#but besides shaving the sideburns down and cutting the front a bit so i can see

[bipercabeth]

👀 anything + "does it still hurt to think about?"

(happy birthday alyssa i love u!!!) 

this is a bellarke fic so let’s pretend it’s on my sideblog and call it a day. s7 compliant until 7x10. then i do what i want. 

It all happens so fast. 

Bellamy comes back, ragged and worse for wear but alive. He and Echo meet an abrupt, messy end Clarke doesn’t catch the details of. And somehow, inexplicably, Clarke ends up alone with Bellamy in Octavia’s quarters while the others recuperate. 

Part of her longs to be with them—making plans, gathering information, maybe trying MCAP to crack Bellamy’s stubborn memories—but loyalty and guilt keep her rooted in place. It’s stupid to think she could’ve prevented Bellamy from being taken in the first place, but still. She should’ve been there. She should’ve known sooner. 

“Stop thinking so loud,” Bellamy calls from the bathroom. 

It earns a laugh in the way only Bellamy can. Laughter has been scarce lately. It always seems to be when they’re apart. 

She pushes the door open and leans against the frame, making eye contact with Bellamy in the mirror. He’s frowning, running his fingers through the long beard he grew on Etherea. Clarke wonders how much time he’s lost. At least she knew the number of days she spent in Eden. It’s a cruel trick of the universe to steal more time after everything it’s put them through. 

“How’d you know?” she asks. 

He shrugs. “I still know you.” 

He says it like it’s inevitable. This man has no memory of the past several months to years of his life, but he knows when Clarke Griffin is overthinking based on her silence alone.  

“Can I ask you something?” 

Clarke smiles. “Anything.” 

He turns to her, scissors in hand. “Will you cut my hair?” 

She takes in his unruly waves, which are nearly as long as her own. “I don’t know, I kind of like matching.”

“Just take the damn scissors, Princess.”

Clarke’s hand freezes, her fingers ghosting over Bellamy’s. It takes all she has to curb the shock from her face, but she doesn’t manage to suppress her smile. “Been a while since you called me that,” she says lightly. She drags a chair from the corner and motions for him to sit. 

She busies herself ruffling his hair. “How short?” 

“Like it was before?” 

It makes sense, wanting to return to who he was and how he looked before this. It’s not Clarke’s favorite cut, but she can do it. She measures the length out with her fingers. “Here?” 

“No, before. On Earth.” His voice is heavy with significance. Clarke learned long ago not to put words in Bellamy’s mouth, but she can almost hear him say with you at the end of that sentence. 

She swallows. “I can do that.” 

She works in comfortable silence, chopping off the longest parts before shaping up the rest. Bellamy’s gaze burns into her through the mirror, but she can’t bring herself to meet it. Regardless of how fun it would be to make fun of him with half his head shaggy, all Clarke can think about is how he’ll look when she’s done. The Bellamy she imagined for six years in Eden is about to be in front of her. That takes some priority. 

Six years of cutting her own and Madi’s hair has made Clarke something of an expert. Before she knows it, Bellamy is halfway back to himself, save the beard. 

It’s a bit shorter than before, she thinks as he looks in the mirror. Despite her experience, she hasn’t done a cut like this. A slight miscalculation meant she had to take in the sides a bit more than she’d have liked, but it works for him. She thinks most looks would, even the caveman thing he has going on on the lower half of his face. After all, it’s Bellamy. 

Bellamy’s responding grin is somewhat hidden under the beard, but Clarke sees it in his eyes. He tips his head back against her chest as she fusses and fluffs the front with anxious hands. “Looks good, Princess.” 

There he goes with that nickname again. This time Clarke can’t hide the way her hands still. 

“You haven’t called me that in 131 years.” 

Bellamy frowns, as if to protest, but quickly devolves into distress and confusion. “I don’t think that’s right. I think I called you that when I was... wherever I was.” 

The amount of baggage to unpack in that statement alone almost shuts Clarke down. She can’t look at him. 

Instead she moves to the medicine cabinet, distracting herself with the need to get rid of that horrific beard. “Does it still hurt to think about?” 

“When I push too hard, yeah. Sometimes the memories are buried so deep it feels like someone is bashing against my skull. Sometimes I can feel them, even if I don’t know what they mean. I’m just drawn to certain things. I think that means they were important to me there.” 

“Like what?” 

“You.” 

When Clarke’s breath stutters and she looks at Bellamy, she only finds quiet resolve. 

“I may not remember it, but there’s no way I was stranded like that and didn’t think about you. And when I came through the Anomaly, that was the one thing that stayed with me. Just you.” 

“I know how you feel. After Praimfaya...” Clarke feels her cheeks heat. “Well, you know how I got through it.” 

The misery of all the times fate has ripped Bellamy away climbs in Clarke’s chest, propelling her back to the medicine cabinet where she finds shaving cream and a straight razor. 

Bellamy’s face changes in an instant, morphing from something wistful and longing to his signature Big Brother face. 

“Why is there a razor in my little sister’s room?” 

Clarke simply smiles. “Little?” 

“I don’t care how long she spent on Penance. She’s my baby sister,” he groans. “Besides. I could still be older.” 

He moves to take the razor from Clarke, but she holds it close. “Can I?” 

“I can shave myself, Clarke.” 

“I know, but—” The misery climbs up her throat, now— “I thought I lost you.” 

That softens him. He leans back and offers himself to her. “All yours.” 

There isn’t much room for talking after that. Clarke wets his beard and rubs in some shaving cream, thankful for the towel she wrapped around him before she started this whole process. She doesn’t want to see him in the stiff Bardo robes or the parka he made himself on Etherea. Here, in the Henley she recognizes from before he left, he is almost her Bellamy again. 

“Have you ever done this before?” he asks as she lines up the blade with his sideburn. 

“No,” she admits. “But I have steady hands.” 

They’re less steady with body heat radiating in the space between Clarke’s body and Bellamy’s, but she won’t tell him that. 

The first swipe is a series of careful tugs with her left hand, assisted by her right holding his skin. Each inch reveals constellations of the freckles she so dearly missed. 

Clarke watches his face as she tosses the hair and wipes the blade. He meets her with unwavering trust as she brings the blade back to his skin, this time with more confidence. With each pass, the man she loves comes back to her. 

Bellamy’s cheekbones are easy, all sharp lines and simple angles. It’s one thing to watch the freckles bloom on his cheeks and another entirely to feel his breath ghost her fingertips as she takes off his mustache. Her fingertip traces the scar on his lip without thought or caution. Her eyes follow. 

Next comes the divot in his chin, freed at last. Clarke rests her thumb there to tilt his head back for the final strokes along his neck. He’s all trust in her gentle hands. He always has been. It becomes them, same as love. 

Love lives in Clarke’s hands as she holds his neck, feeling his muscles jump with anticipation. They have never let themselves get this close, and now she understands why. Clarke has been so strong for so long, but Bellamy is her undoing. 

“All done,” she breathes. 

He sits up, but Clarke is frozen in place. Her blade hovers near Bellamy’s throat while her hand cups the other side. A single drop of blood gathers where she nicked his upper lip earlier. She has the ridiculous urge to kiss it away. 

“Been a while since I saw you bleed,” is all she can say. 

His breath is warm on her lips. “I don’t think it’s been a while since I bled.” 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to patch you up.” 

“You were,” he assures her.

“Bellamy, I...” 

“Yeah,” he eases the razor away and lets it clatter to the ground. “Me too.” 

The dam breaks, unleashing a flood of emotions Clarke never dreamed she would allow to surface. Bellamy’s hand tangles in her hair, and it’s unclear who pulls the other in first, but that doesn’t matter because his lips are on hers after centuries of waiting. She throws a leg over his lap and straddles him, her caution drowned in the wake of passion.

They part too soon for Clarke’s liking, but Bellamy’s hands stroke her back idly, like he has all the time in the world to touch her, and all that matters is that they get that time. They have seen the world end countless times, but it is reborn with each second Bellamy looks at Clarke like he looked at the sky that first day on Earth: joyful, disbelieving, reverent. 

“I never thought I’d get this,” he pants. 

“Me?” 

“Happiness.” He says it like it’s the same thing. 

Clarke kisses him for it, half because he’s sweet and half because she can. 

Their love has eclipsed entire planets, even outlasting the one where it was born, but he has always been Earth to her. The final journey home. Joy. 

And joy tasted better on Earth. 

#TUMBLR ATE THE FIRST PRINCESS LINE AFTER THE READ MORE RIP TO THOSE READING FROM EARLY RBS #this rly got away from me it was supposed to be a DRABBLE #BUT HAPPY BIRTHDAY ALYSSA I AM SORRY ALL I HAVE IS HALF EDITED FIC WHEN U DESERVE THE WORLD BUT I LOVE U!!!!!!!!!! #my fic #my bellarke #alyssa tag #the 100 #bellarke #useralyssa #the 100 fics

[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Chapter 13

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: Adult Situation, Swearing, Angst, Brief mention of past self-harm

Words: 2,501

The train line to Arthur's apartment wasn't yet running when he left Y/N's place. He had to walk home, which he didn’t mind. The cold air helped clear his head as he went, smoking all the way. There weren't many people on the streets this early. A newspaper stand owner was readying his shop. A few homeless people were on steps, wrapped up and trying to keep warm. Some construction workers were walking by, carrying signs.

Arthur looked at every single one of them as he passed. Could they finally see him? Did they know what had happened? Was Gotham able to tell his life had been turned on its head in the past twenty-four hours?

He giggled lightly. I got laid. No. Even as that phrase came to him, it felt crude, wrong. He was ashamed he'd even thought of it. Almost a week ago, Gary had told him to be a gentleman - a gentleman would never say something like that. But he didn’t know how he was supposed to think about what had occurred. He speculated as to whether he'd merely fucked Y/N or made love to her. Slight panic filled him as he realized he needed it to be the latter.

As Arthur passed by, he stopped in front of the grocery where he'd first run into her. It wasn't open yet. But he wanted to relive the experience. His eyelids shut as he remembered the small talk she’d made, her stare, her quiet “night.” Those small gestures, which had seemed natural and easy for her, had started a pattern that captured him. And he didn't want to be let loose.

When he reached the foreboding stairs that led to his home, he sighed and surveyed them. Every time he trudged up them it was a choice. A choice to not give into the negative thoughts and anger that plagued him. This morning, thinking of Y/N, imagining she would be at his apartment waiting to greet him with a kiss, made ascending the concrete a little easier.

When he got home, he followed his usual routine of getting into his house clothes, putting his laundry in the hamper, and checking on Penny. Thankfully, she was still asleep. Before sitting down at the breakfast bar with his journal, he grabbed a cookie (one of the chocolate chip Y/N had brought over) and a short glass of milk. Once situated, he opened the notebook to what he had been writing at her apartment, pondering.

When he had been in his early twenties, he'd kissed a girl, once. She'd been a co-worker at one of his gigs. It had been an impulsive act and nothing ever came of it. But he'd held onto that memory for years, until he'd understood no woman would ever have an interest in him. He'd tried, and failed, to shield himself by not hoping.

Kissing Y/N was different. She said he made her happy, claimed he turned her on. She'd been unbelievably responsive to his touch. And the way she’d begged him to fill her... "Arthur...I need you inside me." Goosebumps broke out at his recollections. He was thankful for the guidance she’d given him. It had been enough for him to feel like a participant instead of the novice he was.

Later, the sensation of her throbbing against his mouth when she came, knowing he had done that to her, had been one of the only times he had ever felt powerful. They'd both gotten up off her couch a little shakily. She'd still looked blissful and somewhat dazed. He smiled as he remembered how her lips had pulled at him, then parted as she moaned. ("She was so noisie! I can never bring her over. Penny woud heer everything.") He still couldn’t fathom how she hadn't minded when his cock chose not to cooperate. And that she’d asked him to come over again - tonight!

She’d offered the use of her shower, and he’d gladly accepted. As he'd watched her pick out towels for him, standing there in her bathrobe and bare feet, he'd been unable to speak. She must have noticed, because she'd kissed his nose and asked if he was all right. He'd nodded.

He'd had to use her shampoo, resulting in his hair smelling like strawberries. Vaguely, he wondered if he smelled like a woman. But he decided he didn't care - the scent kept her closer. He'd wanted to shave, but she only had a wet razor hanging on the shower wall. Since his most recent release from Arkham, he'd used an electric shaver. The therapist and doctor there had advised him not to keep other types of razors in his apartment. Blinking, he’d turned away from it, deciding to shave at home.

After getting dressed and leaving the bathroom, Arthur had found Y/N in the kitchen. She'd put coffee on and two mugs were on the counter. It was a snapshot of domesticity he never thought he'd get to experience in his wretched life. They'd stood together in front of the stove while she made toast and burned scrambled eggs. He was proud of himself for having taken only five or so seconds to put his arm around her back at the waist. Then he’d tried to distract himself from wondering if it was all right by sipping his drink.

She’d leaned into him with her hip, looked up, and said, “I never noticed your sideburns before.” She’d rubbed at one gently, then moved her hand to his chin and pulled him to her for a quick peck. “They’re cute.” He hadn’t said anything in response to the sudden compliment, still suspicious of the idea that a woman, even Y/N, could find any part of him “cute.” Averted eyes and a slight, toothy grin had been all he’d managed.

When she’d served breakfast, he hadn't had the heart to tell her he wasn't hungry. He’d enjoyed the raspberry jam on his toast - he usually only bought grape, it being the cheapest option. And even though the eggs were terrible, he’d smothered them with ketchup and eaten them. She'd been talking the entire time, telling him about her upcoming day and asking about his. But he'd only half heard her. He was too busy trying to figure out how he was ever going to interact with her normally after all this.

His eyebrows pinched. Even before his first breakdown, connections had been impossible for him to make, and Arkham hadn’t exactly been a place to seek warmth. For so many years, he'd yearned for someone, to matter to that person and know what it was to love them. He was at a loss as to what to do now that he had it. If he had it.

Changing the context of how he thought of himself to include not only mentally ill loner but also potential romantic partner, would be a mindfuck. He wasn’t sure he was up to the task. And he knew he had nothing to offer besides his problems and his heart, whatever that was worth. He hoped it would be sufficient.

Holding his pen, he bit his lip. He wouldn't be able to take back the words once they were out. Carefully, writing as clearly as he could, he let the ink touch the paper. "I think I love Y/N. Shud I tell her? What if its to soon? I don't want her to be upset." Staring at what he'd written, Arthur let out a long breath and lit a cigarette. Then, smiling, he put his head down as his eyes welled up. He wiped at them hastily.

He had left Y/N’s apartment reluctantly. Even after her invitation, he felt as though stepping out her front door would wake him up from a dream he’d never return to. The solid feeling of her lips on his, her tongue teasing his mouth for entry when they'd kissed goodbye, helped assure him there'd be more. Part of him had wanted to tell her he loved her, like he'd just written in his notebook. It would have been nice to experience saying it to someone. But he'd forced himself to hold back. That was a vulnerability he couldn’t allow. Not yet. But he hoped she'd been able to see it in his eyes and feel it in how he'd touched her.

As he took a drag off his cigarette, he crossed out the word "think" and replaced it with "kno."

Arthur had come dangerously close to confessing everything to her. It would have been a relief to get it out the way. To have her end it if she decided he was too much of a mess to take on, which he assumed was likely. But he hadn't been able to go through with it. And the permission she'd given him to keep his secrets, even though she'd told him she wanted to know him, had been confusing. Now he wasn't sure how much she actually wanted to learn.

But she kept asking so many questions.

He didn't know what he was obligated to tell her. That one of the few times Penny had paid attention was when he'd been hitting his head against the shower wall? That she’d had him committed more than once? He wasn't upset with Penny for that - he was grateful she’d momentarily cared enough to stop him from hurting himself. But on many days he wondered why. Arthur Fleck was a meaningless speck. Born to be put upon and feel bad while trying to take care of his mother and deal with whatever other shit life decided to throw at him.

Taking a deep breath to quell his mind, his eyes shut. Sitting there all day, counting down the minutes until Y/N touched him again, wasn't going to help. There was vacuuming that needed to be done. The bathroom had to be cleaned. And he needed to start his day so he could go out and find a job.

He'd cut back on groceries, changing from seltzer to tap water, buying white instead of wheat bread, getting TV dinners that were marked down because they were close to expiring. But it was still difficult to maintain his meager savings. Maybe he could pick up a spare shift at Amusement Mile. It was the off season, but there had to be work to do.

He wrote another line in his journal before closing it: “Gotta work on more jokes. No time to waste."

After getting up from the breakfast bar, Arthur padded into the kitchen to start Penny's Farina porridge. Still pretty full from Y/N's delightfully awful cooking, he started making Penny an extra portion. He felt a twinge of remorse for having left her alone all night. He knew he was all she had. Until four weeks ago, she'd been all he'd had, too.

Once he was in the bedroom, he opened the window shade and sat in the chair next to her. He studied her face before reaching out, wondering if she would be proud of him if she knew what had happened. Then he peeled the blanket back and touched her hand. "Mom, come on,” he said gently. “It's time to wake up."  

Her eyelids started to flutter; she eventually focused on him. "Happy."

He gulped, concentrating on her face. Ask how I am. I finally have something good to say. I did my act! I'm in love! He was sure he looked as desperate as he felt. Please notice me…

It took her a few seconds to sit up. "Happy, I wrote a new letter. It's on the coffee table."

Sighing, he turned to look out the window. "Okay." After nodding to himself, he stood and helped her out of bed, lifting her light frame gently until she was stably on her feet.

As he guided her to the living room, she spoke. "You smell like perfume."

He smiled, the hurt in his chest softening a bit. "That's because I was with Y/N. I had a big date." A big overnight date, he thought with pride, then laughed as he blushed. He deposited Penny on her usual chair and flicked on the TV. On the way back to the kitchen, he grabbed the envelope. As he got out a bowl, he studied the letter. What on earth could his mother be constantly writing to Thomas Wayne about? He checked briefly to make sure she wasn't paying attention, then opened it, his back to the living room.

His reading wasn't the best, and it took him time to take in the words on the page. "Your son..." "Our son..." He reread those key phrases, thinking he must be mistaken. As he went further, his grip on the papers tightened. "Arthur is a good boy." His jaw clenched. "...how happy he is most of the time." "I love you forever, Penny Fleck."

Slowly, he folded the letter back together and stuffed it in its envelope. Despite the deep breath he took, he couldn't stop the confusion, anger, and hint of excitement from blooming in him. A scowl came across his face as he tried to control himself, failing already.

Arthur slammed his fist on the counter, knocking the bowl on it to the floor with a crash.

Penny called from the living room. "Happy, what happened? Did you hurt yourself again?"

"How come you never told me?" he yelled, going to the living room entrance.  

She stood from the chair, pointing at him. "Is that my letter? You have no right opening my mail!"

He slowly advanced on her. "How could you keep this from me?"

Penny ran into the bathroom, faster than he'd seen her move in years. "You're gonna kill me. You're gonna give me a heart attack!" she shrieked, slamming the door and locking it.

"I'll give you a-" he followed her and pounded on the door, then jiggled the handle.

"I'm not talking to you until you stop being angry!" she yelled.

Immediately, he withdrew, pacing back and forth. "Okay. Okay," he said meekly. "I'm not angry, Mom," he said calmly, shoulders tightening as he approached the bathroom again. "I'm not angry." Leaning in, he put his hand on the door. "Please. Mom. Is this real?"

There was a long pause before her muffled voice came through the wood. "He's an extraordinary man, Happy. A very powerful man." Arthur stared at the door in disbelief. "We were in love. He said it was best that we not be together because of appearances."

When he leaned his head against the door, he sighed. "And I could never tell anyone-," she continued, "-because. Well, I signed some papers." His eyes drifted shut. "And besides, you can imagine what people would say about Thomas and me. And what they'd say about you."

His answer came quietly, voice rough with emotion. "What would they say, mom?"

He heard her intake of breath before she answered. "That you're an unwanted bastard."

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @clowndaddyfleck​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @invisiblewispofwhimsey @let-the-stars-fall-in-the-abyss​

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[glamrockmonarch]

The Flu: Ben Hardy Mini Series

Part 2. Not Meant To Be

Mini Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 3

Words: 4335

Summary: You are an actress and worked with the boys in BoRhap, after the premiere and press tour you wind up working on another project with one of them; Ben. As your roles are tied together you find yourselves spending more and more time in each other’s company, becoming closer than ever and developing feelings. Ben cannot bring himself to ruin what you have with another one of your friends by acting on these new found love until you get sick out of the blue right in the middle of the production and this sparks something between the two.

A/N: I tried my best but I think this one is a little rushed due to the number of events I wanted to get in here (we don’t even get to the good Mozzarella Sticks bits yet!)  without making it too long... anyway, I would love your feedback on this and maybe you could help me decide if a fourth chapter would be a good idea. Let me know, and ENJOY!

You stared at Ben with tearful eyes, he looked down and licked his lips before his blue eyes full of sorrow found yours.

“I’m afraid not.” He reached up to put his right hand on your cheek.

You took a step back, a tear escaping the corner of your eye.

“We are to move to New Zealand. Your father has given his blessing and you are my wife now.”

Ben stepped closer to you and cupped your face, your chest heavied trapped in a tight corset. You felt a slow stream of tears slide down your cheek, met by his thumb. You fail to turn away to his touch although it is written on the script.

“Goddamnit!” You think to yourself. “Maybe if I tense up my neck?”

“I -“ you stuttered, “I don’t want to go.” You admitted.

Ben blinked and his eyes fell on your bright pink lips.

“CUT!” The director yelled from behind the camera, “Y/N, he is the man making you leave the love of your life, leave your home and family, you are about to leave the country forever! Is this the energy you want to give me?”

Ben stepped back and the two of you turned to look at the director.

“I guess not....but she was raised to be quiet and hold back!” You reasoned, trying to extend your back in your costume.

“Exactly!” The director grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you, “forget all that, convince him to stay! Go wild!”

Turning to look at Ben you saw him squinting at the director.

“And you,” Ben straightened up, “get out of your head, this is a tense moment. Make it count! Jack’s a villain in this moment!”

You struggled to look annoyed and uncomfortable around Ben, so the director had to intervene. You ended up ditching some parts of the script in favour of more dramatic lines.

Henry, the man directing, told Ben to go with something a lot harsher.

“Bring Percy into it.”

It was a simple instruction, but it made the biggest difference. Once the cameras were rolling again Ben was almost scary.

“I -“ you stuttered again, “I don’t want to go.” You admitted in a small voice.

Ben’s hands dropped from your face and his jaw became tense.

“Because of Percy. Right?” He stepped closer to you and you blinked in confusion.

Of course, your character was in love with a farm boy who worked for her family but she had to cut all ties to him in order to marry Mister Everleigh - Ben’s role.

“I do not know-“ you started, taking a step back.

“Oh, please Miss Jones! I am not a fool!” Ben licked his lips. “You clearly love him. Do tell me, were you expecting to have an affair with him?”

“Excuse me?” Your eyes widened. “I am offended! Mister Jones, I assure you-“

Ben cut you off again.

“I will manage my family’s business in New Zealand. And you will come with me as my wife.” He said harshly. “This... Percy boy will not be around. So forget about him. Forget about your dirty little farm and your country boy. You are Gwyn Everleigh - my wife, and you will come with your husband to New Zealand.”

You stared at Ben with tearful eyes, imagining your character’s heart to be breaking at these words coming out of his mouth. Gwyn Jones would feel her soul crushed under this burden, becoming an Everleigh and getting on that ship...traveling to another country without her family to bear some evil man’s children. Gwyn would have felt like screaming, but she would hold back because she was taught to do so.

“I understand Mister Everleigh.” You said with your voice cracking, looking down and excusing yourself before leaving through the hall with cameras following your every move.

The director cut and you let out a loud scream outside of the set. You were still in character when Ben ran outside to see what was happening with you.

Not having heard the director say cut, once Ben approached you, you lashed out.

“Don’t! Don’t touch me...” You slapped his hands. “I didn’t ask for this!”

Ben frowned, unable to understand you hadn’t heard you were not rolling anymore.

The blonde tried to touch your arm and as he did you slapped him across the face, half the crew gasping at it.

“I said don’t touch me!” I cried out.

“Y/n! Y/n!” Henry intervened while Ben held his cheek in his hand.

He blonde would hate to admit you were quite strong for your size.

“Oh, my!” You covered your mouth with your hands. “Ben, I’m so sorry!” You apologised and went to check on him.

“I like that, can we shoot that?” Henry turned to one of the producers.

You sighed and looked away from Ben.

“Shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t hear him, I just...” you admitted, “I hate it!”

Ben was confused and looked around for help, not knowing what to say. You pressed your palm against his cheek and gave him an apologetic smile.

“It got better for Gwyn,” he tried to console you, “Jack is a good man, he just...he was jealous...” Ben explained.

The director watched you talk about the scene you had just improvised and heard you go on about your character.

“She was scared!” You cried out, dropping your hand from his face, “Gwyn doesn’t even know Jack! She thought she would at least have her sisters to turn to! Now Jack is jealous? Jealous?! Of what!”

You turn to Henry and shook your head.

“And then he pretty much rapes her the second they arrive in New Zealand!“

“Hey, hey!” There was little to defend there but Ben still felt as attached to his role as you did. “He watched her kiss Percy!” Ben explained. “He didn’t mean to hurt Gwyn!”

“Well, he did!”

Before things could go any further, as usual, Henry had you go back to your marks to keep working.

“You two are gonna be fun to work with on the press tour!” Henry pat both of your backs.

It was a long week of shooting, the last one. The last scene you shot was one with Trine Dyrholm, who played your mother. It was a somewhat easy short scene, but you had to repeat it a few times before the director got all the shots he wanted.

“It’s a wrap ladies!” You were happy to hear Henry congratulate you and Trine.

You celebrated later when the whole production wrapped. Craig and Ben filmed their last scenes together and the crew cheered and clapped.

“It’s a wrap!” Everyone repeated.

You were still in costume when the boys made their way behind the monitor to hug you. Craig was the first to wrap his arms around you, having met you during readings before shooting started, he was glad to be done and promised to stay in touch with you after this.

“You better call me, Craig!” You warmed him with your eyes widening.

He laughed and turned to see Ben joking with Beth.

Everyone in the crew and cast seemed to know you and Ben had something going on between you, whether you knew it or not was something they couldn’t decipher.

“Y/N!” Ben wrapped his arms around you and lifted you up, making you hold on to his shoulders for dear life. “It’s a wrap!”

“It’s a wrap!” You grinned at each other in excitement.

Everyone was happy and sad, it was a big mixture of feelings around the set. The crew was glad it was over because they were proud of the work that they had put into the film, as the cast was too. But there was a melancholic vibe around that nobody could deny; this was the realisation that you would never be together like you had been for the past few months ever again. If there was a second part to this film, which was something possible, the crew would probably not be the same, only the main characters would get called back to take their roles and that if the characters were not written off or grown older - which could mean re-casting. It was time to face it for everyone; the production was over.

That night you had the wrap party, where you got to hang out with everyone and have a bit of a farewell. Henry, your amazing director made sure to thank his employees and you had a great time, besides, the next morning there was something to look forward to... shaving Ben’s sideburns.

Although you partied till well into the am, you woke up early and made sure to text your friends.

Gwilym was happy to hear you were free from work now, at least you would be for a couple of weeks now until you had a date for your meeting with some executives for your next big project.

“Hi, how are you?” Gwil called.

You and Gwil had been very close during the production of borhap since you played the part of his wife.

“Great!” You replied honestly through the phone and asked how he was doing in return.

Gwil had a way of speaking that seemed to soothe people, for you it was like standing in front of the calm waters of a river; hearing him talk about his projects and plans for the next few days made you feel some sense of normality, even though you felt out of place standing in your kitchen at 10 in the morning while you had been running around set at this same time for the past few months.

“I heard you are going to this fashion show next week.” Gwil inquired, he was aware thanks to Joe that it was an important trip and since Joe was his friend he had been asked to get some information from her.

Joe was nervous about asking you out, he wanted to for a long time now, ever since you were in New York earlier in the year he had been sure about his feelings toward you. Joe missed you, he wanted to talk to you, listen to your voice, see you smile, hold you, kiss you… and he knew that if he wanted to take this relationship to next level he had to get a move on. So he asked his friends to lend him a hand. Ben was supposed to get you to go where you had to go, Rami and Lucy were told to keep people away while Joe talked to you, and Gwil was given the golden task of asking if you were even interested in Joe like that.

“Yeah, Ben and I are flying there together.” You announced, your face lighting up without you noticing. “It’s a shame you aren’t coming, we will miss you!” You said.

“Aw, I’m sorry, I’ll be in America for once!” Gwil explained. “I guess it will be nice to see Rami and Lucy...and Joe…” He tried to be smooth.

You giggled at the mention of Joe; he had been adorably annoying since he heard you had confirmed your assistance to the fashion show in Paris.

“Yeah, I think Joe will tackle me the second he sees me…” You predicted, to which Gwil chuckled. “I wouldn’t blame him, he lives across the pond! Don’t we all miss his chaotic energy around?”

Gwil agreed. “Sounds like that’s gonna be a hard goodbye.” He commented.

“I mean…” You heard a car outside, “Joe’s lovely to have around, but so are the rest of you. I think I might just hide in someone’s luggage and see where that gets me…” You rambled absentmindedly with your eyes scanning the windows to look outside and see who it is.

There is a knock on your door and you apologise to your friend.

“Why don’t you text me later, we should go out for coffee or something, could tell Lucy and Ben too.” You proposed as you left the open kitchen area to go to the door.

“I’d love that.” Gwil sounded pleased.

“I’ve got to go, Gwil...but seriously, congratulations on Top End Wedding.” You reached out to the doorknob. “I’ll see you soon! Bye!”

“Thanks, bye!”

Hanging up the phone you turned the knob and waited to see who it could be on the other side of the door. Not too surprisingly, you found Ben there and let him in without saying anything. He pressed a kiss to your cheek and you gave him one back, stepping aside so he came in and closed the door behind himself.

“Time to get rid of this thing!” Ben announced once you turned to him.

He rubbed his jaw and touched his sideburns.

“Guess you couldn’t wait then.” You said.

Ben was unable to refute you, he was eager to get rid of the hair, it was starting to become too much, so he wanted the sideburns gone and a haircut to go with his polished look. You extended your hand and Ben handed you a small bag with the necessary utensils to shave. Together, you walked down the hall and into your small bathroom.

“So when are you leaving?” Ben asked from his improvised seat on the edge of the bathtub.

You prepared everything on the counter next to the sink and tried to count the days.

“I think I’m going back home next month.” You announced.

The truth was, you were not used to living in London. You just went there regularly, but you still had your home in Cardiff.

“I’ll miss you, you know?” Ben said, biting his tongue after, mentally cursing at himself for admitting this.

“I’ll miss you too, Ben.” You turned to him in your pajamas and offered him a side smile.

You noticed Ben wore a pair of trainers and sweatpants. He nodded his head and his expression mirrored yours.

Clapping your hands and sighing, you got to business and grabbed the razor to shave the sides of his head. You were careful and kept focused on not cutting him, your eyes on his face and one of your hands cupping his cheek while you run the razor down his face. Ben did not dare speak, so he wouldn’t distract you or make you move the blades wrong. It was not possible to avoid, Ben put his hands on your hips while you stood between his legs to shave the rest of his face. Once you were done you pressed the lotion on his skin and ran your fingers along his chin.

“Served, mister.” You smiled down at him and caught him staring.

Ben’s hand did not leave your hips and you were made aware of the contact as you dropped your hands on his shoulders. You remained like this for a few minutes before you gathered the courage to move.

It had been enough, too long since you deciphered the meaning of the fluttering in your stomach when you were together. You ran a hand through Ben’s hair and leant down to press your lips against his. Ben did not move, too scared, too involved to pull away.

He let you kiss him and even worse, he kissed you back. Moving his lips against yours and breathing in the sweet scent of coconut coming from your hair. You cupped his face and Ben’s arms wrapped around you to pull you closer. He would later regret it, but now he could not deny: your lips felt like heaven and he was craving for more. You parted your lips and let his tongue come in contact with yours, it was much more than it had been when you were on set. This was not a pretend kiss, this was real and it felt like it too. You moved your legs so you could straddle Ben and once you did, Ben’s arms tightened around your middle, his hands finding the small of your back and your neck.

As you pulled away for air you pressed your nose against Ben’s cheek and suddenly it all came crashing down on him.

Ben was not supposed to kiss you, he was meant to stay away from you. Joe had told him how he felt about you, this was a horrible thing to do to a friend… so ben did what he had to make it right to his friend because he owed him at least this. He pushed you away and rushed to pick up his stuff.

“What-what’s wrong?” You jumped back as Ben put everything back into his little bag.

“This.” He said, shaking his head. “Y/N, I...I’m sorry.” He blinked because he had to say things he did not feel, but he needed to make sure you would forget about this. Ben could not stab Joe in the back like this. “This is wrong… I’m sorry if I led you on…”

“Lead me on?” You frowned, “Ben…”

“You are my best friend,” Ben reassured you, although he was trying to convince himself. “You are, and I want it to be that way.”

You were shocked, embarrassed...terrified! What had you just done?! It sounded like Ben meant this, you were fooled. He looked serious, you were unable to tell if he was mad, but he did not look like someone who was making this up.

With a hand on your mouth, you nodded and then you looked away. How could you make it right with a friend who you had just kissed under the impression that your feelings would be reciprocated? You felt all colour leave your face and a sudden need to run and hide settle in your stomach making your hands shake.

“I’m so sorry, Ben!” You rushed to explain, “I...I…” You covered your mouth again. “It won’t happen again!” You frowned.

Your voice was small and shaky. Ben looked at you over his shoulder and felt sick to his stomach. Your concern was visible. He looked away again, picked up his stuff and sighed.

“Please don’t go?” You whispered.

It was too late, you had ruined everything. Ben gave you one last glance and mumbled something about seeing you later before he stormed out of the house. You were heartbroken and felt tears stream down your face the second you heard the front door close.

Ben decided he would act as if nothing had happened when he met you a week later at the airport. You did not speak about what happened, in fact, you did not even speak for days after the bathroom incident. Ben was feeling guilty about it and you were sure that if you tried to talk about it with him you would only ruin your friendship - which you felt was hanging by a string.

Without making a big deal out of it, Ben assured Joe that he would be fine asking you out and when the time came to meet up at the airport, you were past the initial shock and made no effort to bring up the topic of your status.

It was clear to the two of you that friendship was all there would be between you, even if it broke your hearts, but you dealt with it as you sat together on the plane. The flight was short and you spent the whole time talking.

“This haircut really suits you,” you said to him and then touched your own hair, “I think my manager is sending me to the hairdresser soon, honestly I wouldn’t mind.”

Ben chuckled.

“You look beautiful as it is, no need for any changes.” He assured you.

Knowing better than to take his comment as a compliment bigger than it was supposed to be, you made a mental note not to blush.

“Thanks,” you changed the topic, “I am going to New York next week.”

Ben frowned, intertwining his hands on his lap as he heard you. He waited for you to elaborate and when you did he felt his heart sink. Of course, once Joe heard of this he would be thrilled. And he himself was happy for you, although his stomach turned to the thought of you being so far away for what would probably be a long time.

“I am being offered a roll by Netflix. I’m meeting with the producers and maybe signing before coming back.” You smiled. “It’s a series, but I think…” You nodded, sucking air through your teeth, “I think it could be big. I like the script very much.”

Ben blinked and forced himself to smile, reaching out and squeezing your hand.

“That’s great! You’ll do amazingly, Y/N! You are very talented, I bet you’ll snatch some awards soon.”

You blushed at that and looked away, raising your brows and squeezing his hand back before leaning your head on his shoulder. You sighed and closed your eyes.

“I know you’ll make it big soon.” You mumbled, “so I hope we can both have what we want.”

Arriving in Paris things became hectic. You were separated from Ben to go to your hotels, an assistant helped you with your things and after a quick lunch at a local café, you were whisked away again into your hotel to get ready for the show. A “glam squad” ready for you.

You had your hair done and your eyebrows waxed, your toes pedicured and your dress ironed to perfection. With your hair and makeup all done you were helped into a dress by the same designer you were seeing that evening.

“Alright, alright, we need to go!” Your assistant said once the car stopped outside the venue.

Looking around you could not see any of your friends, so you walked through the hall on your own. Some cameras shot pictures of you and you offered friendly smiles at them, not knowing what was coming your way…

“Would you take the picture?” A voice you knew too well said behind you as the weight of an arm was placed around your shoulders.

Your brows shot up with your eyes widening. Turning your head you saw the dark hair and the long nose. The friendly smile made you feel better about everything, your confidence boosted and your still sore heart felt slightly lighter and warmer.

“Joe!” You giggled and wrapped your arms around him, letting him hold you too while the camera flashes went wild. “Oh, I missed you!”

Joe chuckled and kissed your temple before pulling away, he grabbed your hands and looked down at you, pointing at your outfit.

“You look beautiful…” He brought a hand to his chest and his brown eyes looked into yours. “Come on, we should be goin’ in there!”

You nodded and turned to wave at the cameras. Joe’s hand found yours and you smiled back at him while you walked into the showroom together. Your seats were right next to each other so while people poured in you two had a chance to catch up, ignoring everyone around you. As you laughed with joe you forgot to catch up with Lucy and Rami, although they knew of Joe’s plans and did little to still your attention.

The show passed you by in a flash. The show was great, while Joe made smart little comments on your ear and made you bite your tongue to keep from laughing out loud you set your eye on some of the pieces, ready to ask if you could wear them later for events, maybe during promotions for projects or appearances.

“Y/N, how long will you be in Paris?” Lucy wondered after the lights went down once the show was over.

Being on the front row, the smartest move from you was to wait till the people left the room before you even attempted exiting.

“I’m leaving on Monday morning, you?”

Lucy giggled and intertwined her arm with Rami’s as he talked to Ben, who had not said a word to you all night except for a weak “hello” from earlier.

“Me too… we should go somewhere! Rami is trying to find his mum a gift, thought we could help him.”

“Are you sure?” You frowned and mimicked her but with Joe instead of Rami. “Won’t I be third wheeling?”

Joe put his chin on your naked shoulder and pouted. “‘course not! I could go to…” he said smoothly, “make it a double date instead!”

You laughed at that and watched Lucy bite her lip.

You sensed the air change and tilted your head to the side to put your eyes on a curious looking Joe.

“Mozzarella Sticks,” you used his nickname, “are you for real?”

Joe had turned to Lucy when Ben explained to him that he was going to be late to the show, he was supposed to help him as you out, but he backed out last minute, so yes, he turned to Lucy for help. And here you were, caught off guard and surprised.

Still, Joe felt confident looking at the way your eyes lit up.

“I am.” He straightened up and put his hand on your thigh with the palm looking up.

His eyes fell to his hand and yours followed. With your heart shrinking, you remembered how embarrassed you had been after Ben rejected you. How could you reject Joe?

With a small smile, you told yourself that there was nothing to lose. Joe was your friend, the one who made you laugh without fail. He had made sure to ask how you were doing when you got sick and he even sent you a big bear when he had the chance, although by the time it had arrived you were back working.

“Well...” You put your hand on his and watched your fingers intertwine. “I’d like that.”

An excited looking Joe leant forward to press a loud kiss to your cheek while Lucy clapped in the background, Rami mumbling a “finally!” and a quiet Ben nodding at his friends with a forced smile.

taglist: @shanetoo @artemisiaarm @sarai-ibn-la-ahad @wint-er-voices @onceuponathreetwoone @imamazzellhoe @mrsmazzello @kyleetheeditor @godessforyou @gwilymswife

#ben hardy #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy x ynofficial #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy angst #joe mazzello #joe mazzello fluff #joe mazzello imagine #joe mazzello x reader #joe mazzello angst #joe mazzello x ynofficial #bohemian rhapsody #bohemian rhapsody cast #borhap #borhap cast #rami malek #lucy boynton #gwilym lee #the flu #insta imagine

[ryanthedemiboy]

Shaving Advice

I’ve been shaving my face for about two years now, and I’ve learned a thing or two. I thought I would pass the knowledge on, because I know I wish I had had it.

As a preface, I am a disabled queer nonbinary man, and I’m white and don’t have course or textured hair.

1. The first time you shave your face. I recommend getting a chair and sitting yourself down in front of your bathroom mirror. Normally, it’s better to shave at the end of a shower or bath, or after one, so your pores are all opened up and everything. But chances are, your hair isn’t super dark or thick yet. 

You need to get your bearings first. 

2. Use a shaving cream that is actual cream, not the foam stuff. The foaming stuff is horrible for your skin, and dries it out badly. This can cause zits, ofc, as well as razor burn, ingrown hairs, and probably other stuff i’m forgetting. 

Alcohol-free is recommended.

3. Use alcohol-free aftershave, if any. If you can, use alcohol-free aftershave lotion. I have used two types of lotion. This one, which smells amazing and very masculine (without being like axe or anything), and is super moisturizing. 

Because it has oils in it, I recommend putting it on while your face is still damp, so it thins the lotion out a bit, and helps it absorb faster to prevent pore clogging. 

The other lotion (which I currently use) is an expensive one that is hypoallergenic, scent free, metal-free (most lotions, deodorants, etc. have metal in them), and made for faces.

4. Once you know what you are doing wrt shaving your face, shave in the shower. I know this is weird, but the mirror makes it difficult to shave if you’re not used to it, and if you’re used to shaving your legs, pubes, and/or armpits, it’s gonna be weird. Just take it slow and go by feel. 

Then once you really know what you’re doing by feel, go ahead and sit back down in front of the mirror again. Now you can figure out what it looks like to shave your face like you’ve taken time to really get used to, and you can start to nitpick your shaving routine.

5. Dollar Shave Club. Seriously. For two years I’ve been buying 5 blade Gillette razors, but Dollar Shave Club has a six blade razor for $10 less for the same amount of cartridges. 

And your first buy is $5, and it is a razor handle, four six blade cartridges, and shave butter. If nothing else, buy that just for the value, then cancel the subscription once you get it.

6. Be as cheap as you need to be, but know that the fewer blades on your razor, and the duller they are, the worse shave you’re going to get, and the more likely you are for nicks and razor burn.

7. Use men’s razors. Women’s razors are meant for legs and shit, and don’t cut as close as men’s. Men’s are cheaper, besides.

8. If you can afford it, get an electric razor. I don’t have one personally, but something I’ve heard from everyone I’ve asked for advice about shaving says to get an electric razor. 

9. Watch youtube videos. Watch videos of people shaving their face, watch reviews for various razors, whatever. Seeing it is easier to understand than any guide I’ve seen.

10. Do not dry shave (unless the razor is meant for it). Ever. It basically pulls hair instead of cutting it. There will be razor burn, and you will be miserable. (You also will probably do it at least once. Don’t say I didn’t warn you)

11. Don’t grow your facial hair out. Just. Don’t. You think it’ll look good, but I promise you: it won’t. You know all the shitty facial hair you got to see in high school and college? Yeah, that’s you. Don’t grow it out.

12. When/if you do grow it out, use beard oil, mustache wax, beard combs, etc. You want to keep your hair in as good condition as possible.

13. Sideburns are a fickle creature. Unless you have a style you’re going for, or are able to trim your sideburns, just shave them off. But be sure that you don’t shave above the top of your ear.  If you wear glasses, where the arms cover is about where you want to stop.

14. Shave your neck. I know it’s a pain, but neck beards are the worst. Even just stubble is supremely uncomfortable if you ever have a double chin. Ever.

15. Shave against the grain on your neck, but with the grain on your face. That’s what everyone says, but I like as close a shave as possible, so I shave against the grain on my face too, then when I’m done, I shave with the grain to try to calm my face back down so I don’t get razor burn. It seems to work?

If you have any more advice, please add it!

#trans man #ftm #transmasc #transgender #trans #female to male #how to shave #testosterone #vitamin t #nb #nonbinary #long post #transman

[thirteenthspirit]

Lance Summers

That is the name I gave him. It seemed to fit his style and provide an amusing connection to the Summers from Marvel comics, who I was always fond of (Cyclops, Havoc…). I don’t remember where I got “Lance” from, though…

Lance was everything. Everything I wanted/needed him to be. He was the materialization of my need to escape, mixed with my need for an emotional connection (aka relationship) and the fantasy of predestined true love. He has been with me for years, he is my safe place, even if unreal. And the stories I come up with of our time together provide me with more feeling than most mundane events I go through.

Lance is approximately my height (180cm), sometimes a bit shorter, sometimes a bit taller and hails from a Nordic country – I’d wager Denmark, given that his real name is Niels. His skin is pale and his hair is of a light brown / dirty blond hue, short but scruffy. His eyes are clear grey, which reflects light at different tones during the day. He is of average build and has that kind of facial hair that even when you shave, there is still a permanent shade of grey to your face. So he tends to leave his brown/blond beard at a very attractive 2, 3-day length. He is particularly finnicky about his sideburns though. I never really let him how much I enjoy them. “Shaggydog”, I call him endearingly, because he just has that look of ‘confused scruff’. His skin isn’t clear, he has some freckles and marks – the same as any ‘average’ human.

The first thing people notice about Lance isn’t his strikingly good looks, though – it’s the scar. He has a scar on the right side of his face, which crosses his lips. It is about 2-3cm tall and goes from slightly below his right nostril to a bit above his chin. His facial hair avoids the slight crevice. Of course it isn’t an issue – I’ve kissed that scar a billion times and it is a part of that huge smile I adore. But there is a story behind it, and for Lance it’s a reminder of tougher times, a trigger he has to face everyday.

I had been an operative for the Tas for a few months now and was usually out on assignment. Aside from the couple of weeks I taught at the College, I never really spent much time at headquarters, so I wasn’t around that often. It took quite a while for mine and Lance’s paths to cross. One time I was summoned to the briefing hall, with a new assignment – a team had been sent to provide backup for some missing scouts, further to the North. Enemy sightings had been previously reported in the region, so it was definitely an area of interest. But contact with the support unit had been abruptly cut.

Since I was familiar with the area, I was tasked with tracing the missing elements of the squad, as covertly as possible. I did not know any more, nor was I stupid enough as to ask – they still did not trust me enough to disclose more than the sheer necessary and I wasn’t about to incur their wrath by engaging in an argument. Stealth and brains have always been my preferred weapons, so I can put up a convincing front with ease.

I swung by my room to grab my jacket, strapped my twin swords to my belt and put on my gloves*, before heading out through the northern gate. My horizon saw nothing but deep woods stretching wide, which culminated in rising mountains, with snow-covered peaks.

After about half a day of breeze-running through the forest, which used to get deeper and darker as far in as one went, I reached the area where contact had last been established with the missing team. It was about noon and the sun filtered through the tangled branches of the tall trees. I immediately realized why the squad had chosen this place to make camp – there was a rock wall leading upwards to a cliff on one side of a tall mound of grass where the trees parted. It was the sight of a beautiful and naturally-occurring clearing. But there was nothing beautiful about this. Only a slight breeze caused the branches to flick, there was a lack of sound – no animal chirps, drops of water, nothing but leaves rustling in the wind.

The wind. That was the evidence no one could erase. I immediately sensed an ominous memory in this breeze. I closed my eyes, let my hair flutter through the breeze, let it enter every open sleeve and pocket of my outfit, felt it rushing on my skin, whispering to me in shivers. I raised my right hand to my chest and started to see something forming in the dark – but before I could focus there was a bright-red light flying incredibly fast at me, right behind me. I barely had time to shift my weight to my left leg as I opened my eyes, to see the knife whoosh past me, just barely missing me.

I instantly drew my sword, pivoting to parry my attacker’s incoming blow. It was a woman, with an outfit I immediately recognized as an assassin’s garb. She was wielding a pair of twisted-pointer knives, and our strength matched each other’s quite well. After I deflected the blow with one hand, she immediately slashed with the other knife in one swift motion – forcing me to leap backwards, onto a safe distance. I wasn’t planning on losing an eye today.

Her hair was black and her eyes were coated in heavy dark eyeliner.

-“If camouflage is what you were going for, I’m afraid you’re just not quite dressed for the occasion, honey.” I threw at her.

Her eyes flicked to my right and I instantly knew she was not alone – there was another one, standing behind me.

If I was to survive, I couldn’t afford to hesitate.

As they both lunged at me, I wind-stepped towards the young woman – speed would be the only way I could avoid her knives and get the upper hand – and with sword in hand, I did a 180º to my left, effectively slashing her across her back. Blood flew in the direction of my sword, it was too sharp not to have been a fatal blow.

When I completed my turn, I was now facing the other attacker – but this one was already practically on top of me (how could he be this fast?! - I thought). I raised my free left hand, closed my eyes and sank.

It was always a tightening of the heart when I used Darkness, but I did not have another choice.

When I opened my eyes, left arm still reaching with an open palm, the man was lying in the ground, face up, several meters from where I was standing, with a gaping hole in his chest.

I retreated from the area. Turns out it was their rotten scent I was picking up in the wind - assassins. This close to the border. They must’ve crossed the deepwood marshes. But if they’re here… that would mean the squad members were dead.

Or worse.

I reached a lake nearby, in a particularly somber part of the forest I knew like the back of my hand. The trees huddled together in such a manner that they appeared to form a formidable wall around the place, and the canopy was so full that it was always nighttime. This allowed the proliferation of these tiny ferns which effectively glowed, projecting their starlight reflection onto the pool of water. It had been my secret hideout for quite some time.

I sat down on a rock near the edge of the lake and began cleaning my sword. Turns out in my instinct I had reached for my white sword (as opposed to the black one), so the blood really stood out. After I was done, I lay it across my lap.

And I closed my eyes once again, as I had before I was so crudely interrupted before. I heard the water ripple, the little fish fluttering across the surface, insects leaping from leaf to leaf, bubbles drifting upwards ever so slowly, coming from the bottom of the lake, where crustaceans dragged their houses of rock through the sand and the water was blue. Dark blue. Ever darker. Pitch black. Then a light appeared. It was faint, but it was there. It was red and pulsating. Slowly, slowly, but rhythmically. A shape formed around it, a human shape. Then another was beside it, and another.

3 people. Alive. It must be the squad members. I reached out from their shapes and made out their surroundings, it was a tight space with no air running through it – but close enough for me to feel. A cave. I stepped back and saw the entrance… there was a large round rock covering the entrance, where water droplets ran through. I felt the droplets, they were cold. They must come stem from the river’s source. I traced them back to a little creek which slightly deviated from the rushing water of the river, running along a cliff. Got it.

I rose to my feet, opened my eyes and immediately started towards the location where I *felt* the water coming from. This is what I did, water and wind are my elements and they speak to me when I reach out. I learned to master the art of sensing a long time ago (how long?).

I reached the place after about an hour of trekking through the jungle – trees were sparser in this area of the woods, giving it a more tropical feel. Pushing aside a couple of leaves, I was able to make out the entrance of the cave.

I didn’t feel anyone else around, just the same 3 shapes huddled in the dark. So I headed towards the cave.

With our combined efforts, we were able to move the rock – turns out I had not found the missing squad I had been looking for, but the scouts which began this whole process. They had been ambushed by a troupe of assassins and after fighting them off, the 3 that survived took shelter in this cave. The assassins that had come after me must have been stragglers left behind, searching for their missing prey. I helped them with their injury – a girl had an exposed fracture to her leg and the other two were severely dehydrated and with minor flesh wounds. I would have to take them back to headquarters and make sure there were no more assassins along the way.

Our journey back was smooth – we moved slowly but with caution, I sensed the area before we moved out after every break we took. And so we eventually made it back.

I was relieved to find the missing scouts, but in all practical terms, my mission had been a failure – I had been tasked with finding the missing squad members who had been dispatched to find the scouts (ironically). I dropped the scouts off with some guards at the entrance and went up to the council hall to report my findings.

I passed through the large iron doors to find quite a big commotion – I asked a random over looker what was going on, who told me:

“Haven’t you heard? The squad they had sent up North liberated over fifty people from an enemy facility, close to Looker’s Bay. It seems they even killed a Head! I heard the bastards were keeping them prisoner and torturing them in sick experiments.”

The Squad. Looker’s Bay. A Head. Experiments.

“Kefka.” – I exhaled to myself.

Anyway, the commotion was too large and this too big of a celebration for the Council to give a crap about my mission right now. Also Looker’s Bay was in the opposite direction of the one I had been sent, looking for the squad members which now rejoiced amid this crowd. So I’d wager I was effectively the target of a very well-thought out misdirect.

I decided to head over to the treatment center to check on the scouts I had brought it – with that many people rescued, it would probably be overflowing with patients and not enough doctors. I’m not a doctor, but I can perform basic first-aid and rejuvenation spells, as all healing magic stems from water-based hands.

I reached the hospital and started helping out, here and there. Eventually I found my scouts who were now smiling with their close friends and loved ones. The sight warmed my heard a bit – “must’ve been just gas”, I thought.

Hours later, the rush had disappeared and things were calming down. People were starting to settle in for the night. As I was finishing treating an elderly woman, I stood up and was walking to get a glass of water, when I turned a corner and BAM. Ran, face first, into something which had been running in the opposite direction.

We were both projected, ending up on top of each other, heart racing and with a crowd of onlookers staring. When I recovered and my mind stopped racing, I sat up and looked into the face of a confused young man with ruffled hair, grey eyes, blond stubble and a scar on his lips.

                                                                                                    To be Continued

                                                                                                                 -João A.

#Romance #Personal #Fiction #Fantasy #LGBT #Gay #Romantic #Happy Place #short story #Chapters #Magic #War #Conflict #Adventure #Lance Summers

[jarmes]

Short Story: Pescado

4500 words, literary fiction, first person

The warm water pours down on me, washing away the dirt and grime. I grab a bottle of shampoo and squeeze it over my head. More shampoo than I should use, so much that it’ll probably ruin my hair. I don’t really care, I need to be clean.

The suds wash over my body as I scrub myself, using the shampoo as soap. Even after all of the shampoo is gone, I stay in the shower. I know that, as soon as I step out, the nerves will return. Eventually, I sigh and turn the water off.

I step out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and wipe away the fog on the mirror. I look over my face, my beard is a bit long and I decide to trim it. Someone, I think it was my father, told me once that it’s best to shave after a shower because the hair is warm and easier to cut. I don’t know if that’s true or not.

I pull the electric beard trimmer out of the cabinet below the sink. Not the straight razor, my beard is too long to shave without trimming and I only want to trim it. Plus, I suck at shaving with a razor. I look at the plastic razor guards lying in the cabinet; I can never remember if I’m supposed to use the light grey one or the dark grey one for my beard. I make my choice, put the guard on the trimmer, turn it on, and push it across my chin.

It shaves off all of the hair on my chin. Fuck. I decide that I will completely shave my face; I don’t really have a better option. I consider leaving the mustache; I decide against it after looking in the mirror and seeing that I look like a child murderer. I pause as I reach my sideburns. I look better when they’re shaved, but it’s hard to make them equally short. I slowly push the trimmer up my face, carefully trimming my sideburns. Then my hand slips and I accidentally cleave off the hair above one of my ears.

Okay, shaved head. Why not? I run the shears across my skull, shaving off piles and piles of hair. It falls down onto my chest as I shave; I know it’ll itch later.

I glance at my phone. Specifically, at the clock on my phone. “Fuck,” I say quietly.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!” I say much louder.

I hastily brush my teeth and wipe off the hair from my chest before bursting out of the bathroom. I run into my bedroom and frantically put on my clothes. I cannot be late.

I pocket my phone and wallet and burst out of the apartment. I don’t wait for the elevator, I don’t have enough time and instead run down the stairs.

I run so fast that my hair begins to dry out. I rush outside and sprint down the sidewalk. I barely stop at the end of the block. A car rushes past, so close I can see myself in its mirror. This glance, as short as it is, is enough to sour my mood.

As if to punctuate my newfound poor mood, the sky above me opens up and drops a torrent upon me, soaking me again. I look back at my apartment building in the distance. I look at the clock on my phone. I don’t have time to go back for an umbrella.

I trudge through the rain. By the time I arrive at my destination, every inch of my body is covered in enough moisture to turn the Mojave into a wetland. I trudge through the door and look around for my date. She isn’t down yet. I walk up to the security guard. “Is there a bathroom I could use?” I say, water dripping from my nose onto his desk.

I follow his directions and hide in a small men’s bathroom. Looking in the bathroom mirror, I see that things have only gotten worse. I pull out paper towel after paper towel, frantically trying to dry myself off. After my hair and skin are “dry”, I pull off my t-shirt and crush it between my hands, releasing its water into the sink.

I walk back to the lobby. My date isn’t down yet. I panic and for a moment think that she hasn’t come down yet because she hates me. It’s a ridiculous conclusion, one that I will come to time after time before the night ends.

Eventually, my date walks down into the lobby and all of my fears are silenced. “You didn’t have to wait long, did you?” she asks.

“Not at all,” I lie. I realize that I absolutely had time to go back for an umbrella.

“So, what’s this fantastic place that you wanted to take me to?” my date asks.

“It’s this great comedy club.”

“Where is it?”

I pull out my phone and read off the address. My date scrunches her nose. “That’s on the North Side, right? It’ll be a long trip.”

I curse myself for choosing the first result that came up when I searched “Comedy Club” without bothering to check its location. I’d planned for the two of us to have a nice leisurely walk. The distance alone is enough to quash that plan, never mind the rain.

“Don’t worry, I called an Ovar before I walked here,” I say. “Here, let me check to see when it’ll arrive.”

I pull out my phone and call the Ovar taxi that I should have called before I left. It arrives twenty minutes later. “I can’t believe it took so long,” my date says.

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave a bad rating,” I say. It’s a lie. I’d never leave a bad rating, even if the driver was actually bad.

An old grey SUV pulls up in front of my date’s apartment building. The driver honks his horn at us and we hop into the back of the SUV. “Going to Second City?” the driver asks. I nod my head. “I have heard many good things about them.”

“Have you ever been?” I ask.

“No. I work nights, so I do not have time. My customers have told me great things about it, though.”

The car pulls out into traffic and the driver slams his foot on the gas. We soar through the streets of Chicago, dipping in and out of traffic. “So, is there a special occasion tonight? An anniversary, perhaps?” the driver asks.

“No, nothing like that,” my date says. “We’ve only been going out for a few weeks now.”

“Ah, the early days of a relationship can be so beautiful,” the driver says. I blush.

“How do you like being a cab driver?” I ask, desperately changing the subject.

“I am not a cab driver, the company is very clear about that,” the driver says.

“Okay, how do you like working for Ovar?”

“It is very nice, I get to meet so many interesting people,” the driver says.

“I love your accent, where are you from?” my date asks.

“Nigeria.”

“Oh wow, that’s so far away.”

“Yes, but Chicago is a very beautiful city. I am happy to be here. Very cold, though.”

“How long have you been in the US?”

“Three years now.”

“Have you been home at all during that time?”

“No. As you said, it is very far away. I call when I can, though, so it’s not so bad.”

“Still, three years, that must be tough.”

“Where are the two of you from?” the driver asks.

“Well, I’m from Chicago,” my date says. “And this guy right here is from-”

“Iowa,” I interject.

“Where in Iowa?” the driver asks.

I sigh and tell him the name of my hometown. I never know what to say when people ask me where I’m from. It’s not like they’ll know my tiny hometown. No one knows my hometown. Half of the people who live there don’t know my home town.

I glance around the car and notice a large yellow spot on the carpet beside my feet. The driver notices my stare and speaks up. “I am sorry about that, a child threw up in my car yesterday,” he says. “I cleaned the car as best I could, but that spot remained.”

“Couldn’t you have taken your car to the cleaners?” my date asked.

“Cleaners are expensive. And going to the cleaners means I cannot use my car for a few days, and I cannot do that,” the driver says. I notice a sadness in his eyes through the reflection in the rearview mirror. “I am sorry that my car is not in a cleaner condition on your date.”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” I say. We arrive at the comedy club and wave goodbye to the driver. I don’t leave a bad review because of the stains; what kind of asshole would threaten someone’s livelihood over something outside their control. As the driver drives away, I think to myself how lonely a life he must have, constantly moving around and only spending minutes with people. Then I kick myself for being arrogant enough to pity someone I don’t know.

My date and I huddle under the awning at the door of the comedy club. The door is locked. “So, when does the show start?” my date asks.

“It starts in,” I begin as I pull my phone out of my pocket. “90 minutes.”

“That’s a long time to wait in the rain.”

“Don’t worry, there’s this great restaurant nearby that I was planning to take us to,” I lie.

I lead my date down the murky street towards the restaurant I just made up. “What kind of restaurant are we eating at?” my date asks.

I glance around, hoping to spot a restaurant. I see a restaurant on the other side of the street and say its name. “It’s this great Mexican place called El Pescado.”

There is a patio in front of the restaurant; we get a table inside for obvious reasons. The restaurant is small and cozy. There are those day-of-the-dead paper things hanging from the lights. A hostess takes us to our table and hands us our menus.

“What are you going to order?” my date asks.

I scan the menu. I see an item that looks amazing, a massive burrito smothered in cheese. El Burrito Gordito, the menu calls it. I decide against it, I don’t want to look like an animal in front of my date.

The waiter comes by and asks us for our drinks. Neither of us order alcohol. I tell people I seldom drink because getting carded is a hassle, but that’s a lie. The waitress asks us if we’re ready to order and we say yes.

“I’ll have the Tacos Pescado,” I say. I picked up enough Spanish in High School to know that means fish tacos, something healthy and classy. “And, uh, an order of chips and guacamole for the table.”

“I’ll have El Burrito Gordito,” my date says.

A few minutes later, the waitress returns with a serving cart containing a knife, a bowl of salsa, a large empty bowl, some chips, some limes, some tomatoes, and some avocados. Without warning, the waitress grabs the knife and brings it down on the avocado. She slides the knife around the avocado, separating the green flesh from the large central seed, and drops the avocado meat into the bowl. She slices the remaining avocados, adds in diced tomatoes and lime juice, and smashes the mixture together. The waitress sets the chips, salsa, and fresh guacamole in front of us and pushes her cart away.

“You didn’t mention that this place makes fresh guac,” my date says, a smile on her face.

“Must have slipped my mind, it’s one of this place’s trademarks,” I lie.

“Well, it’s really fun.”

I take a chip and dip it in the salsa. The salsa is thick and orange. “The salsa is odd,” my date says after trying it.

“Yeah, it tastes different than normal salsa, but I can’t quite place what it tastes like.”

“Tomato soup!”

“Yeah, tomato soup! It tastes like tomato soup!”

“It isn’t bad or anything-”

“Just odd.”

“Yeah, odd.”

The waitress returns ten minutes later and places our respective meals in front of us. My fish tacos, covered in lime and corn and red onion, and my date’s massive burrito. My date picks it up and takes a bite; cheese and meat and beans drip down her face and she quickly wipes her chin with a napkin. “Oh my god, this is so good,” she says, her mouth still half full of food.

I try my fish tacos. They’re fine. “Want to try a bite of my burrito?” my date asks.

“No, I’m fine,” I lie.

“Come on, you’d love it.”

I cut off a small bit of her burrito and eat it. She’s right, I do love it. I offer her a bit of my tacos and she takes it. “Not bad,” she says.

After dinner, we walk across the street to the comedy club. It’s still raining. The walls of the comedy club are covered in photographs of various successful comedians, alumni I recognize from films I watched as a child. My date follows me to the stage on our tickets and we sit down in the front row.

Four improv actors walk onto the stage, all college-age white men. The leader of them, a clean-shaven bald man with glasses walks up and introduces the group. “Hi, we’re Room for Improv-Ment,” he says. “Are you guys ready to laugh?”

The audience cheers. “Okay, that isn’t really an answer,” BaldGlasses says. “I’ll pretend it was a yes. I need one of you kind people to shout out a scene for us to do.”

“Working at a bank!” someone in the back shouts.

“Working at a bank, that’s always fun. Now, someone give me a character-”

“Arnold Schwarzenegger!” my date shouts.

“Governor Terminator, got it,” BaldGlasses says.

BaldGlasses’s companions walk off the stage, leaving him alone. BaldGlasses mimes out working as a teller, leaning his elbows on an imaginary counter and holding a fake magazine in his hands, which he pretends to read.

Another one of the performers, a man with a beard and glasses, walks in. His movement is slow and he’s bent over, pretending to hold a cane in his hand. “Hello sweetie,” GlassesBeard says in his best approximation of an old lady voice. “I would like to take out a deposit.”

BaldGlasses flexes his muscles and takes a deep breath. “Hahlo, Ah ahm Gahvahnah Ahnald Swahtzahnahgar,” he says in the worst Schwarzenegger impression I’ve ever heard.

“Hello, Governor. Would you mind selling me some money?”

“Ah will doo thaht, beecahz thaht is how winning is dahn,” BaldGlasses says.

My date raises an eyebrow. “Does he think Schwarzenegger was in Rocky?” she asks

BaldGlasses bends over to grab a box of imaginary money. Another one of the improv actors, a man with glasses but no beard, runs on stage, pretending to hold a handgun. He points it at BaldGlasses Schwarzenegger. “Freeze, I’m robbing this place!” he shouts.

BaldGlasses slowly turns around. “Yoo tahking tah mee?” he asks, holding his arms up.

“Oh heavens, it’s a bank robber!” GlassesBeard shouts.

“Ah zed, ahr yoo tahking tah mee?”

“Yes I’m talking to you! Now get me the money from the vault before I shoot you!”

“Okay, Ah’ll be bahck. Yoo know, lahk in Tahmahnahtah.”

“Yes, I’ve seen Terminator. Just give me the goddamn money before I splatter your brains all over this bank!”

BaldGlasses bends down and mimes out opening a safe. Evidently, in addition to having never seen a Schwarzenegger movie, he’s never been to a bank before. “Ahr yoo feeling lahcky, pank?” BaldGlasses asks as he twists the dial on the fake safe.

“I’m feeling pretty lucky, I am about to get away with a bank robbery.”

“Yoo shouldn’t feel so lahcky, beecahz there is ah gahn in this sahf!” BaldGlasses yells. He pulls the fake gun out of the fake safe and shoots it at JustGlasses.

“Bahng!” he shouts.

“Oh no, I am slain!” JustGlasses shouts before falling to the floor.

“Oh, thank you for saving me with that wonderful deus ex machina, Mr. Schwarzenegger,” GlassesBeard says.

“It wahs nahthing. Jast doing mah jab, mahking sure criminahls dah hahrd,” BaldGlasses says. He expects a laugh for this relevant reference to Die Hard, a film that definitely didn’t feature Arnold Schwarzenegger.

“Yeah, you really terminated that criminal,” GlassesBeard says. This line gets a slight chuckle, the closest thing to a laugh that Room For Improv-Ment has gotten thus far. The crowd gives a halfhearted applause, more out of obligation than anything else, and all of the performers but JustGlasses walk off stage. The performer who didn’t participate in the bank robbery scene, a man with a beard but no glasses, joins him on stage. “For our next scene, we’re going to be playing a game called questions,” BeardOnly says. He turns to face JustGlasses. “Do you know how to play Questions?”

“Isn’t it that game where you lose if you say a sentence that doesn’t end in a question mark?”

“Have you played before?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Why are you being cagey with your answer?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Why won’t you just tell me if you’ve played Questions before?”

“Do I look like a person who’s played questions before?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“When was the last time you looked in a mirror?”

“When was the last time you looked in a mirror?”

“Do you really think it’s fair to just repeat my question?”

JustGlasses pauses for a moment, trying to come up with a response. “No,” he mutters under his breath.

As the audience claps, my stomach begins to churn. The fish tacos aren’t sitting with me very well. “Excuse me,” I mutter to my date before popping out.

I step outside to get a breath of fresh air and am doused by the rain. I sigh and walk back inside. I buy a can of lemon-lime soda and chug it in the lobby; someone, I think it was my grandmother, told me once that carbonated beverages are good for an upset stomach. I don’t know if that’s true or not.

I get back in time to see the final game. Room For Improv-Ment asks the crowd to give them a word and someone shouts Country Music. The bald man with glasses smiles. “Okay, this next game is called Sex With me is Like,” he says. “Sex with me is like country music: generally pretty bad.”

The man with glasses with no beard steps forward. “Sex with me is like country music,” he says, “Used to be good, but has declined with time.”

And so they go, making admittedly dirty jokes comparing their sex lives to country music. An acquired taste, only fun when you’re in a car, disappointingly pale, the best is down south, has a lot of cowboy hats for some reason, doesn’t feature many women, features a lot of strumming, best experienced when drunk, etcetera.

We clap as Room for Improv-Ment bow and walk off stage. “That last bit was actually pretty funny,” my date says. “Let me try one, sex like me is like country music: no suits allowed.”

I laugh. “Okay, let me do one,” I say. “Sex with me is like country music.”

“Oh? In what way?”

“Both are usually religious experiences.”

At first, I’m worried she’s going to turn her head in disgust. Then she laughs, and everything is okay. I blush and almost forget the storm in my stomach.

The Ovar is waiting for us in front of the club, I summoned him right before the final scene. He pulls up in an old white van with darkened windows. The driver pops out and pulls the side door. The van is so full of junk that there is only room for one of us in the back. “Sorry about the mess,” the driver, an old man with a white beard, says. “Helping my kid move, didn’t have time to unpack before my shift started.”

“Uh, it’s fine, sir,” I say. I turn to my date. “Do you want the front seat or the back one?”

“You can have shotgun, I don’t mind sitting in the back,” she says. “Unless you’d prefer me to sit in your lap...”

I blush and hop into the shotgun seat. The driver pulls out and begins speeding to my date’s apartment. He drives fast, so very very fast, weaving in and out of traffic. The fish tacos in my stomach make themselves known.

“So, where are you two from?” the driver asks.

“I’m from the city,” my date says.

“Iowa,” I say. My stomach feels like it's going to burst. I’m actually glad that the van was full of junk and I was forced to sit up front. Someone, I think it was my mother, told me once that sitting up front can quash nausea. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I pray that it is.

“I used to go hunting with a friend who lives in Iowa. Where in Iowa are you from?”

“A small town about an hour southeast of Iowa City,” I say. “You probably haven’t heard of it.”

“My friend lives in that area. Have you ever been to Williamsburg?”

“Yeah, I know Williamsburg. Used to buy new clothes at the outlet mall.”

“What town you from, Oskaloosa?”

“Sigourney.”

“Oh, I know Sigourney. My buddy went to High School there. The Savages, right?”

“Yeah. My dad was one of the football coaches, actually.”

“No kidding? Small world,” the driver says. He drives over a pothole and my stomach lurches. Some of the junk in the van falls over, making a loud crashing noise.

“You alright back there?” the driver asks.

“I’m fine,” my date says.

I glance at the window. My stomach feels washing machine and I would kill for a breath of fresh air. There’s a button on the door to lower the window. I don’t press it. I don’t want the rain to get my date wet.

The bile rises us my throat like a geyser and I cease caring about my date. I slam my fist on the button; I’m too late and half of the chunky orange liquid splatters on the descending window, bouncing back onto my coat and the pleather car seat.

“Jesus Christ!” the driver shouts. He slams on the breaks and pulls over to the side of the road.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” my date asks.

“I’m fine,” I say before ejecting another load of half-digested spew. This time, all of it actually goes out the window, falling on the side of the car and washing away in the pouring rain.

I burst out the door, stomping into the diluted vomit and ruining the bottoms of my shoes. “Listen kid, are you okay?” the driver asks.

“I’m fine,” I say. It’s a lie.

“You don’t look fine.”

I throw up again. I look up at the driver, tears dripping from my eyes and vomit dripping from my lips. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, I’m not mad-”

“I’m so sorry. I will give you a big tip. A big tip. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll give you a big tip.”

My date starts to open her door. “Don’t! Don’t get out,” I shout. I throw up again.

“I’m worried about you-”

“Take her home! Her address is in the app thingy, take her home,” I shout at the driver. “I will give you a big tip!”

“Buddy, I’m not going to leave you on the side of the road when it's raining.”

“I’m begging you,” I say. “Please, just take her home.”

“I’m not a child, I can deal with a little carsickness-”

“I’m not carsick! I don’t get carsick, I’m not a child. I just have...food poisoning. From the fish.” I don’t even know if this is a lie or not but I still say it with all the conviction I can muster. “Please, just leave. I’ll be fine, I just don’t want you to see me like this.”

They drive off and I am alone in the rain. Completely, utterly, hopelessly alone. My mouth tastes like rotten milk. I spit; it does nothing to fix the foul taste in my mouth. I walk down the rainy streets of Chicago. Occasionally, I pass under an overpass and am given momentary relief. But, for most of my walk, I am wet and cold and miserable.

I see a convenience store and walk in, making a beeline for its bathroom. I wipe the water and vomit from my coat with single ply toilet paper; it transforms into a crumpled wet wad as it touches my skin. I toss it into the trashcan and stare at my reflection in the mirror. And I hate what I see.

The bags under my red eyes and smudged glasses are deep. Stress acne dots my forehead. My poor attempt at shaving has left patches of missed whiskers and half a dozen red cuts. My buzzed hair is uneven and patchy. I punch the mirror. It doesn’t break, I am far from strong enough.

I exit the bathroom and glance around the store. It would be rude to use the restroom without buying something. I buy a lukewarm cup of black coffee. I don’t even like coffee, I just need something strong to wash out the taste of vomit. I take a large sip as I step out the sliding door and spit it out onto the sidewalk.

Eventually, I am home. My keycard doesn’t work; the security card lets me in anyway because he knows me and knows the maintenance office won’t fix my card for some reason. I crawl my way up the steps, don’t want to force someone to stand next to me in the elevator.

I enter my apartment and my roommates say hey. I ignore them and peel off my soaking clothes. I step into the shower and the warm water pours down on me, washing away the dirt and grime.

After I finally work the courage to step out, I grab my phone from the counter and pay the driver the biggest tip I have ever given. I’d pay more if I could.

Then I get the text, the text from my date that I’ve been dreading. i had a really fun time tonight i hope youre okay. Call me.

And I smile.

#fiction #writing #short story

[dykedteach]

Jack Rackham appreciation week. Day 3/4: Favourite Relationship/Facial hair appreciation. 

A Jack/Anne pre-relationship ficlet in which Jack gets a rare moment alone, and facial hair is addressed.

Rain beat down on the window panes, rattling the glass as the ship shook gently. The sky had gotten so dark that he’d been forced to light several candles around the mirror, even though it was hardly halfway through the day. Charles had let him take use of his cabin on the Ranger from time to time, allowing relative peace and privacy when needed, at times such as this. And so, with a cracked mirror propped up against a pile of rather splendid looking leather books he was sure Charles had never even opened, let alone read, trinkets left by the ill-fated last captain of the Ranger, he got to work.

He took his cloth to the bowl of water prepared in front of him, dipping it into the liquid he’d tried to warm briefly over a small fire, and bringing the soaked rag to his jaw, sweeping it up and wetting his cheek. He moved to the other side, stopping only to dip the cloth again, until the whole lower half of his face was glistening in the light of the candles.

He picked up the blade from where he’d carefully placed it on one of the cleaner-looking books, and wiped it down with the rag, holding it up to the light to look for any imperfections. He found several. Spots of rust near the handle, a dent near the end of the blade. No matter, there wasn’t exactly much he could do about it until he got ashore again. He slowly raised the razor to his cheek, lining it up just right in the mirror, and sweeping down cautiously, he shaved off a wide line of thick stubble, leaving only patches behind. Imperfect, and he’d have to go over a good few times to get it completely smooth where he needed it, but it was a start.

He washed the blade off in the water, watching the dark hairs sink to the bottom of the bowl. He began his next cut, when he suddenly picked up the creak of the cabin door, the wood moving just so.

Waiting a moment, he watched the sliver of light coming through the crack of the open door. Once he was satisfied it wasn’t Charles coming back to speak with him, he spoke.

“Don’t dawdle, whoever you are. I’m rather busy at the moment, can’t you take it up with the captain?” he snapped, returning to his blade. The door opened another few inches, and he saw the slight form of young Miss Bonny, peering at him through the dark of the cabin.

“He was the one who told me you’d be in here.” she said simply, sliding through the gap and into the room. She held her head down, hat obscuring her face. She was still quite unsociable with most of the crew, even now she’d been on the ship a fair while, outlasted a good few of the crew, watched men come and go bloody. She had proved her worth in a hunt very early on, picking up quickly from her training sessions with Jack, even getting bold enough to challenge Charles once or twice. A risky move in Jack’s eyes, he knew Charles would never back down, never go easier on her than he would any other crew member, but she held her own, powerful in her own way if not with Charles’ sheer muscle and experience. Yet she still scurried away when they went to the tavern after a good raid, would eat away from the men on the ship and say little to Jack when he’d join her for meals. They would eat in companionable silence, and the rest of the men would leave them well alone, Charles occasionally calling him up to hear about his latest plot.

He’d insisted on her sleeping near him right from the start, given her history and the proclivities of the men on deck. She’d done so the first night without protest, sleeping under the blankets he’d found for her on top of his own bed roll, while he tried to sleep sitting up against the wood of the hull, dagger in hand, a warning to the men. Once she had gathered her own belongings, a bed roll of her own, she still elected to sleep beside Jack. She would curl away from him, and he’d watch her twitching in her sleep, fighting off some night terror in her dreams, and then say nothing of it in the morning.

They had become quick companions, Jack very much unlike the rest of the brutes on the crew. She gravitated to him even once he’d given her space among the rest of them. Charles had asked Jack rather frankly, not many months after Anne had joined them, if he’d fucked her yet. He’d scoffed at the mere suggestion, the idea of it making him indescribably uncomfortable for some reason, and made a comment about how he was happy enough with getting his cock wet every once in a while ashore. Charles hadn’t asked again, but he’d seen him watching them out of the corner of those narrow eyes, calculating and a little amused.

He hummed and jerked a finger, wordlessly beckoning her to come in and close the door behind her. She did so, slinking out from the shadows, her brow creasing when she caught sight of his equipment laid out in front of him.

“The fuck you doing that for?” she muttered, peering at the blade as he raised it back to his cheek, carefully lining up the first straight swipe of his sideburn. He focused on the mirror as he swiped downwards, seeing only one drop of blood blossom to the surface.

“Well, they don’t just grow like this, you know. ” he said gruffly, cleaning the blade to begin another line. “Did you have something you needed to discuss with me?”

Anne edged closer, ignoring his question. “No other fucker I’ve ever met does it like you do. All pointy, like that.” she said, nodding at him as she crept forward. She nudged the wet cloth laying limp on the wood with her knuckle, watching his reflection. He let out a low chuckle.

“And therein lies the point, my dear.” he said, grabbing the rag to wipe the razor clean with a flourish. Anne continued to frown at him.

“How do you get it so straight on both sides?” she asked, curiosity grasping her as she dragged a chair closer to where Jack sat. He could feel her stare as he shaved again, tidying up the work he had already completed before he swapped to the next cheek.

“Frankly, it’s a miracle if they’re ever even. I can’t remember the last time I had enough spare coin to warrant a barber.” he sighed, inspecting the skin and pulling it taut over his cheekbone. Happy enough with his work, he twisted his chair, angling himself so he could see the other side of his face in the flickering light of the cabin, preparing the next cheek. Suddenly he heard a scrape of wood on wood, and saw Anne standing up, head tilted low enough to obscure her face entirely.

“Let me try.” she said, still refusing to look at Jack directly. He stilled, letting the blade in his hand drop to the bowl with a soft thunk.

“Why?” he asked slowly, frowning at the woman. He watched as she let her fingers fall into the basin, breaking the surface of the water as she swilled them around gently. She shrugged.

“Thought it might help. I can see better than what you can.” she replied nonchalantly, fingers still moving. He could see more of her face now, but it stayed emotionless, mask-like, and Jack remained perplexed by the whole situation at hand.

“You’ve shaved a lot of beards, have you?” he said, shuffling his chair to sit in front of Anne nevertheless. She took the blade from the basin, wiping the handle roughly with the rag.

“I’m steady enough with a sword, and a dagger. Ain’t that much different.” she said, low and quiet as she came to stand right in front of him with the razor at hand. Her small stature put her almost at a height with him, even with him sat down, and all it took was for Anne to gently tilt his face upwards, fingers underneath his chin, to put him at the perfect angle. He hummed in agreement. She wasn’t exactly wrong, he’d seen what she could do to a man after all.

She left her hand at his chin as she carefully judged the angle, bringing up the blade to his cheek. He drew a breath in, holding it in his chest and trying to keep as still as the dead as the sharp edge swept down, taking the dark hairs with it. He focused on the press of callouses on his skin, softer than his own, and swallowed.

“I’ll not forgive you if you bugger this up, you know.” he joked. Anne continued to work, ignoring Jack as she went between his cheek and the bowl of water. He listened to the sound of the rain as it hammered at the side of the ship, the storm picking up slightly and making the room sway, the waterline of the basin tipping in the corner of his vision.

“Should get back on deck when this is done, if Vane ain’t already sent men looking for us. Lend a hand.” Anne said after a few minutes of silence while she continued to tidy up the edges of his sideburns, eyes darting quickly over different points on his face. Jack could feel her breath, warm and sweetened by the rum the crew had broken out earlier, on the wetness of his jaw. He wondered if she could see his pulse thudding underneath the thin skin of his neck, but if she had then she’d payed little attention to it. This close, he had been forced to stare at the pale brown constellations dotted underneath her eyes, and he could have sworn he’d have been able to count them if pressed.

She stood back, looking over him with a scrutinising eye. Tilting his chin to and fro once more, she examined the angles there, and seemed happy enough with her work, crossing her arms over her chest with a pleased huff.

“Look alright to you?” she asked, a smile playing about her eyes. He grabbed the rag once more, wiping his face off as he shuffled back to the mirror perched upon the books. He brought a hand to his skin, flushed and smooth, and compared the triangles of hair on either side. As good and even a shave as any other he’d paid his fair share of gold for in his time. He really was rather impressed with her work.

“You’ve a talent for it, truly.” he admitted, giving Anne a grin as he dismantled his set-up, returning Charles’ cabin to its usual chaos bit by bit. He saw her shuffle awkwardly as he returned the chairs and Charles’ blankets and draperies back to where they belonged, from where Jack had stowed them from harms way. “So, what do I owe you for the pleasure?” he joked as he moved around the room. Anne said nothing, but continued to watch him as her expression turned strange, the small bit of smugness that had crossed her features all but disappeared. “All I can offer is half a bottle of rum, or some tobacco perhaps, but I’m rather low on that so I’m afraid it’ll only be a pinch.”

She shrugged, head tilted towards the floor as she closed back in on herself again. “I offered. You didn’t ask, so.”

He watched as she slowly went to the door of the cabin, back still hunched over. He felt something strange come about him, and felt the need to follow her, grabbing the basin of now-dirty water with one hand and racing to open the door with the other, holding it open higher up than Anne had been able to reach. She froze in the doorway rather than let Jack follow her into the heart of the ship, and turned around to face him. He backed away slightly, far too aware of their proximity, close enough again to see the freckles that scattered over Anne’s cheekbones. He took a deep breath, staring down at the woman in front of him.

“Thank you, is…is what I meant to say. Thank you, Anne.” he said, sincere for once and hesitant. He stepped backwards another foot, nudging his head forwards and encouraging her to move into the ship.

Anne raised her head, wild ocean eyes meeting his own, her face hard. She took a step towards him and Jack felt himself gulp before she went on tiptoes. A heartbeat passed and he felt a pair of soft lips press against the corner of his own, overlapping his mouth slightly. She had raised her hand to cup the cheek opposite, her calloused finger pressing against the smooth skin there. As quick as Anne had kissed him, she dropped down and lowered her hand to her side again, hat turned down towards the sea to hide her face.

Jack stood, stunned and with his heart pounding, and watched her disappear into the ship without a word. He put his fingers to where her kiss still lingered, and was too dazed to react when a large wave rocked the Ranger, sending him crashing backwards into the door of Charles’ cabin.

Stumbling into the door had managed to knock some sense into him, at least, and he swore as he steadied the basin he still held. It had been sloshing water over his boots. He heard Charles call out his name, a shout to get him on deck, and a grin slowly spread over his face as he walked out of the cabin. He held his head tall as he strode, bolstered by the sound of the rain and the waves, still rather unsure of what had just occurred, but willing to assume it had meant plenty of good things going forward. Jack was, if nothing else, an optimist at heart.

#Jack Rackham #jrackhamaw #Anne Bonny #Black Sails #black sails fic #laura writes #my stuff #I will put this on AO3 in a minute too