about how willpower is exhaustible.

Its like a bank account: You can make deposits and withdrawals, and you can overdraft, too.

But instead of overdraft fees, your body pays by crushing a pizza or by drinking too much and hooking up with a particular individual you may not have otherwise chosen.

Anytime you make a conscious decision throughout the day, you are withdrawing from your daily willpower bank account.

The bigger the decision, or the more mental effort it takes, the more of your willpower money is withdrawn from your account.

This is why romantic affairs are more likely to happen at night after a long day of work, and that pizza is more appetizing at 6 pm than 6 am.

This is why tactics like preparing the night before and building momentum from small wins are so important.

Habits, momentum and preparations takelittle to no effort, and therefore, you’ll leave your willpower bank full to spend on other, more taxing activities.

There are also ways to make deposits into your daily willpower bank.

These can be activities like power naps, meditation, nature walks, having a conversation with a friend or a short, intense workout.

These things can build your willpower throughout the day, and they can increase the amount of willpower you have when you’re considering whether you actually want to invite someoneback to your apartment.

4. Shape your environment.

When I was 20 years old, I dropped out of school and moved in with my older sister and her husband, who both own fitness companies.

I went from having beer in my college fridge to seeing SanPellegrino when I opened the fridge door.

The popcorn in my cabinets was replaced with protein powder and oats.

The people surrounding me went from asking me about parties and girls to asking me about the most recent business and psychology books Ive read.

This shift in my environment completely changed my life and was a huge key to change.

I was now eating different things, spending my time differently, reading books, exercising more, writing, making more money and doing personal training.

Take inventory of the foods in your house, the people you hang out with and places you visit.

Shape your environment to help your goals, not hurt them.

5. Ask, Whats my resistance story?

Any time you make a change in life, youre going to be met with some resistance and discomfort.

This is completely normal. Everybody feels this way.

The difference between those who successfully change and those who dont liesin the story they tell about what that resistance means.

Research on persistence says that during tough times,there are two types of people: those whofail, and those whosucceed.

The first groupwhotends to fail or quit will tellthemselves thingslike, Its not worth it,Im too busy,It isnt for me orI just wasnt meant to do this.

The second group whosucceeds and pushes through the period of resistance will tell themselves thingslike, Pain is weakness leaving the body,”Its going to be so rewarding when I get there,Its worth it orNo pain, no gain.

Neither story is the absolute truth. They just lead to different results.

Being apessimist leads to quitting yet another program.

Being aoptimist provides the will needed to push pass the temporary discomfort.

Whats your resistance story?

Listen to the story you tell yourself when you get tothose inevitable hard times.

Once you become aware of your story, you have the power to change it.

When you change your story, youll eventually get there.

You will succeed, and all your friends will gather around to stare at your shredded eight-pack in awe.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/5-tips-to-stick-with-a-gym-routine-long-after-the-free-classes-expire/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/170256151512

[allofbeercom]

5 Tips To Stick With A Gym Routine Long After The Free Classes Expire

I was 15 years old, standing in front of 20 individuals two to three times my age with dumbbells at their feet, staring at me and waiting for the next instruction.

It was my first time teaching a class, and my armpit sweat stains were particularly large.

My mouth was dry, and my face was bright red.

Although I was pretty sure I had passed through puberty, my cracking voice had me doubting even that truth.

But I did it.

I gave them a badass workout, and that threw me down a career path of personal training and fitness.

Since that first class, Ive seen many new clients come through our studio doors, looking vibrant and smiling from ear to ear.

They are so excited to begin their new exercise program.

They light up with how good they’re going to look in a few short months from now.

Pretty soon, all their friends will gather around to stare at their shredded eight-packs in awe.

Then they come in for session number two, and they arrive with a little less enthusiasm.

They move with some stiffness, and they arent as excited to be there.

Then, thats it.

No session number three.

No session number four.

Theyre gone.

I cant blame them. Ive tried and failed at countless life changes.

Ive failed at routines for fitness, nutrition, meditation, visualization, blogging, stretching and so much more.

Sh*t, I changed my college major four times before I finally graduated.

As many clients disappeared over time, I realized it wasnt nutrition, squats or kettle bells that kept people from looking and feeling better.

It was willpower and self-discipline.

We know salad is probably a better option than a burger for lunch, protein shakes are likely a better option than Cheetos and squats are better than couches (for our health, not our enjoyment).

As I built up more of my own shame from having the willpower and attention span of a 6-year-old, I began to wonder if there was something that could be done to overcome those barriers.

What can people do to stick with a program and really change their lives?

Why is it so hard to add new habits, and why do old habits die so hard?

Suck it up, and push harder?

Dont be a pushover, perhaps?

No, those words of wisdom make me want to curl up into a ball and give up trying to change forever.

So as I dug into some psychology reading and tactics for change, I found some things that helped me and my clients on our journeys for changes.

Here are some things you should try next time you embark on a change in your life:

1. Make small wins.

In psychology, there is this idea of chunking.

Chunking is the breaking up of big tasks into smaller, less daunting ones.

You can try tojust seta goal to wear your Lululemon gear around your house.

For the first week, just put on your workout clothes. Thats it.

Then on week two, put on your Lulu outfit and actually leave the house.

It’s notnecessarily to go exercise, but to get those small feelings of achievement.

You havent even gone to the gym yet!

But, youre building small habits and small wins that give you momentum to stick with your exercise program in the long term.

So many people write exhaustive workout programs rather than breaking it down into smaller, more attainable mini-programs.

For example, if you dont workout at all, theres no way youll stick with a plan to lift weights four timesper week, go on 5-mile jog twiceper week and run sprints every other day.

Instead, try to exercise one day per week, and build from there.

Dr. Jade Teta, founder of Metabolic Effect, always says,

The perfect plan that is not possible to do is not the perfect plan.

2. Prep your day.

Get in the habit of planning your tomorrow during today.

By writing out the activities you plan to do and then preparing for those activities the night before, you are much more likely to accomplish what you set out to do.

For me, I’ll write down what time I will blog in the morning and for how long, and which pair of comfortable underwear I will rock.

I set my coffee pot to go off 10 minutes before I wake up, and I have a list of five to six things Ill do that day.

I always execute on that plan right down to the undies.

But when simply I think about blogging, I often times come up short.

Students who actually write down the time and place they are going to study ahead of time will more likely actually study when the time comes.

These sorts of planning exercises release endorphins in your brain that get you excited for the activity ahead.

What time will you go to the gym? Are your exercise clothes laid out?

3. Make deposits in your willpower bank.

In her book, “The Willpower Instinct:How Self-Control Works, Why It Matters, And What You Can Do to Get More Of It,” Professor Kelly McGonigal (winking at you, “Harry Potter” fans) talks about how willpower is exhaustible.

Its like a bank account: You can make deposits and withdrawals, and you can overdraft, too.

But instead of overdraft fees, your body pays by crushing a pizza or by drinking too much and hooking up with a particular individual you may not have otherwise chosen.

Anytime you make a conscious decision throughout the day, you are withdrawing from your daily willpower bank account.

The bigger the decision, or the more mental effort it takes, the more of your willpower money is withdrawn from your account.

This is why romantic affairs are more likely to happen at night after a long day of work, and that pizza is more appetizing at 6 pm than 6 am.

This is why tactics like preparing the night before and building momentum from small wins are so important.

Habits, momentum and preparations takelittle to no effort, and therefore, you’ll leave your willpower bank full to spend on other, more taxing activities.

There are also ways to make deposits into your daily willpower bank.

These can be activities like power naps, meditation, nature walks, having a conversation with a friend or a short, intense workout.

These things can build your willpower throughout the day, and they can increase the amount of willpower you have when you’re considering whether you actually want to invite someoneback to your apartment.

4. Shape your environment.

When I was 20 years old, I dropped out of school and moved in with my older sister and her husband, who both own fitness companies.

I went from having beer in my college fridge to seeing SanPellegrino when I opened the fridge door.

The popcorn in my cabinets was replaced with protein powder and oats.

The people surrounding me went from asking me about parties and girls to asking me about the most recent business and psychology books Ive read.

This shift in my environment completely changed my life and was a huge key to change.

I was now eating different things, spending my time differently, reading books, exercising more, writing, making more money and doing personal training.

Take inventory of the foods in your house, the people you hang out with and places you visit.

Shape your environment to help your goals, not hurt them.

5. Ask, Whats my resistance story?

Any time you make a change in life, youre going to be met with some resistance and discomfort.

This is completely normal. Everybody feels this way.

The difference between those who successfully change and those who dont liesin the story they tell about what that resistance means.

Research on persistence says that during tough times,there are two types of people: those whofail, and those whosucceed.

The first groupwhotends to fail or quit will tellthemselves thingslike, Its not worth it,Im too busy,It isnt for me orI just wasnt meant to do this.

The second group whosucceeds and pushes through the period of resistance will tell themselves thingslike, Pain is weakness leaving the body,”Its going to be so rewarding when I get there,Its worth it orNo pain, no gain.

Neither story is the absolute truth. They just lead to different results.

Being apessimist leads to quitting yet another program.

Being aoptimist provides the will needed to push pass the temporary discomfort.

Whats your resistance story?

Listen to the story you tell yourself when you get tothose inevitable hard times.

Once you become aware of your story, you have the power to change it.

When you change your story, youll eventually get there.

You will succeed, and all your friends will gather around to stare at your shredded eight-pack in awe.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/5-tips-to-stick-with-a-gym-routine-long-after-the-free-classes-expire/

[one-girl-once-upon-a-dream]

Hero’s Redemption (All MightxOC)

Chapter One

Summary: He was the number one hero. The symbol of peace. In the eyes of the media and civilians he could do no wrong. He was a man who could never, would never, hurt anyone. The perfect hero. But Toshinori knew better. He knew that no mater how many people he saved or how many villains he put away he had hurt someone. Hurt them so bad that he believed he never deserved to be forgiven even though it was the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world. He thought he was finally moving on, found something to occupy his mind from the hole in his heart but then suddenly shes back in his life. Hes tried to forget but now he has no choice but to relive all the decisions that led to this moment.

AN: So this is the first chapter and you don’t get to see a whole lot of my oc but I tried to set the whole thing up nicely without really giving anything away. The next chapter we get to see how they meet and we get some young All Might action~ Trust me lots of romance and angst is on the way my dears so be prepared! I also hope you enjoy my first fic for bnha <3

Some days were better than most for Toshinori. After accepting his teaching position and finding young Izuka it was the first time in a long time he could say that his days were more good than bad. It was a strange but welcome new feeling, a sort of contentedness that he hadn't felt in awhile. Today was one of those days that he was feeling almost as great as he did when he first became a pro hero. The school was buzzing with excitement among students and teachers a like. It had just been announced that a documentary was going to be filmed on the history of the school and showcasing the new rising talent. Everyone was itching to get in front of the cameras, the students to show off and the teachers to reminisce and show off their kids.

Toshinori in particular had been fretting over his students. Instructing them on the best way to handle interviews, reminding them all (with special focus on a certain someone with an explosive personality) to be on their best behavior and above all to be kind to the crew. This point he couldn't stress enough to them and he had even started to grind on the nerves of Izuku with his constant reminders. He just couldn't help it though, he knew that the crew was most likely very familiar with dealing with hero's and the dangerous situations it took to get footage but he was determined not to make things any harder on them. That and he had a particularly large soft spot for reporters, something he often passed off as having been around so many, the truth much more painful.

He refused to let himself linger on that though, he already spent most nights thinking about it as it was. Luckily he was kept busy with last minute preparations Mr. Principle had everyone working on. His task, which he had really given himself as he was avoiding cleaning duty, was checking in on his students and making sure they weren't too nervous. He spent the morning going around the school and checking on everyone until at last there was only one child left: Izuku. He had saved his successor for last deliberately for last wanting to be with him when the crew starting to show up. “This is your first time dealing with the press one on one so I know it can be intimidating but remember they are people just like you! So be kind and respectful and smile. Its a heros best feature,” he said giving a large grin and thumbs up as he quickly filled out into his hero form.

“That's great advice as always b-but … but I know this all already. I've listened to you trust me,” the kid said with a small sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as sweat poured down his forehead. Seeming to realize he said this out loud though he frantically waved his hands in front of him and stuttered out an apology.  Toshinori chuckled and patted his back.

“I know I've probably been a bit over bearing these past couple weeks. So thank you for putting up with my what I'm sure have been repetitive speeches my boy. I just want everything to go …. per...fect,” Toshinori faltered as he rounded the corner leading to the front courtyard. His vision had instantly became tunneled, all noise canceled out except for a single light laugh that made him almost crumple to the ground. He wasn't even aware of Izuku frantically asking what was wrong and pulling on his arm as he barreled into the crowd of teachers that had gathered to welcome the first arrival. It was the reporter who would be hosting and narrating the documentary, no one had known who was going to be since the production company had been having a hard time deciding. Yet never in a million years would Toshinori would have expected her.

Of course it made sense that she would be chosen once he actually took the time to logically think about it. She was a star when it came to hero news, not just the pretty face many news stations hired but often considered the authority on pro heros. She was there at the start of many modern day pros, their first major breaks coming from her publicity. She was so obviously the perfect choice that he felt like a complete idiot for not expecting it. If he had half the mind to think that it was even a possibility he could have come up with an excuse to be gone but now there was no escaping her. Of course all hope of hiding was also gone as soon as her eyes locked onto him, an intense gray blue storm behind black rimmed glasses.

It took all his power not to revert back in a shower of blood under that gaze and the only thing he could manage to do was stare at her with a gaping mouth. “Oh my gosh wow is that really … its Mari Udanta! All Might shes amazing, I watch her every night with my mom and follow her blog and I own all of her books. Her interviews are always the best, once she talks to a hero then they have it made! Actually, she was the first person to ever interview you wasn't she?” Izuku asked bouncing on the balls of his feet and flipping through his notebook trying to find a blank page whispering about needing an autograph.

Toshinori hoped that his whole body wasn't shaking as bad as his hands, giving a nod in response not trusting his voice in that moment. Luckily the boy didn't seem to mind his mentors sudden silence, Toshi happy he wasn't asking a million questions, but nearly fainted when he realized why. “Ahhh look!!! Shes coming right towards us, what do I say?!? I should leave immediat---- h-hi Miss Udanta. Im a big fan,” Izuku said his voice now three octaves higher and his red face clashing with his hair.

She smiled down at him, Toshi's eyes drinking in the curve of her dark wine red lips and becoming intoxicated by her perfume. It was just the same as he remembered, the very same floral notes that he had gifted her so long ago. “Well aren't you the sweetest,” she said patting his cheek “so you must be Deku right? I've heard that you aren't often far from All Mights side. I expect great things from you, so don't let me down okay?” she asked holding up a finger and giggling, every bit as nice as she appeared on tv. Which just made it even more of a shock to the system when she was so cold as she looked over to All Might “Its a shame thats not something you'll be able to learn from you're teacher though.” Then without another word.

As soon as the doors to the school swung closed Toshi collapsed to the ground, not even trying to stay out of the puddle of blood that formed as he reverted back to his true form. Izuku was looking at him with large eyes, his eyebrows somewhere in his hairline “What was that about All Might? She didn't seem like she liked you very much … but thats crazy! Why wouldn't she, you two have a long history together. You guys use to work together all the time, you saved her from at least a dozen different bad guys and you always said that she was the first reporter you would go to plus there was rumors that you two were, well, ya know,�� he bit his lip and looked around before whispering “an item.”

Toshi looked down at his blood stained hands, no energy to even wipe his mouth clean. “Yeah well history is sometimes the thing that drives people apart kid,” he finally said, putting a hand on the boys shoulder to help push himself up to a standing position. He traced her footsteps in his mind, the sound of her heels clicking on the cement echoing in his mind. “Come have lunch with me Midoriya. I've told you the truth about a lot of things so maybe its time I told someone the truth about this as well,” he finally said walking towards the building with his hands in his pockets, heart already aching begging him not to think about it. To try to forget about her for the last time but he couldn't, not with her so close. Besides Izuku was right, he did have history with Mari and it was time he let someone know the whole story. The whole terrible story about the one time in his life he had felt more like a villain than a hero.