#which is why my annotations have been so. uh. plentiful

[phoenixyfriend]

Anakin Assists the Jedi Council While On Medical Leave

AU brainstormed primarily by @atagotiak, @gelpenss, and myself.

Basically, a fix-it based in Anakin getting a peek into the daily life on the Council early, and accidentally Figuring Some Shit Out along the way, mostly because Palps Fucks Up.

So, Anakin gets injured in a way that limits him to Coruscant for a few weeks. He can still walk and talk, but he can't fight. The specific injury doesn't matter, just this:

Anakin runs errands on behalf of the council and sits in on meetings to take minutes as a "you're on medical leave but we need all hands on deck, congrats you get to be the secretary until we can send you on stabbing missions again" thing.

Also, there just aren't a whole lot of people with Anakin's clearance level. They had to send out Stass Allie to handle the mission that was originally next on Anakin's roster, and Anakin's the most convenient person to substitute into her position.

He's not super happy about this but he can more or less understand the point of it. Given that he gets antsy about needing to fight almost immediately, he can acknowledge the worth of having something useful to do, if only as the person who's writing down who says what and making sure everyone has the right file on hand.

(Besides, Obi-Wan jokes in a way that Anakin thinks might be encouraging, this is good practice if Anakin ever wants to be on the High Council himself!)

(This is a very helpful conversation.)

BASICALLY, Anakin is resigned to this but agrees because "Usually we have Master Allie handle this but we need her running that mission that was originally set for the 501st, so you get to fill in for her until you can switch back. Think of it as training for eventual mastery or admin or--listen, we're just really stretched thin."

Here's the key thing, though: Anakin isn't supposed to leave the Temple, for medical reasons, so Palpatine doesn't know Anakin is sitting in on Council meetings. They haven't met up since Anakin's last surgery, and because [muffled hand-wave reason] he didn't find out another way, like Anakin comming him or the Council giving him the heads-up about the change in attendance.

It's fine. He's just taking notes and doing preparatory research, he has the clearance, the Chancellor likes him anyway. Hell, they'd have had someone's Padawan doing this, before the war increased the necessary clearance levels. They'll toss in a quick message in the brief they send to Palps that he never reads anyway, and that's really all they need to do. Skywalker's getting some rounded experience and this way the medics won't be freaking out about him stressing his heart after getting electrocuted by trying to spar too early.

Palpatine doesn't talk directly to the Council, he just sends a recording the first time Anakin is there. It's a bit weird, but nothing goes wrong. Anakin's off-screen from whatever device they use to send a response, since he's not technically a member, just assisting for a bit on the part of Master Allie's duties that he's actually allowed to touch (and not the bits that are getting added to Mace, Plo, and Shaak's stuff).

The first four or so meetings are like that. Anakin starts having a bit of sympathy for the Council as he sees how many things they want to do that are hampered by the need for Senatorial approval, things that he would also want to do and didn't think required this much red tape.

About a week in, still mostly recordings with Anakin just sitting on the side playing paralegal, the wheel of fortune turns a few pegs.

Palpatine hands over a an order on the range of injury that a soldier should be treated for, "to ensure that republic resources aren't being wasted on clones that, while expensive, would actually be cheaper to replace than repair."

Oh, he dresses it up in prettier language than that. Anakin doesn't process it as such first.

The Chancellor manages to couch his phrasing in "prioritizing resources for taxpaying republic citizens and employees of the GAR," which... well.

The natborn commissioned officers pay taxes. The Jedi are employees. The clones are neither, because they're slaves.

Probably he frames it as the employees thing, very much the kinda language that sounds halfway ok unless you’re fluent in political bullshit.

And Anakin is really confused at first about why the council is upset by the order because, okay, he would PREFER to be able to use medical supplies on refugees when possible, but he understands prioritizing the soldiers?

He just looks up, totally lost, when someone groans and goes, "That's the third time this year, is he trying to get us all killed?"

And it vibes as such a genuine, aggrieved, sad reaction that Anakin is completely blindsided because it's not the sarcastic, petty resentment he kind of expected? It's just... desperate depression.

And someone gently has to explain that this is the third time they've had resources restricted to only GAR employees and that it's a polite way of saying "prioritize natborn officers, stop wasting resources on clones, we can replace them easier."

Or maybe he doesn't ask, because he's just there to take notes, not argue, and he can see the masters drawing up a response that amounts to "We would like to remind you that our soldiers do not fall into that classification, and to limit their access to our medical supplies is liable to cause a loss of life that we find unreasonably high. Please see the annotations attached to adjust wording so that the clones may receive the same level of care."

Anakin's internally just like "Yeah, that's phrased nice and addresses the main problem, Palpatine will obviously agree and change it!"

And then he comes in the next day and the response comes in and it's just dripping condescension about considering the clones actual people.

"This is why we can't use the bacta tanks on clones anymore, just the patches. We could use them at first, we had a few of the CCs get through fatal injuries with them, but they cut that off and said we could only use the tanks on Jedi and non-clone officers a few months ago. The Banking Clans keep tightening their belts on the army, and the Chancellor insists we put citizens first, and the clones aren't citizens. We've been arguing back as much as we can, but he keeps going on about the economy and we can't... we just can't, Skywalker. We're trying to save as many of our men as we can, but..."

Something like "Allocation of resources reiterated, the Kaminoans have assured the senate that the Jedi are far from exhausting the resources ordered."

And Anakin's like. He can't blame the council for lying about Palpatine's past or future actions. He just saw Palpatine's actions. Those actions were to order people under his control to throw away lives he saw as replaceable commodities.

These are his friends' lives.

His soldiers are being thrown away by a man in a tower that he trusted.

And then that man has the gall to suggest it's the council's fault.

Palpatine is good at what he does, especially in public, he dresses it up in flowery language and everything, but Anakin's just like "Those are my FRIENDS and also this is??? How slavers talked about their property on Tatooine???? FRIENDPATINE, WHAT THE FUCK."

Anakin can be passive aggressive sometimes as well as outright aggressive. So if he brings up the guidelines and why they make him upset in general terms, and Palpatine says something about how he’s sad the council doesn’t care about the clones...

Anakin, internally, having just watched the council scramble to save as many clones as possible within the guidelines that Palps handed down: Uh-huh.

(Anakin is just the gay horror teeth gif from queer eye.)

Just. “Yeah, funny you say that, Palpatine! Because as I remember, you told the council not to waste more resources than necessary while Mace Windu was arguing to expand the treatment range!”

Palps doesn't even have time to salvage the situation or attack Anakin because Anakin just bulldoze rants for fifteen minutes and then storms out.

Anakin... maybe does a little treason and gets a copy of the orders so he can ask Padme "Hey, can you explain the politics of this?" and doesn't tell her who wrote it so she isn't biased (he tells her that this is why he's not sharing the author's/speaker's name), and just lets Padme pick apart all the 'this is a nice way of saying they don't view the clones as people' details.

Alternately, someone on the Council sees Anakin dithering and manages to get him to admit that he's not great at political language and wants to ask someone to help him understand the full implications. The person--Mace? let's go with Mace--is aware that Anakin is on good terms with Senator Amidala, if not necessarily aware of the depth of said relationship. Mace points out that he's probably going to be seeing her soon just because he usually does and, as a Senator, she can get easy access to these sessions since they're not about specific missions, just allocation of resources, etc. It's not an optimal solution, but she's got a bit more free time than anyone else Anakin knows with the clearance levels, like Order members that are actively involved in the war effort.

Anakin dithers and panics and Mace, trying to be helpful, tells him that plenty of Jedi have made friends among the Senate over the years, didn't you know Qui-Gon Jinn was a personal friend of Former Chancellor Valorum?

At any rate, Anakin goes to Padme and asks her to explain it to him, because she knows how to phrase things so he gets it.

Anakin has to have her pause and he goes outside and destroys some things halfway through.

(Anakin maybe thinks back to the times Padmé or Obi-Wan were really obviously frustrated and when he asked, they said stuff like “I can’t stand Palpatine rn, sorry Anakin I know he’s important to you and you don’t want to talk about politics, let’s just talk about something else.”)

(Obi-Wan: I don’t trust Palpatine Anakin: you just don’t like politicians in general Obi-Wan: yes that is also true)

(Obi-Wan does like Bail and Padme but he does also talk a bit about how politicians generally aren’t to be trusted.)

[senacal]

Dr. Charles Xavier (Pt. 1)

Request: Requested by @saltysebastianstan

Pairing: Charles Xavier x Fem!Reader

Part 2

Prompt: Could you please do a Charles Xavier x female reader, where Charles has been asked to do a lecture about mutation at your non-mutant university, and let’s say he takes a liking to you due to your knowledge/interest rather than the other girls.

OH MY GOD, YOU COULD TURN THIS INTO A SERIES... IMAGINE

Warnings: None that I come to mind.

Author’s note: I am going to do my very best to fulfill this request because I love it, and I love Charles, and this is the first Charles Xavier’s request I have had, so I hope I do well. I have been thinking of this all week, and I did some research about a mutation to accurately portray a sort of understanding about the subject lol Xx.

Requests are open! 

(Gif not mine)

For a whole week, (Y/N)’s nerves were on fire. She knew she was excited, why wouldn’t she be when her dreams were about to come true? But she didn’t understand why she was so nervous. The whole week she couldn’t sit still. (Y/N) was continually shaking her leg, fiddling with whatever was in her hands, or drumming her fingers. (Y/N) just wanted to make sure that she had everything she needed before the most important day of her life happened. What day would that be? Well, her university, (Uni of your choice), had recently booked Dr. Charles Xavier, the current expert on Mutations to give a lecture, and (Y/N) was excited because she had a keen interest on the field. 

(Y/N) knew there were people out there with unique abilities, sure she wasn’t one of those people, but it was okay because she didn’t think she’d be able to handle the responsibility and stress of continually having to hide who she was. The reason she knew about these unique individuals was that she had met a mutant when she was a young girl. Instead of being afraid, she was intrigued. It was fascinating seeing the way the mutant maneuvered to keep themselves hidden from prying eyes, though it didn’t seem to work since (Y/N) caught sight of them. Regardless, ever since her encounter with that mutant, she had been obsessed with learning more about them. 

With her limited access to mutant knowledge, she was only able to find a few things out about their biology. It wasn’t too different from human biology, but the added X-Gene made a mutant, a mutant. So it was a dream come true when she learned that Dr. Charles Xavier would be giving a lecture about mutations. Perhaps her excitement was transferring into anxiety. Dr. Xavier, as the guest lecturer, was possibly her only shot at comprehending her preferred subject to the full extent. Perhaps it was the fear that she would never be able to turn her major into an actual career. Her family was always telling her to change her field of study to the point that (Y/N) had told them a little white lie. She may have added a minor in medicine, but she didn’t give up her interest in mutation. It was enough to appease her family, and she continued to learn about mutation under their noses. It was a win-win situation. 

So here she sat in the lecture hall, awaiting Dr. Xavier’s arrival. She was tapping her pen against her notebook, absentmindedly looking around the room. She made sure to get a good seat where she could both see and hear him. She also made sure she had extra pens in case her current one crapped out on her. 

The room was already starting to fill with a big crowd, and the lecture wasn’t due to begin for ten minutes. (Y/N) went from tapping her pen to shaking her leg. She bit the tip of the pen and glanced at the people around her. They were talking animatedly about their daily lives, who was screwing who, who was a bitch, or who was a total hottie. (Y/N) sometimes found herself wanting to fit in among them, but then again, most of these girls were sorority sisters who only cared about partying. Don’t get her wrong, they were beautiful girls, and they all had their strengths, but they were rather dense when it came to their social lives. 

(Y/N) huffed out a small breath as she looked down at her notebook. There were various pages filled with notes of her own, but she was opened to a blank page so she could compare her notes to the brilliant mind of Charles Xavier. (Y/N) dated the page at the top right corner to pass a fraction of the time. 

“Excuse me, may I have your attention please?” 

(Y/N) looked up to the podium to see the Dean calling everyone’s attention. She glanced at the clock to see that the lecture would begin soon. (Y/N) inhaled anxiously and exhaled softly. She faced the front, eager for the start of the speech. 

“Wonderful, wow, I wasn’t expecting such a big turn out,” The Dean spoke with a slight chuckle. “Well, as you all know, Dr. Charles Xavier will be joining us shortly to inform us all on Mutations. As usual, be respectful, no talking unless addressed, and don’t hesitate to ask questions.” The Dean looked off the side of the stage, “Very well, everybody, welcome Dr. Xavier.”

The crowd clapped as none other than Charles Xavier walked on stage. He had a broad smile plastered on his lips, and he waved to the masses.

“Wow, when Dr. Gregory said a big turn out, I believe he was downplaying it just a little. Welcome, thank you all for joining me today,” Charles cleared his throat, “Now, I know many of you are probably wondering why I’ve taken an interest in such a broad subject, mutations can be anything. From the color of your eyes to the dimples in your cheeks. And, of course, physical modifications,” Charles’ gaze scanned the crowds, “The answer to that is simple. I find it fascinating,” He smiled.

(Y/N) couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, ‘That makes two of us.’

Throughout the lecture, (Y/N) noticed that Charles was looking around the room as if he was looking for someone. It was a possibility that he was only surveying the crowd, but it was almost too constant for that. He had to be looking for someone, but who? (Y/N) shrugged off the thought and instead chose to focus on his words.

“Of course, this leads us to the homo superior, distinguished from their possession of the X-Gene. Now, this gene, placed on the twenty-third chromosome in a person’s DNA, allows for the greatest mutation experienced in reality.” 

(Y/N) scratched down notes as quickly as she could, ‘If that’s the case, would that make the father a deciding factor for its inheritance or the mother?’

“Despite the thought of the mother carrying the child with an X-Gene, the X-gene is transferred from the father. It’s almost like the father is the deciding factor in both sex and mutant status,” Charles spoke as if he heard (Y/N)’s question, which was ridiculous unless he did hear her thoughts. 

Once the lecture was over, (Y/N) couldn’t help but feel accomplished. She had learned a lot more that day than any other. As a bonus, (Y/N)’s questions seemed to be answered even though she hadn’t asked any out loud. It was the best day of her life, just as she had predicted. (Y/N) stayed in her seat, scanning the notes she jotted down; she made small annotations next to the one’s that she would cross-reference with her own. Absorbed in her mind, (Y/N) didn’t notice the approaching figure or the lingering girls next to her.

‘Now that I’ve distinguished that the father is the deciding factor in passing on the X-Gene, perhaps it’d be easier to determine their birth rate. I don’t believe pregnant mutants have a reliable doctor to ease them through their pregnancy.’ (Y/N) bit the tip of her pen, ‘I think I know what I want to practice now.’ She couldn’t help but feel giddy. It turned out her added major in medicine wouldn’t be a waste after all. She’d learn all she could about practicing medicine and mutants so she could help bring them into the world. 

“Dr. Xavier! You’re British, right?” 

(Y/N) looked up from her notes and noticed the blonde girl sitting next to her became engaged in a dull conversation with Charles. She couldn’t help but raise her brows at the poor attempt at flirting. It was pretty apparent that he was British, what with the accent and all. 

“Uh, yes, I am,” Charles glanced in (Y/N)’s direction as if he were hoping she’d save him from the conversation.

“That’s so cool, I’ve always wanted to go to England, but then I thought Paris would be a better destination, you know?” The blonde girl shrugged, “Have you been to Paris?”

“I have actually. I’ve given plenty of lectures in the city quite a few times. How did you find the lecture? Did you enjoy it?” Charles asked in the hope of engaging in a conversation about his work.

“Oh, I got lost after you mentioned something about the mRNA or whatever, but I liked hearing you talk.” 

(Y/N) laughed to herself, ‘At least she admitted it.’

‘Indeed, but I’d much rather have a competent conversation about my lecture rather than the expenses of Paris.’

(Y/N) frowned and looked up when she heard Charles’ voice in her head. ‘What the fuck?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to invade your mind, but I don’t think I can continue to converse with this poor girl.’ 

(Y/N) shook her head, her eyes wide. “Dr. Xavier?”

Charles looked at her, relief evident in his expression, “Yes, Ms…”

“(Your Full Name), I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?”

“Of course! I’d be happy to answer any questions you have.” Charles politely excused himself from the girl with whom he’d been conversing. 

(Y/N) packed her notes and utensils, “So, you’re a telepath?”

Charles shrugged as if to say ‘guilty.’ 

“So, I have to ask, your lecture, were you basing your responses from the questions I was thinking?” (Y/N) wondered. 

“Partly, yes. It was a first that someone’s questions were loud enough for me to hear without meaning to,” Charles shoved his hands in his pockets, “I was pleasantly surprised, of course, even more now that I’ve placed a beautiful face to the beautiful voice.”

(Y?N) nodded, “Does that line work at all?” She stood from her seat so that she could look at him without tilting her head too much. 

“I beg your pardon?” Charles caught off guard, shifted where he stood. 

(Y/N) huffed an amused breath, “I appreciate the compliment, Professor Xavier, but I’m only interested in what you have to say about mutants and mutation.”

“Why is that?” Charles asked.

“Just like you said, it’s fascinating.” (Y/N) winked at him, “now that I’ve saved you from your conversation, I’ll be on my way. I’ve got a class in an hour.” (Y/N) waved and left Charles, where he stood. 

“Charles, did she just brush you off?” Raven asked from behind him. 

“I… I think so.” Instead of being offended, Charles bored a smile.

“I have to get her number because that was the best thing I have seen all week,” Raven boasted.

Charles rolled his eyes, “Oh, shut it, Raven.”

“C’mon, you can’t tell me that you don’t want her number either,” Raven stepped next to Charles and rested her arm on his shoulder.

“Of course I do. If you had heard the questions (Y/N) was asking, you’d be just as intrigued.” Charles brushed off Raven’s arm, “Let’s go now; I’m ready to head home.”

Raven raised her brows, “What, no parties?”

“No, I’m not really in the mood.” Charles shrugged.

“Wow, I have to mark this day down for the history books. Charles Xavier doesn’t want to go to a college party!” Raven clutched her heart, “I never thought I’d see the day.”

Charles rolled his eyes. He walked away from her, intending to go to his car.

“Charles, just one party, please?” Raven begged as she skipped to catch up with him.

“What for? You never want to go to parties.” Charles scoffed.

“Because, I want to get drunk,” Raven grinned.

“That makes the two of us,” He conceded, “Fine. We’ll go to a party, but then we are going home.”

“Deal,” Raven beamed. She just hoped that girl would be there and knowing Charles; he was thinking the same thing.

[neuronary]

I would like to hear more about lighthouse keepers

okay unfortunately it’s almost midnight so you get my brain and thoughts on this topic for the amount of time it takes for me to finish my tea but the general vibe is this:

the lighthouse keeper lives in the lighthouse. they have to, to be able to keep up with their duties properly. it’s a lonely life, but they are, for the most part, content with it. they have their cat, and the pigeons that roost on the isle in summer, and the books they borrow from the library. they are tall, and awkward, and quiet.

the librarian is chatty, personable, and always eager to discuss books. they’ve read everything in their library, although that number isn’t as high as they’d like it to be, and plenty more besides. they know everyone in the village and make routine visits to the local school to try and increase literacy.

whenever the lighthouse keeper comes to the library, the librarian asks what they thought of the books they’re returning and, without fail, every time, they shrug and say, softly “it was good”.

which, like, good for them, but the librarian is trying to tailor some recommendations, here. they need more than that! so they’re on a one-man-mission to get the lighthouse keeper to name a favourite.

until they run out of books.

“i... no, you’ve read that one already, you borrowed it in may, hold on...”

the lighthouse keeper always stops at the library last, so they don’t have anywhere to be for the next few hours, and they sit, waiting for the librarian.

“you’ve, um. you’ve read everything we’ve got-- hang on, have you been going through in alphabetical order?”

the lighthouse keeper nods, slightly confused. “it worked as well as any other way?”

eventually the librarian digs up a single copy of the house of spirits by isabelle allende that they didn’t even know was there.

“sorry we don’t have more. i, uh, i can look about getting more stuff, but the funds are pretty non-existent at the moment.”

“hm. that’s a shame. i suppose i can just reread some, though.”

but like hell is the librarian gonna let that happen, so they just decide to waylay the lighthouse keeper at the farmer’s market the following week and give them a whole stack from their personal collection.

of course, those are also heavily annotated and pretty worn, but finally, finally, they get some more in-depth comments than “it was good”.

of course, 90% of the new comments have more to do with the librarians comments than the books themselves, which. okay.

“add stuff?”

“are you sure? they’re your books, i wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“i’d love you to.”

and so the love letters begin. a combination of agreements and fierce bickering over certain characters. ‘what are you talking about? this line is perfect!’ scribbled underneath ‘wtf that’s so cliche’. ‘mr rochester can get it tbh’ followed by ‘ew no what a creep’ in slightly different coloured ink.

eventually, the librarian hands over one last book, peace in oblivion. there are no annotations.

“why haven’t you written in it?”

“because i wrote all of it.”

“oh.”

the lighthouse keeper hands it back, full of notes on the librarian’s turn of phrase and lines underneath their favourite parts.

they’ve finally found their favourite book.

[katahnisharma]

the bookworm | t.h.

Summary: Tom keeps seeing this girl on the train, and he may or may not have found out where she works.

Warnings: it’s very soft my guys and i’ve had a rough week with bad news so I hope you guys like it let me know what you think :)

A/N: Sorry I’ve been so MIA recently, life has been tough but I'm trying to get through the asks in my inbox (no promises) and the Press Tour which has felt a little forced so I'm taking it slow thanks for being patient. Also Tumblr apparently won’t let me link things so if you’re looking for my masterlist, playlist, taglist, or writing challenge it’s in my bio ♡

Tom had been watching you for weeks.

He was fascinated by you, the cute girl on the subway. Your routes crossed in the afternoons, when Tom came back from his walk and you went for your part time shift at the bookstore across town. It was a small independent bookstore, the kind that remind you of cozy libraries and cups of hot tea. Tom had passed by it numerous times, but he hadn’t ever been interested in it until you came along.

God, you were so pretty.

The first time he saw you, you were wearing an oversized sweater, light washed jeans, a pair of brown ankle boots, and your hair was in a messy bun. A few strands escaped the hair tie and they fell around your face, framing it perfectly. Tom tried not to stare, but he couldn’t look away. It was like he was in the presence of an angel, the most perfect human being he’d ever seen. You were such a contrast, a soft warm aura in the midst of stuffy crowds of commuters.

And then there were the books. 

Everytime Tom saw you, you were reading a new book. He had no idea how you did it, managing to finish a whole book in a day. But there you’d be the next day, your nose stuck in a new book. Tom smiled like an idiot when he saw you pull out another book, it made you so intriguing. Sometimes, he’d go home and look up the titles to find out what you liked to read. His brothers found out and teased him mercilessly, laughing at how whipped their older brother was for a girl who didn’t even know he existed.

So here he was, standing outside the bookstore with his heart in his hands.

There were so many things that could go wrong with this. You could have a boyfriend, you could think he was a creepy stalker, you could throw a book at him and tell him to get out. The worst fear of them all was that you’d recognize him as a famous actor and want nothing to do with him. But Tom knew that if he didn’t do this, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.

Because what if you were the one?

The door jingled as Tom stepped inside, the warm air hitting him in the face. It wasn’t as big as he’d imagined, but it was beautiful. The bookcases lined the floor, dark brown oak structures filled with multi-colored books. There were fairy lights strung across the ceiling and pictures of beautiful landscapes across the walls. In one corner was a chair next to a fireplace and a cup of tea next to it. The store looked empty, the front desk littered with books but no one behind it.

Tom ventured forward a little, smelling tea from behind the desk. It looked fresh, so someone must be about. He noticed a book on the desk and smiled to himself. The Bell Jar, the book you were reading this afternoon when he last saw you. It was a little worn, so Tom assumed it was one of your favorites. He ran the pages through his fingers and chuckled when he noticed you’d written things in the margins. Little lines of poetry or annotations to yourself. Tom had no idea how someone could be as cute as you, and he didn’t even know your name.

A noise brought his attention to the middle aisle, a bookcase with a plaque that read Romance. Tom walked over and his breath hitched. There you were, atop one of those slidey ladders he’d seen in Beauty and the Beast, looking like an angel. Your hair was loose and cascaded down your back in messy waves. You wore a pair of black overalls with embroidered flowers, a light purple shirt, and a pair of pale pink converse. A stack of books was located by your feet, which you were currently trying to shelf. Tom tried to speak, but he didn’t know what to say.

I love you, I’m in love with you and we’ve never even met.

Suddenly, you lost your footing. Your right foot caught on the last rung and you gasped as you felt yourself fall backward. Tom broke out of his daydreaming and sprung into action, catching you in his arms. You yelped, not sure where the young man had come from. And yet here he was, holding you in his arms. Your face flushed.

“Oh my god, thank you.” You said, your breath coming back to normal. Tom set you down shakily, making sure you could stand. Then you turned to face him, and you almost died then and there. You clamped a hand over your mouth to stop from screaming.

“Y-you’re Tom. Tom Holland, Spiderman. What are you... what?” You stuttered, nervous as hell. One of your favorite actors of all time was standing in front of you, and he’d just caught you from a fall. Tom stood there, trying to think of something funny or clever to say. But he took one look at your beautiful face and his senses left him.

“Yeah, I’m Spiderman. I mean Tom! Tom Holland, that’s me.” Tom said, trying to shake off how stupid he sounded. He put a hand on the bookcase behind him, trying to get some leverage. You picked up a book to hold to your chest, anything to calm you down. Out of habit, you crossed and uncrossed your ankles, just something to do.

“Wow, I can’t believe...thank you. That could have been pretty bad, it’s high up there.” You squeaked, running a hand through your hair. You were well aware you looked ridiculous, but there wasn’t much to do about it now. Tom finally managed a smile, though it was a shy one.

“Of course, no problem. Glad you’re okay.” He said, taking a small step forward. You blushed as Tom’s eyes met yours, something in them could turn you to mush. You took a step forward, still clutching the book to your chest. The smell of the books and the tea you’d left on the desk was intoxicating.

“I’ve, uh, seen you before. On the train.” Tom said, watching your eyebrows furrow. Crap, he shouldn’t have said that. Now it was all ruined, you would think he was a stalker and run him out of the store. What possible explanation could he give for knowing where you work? Could God just strike him down already?

“Me? You’ve seen me on the train? When?” You asked, not sure whether he’d seen someone else and confused it with you. After all, why would a famous actor have taken notice in you? He must have meant someone else, there was no way it was you.

“Everyday, really. You’re always on the train at the same time I am, I see you across the car. Like casually, of course.” Tom said, realizing he was revealing how obsessed he was. You giggled, surprised that someone so smooth could be so nervous around you. It was endearing, honestly.

“Oh, I���m always reading. No wonder I’ve never noticed you before.” You whisper, staring at the shelf behind him. It was so hard to look him in the eyes, you felt like a fraud. Tom should be out with Zendaya or some other celebrity. Not here in your little bookstore with someone like you.

“I know, you’re always reading a different book. Today it was The Bell Jar, right?” He asked, and you smiled at the fact that he had remembered. You walked back to your desk, Tom behind you, and put the stack of books on top to the side.

“Yes, it’s wonderful. Have you read it?” You looked to Tom who gave you a bashful grin. He had not, indeed, read the book. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d opened one. But Tom couldn’t bear to tell you that, so he told a white lie.

“Yeah, one of my favorites. I’ve read it tons of times.” He said, smiling when you did the same. You knew he’d never read The Bell Jar, but you didn’t mind. Tom was kind and that was all that mattered. You’d met plenty of men that were avid readers but unfortunately total jerks. Tom could have stared at you all day, but the little bell broke the two of you out of your trance.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Can I help you?” You asked, as the old woman smiled at the two of you. She shook her head, wandering near the fireplace. After she warmed her hands, the woman turned back and looked at the two of you.

“What a charming couple you two make.” You turned fifty shades of scarlet, Tom doing the same. The old woman walked through the bookshelves, sensing the two of you wanted some time alone. You looked to Tom, giving him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, that was so awkward. I’m sure you have someone waiting for you, I don’t want to keep you.” You checked the cash register, not trusting yourself to look at him. He was like some weakness to you, and you wanted nothing more than to get him out so life could return back to normal. Tom smiled at you, feeling at ease that you were as nervous as he was.

“Actually, that’s why I came here. You see, I’ve been seeing you for weeks and I really like you. Would you maybe want to go on a date with me?” Tom asked, searching your eyes for anything that would indicate a yes. He was so nervous, his heart pounding in his chest. There were so many ways this could go wrong, and it would have killed him to hear you say no.

You nearly fainted when you heard him speak. Tom Holland had been watching you for weeks? And he wanted to take you out on a date?

Was the world coming to an end?

“Um, a date? With me?” You couldn’t stop yourself from smiling, the whole thing was unbelievable. You half expected someone to burst in with a camera saying the whole thing had been a prank. But you waited for a few seconds and nothing happened, Tom waiting for you to answer. Since you couldn’t speak, you just nodded through wide eyes.

“Thank god, I thought you’d refuse me.” Tom laughed, as you bit your lip to stop from smiling. You extended a hand across the desk, your face lit up in happiness. Tom took it, using his other hand to brush a stray hair behind your ear. You shook his hand, smiling when you felt his hand meet yours.

“Y/N, nice to meet you.”

“Tom, nice to meet you too.”

TAGLIST (let me know if you want to be taken off!): @tommyparkerr @grandmascottlang @toms-order @darling-parker @spiderboythomas @cutiehollands @peeterparkr @jupiterparker @inlovewithmob-tom @veronicas-littleworld @da5haexowin @sergeantbxrnxs @hazsterfield @itsholyholland @underoosstark @stormyholland  @let-me-luve-you @smexylemony @roses-and-sweaters @musicgirl234 @its-livelovelife @steve-thotgers @tiny-friggin-human @lovelyh0lland @blueberry-butterscotch @keylla-dunspeh @lucille-lovely @yeahbutmarvel @lokiislowkeyhot @spideymood @yoharryyouawizard @tomhollanders2013 @celestialparker @letthembehappymcu @jnej @spiderman-n @positiveparker @winterssoldierrs @heycreehere @galaxy-parker @sdrecsfics @doimakeitthroughthenight @wronglanemendes @brokensimpson @naikia @spnsoap @ninetypoundsofasthma @quitetommy @voltronshepard @marvelismylifffe @iluvmesomemarvelndc @annathesillyfriend @tiredfeels @scarlet-spiderr @hedwigthelegend @renesniajazza @bibliophile-grasshopp @tomhollandswhoremain @yeeterbenjaminparker @juliabuenooo @paradoxparker @pokeloisfk @machomango13 @parkerstylesperalta @mcuspidey @nobledoritoman @cosmicdaya @hey-its-grey @toms-gf@cutesparker @whypeterparkerwhy @sunshinehollandd @sunshineandparker @starksparker @hollandroos @blissfulparker @xxtomxo @pastelpeter @nobledoritoman @nnatasha @parkerpuffwrites @hollandsosterfield @hillsnholland @peterplanet @hopespym @peterstrainingwheels @parrkerspeters @stuckonspidey @jacobsbatalon @prkerspeter @clintbartxon @spideypeach @spxderbarnes @stealth-spiderr @uglypastels @darlingtholland @spideyflicker @thollandss @maryjparkers @curlytoms @marvelous-maddi @trustfundparker @clockblobber @asmilinghopelessromantic @i-don’t-wanna-go-mr-stark @marvel-language @zaynjawy @sholla4-314 @lemondropirwin @angelbabymed @captnsmarvels @in-the-corner-coffee-please @peterbparkcr @william-stanley @greenarrowhead @squishyhyunjin @bibliophile-grasshopp @juliabuenooo @pokeloisfk @machomango13 @starz-23 @spoopy-spooderman @whatevsholland @aestheticstom @tomzfrog @bebegomie @tyemmamarvel @embrace-themagic @v-valz-n @dancingoncrackedhearts @imspiderparker96 @mlt2000 @cordiebirdy @headsup-itsmostlypeter @sspideytom @yellow-inlove @kisses-holland @hardestbattles-strongestsoldiers @infamousmany @omgbstudies @theefactorygirl @aelinashryvver @sarah-moss2015 @keepmeholland @fandomdarlings @yourwonderbelle @rexorangecouny @deni-gonzalez @mylifeasafangirlforever @random-writer06 @stretchkingblog97 @sweetlyth @notethereal @pachuh @fandoms-stuff @petesrparker @yavinmoon @sweet-baby-cakes @noswagswag @l-melancholy-breeze-l @peteunderoos @jubaydahk @jackiehollanderr @yadekms @starkslovebot @practicallylivesonline @i-tried21 @stasye @unorganizedasf @1-800-back-off @tomshufflepuff @beequeen8020 @mejustbeingme @fanboy-tom @mimaligrl @theimpossiblehologramtree @diamonddia-mond @qrangr @parkeroffline @peterpumpkinparker @rosieredcheeks @tiny-friggin-human @delicately-important-trash @zabdisamor @peterbrokenparker @the-lost-fairy-tale @everestluke @gigilame @youllbemineandillbeyours @cherryblossomcharlotte @paintingbellarke @teawithbucky @miraclesoflove @let-me-luve-you @tomhaz @multi-worlds @clara-licht @ppkrtingle @laurxn-robinson @a-court-of-dreams-and-hopes @theirmidgardian @screamstillscreaming @ddaeing @ineedalittlehappiness @briiiiseyda @sincerelymlg @officiallygeek @maybemona @learning-howto-be-myselfx3 @lowkey-holland @particularsof @saturn-aka-six @pterpcrkers @i-love-peter-paker-3000 @fangirlingisajob @hypnotized-so-mesmerized @tomhollends @deathofthethrones @th0ttie4tommy @orowit @lawstudentbydayfangirlbynight @ballyhoobarnes @gabiatthedisco @lauras-collection @itseightbeats @thomashollyholland

[athingthatwantsvirginia]

Ginsberg, Again

PART SEVEN OF THE DO YOU SEE HER FACE? SERIES

Pairing: Jess Mariano x Original Character (Ella Stevens)

Warnings: mentions of death, plentiful pop culture references

Word Count: 4.2K

Summary: To avoid Mother’s Day, Ella takes a spontaneous journey to the park where David Lee Roth was arrested.

A sleepy Thursday at the diner and Ella was almost finished with her sketch of the streetlamp across the way. Upon doing the preliminary line work, she found it dull, so she had added a UFO circling above it to spice up the drawing. The clinking of mugs filled her ears, but the diner was only moderately populated. Luke was busy filling out some spreadsheet, stealing glances over at the staircase every few minutes. Jess was due downstairs at any moment. Near the front window, Rory sat with piles of notes and textbooks out in front of her. Having overhead Luke and Lorelai, Ella knew Rory had been tasked with tutoring Jess, who was in danger of repeating the eleventh grade. Ella did not envy Rory. She’d only run into Jess a handful of times in the hallways of school, and though they had no classes together, she’d certainly heard tales of his insubordination and mischief. Just as she had finished the shading on the face of the alien through the window of the spaceship, Jess bounded down the stairs. His face brightened when he saw Ella at the counter, immediately taking up the stool across from her.

“Okay, honey, prepare to be amazed,” he began, shuffling his deck of cards before she had even looked up at him.

She scoffed at the name, shutting her battered sketchbook in fear of him catching a glimpse of her work. “Dazzle me.”

It only took him one attempt to guess her card and she smiled proudly.

“It’s Houdini himself,” she appraised.

“And…” he trailed off, grabbing a shiny red apple and a dish towel from a ways down the counter. Showing her the empty sides of the towel, he feigned the apple appearing out of nowhere from beneath it.

Her smile grew, taking the apple as he held it out to her. “Also good. But I’m not the teacher you should be giving the fruit to now, am I?”

Jess sighed heavily as she munched on the apple. “I swore off institutional education long ago.”

She rolled her eyes. “Calm down, Nietzche. You’ll only have to get over yourself for a couple hours so you can stay in this small town utopia.” As she spoke, she gestured to the town around them.

“Well, it’s off to the salt mines, I guess,” he said, head hanging low in resignation.

Ella chuckled at his theatrics and gave his shoulder a gentle push in Rory’s direction. “Yes, I pity you. Now, go.”

.   .   .

About sixty pages in to White Oleander, though she had read it two times before, Ella was enjoying the decadent prose when the phone broke the silence of her bedroom. A smell of lavender, the plant for luck, calmed her as the candles on one of her crate nightstands burned slowly. The flickering flames were the only ones which lit the room. Clearing her throat, she sat up against her pillows and took the old white phone, sitting on the floor in the corner, off the receiver. She expected Lane, though she didn’t call nearly ever. However, Lane’s nearly-never calls were pretty much the only ones she ever received on her landline. The separate number was one she had installed herself, after her mother died, a cheap phone bought at Radioshack with her first paycheck from Luke’s. She knew she would need a form of communication Fiona didn’t have to pay for, to lorde over her during their screaming matches.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Eleanor?”

She furrowed her brows. “Jess?”

“The one and only,” he joked through the line, though she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t hear the smirk in his voice like she usually could.

“What’s wrong?” she asked quickly, her heart in her throat. Since her mother’s death, any sign of trouble made her stomach sink, no matter how small the issue turned out to be.

“It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Jess. What’s wrong?” she repeated, swallowing dryly.

He heaved a tired sigh. “I’m going back to New York. Tonight.”

She was rendered silent for a moment, the information registering. “Oh. What...What the hell? Did something happen? Is it your mom? Do you-”

“Honey, just shut up for a second, okay?” he cut in, and she didn’t even have time to be annoyed about the pet name. “Rory and I...I screwed up. Tonight after we…” Jess stopped to sigh again.

“You don’t have to-”

“I crashed her car. Rory broke her wrist.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, are you okay?” she asked urgently, running an anxious hand through her hair.

Jess uttered a noise between a laugh and a scoff. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m indestructible. I thought you knew that by now.”

Ella cleared her throat again and struggled to find words. ���Mariano, I-”

“Look, I gotta get going in a second. But, I uh...I got your phone number from Luke’s address book and if it’s cool I’ll give you a call when I get there?”

Taken aback, Ella couldn’t help but let out a doubtful laugh. “Um...yeah, sure. Of course.”

“Good,” he said shortly.

There was a prolonged silence, full of words Ella couldn’t grasp, feelings she couldn’t articulate.

“So,” she said, her free hand fiddling with the hem of her quilt nervously. “Don’t forget to call me, okay? No matter how late it is. I’ll worry you got mugged or something.”

“Yeah,” he said, almost fondly. “I know, Stevens. So...I’ll see you.”

“Yep. Bye, Jess.”

“Bye.”

The line went dead, and she spent one moment still clutching the phone to her ear, listening to the monotonous final tone. Once she hung up, she tried to keep reading, but found herself distracted. Why the hell did he want to call her? The entire conversation felt unreal the moment it was over, and she knew she should have asked more questions. Though she was aware the news and rumors about the car accident would spread through town like wildfire, everyone glad to be rid of the local Antichrist, otherwise known as Jess Mariano. But there were so many other pieces she felt were missing, even if she couldn’t really name what they were. She thought of how dull her shifts would now seem without Jess to argue with about books and music, to laugh with while she closed, to reprimand and call a jackass. Maybe the peace she’d once enjoyed would return, but she already knew how different, how lacking, it would feel.

.   .   .

Clutching her books to her chest, Ella checked her watch every few seconds waiting for Lane to arrive. Again, Lane had been grounded for some random transgression. But they’d made plans to meet before school and go for pancakes. Ella was too nervous to actually step foot inside the diner alone. She knew Luke would give her those small, sympathetic glances. Especially after Mother’s Day last year. Lane had agreed to be her emotional backup, joining her for breakfast and shielding her from all the dead Mom reminders. Breathing out a sigh, Ella checked her watch again and knew they wouldn’t have time for Luke’s pancakes before school anyway. She was glad at least the morning air was warm, and she could wear her flowy black sundress, covered in tiny pink flowers. She thought wearing her favorite outfit, complete with her black boots and fishnets, would raise her spirits. Of course, the get-up was yet another reason she had to steer clear of the Kim residence for fear of incurring Mrs. Kim’s wrath.

Suddenly, Lane appeared from the front door of the antique shop and sprinted over. “Ella! I am so sorry, I had to-”

“Lane?” Ella said, looking up from her gaze on her shoes with a resigned tone.

Immediately, Lane lost all her joy and urgency. Her face fell and saw the redness in Ella’s eyes, her sleepless features. “What?”

“I can’t do this today. Look, can you cover for me? Tell everyone I’m sick, or something? Get my homework?” she ventured, looking around suspiciously.

Lane narrowed her eyes and put a hand on Ella’s arm. “Yeah...but where are you going?”

A wicked smirk covered Ella’s tired face. “I don’t know. Somewhere I’ve never been before.”

.   .   .

Even the air and the light were different in New York, though she figured it was probably the multiple kinds of pollution permeating the atmosphere. The local bus had a smell like pine which was not altogether unwelcome, and she was able to finish annotations for an article in earth science class. Squealing tires screeched in her ears as the bus stopped outside Washington Square Park where Jess told her he often hung out on the less than rare occasion he cut class. Her stomach churned anxiously as she ran her hands through her messy hair, loose and wavy. Of all the places she’d never been, New York seemed the most feasible, not quite so far away, a place where she had contacts. She needed to get away from Stars Hollow, away from the memories, away from the life she hadn’t asked for, where she carried baggage which didn’t even belong to her.

Descending the stairs of the bus, Ella clutched her messenger bag, heavy with the books she’d originally packed for school, tightly at her side. As soon as her feet hit the concrete, a smile crossed her face. She was really in New York. And she’d gone all on her own, from the station to the local bus, and she didn’t have to deal with any of the Mother’s Day flower sales or the sad looks whenever she entered a room. For a moment, she watched the streets on either side, the bustling people, as the bus rolled away and she had officially arrived. It took almost no time at all to see Jess’s dark hair sticking up from a bench across the road. She didn’t need to see the other side of him to know he was knee deep in a book. Rushing over the crosswalk, Ella felt excitement rising in her stomach, though fears of being run over also thumped against her chest. She plopped down next to him on the park bench and caught a glance at the cover of his book and scoffed.

“Ginsberg, again?” she asked dejectedly. “And you think I’m predictable.”

Jess looked calm as he recognized her voice and smirked at her appearance. “Always. What are you doin’ here, honey?”

Groaning, she threw her head back dramatically. “Again with the ‘honey.’”

“Hey, I’ve only been gone a month. Not everything changes,” he shrugged, saving his place in his book and stuffing it in the back pocket of his worn jeans.

“We talk on the phone almost every day. The ‘honey’ thing was dead, or so I thought.” She shook her head, speaking with her hands.

“It’s not as gratifying when I don’t get to see you almost ready to murder me,” he explained, smug as ever.

She rolled her eyes. “It’s a little sexist, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Calling girls ‘honey,’ Jess. Keep up. It’s the twenty-first century,” she said, exasperated.

Jess shook his head and ran a hand over his mouth, a nervous reflex. “I don’t call girls ‘honey,’ I call you ‘honey.’”

She snorted a laugh, missing the redness which colored the tips of his ears. “If that’s supposed to make me feel special, it doesn’t.”

“It was supposed to make you feel unlucky, actually.”

“Well, then you’ve succeeded, jackass,” she said, though she had a fond look.

Jess grinned and cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest curiously. “So, what the hell are you doing here, Stevens?”

Ella shrugged, cavalier as she stared across the park and the May breeze blew the hair back from her freckled face. “Working on my spontaneity. This was a preliminary exercise.”

Narrowing his eyes, he nodded slowly. Ella tried to quiet the memories flashing before her vision, screaming through her mind. She hoped Jess wouldn’t notice. Her heart was yearning for adventure, something positive. Anything positive. Jess looked down momentarily, mulling something over. Then, he eyed her again with a smirk on his lips.

“You wanna go somewhere?”

“Anywhere.”

“Well, that narrows it down a bit.”

.   .   .

“Y’know, it’s just like you to hang out in Washington Square Park in the middle of a school day,” she scoffed, then taking a bite of one of the hot dogs they’d bought off a street vendor. It was salty, but good. The mid-day lull had hit the city, and the streets were only slightly overcrowded as they weaved around.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, chuckling.

“I don’t know. Not quite as mainstream as central park, it’s got that David Lee Roth thing. Very Jess.”

“I don’t appreciate being typecast,” he joked, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“Hey,” she said, shrugging. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“Whatever. I’m not the Stevie Nicks groupie here.”

“If you think that’s an insult, you’re wrong.”

.   .   .

After a trip to the record store, they strolled along with shopping bags in hand. Jess had paid in crumpled ones, but still scored an Iggy Pop record to add to his meager collection. Still, Ella insisted he wait to buy any CDs until she was gone again, so as not to offend her delicate vinyl sensibilities. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Jess noticed the holes in the knees of Ella’s fishnets and the shine of her frizzy blonde hair in the afternoon light. The moment was so surreal, his worlds colliding. She looked oblivious to his gaze, though, drinking the city in. He felt tempted to laugh at the excitement she radiated at the novelty. Even on the subway, with its stale smell and flickering lights, she’d managed to maintain a level of amazement Jess found baffling. After a few moments, Jess chose to break the serene silence between them. They walked so close he could feel their arms brushing against each other.

“Explain to me why you bought all that relentless melancholia?” he asked, having kept quiet since he’d noticed her placing her choices on the register in the shop, punk music blaring over the stereo system. She’d bought three records: Kurt Cobain, Elliot Smith, and The Velvet Underground.

“There is a time and a place for it,” she argued. “We can’t all sustain a diet of constant screamo and metal, y’know.”

Jess shook his head, and chuckled but said nothing. In his natural environment, he was much the same, but his gait was marked with fatigue. His footsteps were heavier. She wondered what his home life was like in such a big city, where he could wander around on a school day without anyone asking after him. A wave of sadness rolled over her, and she again thought of mother’s day. They passed a cart selling flowers, and the smell wafted off the blooms in sickly sweet clouds. It made her stomach twist into a knot, her mind clouded with thoughts for the both of them. When she returned home, everything would be the same. No one would know where she’d been. And the whole excursion would be nothing but a memory, a painting she could touch but could never live again. She sighed lightly, staring ahead as they walked. Jess cast her a sidelong glance, nudging her with his elbow.

“So, where to next?”

Pursing her lips, she thought for a moment. “A place you like to look at.”

.   .   .

Litter peppered the grassy hill overlooking the Hudson river. The engines of the cars which crossed the bridge over the river sputtered with exhaust, adding to the smoggy haze of the air. Clouds had hung in the sky all day, and the air was muggy, but Ella felt light with content. She could hear the slight current of the water under the traffic, and it was oddly tranquil despite the overall grimy atmosphere of the city. People milled about on the sidewalk behind them, their designer shoes clicking away on the gray stone. The sounds swarmed around her and created a comforting sea of white noise. Jess took a seat on the hill without saying a word, and Ella followed suit.

“Good choice, Mariano.”

“Thank you,” he smiled, watching as her eyes lit up at the sight of the water. “In Stars Hollow, there’s the lake. So, I figured, here, there’s the river.”

Ella nodded, beginning to dig through her bag. “You come here a lot?”

“Sometimes,” he said, shrugging a little.

“Oh, he’s so demure,” she teased, then found her sketchbook amongst the hodge podge of items in her bag. Jess watched with a raised eyebrow as she brought out a pencil along with the book. However, she didn’t begin drawing. The weathered moleskin was closed on the ground between them, and Jess didn’t think before he took it and ran his fingers over the cover.

“Can I look?” he asked expectantly.

She turned to him with a suspicious look, eyes narrowed. Then, after a moment, she blew out a tired sigh and nodded, pursing her lips. “Yeah. But if you laugh I’ll tell the principal you were the one who took all the dry erasers.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he warned jokingly.

“Well, the stakes are high in New York, aren’t they?” she said offhandedly, her eyes trained on the river. A huge VW Van rolled over the bridge, and it reminded her of pictures from the Haight-Ashbury circa 1967 in the old edition of TIME Luke had in the stock room.

Scoffing, Jess opened the sketchbook up to the first page, which was slightly yellowed with age. He wondered how long she had been carrying the book around with her. The first drawing was of a vase of flowers, but upon further inspection he found the centers of the blooms had mouths full of sharp vampire’s teeth. He skimmed through the others, similar nature scenes with various ghoulish elements. A few pages away from the remaining blank ones, he stopped short. The shading around the figure was dark, but in the center was the face of a beautiful woman, with the light shading of a skull underneath. He ran a figure over the eyes of the skull and brought his hand back again, hoping to avoid smudging.

“This one is…” he began, then trailed off. She glanced over at him, then felt her cheeks heat up in embarrassment. She’d drawn it only a few days earlier.

“Not my best,” she muttered, hoping to deflect his attention from it.

He laughed in disbelief. “Are you kidding? This is amazing.”

“You don’t have to lie.”

“Stevens, seriously. You’re a fucking artist,” he told her earnestly, staring down at the drawing.

“Well, thank you,” she said, quieting the anxious swirling her stomach. Her heart fluttered. It was rare she showed anyone her drawings, even Lane or Rory. But again, the surreal quality of the moment made her feel as though there would be lesser consequences. Maybe Jess wouldn’t remember her drawing later, as though it were a dream, like she imagined the day would feel the moment she left the city.

He cleared his throat, studying her unreadable expression. “Is it a self portrait? Looks a little like you.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips and she didn’t look at him while she spoke. “No, actually, it’s my mom. Everyone always says how much we look alike.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, a sarcastic smile crossing her face. “Oh.”

“Mother’s Day, huh?” he asked knowingly.

Furrowing her brows, Ella finally faced him. “You keep track of the Hallmark holidays, Mariano?”

Jess snorted. “I don’t subscribe to them, but I am aware of them.”

“I think they should be eradicated.”

“Agreed.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she nodded and looked back at the river. It was murky and green, no doubt polluted beyond recognition, but it still wasn’t half bad to look at. Jess noticed the way her fingers, with clipped black polish on the nails, drummed an antsy tune on her leg. He held the sketchbook back out to her and she gave him a grateful half-smile before cracking it open and beginning to draw.

“You okay?” he asked, breaking through the lengthy, but comfortable, silence.

Her smile grew a little more, and her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Always, Jess. It’s just one day. And I don’t particularly care about it. It’s the people back home.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, if you hadn’t noticed, the town of Stars Hollow isn’t known for minding its own business,” she said.

“Yeah, I kinda picked up on that,” he replied, watching her pencil slide across the page.

Occasionally, she stopped drawing and straightened up a little, appraising her work. Using the pad of her pinky, she shaded the clouds above the bridge, transforming the sketch past just an outline. Jess leaned back on the palms of his hands, letting the time pass as late afternoon turned into evening. He found his mouth left with a bittersweet taste at the thought of her hours away from him by the end of the night.

.   .   .

Back at the Port Authority bus terminal, the air was chalky. The local bus they’d taken to get back to the station had a decidedly more pleasant feel than the one Ella was about to board. But the ride wasn’t too long, and she still had plenty of school work she could finish on the way. They stood facing each other at the head of the bus, with five minutes until she absolutely had to board. Jess had his hands stuffed in his pockets, his shirt adorned with obscenities and the name of some obscure punk band. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, leaning back against the bus for one final moment of escape before climbing back out of the rabbit hole.

“So, how was the tour?” Jess asked.

Humming in thought, Ella glanced up at the splotchy ceiling for a moment before returning her eyes to him. “I’ll give you a seven.”

“Hey, if it’s passing, I’ll take it,” he said, shrugging.

She laughed. “Not a bad maxim. And I guess it's back to Washington Square Park with you?”

“Guess so. It’s a prime spot to brood.”

“I’m glad you’re finally owning your narrative.”

Jess smirked. “Well, if I’m owning mine, you gotta own yours. Show those pictures to someone important.”

Ella shook her head, then stopped for a moment and reached her free hand into her shoulder bag. Placing the shopping bag filled with her new records between her teeth, she flipped to the page where she’d drawn the bridge and ripped it out as neatly as she could along the perforation. Jess watched in confusion as she retrieved a pencil from her bag, she signed her name and dated the drawing in the lower right corner. When she’d tucked everything back into their rightful spots, she held the drawing out to Jess.

“We’ll call this a baby step.”

Letting out a small laugh, Jess took the drawing and studied the messy signature, a grin coming over his face. He brought the book from his back pocket and stuck the drawing in between the pages for safekeeping. “Thanks. I’ll make millions off this someday.”

She snickered and threw a look down at her watch. Two minutes left before departure. “Don’t patronize me, Mariano.”

“Don’t doubt yourself, Stevens,” he shot back immediately, with more sincerity than she was prepared for.

Shaking her head, she ignored the gravity of the moment.

“I think that’s all motivational speaking I can handle. I gotta get back. You sure you don’t wanna return to Hell with me?” she asked, only half-joking.

“I think the moment I step foot beyond town lines I’ll be struck down by the powers that be,” he said, a chuckle in his voice, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He ran a hand over his mouth.

She sighed through her nose and nodded. “Alright, fine. But in my considered opinion, you shouldn’t let those old gossips run you out of town. Sometimes when the world bites you, you gotta bite back.”

Jess raised his eyebrows. “And I’m the motivational speaker here?”

She rolled her eyes and started towards the bus. “You’re impossible.”

“Same to you,” he called as she boarded, and she shot him one final teasing glare before she turned the corner into the aisle.

Jess watched her blonde head move down row after row through the small windows, and when she finally stopped two seats from the back, he rushed down and shouted to her, hoping she could hear him through the thick window pane.

“Stevens!”

Furrowing her brows, she found Jess standing outside her window, uttering muffled words she couldn’t decipher. She groaned impatiently and raised the glass to hear him.

“Come again?” she asked.

“I said, I’ll call you later tonight. Don’t forget to pick it up. I’ll worry you got kidnapped or something.”

A smug smile crossed her lips. “Ah, I’m rubbing off on you.”

“I avoided it as long as I could,” he shrugged, smiling back.

“I won’t forget,” she assured him. “Bye, Jess.”

“Bye, Eleanor.”

And as soon as she shut the window once again, he was out of sight, meandering back to the station’s exit. A moment later, the bus driver released the break, a shrill squeak sounding. Swallowing dryly, Ella settled into her seat and prepared for the long drive back to reality.

[winchesters-favorite-girl]

We’re a Team

A/N: My almost late but fic entry for @teamfreewill-imagine‘s 21st birthday challenge/celebration. Jensen starts the fic in his very early twenties, by the end of it he’s in his forties.

Word Count: 3,894

Warnings: Mentions of adoption

Support my Blog

Anita stood at the bathroom sink of her midsize apartment in New York City staring at the pink plus that was glaring back at her. Tossing the stick into the sink she gripped onto the counter for support. A baby was not part of her plan, especially when she was just starting to rise among the ranks in her career field. Glancing up at the mirror she gazed at her reflection; what was she going to do? Sure she always wanted kids, but not now, and not with a man who she barely knows.

Jensen Ackles.

Letting out a loud sigh at the thought of the man she threw her head back to look up the ceiling in an attempt to keep her tears at bay.

He was just like her, an up and coming model who had no time for a baby if he wanted his career to advance at the fast rate that it was.

They had crossed paths at a few photo shoots before their night together was sparked at an after party of a designer, Misha Collins, who had just launched a new line. It was supposed to be a simple, uncomplicated hook up that might create a few awkward moments during a few run ins. However the times she had seen him since their night together he had been charming and funny with no hint of being uncomfortable around her.

Returning her look towards the mirror she wiped off a tear that had fallen; she knew what she was going to do.

Jensen was surprised when he received a call from a not so recent hook up. He had hesitantly answered the phone, curious to hear the reason behind the call. Having seen each other at recent events they had gotten along quite well, however Jensen wasn’t interested in a relationship. He was too focused on progressing his career and right now he was receiving offers left and right; there was no time for distractions.

Now he was sitting, wide eyed, across from the woman who had the same dreams as he did as she informed him of how she was thirteen weeks pregnant with his child.

“I’m not asking anything from you.” She told him softly as she observed his shocked face, “I’m actually not going to um-I-I plan on having the baby, but once it’s born I’m going to place it up for adoption.” Anita looked at Jensen to speak, however he didn’t seem capable of speaking so instead she nervously began to talk again. “I’ve thought about it a lot. I couldn’t-I thought about an abortion because right now is not the time for be to be pregnant in my career, but I just-I went to the clinic but I couldn’t do it. I just kept thinking about how hard my sister had been trying to have a baby-and I couldn’t do it, so I left. At first I thought about giving my sister the baby but then I knew I couldn’t do that because I couldn’t see it again and not want to take it. So, adoption seems best. I already talked to my agency, I have two more shoots before I’ll go back home for a few months and have the baby. Then once I’ve had it I’ll be returning; they’re gonna make up some reason to explain my absence. I already met the family who’s gonna adopt it, they’re a really nice couple and I think, I think this is the best decision for all of us. I just-I didn’t want to disappear and have this baby without telling you.”

Jensen nodded his head and took a deep breath, not sure what he should say but then his instincts just took over, “You made all of these plans without even telling me.”

Anita nodded her head, “I know and I-I’m sorry but look at where you are in your career. You’re a male model becoming a house hold name, that’s so hard Jay and I didn’t want to ruin that for you.” She said gently.

“I get that, but I-I wanted to know. I wanted to be involved, my kid is gonna go live with some other family that I didn’t have a say in choosing.” Jensen spoke, his voice getting angrier as he began to fully realize the situation.

Nodding her head Anita locked eyes with Jensen, “I know, but it seemed like the only choice at the time. You can meet them, they wanted to meet you; and the adoption won’t be valid until after the baby is born and we both sign the paperwork so you have plenty of time to approve of them.”

“So I have to be there when the baby is born?” Jensen asked in a scared tone.

Anita shook her head, “Not if you don’t want to me; they can fax you paperwork. You don’t have to be involved at all if you don’t want to, you can sign some paperwork whenever you’d like giving up your parental rights.”

Absentmindedly nodding his head Jensen put his face in his hands and rubbed his face out of nerves, “Okay I um, I need time to process this. Just, keep me in the loop.”

­­­­­­Months passed and Jensen received sporadic calls from Anita; she gave him updates about the adoption, her health, how the baby was developing. He enjoyed receiving these phone calls; knowing that he was involved made him feel better about the situation that he found himself in. Part of him looked forward to receiving these phone calls.

He wasn’t prepared for the phone call he received one day from the Anita’s sister, informing him that she had gone into labor and it was time for him to fly to Nevada so that he could sign the paperwork when the time came.

Jensen had never felt so nervous before and he wasn’t sure why. He had been in photo shoots, commercials, runways, red carpet events, however sitting on the plane he felt a knot in his stomach unlike any other he had experienced before.

Walking up to the maternity ward the Anita’s sister met him with a sad smile, “It’s a girl.” Jensen’s eyes filled with tears, “She’s healthy, perfect. My sister she uh, she doesn’t want to see her; she already filled out the paperwork giving up all legal rights to her,” The woman let out a scoff, “She’s already on the phone with her agency asking when she can get back to work. You just have to sign on the dotted line and she won’t be your ‘problem’ anymore as Anita put it.” Looking over at the nurse sitting at her desk the woman spoke, “He’s the father.” Turning she gave Jensen one last glance before walking down the hallway, leaving him alone.

The nurse made a noise, grabbing Jensen’s attention, “If you put this bracelet on I can bring you to the baby, if not I can lead you to where you can sign the paperwork.” She told him.

Jensen hesitated for a moment before grabbing the bracelet, which had his name on it along with some hospital information on it, what grabbed his attention was the small annotation next to his name,

Father.

Following the nurse she led him to a nursery window where multiple babies laid in small hospital standard cribs.

“She’s that one.” The nurse spoke as she pointed to a baby who lay swaddled in blankets with a light purple knit hat on her head.

Jensen stared for a minute before speaking, “She’s perfect.”

The nurse silently nodded her head, “She is, when you consider who her parents are do you expect anything less gorgeous?”

Letting out a quiet laugh Jensen looked at the nurse, “Can I hold her?”

“Of course.” She told him, “I will warn you that many parents who choose adoption choose not to; it makes is much harder, however the majority of the parents who choose adoption and don’t hold their babies tend to regret it down the road.”

Jensen nodded his head in understanding before following the nurse into a room, “Wait here and I’ll go get her.”

Four minutes later Jensen met his beautiful daughter, you.

“Hold your hands like this,” The nurse instructed, “Good” She then turned and lifted you from the rolling crib you resided in and placed you in Jensen’s arms.

He fell in love instantly.

“I’ll leave you in here with her for as long as you’d like. Her adoptive family is pushing to get more time with her and have you sign the paperwork, but screw ‘em.” The nurse told him causing Jensen to laugh, “Take all the time you want. They can wait.”

“I don’t think there’s enough time.” Jensen replied as his eyes began to fill with tears when he realized this was the only time he was going to get with you.

The nurse sadly nodded his head, “There never is.” She stood there observing Jensen as he adoringly observed every feature that you had, “I know this isn’t my place,” The nurse spoke, “But, her mother told me the entire story, about how you didn’t get much input in the decisions regarding baby girl there, but just because she wanted to choose adoption doesn’t mean you have to; a-a-and if you do that’s fine, the family who’s taking her is amazing, but from the look on your face Mr. Ackles…make sure you think about this before signing that dotted line.” Giving him a soft smile the nurse turned and left the room, leaving Jensen alone with you and a big decision to make.

He continued to rock you in his arms as he chewed over the nurse’s words.

She wasn’t wrong, this entire time he felt unsteady about the adoption but he didn’t think he had any right to say anything. It was her decision, not his. However, standing there holding you in his arms the thought of giving you up for someone else to raise felt so wrong.

Now wasn’t the time for him to be raising a baby though, he was excelling in his career, it wasn’t the time to be slowing down, it was time for him to crank it up a notch; but doing it without the little girl in his arms felt pointless.

Just like that his priorities changed.

“What do you think kid? Think you and me against the world would work out? I think we could be a pretty good team” He said to you.

You began to fuss in his arms, causing a sense of slight panic to flood through Jensen, “Hey now baby girl, none of that. Are you hungry? Did you poop? You gotta help me out a little, I’m just as new at this as you are.” Jensen shifted you so that your head rested in his neck as he supported your wobbly one. You instantly calmed down, “Ah I see how it is, just needed a change of scenery?”

“Babies like to be around the scent of their parents, plus your neck has exposed skin which is warm.” The nurse spoke from the corner, surprising Jensen. “Didn’t mean to scare you, it’s been a while so I wanted to check if baby girl needed a bottle or changing.”

“I uh-I think she’s fine.” Jensen replied as he gently rubbed your back.

“I can see that.” The nurse laughed, “You ready to sign some papers or do you want some more time?”

Jensen unconsciously tightened his hold you with the nurse’s question, “Actually, I have a um-another thing in mind.”

You were three weeks old by the time your dad brought you home to New York. The drive from Nevada took some time. You were too young to be put on a plane so Jensen rented a car and first stopped in Texas to introduce you to his family who were surprised, but excited to see that he had changed his mind about adoption. After spending a little over a week with his family where everybody chipped in to help teach Jensen how to take care of you. He went on a shopping spree with his mother who showed him everything that you would need and by the end of the trip Jensen had to hire somebody to drive a U-Haul full of baby items back to New York.

It was while you were in Texas that Jensen choose your name, Y/N M/N Ackles.

The first few weeks living in New York were an adjustment; Jensen had to learn how to juggle taking care of a newborn while going full speed ahead in his modeling career.

By the time you were three months old he had the hang of it.

He knew what your cries meant and what you needed.

He took you to photo shoots when necessary where the wardrobe department tended to awe over your every move and loved to watch you when Jensen had to work.

Work required him to travel often and he learned which trips you could accompany him on and which ones you couldn’t. He found an amazing nanny who he trusted that cared for you like her own whenever he did have to leave you.

Jensen was often put in the spotlight; he was an amazing model, which led him to becoming a spokesperson as well as acting roles, however you kept him grounded and humble.

Your entire life Jensen had been approached by different modeling agencies wanting to represent you in the modeling world, however he didn’t want to make the decision for you. Whenever an offer was made he would tell you about it but it wasn’t until older that he spoke more seriously about it, but as always, the decision was yours.

It wasn’t until you were sixteen when your dad sat you down after another offer that you told him modeling was something you wanted to try; you were just nervous about the expectations that would surround you because of your last name. After much reassurance and support from your father you made the decision that you were ready to give it a shot in the modeling world.

Which led you to where you were now, standing in a small line during a runway show during Fashion Week in Paris. You were being represented by the one of the most prestigious modeling companies in the world who, at the insistence of your father, agreed that the first bit of business you would do is walk at the newest launch for Misha Collins, one of the biggest designers in the industry and your father’s close friend.

Letting out a loud exhale you raised your chin up higher, trying to give yourself a confidence boost that you desperately needed.

“You got this Ackles.” A voice said from beside you and you couldn’t help the smile that grew on your face.

“Apparently it’s in my blood.” You replied, your hand comfortably wrapping around the arm of the person who spoke.

“You must have an awesome father.” The man said, adjusting his position so that it looked natural, yet would be photographed well.

Glancing at the man you smirked, “He’s alright.”

Jensen laughed from beside you, “I’m only alright?” He questioned in mock offense.

“Yeah Jay, have you met you?” Misha asked as he came up behind where you and your father stood arm and arm, “Why else do you think I agreed to you walking the show only if Y/N was with you? All the attention is gonna be on her, it’ll be like you aren’t there.”

“Gonna outshine your old man already kid?” Jensen joked but gave your arm a reassuring squeeze, signaling to you that he was going to be there with you the whole time to calm your nerves.

The three of you became silent as the line of models dwindled down as they entered the runway.

“You ready?” Your dad asked when you were two people away from your walk.

Silently nodding your head Jensen leaned over and placed a kiss on your forehead, “You’re gonna do amazing baby girl.”

You looked up at your father and gave him a smile, “Thanks dad.” You said as the woman directing the line placed a hand on your shoulder, a signal for you and your dad to begin your walk.

Entering the catwalk with poise you paraded down the runway as cameras flashed and people pointed; your father at your side in a suit as you displayed one of the modest dresses that your Godfather had created. As you got to the end of the runway your father spun you in a circle, demonstrating the flow of the dress. Soon you were back in your original position making your way back down the runway.

As soon as you were behind the curtain Jensen pulled you into a hug, “I am so proud of you.”

Placing a kiss on your father’s cheek you looked at him as you beamed with happiness and excitement, ���Thanks dad.”

You stood next to your Uncle Misha, speaking with him and a group that consisted of photographers, magazine publishers, and models. They were all praising you and giving you bits of advice that they had learned thus far while Jensen stood a few feet away with his own friends discussing your achievement. The smile he wore never left his face as he listened to people come up to him and tell them how impressed they were by you tonight.

However his smile diminished when a voice from the past came up beside him.

“You did a good job with her.” The woman spoke, looking Jensen in the eyes.

“She’s a good kid.” Jensen replied, glancing at the woman before turning his stare towards you.

“I liked the family thing you did up there; it looked good.” She told him.

“I’m just supporting my daughter.” He quipped, uninterested in the conversation your mother was trying to have with him.

“It looks like she’s going to be quite the shining star in this industry.” Anita continued, not letting Jensen dismiss her.

“Yup.” Jensen said.

“You know, if you were able to help her this much imagine how much better she’d be if I was there to-“ She began but was interrupted by Jensen cutting her off.

“No.” He replied in a stern voice, “You won’t be going near her. You made your choice when it comes to her and I made mine; you aren’t going to try and take it back because you think she’ll be able to help you relaunch your mediocre career. I won’t let you use my daughter like that.”

Anita let out a scoff, “She’s my daughter too, or did you forget?”

“Biologically, yes.” Jensen spoke in a low voice so that others around him couldn’t hear, “But that’s it. Legally you are nothing and personally you are nothing other then a stranger to her.

“Well maybe it’s time we change that.” She stated.

“Over my dead body.” Jensen hissed at the woman who shared your DNA.

“What? You don’t think she’d want to meet her mother? Especially now that she’s a teenager and entering such a cruel career field?” She asked in a tone that showed Jensen all she wanted to do was manipulate you.

“I did at one point.” You said from behind your parents; neither had realized you moved when their confrontation became more heated. Your Uncle Misha stood next to you along with the rest of your family; your Uncle Jared, Aunt Gen, and step mother Danneel.

“Baby girl.” Anita spoke sweetly, quickly changing her demeanor in hopes her facade would trick you.

“Only one person in the world can call me that and you aren’t him.” You strongly spoke to the woman who gave birth to you. “At one point yes, I wanted you, so badly. I’d ask about you and it wasn’t until I was thirteen that my dad told me everything. He never tried to make you out as the bad guy; it wasn’t until I ran into you at one of my dad’s photo shoots that I decided you were a bad guy. You were working as an assistant to the person in charge of wardrobe. I was fourteen; and you said ‘You need to go away, what type of person even brings their brat to a job anyways?’”

“I-I didn’t mean to-“ She tried to explain but you weren’t having any of it.

“Don’t make excuses; I know what this is. See, my amazing father raised me around the business so I know how to tell when a person’s being genuine and when they’re fake. You didn’t want anything to do with me before and now you only want something because you think I could help you with your career, but I won’t. I might be sixteen but I’m not dumb and I won’t be manipulated.” You informed her.

“But-don’t you want a mother? A family? I could be that for you.” Anita desperately said.

You shook your head, “I have both of those. I have my family in Texas that loves me. I have everyone surrounding me right now. Danneel has been my mom since she came into our lives when I was seven years old; and I’ve never needed anything more because I have my dad.”

Jensen placed his hand on your shoulder with your words, giving you a gentle squeeze he took control of the conversation, his fatherly instincts were screaming at him to protect you and get you out of the situation, worried that it might all be too much.

“This discussion is over.” Jensen stated, lightly shifting his hold on your shoulder so that you understood his intention for you to walk away.

Jensen led you and him away from the group as the rest of your family descended upon Anita, informing her just how firm they stood on the idea that she stayed away and didn’t try to stir up any drama for the Ackles family.

Your father led you outside of the party to where the cars were waiting, “You okay kiddo?” He asked you gently, looking in your eyes.

You looked up at him with wide, teary eyes, causing him to pull you into his hold. Sometimes he forgot that you were only sixteen. Having raised you in this lifestyle you were always more mature then others and acted more ‘adult’ then someone your age should.

“Thank you for keeping me.” You said softly.

Jensen felt his heart break with your words, “I should never have even thought about giving you up.” He told you before placing a kiss in your hair, “It would have been the biggest mistake of my life.”

The two of you stayed there for a few minutes; a father holding his daughter in Paris as the sun was beginning to set.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” Jensen questioned as he pulled away, “With all of this, your mom is just one bump you’re gonna have to face in this life.”

You nodded your head, “I’m sure, besides I got you right? We’re a team?” You asked the same question Jensen would always asked you when you were growing up and he was having a difficult time with parenthood.

A large smile overtook your father’s face, “Yeah baby girl, we’re a team.”

[hollywoodx4]

Sticking with the Schuylers (48)

Hi! Updates have been slow as hell because of school starting and my own coursework starting. And wedding season galore. Basically, everything’s happening all at once and my body’s already done with September

Anyway, welcome back to the Schuyler series, where there’s plenty of backstory and subplot to go around!

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   1112   I  13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I 19   20   21   22   23   24   25  26   27  28   29   I  30  31  32 33 34  35  36  37 38  39 40  41  42 I 43  44  B  45  46  47

Tagging: @linsnavi  @workworkbae​ @adothoe @oosnavi​

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy on mentions of both physical and emotional abuse.

Silence is the worst enemy; it’s what she’s thought for ages, been taught by societal expectations and long, drawn-out parties answering the same ten questions over and over again. If you’re silent, you’re stupid. There is nothing of importance going on in your life, nothing new, and so you’re stuck motionless and that’s why there are no words. Peggy had spent so long making out arduous conversations that now it is second nature, the ability to conjure words with the drop of a sentence or a greeting thrown her way.

               Today, she wishes for silence.

               She walks along the halls with Maria, running through their weekends at warp speed. It’s this transition, between first period and second, that they have the least amount of time to talk. It’s this time of the day where they’re always fighting for a chance to keep conversation going. But there isn’t much to say; brunch had gone just about as boring as possible, and Maria had spent most of her weekend studying (for the first time in her entire high school career, due to the chance she might fail out of biology). There is still conversation; observation of the people around them often ending in slightly course words. There are few people who hadn’t quite bothered the girls one way or another.

               There seems to be an endless sea of them today, people bothering Peggy. She isn’t sure why the foul, paranoid sort of mood has set in her stomach, but through the throng of faces she’d known since beginning her schooling she feels a burning, steady sensation of eyes charting her entire body. And when she looks up, really takes the time to survey what is going on, a cold front enters in its place. Every eye that had once been on her has turned away suddenly, rapidly and with direction so sure that Peggy’s heart begins to pulse faster.

               “Did you see that?” She interrupts Maria mid-sentence, and her best friend looks around in confusion before shrugging her shoulders. “I swear, everyone’s looking at me today. Can’t they all just Google me if they want to stare?”

               “I’m not going to say that you’re being paranoid, but do you remember the time you thought you had Swine Flu because you thought you were going to throw up?”

               “Shut up,” The jest settles Peggy’s heart, but just by a fraction of an inch. When she steps into her math class and the whispering continues, the irritated sort of dismay heightens. She can barely take notes through the tense nature of her hands, which travels up through her shoulders and causes a pinching at the back of her head.

               By third period, she’s asking Abigail Monson for an aspirin. The sweet-natured, quiet girl simply purses her lip in response, turning back around in her chair. The girl isn’t one of her closer friends, but is considered a friend in the way that people bond with others in their class by necessity of having someone to talk to. She’s even come to a study session or two, with the other three girls in the class she knows vaguely. Peggy attempts to ask again, sure that there must be a misunderstanding that’s caused the cautiously beautiful girl to ignore her.  But Abigail, with her signature gold cross displayed consistently around her neck, only turns to roll her eyes at the senator’s daughter.

               “You know, I’m not one of those God freaks, but honestly even you have to know that He’s probably horrified with you right now.”

               It takes a moment for Peggy to have any sort of reaction to this; there’s this girl, swiveled around in her chair and tossing silky auburn locks over her shoulder, talking to her about disappointment with an air of higher power about her. Peggy’s head shakes, slightly, before the girl turns back around. She’s faced with too much confusion to ask the girl to expand her insult further, or even to explain her reasoning. The back of her head is still pinching when she meets Maria for lunch.

               They have a table shared with a few other people, friends and their friends who fill the conversation by flitting from topic to topic at a rapid pace. It’s the most welcome hour of her day, away from sitting through lectures and pretending that the senioritis isn’t kicking in much heftier than she (or her grades, for that matter) would like for it being only February. The ever-changing topics are a welcome distraction from formulas and books she’d much rather not read at all, let alone annotate. But today, the conversation is at a stand-still. The friends-of-friends keep their heads bent to themselves, on the other side of the table. And even the few closer to Peggy and Maria barely invite them to conversation, speaking on topics they know the two girls won’t be able to add anything to. They do, however, add Maria in on occasion. They never even mention Peggy by name, or spare more than a sideways glance her way. She eats her lunch in silence, bent over her phone with an air of distaste at the situation at hand, and in her own conversation with her sisters.  

               I’m going to bring it up, she types with determination. I have a right to know why I’m being ignored. Or talked about. Or both.

               Are you sure you’re not over exaggerating? Angelica, the continual voice of reason, brushes her youngest sister the wrong way. On a day seeking advice and guidance, the typical, all-knowing logic is a pin-prick to Peggy’s nerves as it swooshes into the text box.

               Just ask them honestly, I’m sure it’s nothing and they’re not even sure they’re doing it. They’re your friends, they’ll understand.

               She lets the message from Eliza linger, waiting for further coaxing. When none comes, she looks up from her phone to find the majority of their table staring back at her, just as the crowd in the hallway had that morning.  Her fingers curl, the space between her shoulders and neck folding into itself, creating a pressure that translates through her entire body. Her expression morphs into one of annoyance, with slightly lowered brows and eyes ready to roll, lips pushed and pursed at one corner of her mouth.

               “What’s your problem?  Why are you all acting like I killed a man last night?”

               “You might as well have.” The comment slips through the lips of someone she doesn’t know much at all, a girl with dusty pink hair and denim overalls. She keeps her gaze locked on Peggy, stark blue eyes radiating judgment and disapproval that sets her back in her seat a bit. The youngest Schuyler, with an array of curls neatly arranged underneath a red beanie, slaps her palm against the table with a light yet resounding sound, causing some of the others at her table to jump in their seats.

               “What the hell is wrong with you people? What did I do? I know I was supposed to go out with you last Friday but my friend was going through something and I had to be there for her. And it’s none of your business!” She points a finger to the girl with the pink hair, who barely blinks an eye at the half-pronounced threat.

               “None of us are mad about that. What I’m talking about is worse and you know it.”

               “No, I actually don’t know. Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to tell you all day? I have no idea what’s wrong. So please, tell me why I can’t walk half a step down the hall without being talked about or stared at.”

               The group of friends at her table falls silent. The girl with the pink hair rolls her eyes, Maria looks between them with a quizzical eye. She opens her mouth once, just enough to create the beginnings of a word, then shuts it promptly. As her mind pieces together the morning; their walk through the halls, Peggy’s paranoia, and a particularly strange question from a person in her English class, she’s caught on to what everyone else has meant.

               “Are you guys talking about that rumor?”

               “What rumor?”

               “Yeah, although you can hardly call it a rumor if it’s confirmed.”

               “What rumor?” She looks at their faces-some stoic, others laced with harsh judgement-and waits. The conversation of her clear wrong-doing had been easily started, but confronted by the one they had been talking about all day, a sudden feeling of awkward clarity came about them. They’d spent a majority of the day helping this news spread, curiosity becoming them and overtaking the quasi-friendship their misfit lunch group had. It’s much easier, in this way, to speak about a person rather than to them, which is evident by the way each of her friends has become suddenly enraptured with their food.

               It’s Maria who speaks first, with a nervous sort of lilt in her hushed tone of voice.

               “You, uh…you haven’t slept with anybody since you and Enzo broke up, right?” It’s been almost exactly a month since he’d called her on the phone to let her know that their relationship wasn’t working. Almost a month, and she hadn’t made as much as a move toward another guy yet. Peggy shakes her head, blinking.

               “Then I don’t know which asshole started this rumor, but when I find him,”

               “Just tell me what you’re talking about!” Peggy’s voice comes out louder than expected, but she is unapologetic. The confusion grips her, sends her eyes wandering across the table of people who seem to know volumes of information she hasn’t yet gotten her hands on. The immediate sense of distress she catches is nothing compared to the news.

               “People have been talking about how you had sex with the entire swim team. Enzo confirmed.”

               Now, more than ever, Peggy wishes for silence.

……

               Angelica hadn’t noticed the way the lights Eliza had helped her meticulously string around the apartment slightly flickered when they moved. She hadn’t noticed their coloring-white then blue and back again, in milliseconds so easily missed; not until recently. It’s been days of this, staring at the lights and counting them, watching them loop around the living room in a neat line. She’d wanted to take them down long ago; the day after Christmas, before their New Year’s party, before Eliza had decided to throw a surprise party for Alex and her time had been consumed in that. They’re too festive, although both her sisters had argued that the soft atmosphere they brought along was a welcome change to the harsh lighting her apartment features. John had agreed, fighting for his cause with points he couldn’t quite back up with anything but emotion.

               “They remind me of home,” he’d whine. “My mum used to keep them up nearly year-round.”

               “We have this argument every year, John.”

               “Yes, and you always win.” It’s a fact that makes her arms cross over her chest; he isn’t wrong, he’s always let her take them down early. Much of their debates end this way, with Angelica victorious and John willing to concede to her. It’s something that’s never bothered him, in all of his pacifist nature and need to make her happy. This time, with the glowing of the lights always above them, there is something more. She brings the topic up nearly every night.

               “We still have that blue box in the closet, the one with the Christmas decorations. I’m sure there’s plenty of room for the lights in there.”

               John is sitting at his desk in the office when Angelica pokes her head in. She’s dressed in jogger sweats and a tank top, hair gathered haphazardly atop her head. He sighs as he swivels in his chair, turns to look at her before his lips turn down slightly. He takes in her appearance-her honeyed tone of speech at the suggestion, and knows immediately that there is more to it than a friendly offer. The maroon joggers only ever grace her legs on a day of cleaning-there’s misting of bleach stains along their left leg. He understands her direction without Angelica having to say another word. He leans back in his chair.

               “That’s good.” It’s all he manages, with a nod of his head before turning back to his work. He stares at the screen partly because he knows there’s a change in her expression; a tilt of her head or a slight lower in her brows that indicates her intent. She’s playing a game with him, whether she herself is aware of it. It’s a subconscious habit he’d picked up on early on, when they were fifteen and she’d wanted to wear yellow to homecoming although he hated the color. She’d work through subtle hints at first, until dropping the argument in the middle of dinner or the good part of a movie. He’d always say yes, even when he wasn’t sure of her art of convincing and what it often meant for him. Now, eight years in and well aware of what is going on, John’s heart twists upon hearing the change in her voice.

               “I thought I’d get some stuff done; dusting and rearranging…we could get that little orange shelf you liked  at the store the other day. And while we’re getting things done,”

               “-No.” His refusal is strong, firm. He holds his tone to a flattened level, refuses to let her change in expression morph his answer.

               “What? What no?”

               “No, we’re not taking the lights down.” She steps back at his refusal, feeling slightly bratty and a bit perturbed that he’d caught on to her far before she’d wheedled the topic into conversation. Then, she feels her arms cross over her chest. The lights flicker.

               “Why not?”

               “Because I like them.”

               “But they’re Christmas lights. And it’s almost Valentine’s Day.”

               “Exactly. So when are you going to mail in your acceptance?” She isn’t expecting the outright question. It sends her walking through the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets to rearrange things that are already in their place. He watches her move in and out of sight, at first, half-expecting an answer to roll from her sharp-witted tongue. But when nothing comes, when she’s moved to spraying a bottle of cleaner on the counter, he leaves the office. John leans against the frame of the door.

               “Your acceptance,” he reminds her in a stoic, flat-toned voice. “to Oxford?”

               Still nothing. Angelica scrubs furiously, the imaginary stains taking up the entirety of her concentration. She even lets out a little hum, although its minute shaking would have given her away if John hadn’t known her so well already. He rolls up the sleeves of his button-up shirt, grabbing the duster from the closet to join her distracted cleaning frenzy.

               “Remember how you were so excited when we both got accepted to this program? And how you said we were going to finally have a chance to spend some time with my family, see where I grew up?”

               “Haven’t we already had this discussion?”

               “Yes, but for some reason your acceptance packet is still on your desk, waiting to be mailed.”

               She knows she should feel some level of remorse. In her heart, she does. The guilt squeezes her with such purpose that she pauses in her cleaning, keeping her eyes lowered for a breath of time before looking up at him through her thick lashes. The espresso tones of her eyes are charged with something unreadable-the guilt eating away at her, the stirring in her gut. She won’t further the conversation. Her stubbornness leads to more cleaning, the floor her next target as her cotton jogger pants ripple slightly with the movement of her muscles. It’s the only audible sound in the apartment, and it drives a hole in John’s heart.

               “Is this it?” He asks then, tossing the duster to the floor. “Is this really how we’re going to handle this? Something has to give, Ange, because I’m not going to Oxford alone.”

               “I told you I wasn’t sure.”

               “After all of this stuff started happening with your sister. After we co-signed a lease. After you agreed that this time with my family would be good for us-for me. You told me you weren’t sure after all of that.”

               “I’m allowed to change my mind, John.” She carries her voice with a tone of uncertain hierarchy, as though she wishes she could be somewhere above the conversation rather than in the kitchen, on a sopping wet floor, in her most comfortable pair of sweats. Her skin stings with embarrassment, red and splotched with the unfamiliar sensation.

               Her life has been filled with an array of easy decisions; standing up for her sisters is second nature, birthday party themes an option limited only to her imagination. College had been chosen based on her father’s well-calculated advice, and John was an instant attraction. Not once had she spent this much time mulling something over. Not once had a decision weigh so heavily on her shoulders, or hurt so intensely when she thought about the outcome on either side she chose. Uncertainty is stagnant in her brain; it aches, and pulls at the strings of her soul. Ultimately, the decision lies in who she’d rather leave. She’s not willing to choose between John and her sisters. For the first time, Angelica has conceded herself to a weaker form, which only compels John further.

               “You’re still not sure.” It’s not a question-he can see it in the way she’s stopped her cleaning, one hand still holding the bottle of floor cleaner. Her finger is poised on the trigger. Her body is motionless. She sighs.

               “Angelica,”

               “I’m going to tell her. I want to go.”

               “Then why are you holding back? Still? The last time we talked you said the same thing, and then you told me to leave your acceptance packet because you still weren’t done filling it out. Are you ever going to finish, or is this it?”

               “No, it’s not-this isn’t it, John, okay? I’m trying. I’m trying, but every time I go to tell her, something like this happens and I can’t bring myself to let her know that in a few months, I won’t be here to protect her from it all.” She gestures to their magazine rack, where an ad for a double cheeseburger is the first and only thing he needs to see. He knows what’s on the other side; he’d read the article at least four times, combing over it and all of its inaccuracies with stress-induced sweat christening his forehead. But this had happened multiple times; first with James’s reappearance, then with Eliza and Alex taking a break from living together. This was another setback, something to kick in Angelica’s protective stance. And when the stress from this cleared, there would be something else to deter her. And then,

               “What happens when we’re in England, and there’s some other stupid article? What then?”

               “Then I help her, because she’s my sister.”

               “But she’s not your whole life!” It feels like a constant back-and-forth, living with Angelica as of late. He can feel the turning of her brain, the way words are flying around to get into proper formation. Eight years into their relationship and John can read each faint expression of her body. She leans against the kitchen island then, against one hand. The other rests on her hip. She’s not quite done forming a rebuttal.

               “I wanted to get married. And I know you’re not ready for that yet, not at this stage of your life, so I’m willing to wait. But then you agreed to this trip, this time abroad, and I kind of thought…this felt like the next step. This felt like something big for us. It felt like you were finally going to make a choice for us, and I was so damn happy to have finally done something good enough to deserve that.”

               Her heart jerks to a fervent stop-and-start, a stabbing that the severity of his words cause. They do not insult her; that wasn’t his intent, she knows his manner and the struggling, hidden quiver of disappointment in his voice. Angelica is wrapped in guilt, suffocated by the choice that hangs heavily over her head. In a combined vision her mind lays the manilla envelope, so full of hope and promise, next to the magazine which had brought her sister-her best friend-back down again.

               “It might sound selfish, but I feel like you’re throwing a part of yourself away by leaving that envelope on the table.”

…

               “I need your advice.” Peggy calls Angelica first, much to her own surprise. She’s not in the mood to hear her middle sister’s uplifting optimism, not with an issue like this. It seems too touchy, even, to be speaking about rumors of sexual promiscuity with Eliza.

               She’s left school for the day, walking off campus just after lunch. The weather is cooperating in such a way that the walk home feels refreshing, even with the crunch of freshly fallen snow under her boots. She stares at Angelica on the other side of the screen, watching her prop her phone in the corner of her little intern cubicle. Angelica says nothing about Peggy’s background-walking through the city during school hours. She doesn’t say much at all, in fact, but nods at her sister to let her continue.

               Peggy runs through the story in rapid-fire detail; what she hadn’t known this morning, and the escalation of the rumor that had grown in a matter of hours. She’s not sure who could have started it, anyway, although Enzo confirming it hadn’t been the nicest of post-breakup behaviors. Angelica listens with half of her attention toward the screen, although her eyes barely meet it. She’s typing, pretending to work as she listens to Peggy’s near-shouting through her Bluetooth headset.

               “Could you explain your feelings in regards to this matter?” Angelica responds in a tone slightly mechanical, rehearsed so as to keep her façade going. Peggy groans, and although her oldest sister doesn’t see it, she knows there���s a roll of the eyes.

               “It feels pretty shitty, thanks for asking. You’ve been in this before-what do I do to get away from this rumor? It’s not that I’d mind people knowing I’ve had sex with more than one person; virginity is a societal construct used to scare girls like Abigail Monson into thinking that just being attracted to someone is a sin. I have no problem with being the kind of person who doesn’t need a relationship to have sex, you know?”

               “Stop-just. Can you not detail this piece of personal information to me over the phone?”

               “It’s not a big deal, but fine. Anyway, this whole situation is turning me into some sort of….I don’t know. I don’t want to throw words around. But people think I cheated on Enzo, which I didn’t. I never could. Cheating is just wrong. But apparently I screwed the entire swim team so who knows, maybe I did cheat on him. Maybe I’ve been living a double life I know nothing about.”

               Angelica is still typing, her lips moving in silence as she works. At first, Peggy thinks it might be a technical issue; she turns the volume up on her phone, mutes and unmutes the app, and nothing happens. Finally, she hears a sneeze in the background, faint and far away.

               “Ange?” Her name after a long silence pulls her back in; she removes her hands from the keyboard and drums her fingers on the desk.

               “Have you heard from Eliza lately?” It isn’t the answer she’d been hoping for-if Peggy could consider the question a response at all. But she shakes her head no and Angelica groans, muttering before turning half of her attention back to her work. Peggy stops in her walking, somewhere between a deli and the entrance to an apartment building. The huff of air that leaves her body in disbelief is visible in the chilled air. And when Angelica takes her time, lets the silence linger on, Peggy feels the tension rise to the back of her head again.

               “I really need to tell her that I might move.”

               “Okay, two things; might? I thought Oxford was a definite. And you still haven’t told her yet?”

               “No, it’s too hard. I’m still juggling the whole thing. I never wanted to say it, but I don’t want to leave her here alone.”

               “Oh, sweet. That’s-that makes me feel good about myself. Thanks.” But Angelica, lost in the stubborn pieces of her own mind, does not hear her youngest sister’s reply. She doesn’t see the way she’s recoiled, with a façade of annoyance blocking out everything else. Her eyes, usually holding the contagious brightness of youth without pollution, are now a darker mahogany storm.

She thinks of Angelica, the way she’d thrown her acceptance packet at Peggy with a wide-mouthed grin, had spoken of everything she and John would do in England. It had come easily, the conversation, and without a moment of hesitation. But when Eliza had walked into the room, it all stopped. Angelica never even showed her the packet, not even in those first moments of unfiltered bliss. She’d been worried about Eliza from the beginning; worried about her future, about the way she’d be treated if she went and James continued to hound her. Even with Alex giving his word that nothing would happen (and both Angelica and Peggy believing it by the way he spit James’s name like poison through the air) she closes off all words leading to Oxford from their middle sister. But not to Peggy; no, there seemed to be no issue in Angelica’s mind of leaving her youngest sister, not even a question.

It’s worthless, anyway, if she’s not going to help. The pinching headache returns. Peggy ends the call quickly and without a breath of advice from Angelica. She makes an excuse for catching up to a friend that isn’t there before the beginnings of tears prick the corners of her eyelids.  She walks the rest of the way home in broken, shaking silence.

...

               Two days later and the maelstrom of terrible words has twisted itself so violently that the bystanders who had been so vehement about keeping their opinions whispered between themselves now speak openly to her as she passes them. Peggy shrinks; wears long sweaters she can hide her hands in, beanies easily tucked over her eyes in class. There isn’t a break here, between the classes and the halls. Every person knows what she supposedly did, and there is so much evidence fabricated against her that even she would believe the story if she were not herself, did not know its fiction.

She’d called Angelica again, but her oldest sister was still so wrapped up in her own small turmoil that she’d been unable to speak about anything else before her lunch break was over. When she tried Eliza she’d been in the middle of her work day, and so she’d hit pause on her search for advice. There isn’t much to do at this point, anyway. The rumor is so far inflated that she feels it take over, the societal structure of the school ablaze with this new finding about one of its wealthier students. Most of her friends stay with her, eat lunch with her and speak on random subjects as if nothing is going on around them. The girl with the dusty pink hair has left, and taken four other friends with her, and the gap of space at their table is noticeable. It only adds to the evidence against her.

She crosses paths with Enzo twice within these two long days, but she feels herself pull away and cast her glance at the floor. Her body is numb. Her heart is stuck. In the days before the rumor, Peggy Schuyler would have crossed the hall in two even steps, putting a finger in his face and telling him off for what he’s done. She would have used every fire within her young, vivacious soul. She would have yelled and threatened until the school knew the truth. Today, she is tired. She lets her eyes stay on the tiled flooring. The noise of the halls is too much to bare.

She skips out again early on this day, walking off campus without another notice and taking the long way home. The weather is colder; it bites the exposed skin on her nose and cheeks until they’re apple-red and numb. Peggy welcomes the distraction of thinking about the cold-how to get from point A to B without freezing in the middle of the sidewalk. At this point, the prospect seems a lot more welcoming than going back to school where her grades had dropped and her mind is a fog of peer-inflicted insults.

Her feet carry her to Eliza’s apartment building, far too many blocks to have actually walked in comfort although she feels not a single appendage on her body. She’s glad to see the minute crack of light seeping through the door as she turns her key, hoping for hot chocolate and a blanket and her middle sister’s slightly overbearing coddling. She knows that as long as she’s upset, Eliza will have some sort of plan to get her emotions back on track. The rest of the situation-the extinguishing of the rumor and social damage control-is a job her mind can’t even begin to think about without hurting. She crosses the threshold of the apartment and is met with empty space-a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, a mug of half-gone and very black coffee sitting on kitchen counter. Every light is on, from the one over the stove to the little lamp by Eliza’s oversized reading chair. It leaves the space with an artificial energy, and Peggy blinks against it before moving to flip a few of the switches off.

Alex’s voice is the first sound she hears besides that of her own movement. When she gets to the little hallway that hosts the bedroom, bathroom, and office, it is a hurried sort of murmuring that meets her ears. It’s accompanied by music with a beat; maracas and bongos and lucid acoustic guitars to which his feet tap against the hardwood flooring. Peggy pokes her head in and finds herself chuckling at the sight. The haphazard human is stretched out in Eliza’s huge black rolling chair, with the upper half of his body on the seat and his lower half extending to the floor. He coasts around the office like this, using his feet to walk his body back and forth. He speaks more words than can fit in a normal human breath, lifting them through the air in the rushed and tinny timbre of his voice. There are words-most words-she doesn’t understand, jargon and just plain nonsense he repeats over and over until they have lost their meaning. If she hadn’t known Alex Hamilton, she thinks as she walks further into the office, she’d be calling the police about the madman in her sister’s apartment.

This is how she makes her presence known, with a sarcasm containing a stitch of sisterly teasing he’s far too used to for being (biologically, of course) an only child. He jumps from the chair in shock before shaking his head at her, moving papers and piles of things back to their original, disorganized chaos.

“And here I thought you weren’t living here anymore.”  His face reddens, and Peggy’s features nearly break from the unfamiliar movement of a half-smile. Alex shrugs, continuing his sorting although his mannerisms are slightly jumpy. He moves like a child just waiting for their scolding, as if Peggy is going to tell Eliza’s therapist that they’ve only mostly, sometimes listened to her instructions. He is grateful for Lisa, for the breakthroughs she’s made and the strength she’s added to their relationship, but he’s not sure how he’d take the impending talk she’d probably give him about this.

“It’s a work in progress.” It’s all he can say to justify this piece of their relationship, where staying over until midnight and Skyping until the last possible second before sleep isn’t nearly enough. Peggy seems to understand, nodding and smiling and glancing around the room.

“When will Eliza be back?”

“She gets out earlier today-no extra duties-so probably about another two hours or so. Why?” He’s glanced at his watch, then back up at her, before narrowing his eyes.  “Wait, did you not have school today?”

“I opted out hallway through. It’s a long story.” Peggy can feel the hot, tired tears play at the bottoms of her eyes before she can get through her sentence. Then, she casts one more glance around the room. Before she can plan her exit, Alex drops the last of his papers on the desk, kicking his feet up onto its only spare space.

“I have time-if you want, that is.”

She isn’t sure what prompts it, the way the story makes its way across the room. Her voice fills the space with both volume and emotion, and several times throughout it she has to make pause to either fill up her lugs or cast a wave of feelings momentarily aside. And as she’s speaking, as Enzo’s name is shot like the quiver of an expert sniper, Alex’s eyes grow wide. His feet plant themselves back on the floor when she describes the first day of it all, the not knowing. He sits up in his seat when she gets to explaining her relationship with Enzo further-the breakup which he’d known about and the general lack of manners he’d expressed toward the end of it. And when she delves into the hardest piece of it all, the allegations and the peer-torment, he’s completely risen from his chair.

“Who the fuck does this guy think he is?” There are several other words, poorly filtered and completely mismanaged, that he gets out as the features on his reddened face contort into something Peggy has never seen before. He paces the room, pushes in his chair and runs his hands through his hair. Then he stops altogether, by the frame of the door, and scowls.

“I’m going to find this kid-I’ll say something to him.”

“You do realize that while you’re older, you’re no more intimidating than a high school athlete and his friends, right?”

“Still. Someone needs to say something. It’s not okay for this guy to get away with shit like that.”

“I know,” She waves her hands at Alex, a silent suggestion for her sister’s boyfriend to calm himself down a bit. In a matter of seconds, at the mere mention of her mistreatment, he’d already come up with four separate plans spun around chaotically in his mind. She knows by the way his mouth moves; the way he sits without really relaxing, with both feet alternating in their tapping against the floor. And through her attempts to calm him, her heart lessens up on its tight squeezing. It warms. Alex-her brother, in probability-is hatching a plan for her. Somebody is listening to Peggy Schuyler, and where it had once been lost she feels hope.

[shadowtongued]

NON-ROLEPLAYING BLOGS/PERSONALS PLEASE DO NOT REBLOG; .

NOTE: none of this is to be taken as canon unless it's annotated from canon. this is simply PERSONAL interpretation for the sake of character building/exploration/etc. for this roleplaying blog. you are still free to have your own opinions and such, this is just my take and not enforced as canon! thanks!!

this is long, get some popcorn. i have a lot of feelings.

As a preface; When Sliske had his falling out with Icthlarin, it's well known that they came to odds due to the Menaphite God of Death and Afterlife having a rather heavy dislike for Sliske's methods of fighting and his handling of necromancy/wight-taking. Icthlarin removed Sliske's army of wights by force when he refused to allow their souls to move on to an afterlife, which was interfering with Icthlarin's job as a deity.

After that, seething anger well hidden under his always complacent behavior, Sliske spitefully sought out the very enemy they had been at odds with when enlisted from Freneskæ to fight for the Menephites as their 'Stern Judges' or 'Faceless Ones'. Was it petty? Hell yes. Either way, Sliske was able to convince almost all of the Mahjarrat faction from one side into the open arms of previous ‘enemy’, Zaros, probably under the pretenses that Icthlarin and his 'family' had no insight to Mahjarrat culture and that they eventually would have grown bored had the war been ended, seeing as they are used to a constant state of warfare and were promised to be able to fight away from their home realm. Zaros had an understanding of the Mahjarrat due to similar creation, both coming directly from Mother Mah.

Due to their power, Mahjarrat were obviously placed in statuses and titles of high power, a long list of Legatus, Pontifex, Tribune, etc; placement within many sections of the church, military, and more. Where did 'unusual predilections' such as Sliske go? For his ‘liberation’ of the Mahjarrats unto Zaros, a unique branch, the Praetorians, was created. He was given the title, Praefectus Praetorio, roughly Head of the Secret Police. Most Zarosian titles ( and most of the Empire tbh ) were parallel to Roman military and stature ( Infernus is also legit Straight Up Latin™ ).  

In Roman titular services, the Praetorians were usually in charge of civil judgments, upholding law, and handling any traitorous actions. They were an imperial guard who delivered security details to the Emporer as well as providing protection. It's also to be stated that the ruler at the time could also be at the mercy of this elite faction ( which uh, lol, is ironic later considering the history of the Zarosian faction and that Sliske probably had a habit of keeping plenty of information to himself and out of the rest of his faction and Zaros. You cannot convince me that Sliske, not the other Praetorians, just him, didn't know about Zamorak's planned betrayal. There's no way he didn't and couldn't have intervened. At least that's how I see it. Fucker was everywhere. ) In real Roman history, it was really not unheard of for the Praetorian Guard to abuse their power by under the table operating assassinations for the right price and several coupes against their Emporers. Yeah, they were pretty unstable for a faction who is supposed to be upholding the law and practicing civil/political infrastructure. I'm no Roman history whiz so any of the above could be pretty shaky/incorrect.

What is the role of the Praetorians? Sliske: We are the secret police in Senntisten, you work 'with' us on a daily basis! Although I cannot understand why for the life of me. It is not like we need two sets of secret police when the Praetorians are already doing such a commendable job. Oh, so sorry, I appear to be ranting. Any more silly questions, inquisitor? Kharshai: Thank you for the sarcastic answer, but I was talking about your role in proceedings today. Sliske: Our 'role in proceedings' is to provide vital reports on potential threats. Plots, traitors, you know...that sort of thing. And if needed, we have our own methods for extracting information from suspects. I must admit, that is the part where I really come into my own. Kharshai: Hopefully you will not get the chance.

Did the Praetorians know about this ( the eventual usurping of Zaros ) already?

Sliske: Of course we did. Everyone is gathered here because of the intelligence WE gathered. I act on the authority of Zaros himself. Kharshai: He must place a lot of trust in you to act so strongly on your advice. Sliske: It can be oh so stressful ruling an empire. Busy work, you see, even for a god. Zaros relies on me and my Praetorians as his eyes and ears in Senntisten. I know, I know, I am such a charming individual, but I assure you the evidence is quite compelling in this case.

During his time, he abused his power fairly often for his own intellectual interests ( having members of a bar fight arrested or executed on the spot while pursuing personal missions ) or his own entertainment. Clarifications on entertainment? Sliske was a playwright of the Shakespearian level for the rich and high status, where he took "unwanted humans from the streets of the city, dressed them in brightly colored costumes, and placed upon each a crude wooden mask. At his command the masks spoke aloud and controlled the movements of the players, compelling them to jerkily act and dance and mime his play like puppets, with the person behind the mask able only to watch his own actions." Yikes, if that wasn't enough to make your skin crawl, often these 'actors' in the climax would fight and kill one another with no control of their bodies, one dying and continuing to move and speak posthumously.

Back to fiction, headcanon, and my interpretation cloud nine all below, Sliske was indeed the leader of his own branch and it goes to say that most of those under him had a similar mindset, such as his second in command, Trindine. Sliske and his underlings were in charge of handling treason, criminal acts, and inquisitions for information on their enemies/other gods and their followers at the time. It's also canonly assumed that the Praetorians were in charge of prisoners as well as information extortion and torture. Sliske has hinted that he enjoys interrogation and a Mod once stated that he found delight in persecuting vampyres due to their ability to remain alive in custody for months or even years.

Sliske had an office, probably oddly occupied from time to time considering his line of work and often absence. He abhorred having to do reports and paperwork ( "Let's just say I'm not looking forward to having to 'file reports' again." ) and made attempts to place this on his cohorts, even though eventually he would have to be the one to sign off on everything as Praefectus. He hated it either way and shirked this responsibility.....out of 'monotony'.

As elite spies, Praetorians were required to hold a resolve and keep their wits under the pretenses they were captured, albeit it was usually the other way around considering their prowess. Sliske was an adamant fan of being able to test the resolve of his own underlings for the sake of torture and interrogation resistance via kidnapping them himself with the possible aid of another of their own; even candidates for the Praetorian Guard were able to find themselves swept out from under their feet in the dark for their first test. Imagine being a member of the guard on a mission and purposely dragged against your will into a gruesome event of capture by the supposed enemy and to be able to not PANIC, understand what is going to happen because you've done this before, and know what to expect. Only for your captor to give up halfway through, grin and tell you 'congratulations, you lasted two minutes longer than the last.'

Nothing was sacred and everything was applicable, extreme heat and cold environments, pharmaceutical torture, infliction of mental and physical stressors and pain, electric and magical shock, good ol' beatings, and degradation. He too was submitted to this kind of routine on his own open armed suggestion, but it never really happened to work on him ( let alone none of his proteges stepped up to the plate under the subtle realization that afterward 'boss' might not treat you so kindly, no one wants a double dose of already given sugar venom from him. Not to mention he's already probably sadomasochistic.) When you're one the undercover agents of one of the most ancient and feared empires you’re expected a lot. 'no one simply withstands torture, it's just a matter of how long it takes for one to crack. you will experience familiarity and boredom with our methods to better yourself in that situation. learn to cope. there will be no loose lips here'.

all that aside. sliske did get attatched to many of his praetors and would often mourn in private if he lost a particularly good officer. the praetorians weren’t all pranks and fear. they were an effective and efficient branch under his guidance.

Tiny, canon last note to help you sleep at night: most of the Empire outright feared the Praetorian Guard when Sliske abused his power for fear of coming under their inquisition or public disgrace when it came to frowning upon their actions. And p.s. the irony of Sliske being ousted for treason when it was his job to handle treasonous behavior as number one of the secret police never ceases to tickle me pink.

[freudensteins-monster]

A Glass of Jameson and a Pint of Mead

@alpanu said: "Drink Me" with Loki and Tom, where Loki explains Tom how to play him. May not be *exactly* what you were thinking, and it’s not quite what I was thinking when I started either, but hopefully it’s okay.

Tom was nervous. Understandable, really. He was preparing to start work on his first Hollywood blockbuster, in a superhero movie no less. But it was more than that, he’d tell his friends and ‘serious actors’ contemporaries alike, it was a familial drama of Shakespearean proportions, especially with Ken at the helm. Which is why he was holed up in a corner booth of a pub down the road from his apartment (which had become claustrophobic with its maze of moving boxes) on an dreary Sunday afternoon with his copy of the “Thor” script, a notebook, a few pens and highlighters, as well as a well-thumbed copy of “Othello” spread out on the table before him. It was his plan to spend the day revisiting Shakespeare’s master manipulator and make a few notes in his script before heading off for dinner with his mother. He pushed his blonde hair behind his ear at the thought, knowing she’d comment on how long his hair was getting. It hadn’t quite bounced back from being straightened for his screening test as Thor but he’d kept it long at Ken’s request, and could only hope the stringy mess looked better dyed black. And oh, wouldn’t his mother have something to say about that, he snorted into his drink.

An hour passed in quiet study and he was just making a few notes on some other reference materials he wanted to seek out when his empty glass was replaced with a full glass of Jameson on ice.

“Thank you,” he said absently, barely glancing up from his work. It wasn’t until another heavier glass was placed on the table that Tom realised that someone had slid into the booth opposite him. “Can I help you?” he asked, his eyes darting around the pub to check that, yes, there were plenty of other seats available.

“No,” the other man drawled, seeming both bored and irritated at the same time. “I just felt compelled to meet you.”

Tom fidgeted with his pen nervously. He didn’t really get stopped on the street by fans, something his publicist had warned him was going to change after Thor, especially not by fans who were well-dressed men in their forties or twenties. It was difficult to tell. Tom drank in all the details of the man before him quickly and tried to figure out what else he might want from him. His accent seemed English with a hint of something Scandinavian that Tom couldn’t place. He was wearing a black three piece suit with green accents, which made him stand out like a sore thumb in the dingy pub, but none of the other patrons seemed to pay him any mind. He had long dark hair and bright green eyes, with pale skin and sharp features, and something that he could only describe as a ‘dark glow’ about him, but Tom figured that was his imagination or possibly the whiskey playing tricks on him.

The man’s smile grew as the seconds ticked by, but his expression lost none of his menacing edge. Tom had a nagging feeling that he should know the man from somewhere, but couldn’t place the suspicious character - it wasn’t as though he had any expensive habits or owed anyone money, and he hadn’t knowingly slept with someone else’s girlfriend.

“Who are you?” Tom finally asked, completely at a loss.

“You’re a clever mortal, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He grinned then, his teeth gleaming in the gloomy corner of the pub. The man picked up his glass, a strange engraved tankard Tom was certain the pub didn’t stock, and drank from it until it was half empty. The action drew Tom’s attention to the man’s sleeves, to the strands of green thread woven into the expensive material of his suit and to the ornate gold cufflinks affixed to his dark emerald sleeves underneath. It look Celtic in design, or maybe… maybe Norse.

Wait… did he say ‘mortal’?

Tom’s eyes flicked up to scan the man’s face, green eyes dancing with merriment stared back at him. No, it wasn’t possible, Tom thought. There was no way he was going to say that thought out loud because it was utterly mad, he’d have to be crazy for even considering it.

“No, just perceptive,” the man smirked.

“I’m sorry?” Tom murmured, a shaking hand reaching for his own drink.

“You’re not crazy,” the god man assured him, Tom’s eyes going wide as the man’s drink refilled of its own accord. “I’m just… impossible,” he smirked, leaning back into his seat as to make himself comfortable.

“Loki?” Tom stammered, his voice barely even a whisper.

“Aye, the one… and only,” he added sharply, his eyes narrowing at the actor. Tom audibly gulped as the man god reached for the “Thor” script, flicking through the pages with feigned disinterest. “When word reached me of this little cinematic endeavour I felt compelled to revisit this backwards little world and see what they were planning. Thor has been whining for what feels like centuries that a mere mortal is not fit to portray him and his heroic deeds,” Loki drawled with a slight roll of his eyes.

“And… and what do you think?” Tom ventured nervously.

“I am unsure at this point. It is but one story told in one tiny corner of the universe, ultimately it is of no consequence, but I know the power of stories. There’s nothing in here about the horse is there?” he asked suddenly as he flipped through the script. “You’d think flaying the skin from the body of the instigator of that particular ridiculous rumour would be enough to deter people from repeating it,” he mused, though there was a slight growl to his voice.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Tom swore hastily.

“Good. Because I would be quite put out if you were to make a mockery of me.”

“I would never,” Tom swore again, hand on his heart. “I think he’s an amazing character. I mean, I don’t know how much, if any, is you. I mean, it’s a movie based on a comic, based on Norse mythology, I have no idea how much of it is true…”

“Very little,” Loki interjected, putting an end to Tom’s nervous rambling.

“But I think he’s an amazing character,” Tom repeated, taking a calming breath. “Incredibly complicated and full of internalised pain, with this innate joy for the chaos he creates. It’s the role of a lifetime,” he added honestly, trying not to trembling as the god’s eyes bored into him.

“Hmm,” was all the reaction Loki gave, turning his attention back to the script.

The whole of creation seemed to pass between the minutes as Tom tried not to stare at the Norse god reading his heavily annotated copy of the script.

“Hmm,” Loki repeated, an amused smile softening his expression. “What precisely is a ‘taser’?”

“Um… it’s, uh, a non-lethal weapon. It shoots these electrode things and stuns the attacker.”

“It electrocutes them?” Loki queried gleefully. “How marvellous.” His expression sobered as he turned the page. “Odin is not my father, just so you know,” he said quietly.

“The mythologies say you’re brothers.”

“We’re not that either,” he replied irritably.

Tom shut his mouth at that, watching wide-eyed as the god conjured a quill made from a raven’s feather, and began making notes in the margins of his script.

“Regardless, this seems to be a pivotal scene for this incarnation of myself.”

“I thought so too,” Tom murmured, watching eagerly as the pages kept turning and more notes were added.

“This version of Thor seems stubbornly heroic and unfairly worshipped, so hopefully Thor won’t complain too much,” Loki said with a roll of his eyes. “’Maniacally’?” he muttered as he neared the end of the script, crossing out several lines. “I am not some cartoon villain, am I?” Tom shook his head mutely. He shifted nervously in his seat as Loki’s brow creased and he reread the last few pages. “This ending seems preposterous.”

“How so?” Tom ventured hesitantly.

“Why did he let go of the staff? Why fall to his death? It seems unnecessarily dramatic.”

“My take,” he began apologetically. “Is that after learning the truth of his heritage, and realising that he could ever do would make him Thor’s equal in his adoptive father’s eyes, that there was nothing left in Asgard for him, nothing left for him to live for. And letting go, it seems to me, was the ultimate rejection of all their lies and apologies, and it was the only thing that Loki could do, in that moment, in which he maintain any control of his future, as bleak as that sounds.”

Loki blinked, absorbing Tom’s words, before closing the script with a slap. “Preposterous,” he repeated, dismissing his quill with a wave of his hands. “I would have gotten out of it somehow - I’ve gotten out of worse situations - or I would have at least pulled those two bastards down with me. But, I suppose,” he sighed, standing up from the booth and refastening his suit buttons. “Within the context of the film, it’s not a terrible ending for my character, lends him some sympathy,” he added with a shrug.

“I’ve already been contracted for second film, so Loki comes back… somehow,” Tom supplied in an effort to appease the god.

“Does he?” Loki replied excitedly, his eyes lighting up with a mischief that Tom could only hope to portray on film. “Won’t that be interesting,” he purred. He drained his tankard and regarded Tom curiously, “It was... interesting to meet you, and I’m certain you’ll do a good job,” he smirked, his words equal parts encouragement and threat.

Before Tom had a chance to reply the sound of shattering glass pulled his attention away, and in the split second it took his gaze to pull back to the seat opposite him the god had vanished. Tom glanced about the bar urgently but apparently no one else was startled by the sudden disappearance of the well-dressed stranger. With trembling hands he reached for his script, skimming the pages for the new notes that were definitely there and not a product of his alcohol addled imagination. He hastily shoved the books and pens into his messenger bag and made to escape the pub, turning back after a few steps to reclaim his drink, downing it in one large gulp. He ran out onto the street, ignorant of the rain, and didn’t stop until he reached his mother’s house, his eyes and hair wild.

“It’s just nerves, dear,” his mother assured him, pushing a hot cup of tea into his trembling hands. By the time he’d finished it he almost believed her.

 A few years later…

Tom returned to his hotel room after a long day of promoting “The Avengers” and ordered a light dinner, hopping into the shower while he waited for it to arrive. He was midway through an email to one of his sisters when there was a knock at his door.

“Good evening, sir,” the attendant greeted, pushing the service trolley into the room.

“Thank you,” Tom replied, as he signed for his meal. He eyed the covered plate hungrily but faltered when he noticed a familiar green bottle. “I’m sorry, I didn’t order that,” he said, pointing to the bottle of Jameson.

“Oh, no, sir,” the attendant apologised. “That was a gift left with reception. It was requested that it be brought up with your next meal.”

“Oh, alright then,” Tom murmured, his brow creased with confusion. He locked the door behind the attendant and sat down at the small dining table, eyeing the bottle suspiciously. He pulled out a white envelope tucked underneath it, but instead of a card there was a photograph. Tom’s eyes went wide and the colour drained from his face as a Norse god at a comic convention wearing a Loki costume smiled back at him. His arms were spread wide and there were a dozen fangirls desperately trying to get closer to him. With shaking hands Tom turned the photo over.

“Job well done, mortal. I haven’t felt this worshipped in centuries.”

Tag List: @happyhiddling  @storylover92 @marveil @dreamdancer19 @thefangirl33 @anonanonfrances @contains-cinnamon @jackiattacki  @sarabeth72 @hiddlestoncentral @annamegatron @angelus80 @dearmisterhiddles @writernotwaiting @ishoutmarcoandyoushout @hallotom @mrshiddelston  @lolomonster @bellafagoaga1812 @stormieandateacup @beautifullydamned16 @hardtopickausername @lorrmorr @antyc67  @but-glorieux @ladyninasayers-ish @ladymirtilla @marvelousmissfit @yoursophiebelle   @xunconquerableheartx @iamwhoidecidetobe @tinaferraldo @larouau12 @hiddles-is-a-fallen-angel @lokilockedcougar @pollution-brown-eyes @loveshiddles4everme @mrsmalcontent @just-call-me-your-darling @inkededucatednnerdy @vampire-marie @whenweareallalone @captain-biryani @larouau12 @sweetsigyn @scarlettsoldier @mypreciousmind1 @wonderinthewoods @shipperstoriesstuff @thecrownedrose