love is like a flower;

and when the days are long, and the thunder with the storm can always get me cryin'; you can make my bed, i'll fall into it– shattered but not lonely.

[strychninetwiitch-deactivated20]

“This is going to end up so bad for you.”

Nimble fingers tie the laces to the skates that haven’t been used in a good few years; he’s just glad that they aren’t dry rotted out and that he doesn’t have to snag a pair from the rental desk. These at least fit his feet and they are already moulded after years of breaking them in. Cold wind whips up at his nose for a moment before dying back down, the city seeming quieter than it is most nights. A chill’s come in across Staten Island and where most groan and hide away inside of their houses, somehow him and Chevy are out there, embracing it. Which is something he doesn’t exactly expect out of the other, but it’s welcome nonetheless.

It’s been around a few weeks since their last encounter; they’re slowly learning how to give one another space despite Declan’s neediness rearing its ugly head most days and Chevy’s evasiveness countering it. Light texts are exchanged, but he’s started to learn when he’s getting overbearing and it’s what keeps him out of Chevy’s way most days. He takes up more shifts at the shop because the money is good and it gives him time to actually breathe and not have to overthink, so it’s a welcome thing when Chevy texts him about a date.

He hadn’t expected for an ice rink to be rented out, completely private for the two of them. It almost seems like a shame; the ice is in good shape and he can’t help but think about how many people are missing out because they don’t want to brave the cold. Either way, he’s not going to complain; for so long, they’ve been in Chevy’s realm of what he can do best. Now, now Declan has a bit of an upper hand and he’s more than ready to capsize on it. 

Getting up, he sways his weight side to side for a moment, getting the feeling of the extra height that the blades add, and then he’s slipping past Chevy and stepping onto the ice. For only a moment he wobbles as the familiar feeling comes back to him, and he sends a grin Chevy’s way.

“C’mon, southern boy. Sure you even know how to skate?” It’s a light taunt and a challenge, but even as Chevy rises, Declan skates backwards a few steps in order to keep some distance between them. They’re both lanky fucks and the last thing he needs is for the other to timber and fall on him.

[somebdyloved]

It’s easier than you think to rent out an outdoor ice rink when the temperature’s nearly freezing. But, it was the only private thing Chevy could think of that he and Declan would actually enjoy. The two of them have never really been the type to go out for a fancy dinner, catch the lyric opera-- something lame like that. (The dinner idea isn’t the worst, though Chevy finds he’s more used to eating with Declan in the privacy of either of their homes; it cuts the middle man out of having to get home.) 

And, in some way, Chevy knew Declan would get a kick out of it. He remembers seeing a dusty pair of ice skates whenever he’d visited Declan’s new place the first couple of times. After being gone for almost a month out on more races around the world, it’s the least he can do, to accommodate with something the kid actually enjoys. 

He’s a tall oak tree in a pair of delicate, breakable little ice skates, and he feels like a fucking idiot. It’s like a doe walking for the first time, hooves not yet firmly planted on the ground, legs feeling like twigs. He holds onto the railing like the way people hold onto the belief the earth is flat, knuckles turning white as he tries to balance his footing. “Aw, Jesus Christ,” he mutters to himself, glancing up to see how the kid’s basically like Tonya Harding out on the ice. 

You know, minus breaking Nancy’s knee cap sort of thing. 

“Yeah, I know how to skate, shut up,” he scoffs. Chevy prides himself in, at the very least, being mediocre at everything he tries. He’s graceful to some degree, and part of him has always thought ice skating is one of those things that can come as naturally as dancing, but he should’ve thought twice about the little blades that keep you afloat. They weren’t going to work well underneath all 200-something pounds of him. 

“Look at you, what are you, the fuckin’ Ice Princess?” he teases, laughing. “So what, I’m not good at everything I do. Fuckin’ sue me.” 

He looks up at the other, brows lifting expectantly. “Are you gonna help me, or what?”

[papa-evershed]

Jon Bernthal ft. Chin Grabs™ (requested by: @glycerineclown)

[strychninetwiitch-deactivated20]

somebdyloved​:

She’s making this harder for him, and every word that comes out is another drop of water to thicken the stalk of guilt stuck in his throat. He clears it, finding it difficult to believe there’s nothing really lodged in there, and looks at her, shaking his head. “No, no,” he says. “I’m sorry. I ain’t makin’ this easy about you, bein’ selfish. I’m just… adjusting, yeah, that’s all.” 

There is some truth in that, though– for as much as she says it’s a small gathering, Shane isn’t used to any of this. He was born and raised in mud, where gatherings meant grilling up whatever was most freshly hunted and lathering some barbecue on it, sharing homemade moonshine. Maybe not with family, but with friends so close that blood didn’t even matter. And with his brothers in arms, he remembered sitting around the fire with them, cracking jokes, reminiscing on the times they almost died. 

But he doesn’t have that anymore. He’s got Maven’s world to take into account. And really, it’s not her fault– he could’ve kept in contact with everybody back at the department if he wanted to– but this is just her world. As close as he’s been to it, as much as he’s attended events even fancier than the kind she claims this one won’t be, he’s always been at the sidelines of it. Never with eyes on him, never an accessory, but always the one a few steps behind, making sure she’s safe.

And gone are the dirty pair of boots he always totes around, and the old jeans, and the ratty shirt. Gone’s even the beard he grew for months to hide in. He’s gelled and slick and sleek now, suit costing more than his rent back when he was single and struggling, years ago. 

So, sure, he’s in the wrong here because he’s lying to Dawn about Maven, but there’s discomfort here, too, rooted in the fact that he’s doing something brand new. 

He sighs softly, shaking his head. 

“Listen,” he says. “You came all the way out to my side’a town a couple months ago for Chester’s birthday. I can go to this party with you. I’d feel… fuckin’ horrible if I stayed back.” Fingers pinch at the fabric that’s bunched up at her hip, not blinking twice at the glimpse of lace underwear that’s exposed now from the way she’s sitting. He looks down at his fingers and then back up at her, a delicate, reassuring smile on his lips. 

“It’s just baby steps,” he says. “I– I know sooner or later I’m gonna have to be at some big party. Better to start off like this where I can still lay low, instead of the first event I go to bein’ a huge thing.” He brings his hand up to cup the side of her face and looks at her sincerely.

In any other world, if he were any other man, Shane would take a moment like this– a moment of vulnerability and just the two of them– to tell her the truth, what’s really been poisoning his mind. But he parts his lips and reaches in, giving her another kiss. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” he says. The crux of it is, he hopes he hasn’t hurt her, or made her second guess taking him out to things like this. He tells himself that he’ll tell her, next time, the truth; that he’ll cut this guilt out, even if it means slitting his throat, too. “You don’t gotta worry. I promise. We’ll have a good time. Now c’mon.” 

Oceanic eyes judge him for a moment, scrutinizing every inch of his face, looking for the normal tells that a person would give. She can’t find them though; Shane always hides them so well, both from training and just going on the type of person he is. It makes something in her stomach twist up in knots, her eyes blinking once, twice, and she carefully regards him once more. Something is wrong and she can’t put her perfectly manicured fingers on it. 

The last thing that Maven wants to do is fight. When it comes down to the reality of it, she’s a hard headed person who will keep prying and prying until she can figure out what’s really the underlining problem. It’s a horrible habit and it’s gotten her in trouble entirely too many times; from girlfriends and boyfriends to her own parents, Maven’s never sure how to move away when every instinct in her wants to fight. Personally, it drives her crazy not knowing what’s in his mind; she can’t read him like she can read others and it leaves her feeling rocky at best. If she can’t read him, then it means that she can’t see what’s wrong or know what fight she truly needs to be picking in that moment.

“It wasn’t that far,” she protests lightly, tilting her head as she raises an eyebrow. “It was literally half an hour, no big deal. A lot of people drive that to get to the grocery store.”

He hadn’t lived that far away. It wasn’t like they were from two entirely different worlds, anyway. The drive had only been awkward because of the person she had been with, but the action itself hadn’t been a big deal. Nor has she ever thought of it as such; she was merely bringing someone important to Shane a birthday gift and celebrating. That was all. The way he makes it sound makes it seem like so much more and it’s not the first time that Maven’s questioned if she’s detached from the reality of situations a bit.

Nose scrunches slightly, but she accepts the kiss that he’s willing to give her. The excuses seem to fall short on her ears; he’s already been to bigger events like this, has chaperoned  her like a child at red carpets and after parties. A small dinner with her team shouldn’t be anything, especially given the fact that there’s going to be other people there as well. Just a simple little thing, and yet he’s so afraid of it? Maven has a hard time believing it. 

Besides that, the no picture rule has been nagging at the back of her mind. Why would he care if they were in pictures together? He had been caught in some unflattering ones over the past year, but that had been it. So why was he so suddenly shy about being in front of a camera lens now that the pictures would be more intimate? Fingers lightly tap against his shoulders for a moment before she slowly exhales.

“You have to stop acting like I’m makin’ you go to the Grammy’s. It’s just a small ass dinner. Besides, I doubt that I’m going to any sort of big parties any time soon. Sort of not my allowed scene anymore.” Admittedly, she hasn’t talked to her family much since she’s been disowned, but she figures that’s something normal – and something she can talk to her therapist about. Teeth lightly bite into her bottom lip once more as she looks over him, then she carefully gets up and straightens her dress back out to its mid thigh length. 

“Don’t be sorry, by the way. I just don’t get why you’re being all weird about this. Janette is someone you’ve met before; she’s been at the house a few times. Mary works behind the scenes with design, and Carl helps with photography and media. They’ll have their husbands with, but that’s the only difference.” Eyes run along him once more, giving him another once over, another, last chance if he wants to tell her what’s going on inside that brick that he calls a head.

[somebdyloved]

“I ain’t tryin’ to be weird, it’s just-- this ain’t the type of shit I do,” Shane says, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s... all.” Close inspection would tell her his jaw’s clenching a little bit, growing somewhat impatient. He’s told her already that it’s okay now, that he’s picking himself up and going. This tug of war won’t do any good for either of them, and for either of whatever thoughts they’ve got in their head about each other. The next best thing to do is to go. 

Shane still insists on being the driver, so he laser-focuses on the road on the car ride there. The radio’s playing at a soft hum, nothing too loud or distracting, but certainly solidifying this weird layer of tension they’ve got on the table. He tries not to overthink it. Maven’s a special girl, but nothing will change the fact that she’s still a woman, and from experience, they mull a lot more in their head than they need to. He knows he started it, but he doesn’t want to perpetuate it. Nothing can change the fact that he’s headed straight for the party, already all dressed up and ready to be by the brunette’s side. He wants them to have a good night, besides it all. 

-

At the party, Shane balances being on the sidelines with small conversations in passing. Admittedly, he gets along better with some of the other bodyguards than the actual attendants of the party. He can’t truly change his ways, and it’s been a long time since he’s heard from Andy. As long as it looks like Shane’s not alone, he supposes it’ll be enough for Maven. He watches her from afar, checking in on how she’s looking while she’s talking to others. It seems like she’s having a good time, that the people here are actually genuine rather than the ones who were at the last party Shane attended. He even feels himself smiling a bit as he brings his glass of wine up to take a sip; the curve of his lip meets the cold glass. 

The girl is a businesswoman and he likes seeing her in her element, when she’s not caged in by her parents. Sometimes, he thinks her being banished from the mansion was a good thing for her-- a liberation from her parents’ wretched claws trying to keep all of her light in. He knows it’s not the same, and not as easy; she misses Stella and, he knows she won’t admit it, but she probably does get a bit homesick; but he can’t think of anything better for her than to be free. 

He parts from his conversation with Andy and takes a few steps forward to cross the floor, en route to Maven on the other side of the room. But someone-- a photographer with a bright flash bulb and a large camera-- gets in front of him and flashes a picture. 

Shane’s a short fuse. It’s something he’s working on. But he doesn’t think twice when he snatches the camera out from the lanky photographer’s hand, causing the photographer to yelp in fear and lift his arms up for protection. It catches everyone’s attention at the party, and all of a sudden, Shane’s in the hot spot, burning heat filling his throat as he sees everyone looking at him, a large, scary man with someone else’s camera in hand, ready to break it. 

He looks at the guy who’s braced himself, and huffs. He slams the camera back in the other’s hand before turning around to walk away. “I said no pictures,” he mutters, heading for the exit into the lobby.

Then, his phone starts vibrating in his pocket, and it’s not necessarily violent, but it does grab his attention. He’s on the edge of his seat, a little volatile. He grumbles, pulling it out and seeing who’s calling: Dawn. “Fuck,” he says. He looks around him-- it’s a half-empty lobby with just staff in the corner, doing their business. He sighs, before answering.

“What?” he asks. “What do you mean, where am I? I’m at my apartment.” 

“Yeah? No the hell you’re not, you fucking liar. Why am I here right now, and why is the place goddamn rundown if you’re here?!” 

“Fuckin’ shit,” he spits. “I can’t talk to you right now. I’m busy. Go home.”

[strychninetwiitch-deactivated20]

somebdyloved​:

She doesn’t have to say anything for him to pick up that it’s getting sort of tedious, this strange worry he’s got over what other people are going to think of him, how it’s going to look to other people. If you would’ve asked him to go to this fancy event years ago, he would’ve worn his pride mighty high and walked around like a king, but somewhere along the way, his self-confidence diminished into a form of self-hatred. Like he didn’t deserve to tote around this great new thing he’s finally got, with this girl who loves him so goddamn much for once. 

Maybe it’s because he’s used to the way his old girlfriends loathed him. Or his almost-girlfriends didn’t want him at all. The abrasive way they’d brush him off left scars and he finds himself brushing his fingers against them; he doesn’t know what it’s like to not have them be so raw, as Maven’s tended to them. They’re signs of that monster, the one he’s been trying so hard to bury once and for all, and yet there’s something that’s still making it bear its claws. 

He looks in her pearly blue eyes and gives her a soft smile, finally, after she’s given in. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll– I’ll go. I just wanna make sure you ain’t worried about babysittin’ me. Like I said, it’s your night. I’m just there to support you. You don’t gotta pay too much attention to me. Just do your thing.”

It’s a lie. Well, not necessarily. It’s just not the full truth. The full truth is that he’s yet to tell Dawn he’s with another woman– let alone Maven– and he’s yet to tell Dawn that he’s been living with her for the better of two weeks. It’s none of her business, he tells himself, and she doesn’t have to know. But there’s a difference between that and keeping Maven a secret, and accidentally, he’s found himself doing the latter. 

He watches her finish tying his tie before he finds his way backward, sitting on the edge of the bed. His arm’s still stretched out and holding her waist, and his fingers squeeze her side in a wordless effort to pull her over to him. Maybe sit on his lap if she could in that tiny dress of hers. There’s only one thing in the world that makes this all better, that erases all the guilt, even for just one moment. 

He tilts his head, looking at her this close. She’s so goddamn beautiful. “I love you,” he says, slowly. He leans in and kisses her tenderly, hand reaching up from her side to pinch a string of her curls in his fingers. He pulls away and, voice low enough for just her to hear, “Thank you for inviting me, cleanin’ me up. God knows it… prolly took a lot. I’m excited, baby. I am. I guess I just need’a adjust, yeah? Havin’ to be… up close to you instead a’just bein’ your bodyguard.”

He wears a smirk. “By the way, I’m still goin’ to be your bodyguard. You don’t gotta pay me. Keep you safe.”

As much as she wants to believe that all of this is just his nerves acting up, she’s having a hard time shaking the feeling in her stomach. It’s so strange to her that he’s almost hiding within himself as of late; she’s not new to him trying to keep his life private, but this all feels entirely too strange for her liking. Teeth run along her bottom lip and her eyes lightly sweep over his face, trying to find the answers that she knows she won’t. When Shane wants to shut down, he finds a good way to do so and not second guess himself. It’s been a pain in her ass since the moment that she met him, so it’s no real surprise that even now it’s like this. Still, she knows that something is wrong, even if she can’t put her finger on it.

Sighing softly, she follows him backward, allows him a moment even when she doesn’t necessarily want to give in. Still, she isn’t entirely looking for a fight, let alone one that will leave her heading to the event on her own. Maven’s done it time and time again, but to have Shane shun her seems like a fate that she doesn’t want to truly tempt. Somehow, after the pride of having someone at her side and then not having them show up seems like a blow to whatever version of an ego Maven still actually possesses. 

So she allows the edges of her dress to hike up, the fabric bunching against her hips uncomfortably but she shrugs off the sensation. Those three words slip into her mind, make her nearly feel giddy and drunk, but she manages to push it away in order to return the kiss and give him a bit of a shy smile. Maybe she’s foolish for hearing those words and thinking that they’ll magically heal everything; after all, how many times has she been in this position before? How many times has she been soothed by what she thought was love and instead watched it crash around her so effortlessly?

“You act like this is some giant red carpet event,” eyebrow raises slightly at him as her head tilts to the side slightly. Maybe she’s not phased entirely too much because this has been her life for so long that it just is an extension of what she does. This is a much smaller event though, and part of her wonders what he would do if it was a giant, fancy event. Full of photographers and flashing bulbs that leave stars in your eyes. “It’s just a small dinner with some of the people I work with. They’ll have their partners too, so you won’t be stuck with just us. You can go and talk sports and shit with the others and drink beers.”

For a moment, Maven debates giving him an out again. She doesn’t want to push him too hard – the last time she had pushed someone it was Josh, and he was far away now. A slow breath leaves her lips and she averts her eyes away from him. Every part of her wants to be selfish and make him go, but if he’s really this worked up about, she’s not sure that it’s the right move to make.

Letting her fingers gingerly run through his hair and feel the gel that’s settled there, she lets out another breath. This is one that sounds more like a sigh, more of her debating, and then she presses a kiss lightly against his forehead. “Listen. You really don’t have to go. I can handle myself, even in the bodyguard department. This isn’t a gigantic meeting. Just something small. And if you’re super uncomfortable, you don’t have to go. I’m sure there’ll be more in the future.”

It’s a diplomatic response and she knows it, but part of her is at a loss. Her lips desperately want to beg him and ask him why he doesn’t want to come with. Is he ashamed of her? Is she not what he really wants even though he’s said those three words? Teeth lightly bite into her red bottom lip and she looks at him through her eyelashes. “Really. I won’t be mad.”

[somebdyloved]

She’s making this harder for him, and every word that comes out is another drop of water to thicken the stalk of guilt stuck in his throat. He clears it, finding it difficult to believe there’s nothing really lodged in there, and looks at her, shaking his head. “No, no,” he says. “I’m sorry. I ain’t makin’ this easy about you, bein’ selfish. I’m just... adjusting, yeah, that’s all.” 

There is some truth in that, though-- for as much as she says it’s a small gathering, Shane isn’t used to any of this. He was born and raised in mud, where gatherings meant grilling up whatever was most freshly hunted and lathering some barbecue on it, sharing homemade moonshine. Maybe not with family, but with friends so close that blood didn’t even matter. And with his brothers in arms, he remembered sitting around the fire with them, cracking jokes, reminiscing on the times they almost died. 

But he doesn’t have that anymore. He’s got Maven’s world to take into account. And really, it’s not her fault-- he could’ve kept in contact with everybody back at the department if he wanted to-- but this is just her world. As close as he’s been to it, as much as he’s attended events even fancier than the kind she claims this one won’t be, he’s always been at the sidelines of it. Never with eyes on him, never an accessory, but always the one a few steps behind, making sure she’s safe.

And gone are the dirty pair of boots he always totes around, and the old jeans, and the ratty shirt. Gone’s even the beard he grew for months to hide in. He’s gelled and slick and sleek now, suit costing more than his rent back when he was single and struggling, years ago. 

So, sure, he’s in the wrong here because he’s lying to Dawn about Maven, but there’s discomfort here, too, rooted in the fact that he’s doing something brand new. 

He sighs softly, shaking his head. 

“Listen,” he says. “You came all the way out to my side’a town a couple months ago for Chester’s birthday. I can go to this party with you. I’d feel... fuckin’ horrible if I stayed back.” Fingers pinch at the fabric that’s bunched up at her hip, not blinking twice at the glimpse of lace underwear that’s exposed now from the way she’s sitting. He looks down at his fingers and then back up at her, a delicate, reassuring smile on his lips. 

“It’s just baby steps,” he says. “I-- I know sooner or later I’m gonna have to be at some big party. Better to start off like this where I can still lay low, instead of the first event I go to bein’ a huge thing.” He brings his hand up to cup the side of her face and looks at her sincerely.

In any other world, if he were any other man, Shane would take a moment like this-- a moment of vulnerability and just the two of them-- to tell her the truth, what’s really been poisoning his mind. But he parts his lips and reaches in, giving her another kiss. 

“I’m sorry, honey,” he says. The crux of it is, he hopes he hasn’t hurt her, or made her second guess taking him out to things like this. He tells himself that he’ll tell her, next time, the truth; that he’ll cut this guilt out, even if it means slitting his throat, too. “You don’t gotta worry. I promise. We’ll have a good time. Now c’mon.” 

[mumblo-number-five]

Karen Gillan

[lonelytimes07]

Jessica Rothe

[strychninetwiitch-deactivated20]

somebdyloved​:

Guilt plants its seed in his stomach and grows a thick stalk up through his throat, stifling back every word that tries to come out of his mouth. Every time he tries to tell the truth, it feels like his throat only gets tighter, the stalk growing and growing– only to be pacified and stumped when he keeps the lie going. Shane looks at himself in the mirror as he puts himself together, pacing himself with Maven in the bathroom as every slight shuffle in there lets him know she’s still getting ready. He looks like a caricature of himself, with a fresh fade and a blue suit and accessories he never knew you needed for this sort of thing, cuff links and a handkerchief in the pocket. His beard’s grown out and trimmed, too, a clean goatee wrapped around his chin. 

For once, Shane doesn’t look like he’s been picked out of the mud. Most would say he looks nice, though he’s still adjusting to the sight of it, someone who’s dressed like he’s going to be more than just a bodyguard at whatever fancy event. 

He’s fixing his tie when he hears Maven open up from being in the bathroom, her hair all curled and pretty over her shoulders, looking beautiful as ever. His lips part at the sight of her in the mirror, taking whatever second he can to glimpse at her in her full glory before he has to turn around and acknowledge her. “Hey,” he says, softly, “hey, pretty girl.” 

Arm wraps around the small of her waist and he pulls her in for a delicate kiss on the side of her head. She smells sweet and warm, probably using a fancier perfume for the occasion. “Yeah, I just, uh,” he chuckles. “I always get stumped by this goddamn tie. Was never really good at it, you know.” 

He appreciates the way she bridges the gap between them, pulling him closer as she starts folding his tie. He looks down at her, taking her in, before his eyes meet hers. Hushed, he asks, “You sure I should be goin’ to this type’a thing?” His fingers absentmindedly mess with the fabric on the side of her dress. “Last thing I wanna do is pull the attention off you. It’s your night, yeah, baby? Ain’t want you thinkin’ I’m left out or somethin’ if I’m just standin’ in the sidelines.” He plays it off cool– he’s good at that– but at this point, Maven probably knows him better, and can probably pick up something’s wrong. He’d be dumb not to think she’s as smart as that; he just hopes she doesn’t choose right now to bring it up. 

His voice is like honey, warm and sweet as it washes over her very being and acts like a balm to calm the nerves that have been cascading throughout her chest. Maven’s been called pretty before, beautiful, everything under the sun, but when it comes from Shane it feels like he actually means it. She isn’t just an object to him, and there’s nothing but warmth in the way that his arm wraps around her waist and his lips come to the side of her head. Admittedly, Maven has grown to love that simple gesture – it means more than what a kiss would, because in Shane’s language, it’s an extension of that.

Maven has never been loved like this, even if they don’t say those words out loud, even if it’s something that ties their tongues into knots at the sheer thought. It’s okay because these small motions, the softness and the simple kisses, it speaks what they can’t, and she loves it. She loves the fact that one look from him can ease every nerve in her, can make her feel like she’s on fire, can make her feel like her entire world hadn’t shattered. It’s okay now because she has him, because he’s still very much living in her apartment and her fingers still get to trace patterns against his skin at night. They don’t talk about it or put labels on it; Maven will call him her boyfriend but it’s unclear if he’ll ever call her his girlfriend. If he considers it that. But she reads the language that is completely his own, and she hopes she does it right.

A soft chuckle leaves her lips and she takes a step closer, still shorter than him without her heels on. Fingers reach out and gingerly start to knot the tie; Josh always had a problem with them as well, and she had gone through a tie wearing phase, especially with pantsuits. So it’s not a big deal for her to do it, a soft hum in the back of her throat. Brows are furrowed ever so slightly as she does so, distracted, but his eyes meeting her distract her from the task and she gingerly smoothes the fabric out, tilting her head.

There it is again, that slight plea that he’s not going to fit in here, that it’s her realm and not his. And Maven wants to listen to it and give him an out, but there’s something swirling in her stomach that makes the thought of it sour. It’s the way that they don’t go out for dinner, the way that they don’t post about each other on Instagram, the way that Shane wants to seclude when Maven wants to thrive. Is he ashamed of her and the fact that she has so much controversy attached to her name? Is it because maybe she’s pushing the ideal of being his perfect girlfriend on him when he isn’t sure what he truly wants?

“It’s just a dinner,” she murmurs lightly, eyes searching his for a moment with an eyebrow raised. Were they really having this conversation again? Pursing her lips for a moment, Maven reaches up and tucks some hair behind her ear. Every part of her wants to fight and call him out on it, but she doesn’t want to come home to an empty apartment. She doesn’t want to ruin another chance because all of this is on her. So she does the next best thing that she can, putting on her slightly press conformed smile.

“But if you really aren’t feeling it, you don’t have to go. You can chill out here. It won’t be long, and I’m sure Zipper would love the company instead of being cramped up in her crate.” For what it’s worth, Maven says it with grace and doesn’t flinch; she’s so used to being able to carefully push her emotions down when she needs to. Every part of her aches at the fact that he doesn’t want to do this with her, but she also knows that this might be his careful way of letting her know that he isn’t ready for something like this. So she gives him the out that he’s looking for, because even though Maven’s heart hurts and disappointment floods her system, she keeps her eyes clear and that light smile on her face because she doesn’t want to lose him the same way she had lost Josh.

[somebdyloved]

She doesn’t have to say anything for him to pick up that it’s getting sort of tedious, this strange worry he’s got over what other people are going to think of him, how it’s going to look to other people. If you would’ve asked him to go to this fancy event years ago, he would’ve worn his pride mighty high and walked around like a king, but somewhere along the way, his self-confidence diminished into a form of self-hatred. Like he didn’t deserve to tote around this great new thing he’s finally got, with this girl who loves him so goddamn much for once. 

Maybe it’s because he’s used to the way his old girlfriends loathed him. Or his almost-girlfriends didn’t want him at all. The abrasive way they’d brush him off left scars and he finds himself brushing his fingers against them; he doesn’t know what it’s like to not have them be so raw, as Maven’s tended to them. They’re signs of that monster, the one he’s been trying so hard to bury once and for all, and yet there’s something that’s still making it bear its claws. 

He looks in her pearly blue eyes and gives her a soft smile, finally, after she’s given in. “Nah,” he says. “I’ll-- I’ll go. I just wanna make sure you ain’t worried about babysittin’ me. Like I said, it’s your night. I’m just there to support you. You don’t gotta pay too much attention to me. Just do your thing.”

It’s a lie. Well, not necessarily. It’s just not the full truth. The full truth is that he’s yet to tell Dawn he’s with another woman-- let alone Maven-- and he’s yet to tell Dawn that he’s been living with her for the better of two weeks. It’s none of her business, he tells himself, and she doesn’t have to know. But there’s a difference between that and keeping Maven a secret, and accidentally, he’s found himself doing the latter. 

He watches her finish tying his tie before he finds his way backward, sitting on the edge of the bed. His arm’s still stretched out and holding her waist, and his fingers squeeze her side in a wordless effort to pull her over to him. Maybe sit on his lap if she could in that tiny dress of hers. There’s only one thing in the world that makes this all better, that erases all the guilt, even for just one moment. 

He tilts his head, looking at her this close. She’s so goddamn beautiful. “I love you,” he says, slowly. He leans in and kisses her tenderly, hand reaching up from her side to pinch a string of her curls in his fingers. He pulls away and, voice low enough for just her to hear, “Thank you for inviting me, cleanin’ me up. God knows it... prolly took a lot. I’m excited, baby. I am. I guess I just need’a adjust, yeah? Havin’ to be... up close to you instead a’just bein’ your bodyguard.”

He wears a smirk. “By the way, I’m still goin’ to be your bodyguard. You don’t gotta pay me. Keep you safe.”

[bernthalized]

[strychninetwiitch-deactivated20]

Fingers quickly work over another piece of hair, curling it into place as glossed lips purse ever so slightly. There’s no reason for her to be this nervous about something; she’s even caught her fingers trembling slightly on her blending brush as she’s tried to apply shadow into her crease. This is just another simple project, another simple gathering like she’s gone through time and time again. On top of it, there’s not even a big shindig planned for this one; no, it’s just a small gathering with her creative team to go over new designs and celebrate the success of her first launch. They’re moving into the swim suit market now and Maven’s excited; it means that sales are going to go up and she’s going to get to spread some positivity when it comes to loving yourself. At least she hopes it comes off like that. This is her first launch solo, without her parents behind her and her name boosting everything. She’s never felt more free and terrified at the same time.

What’s adding to that though is Shane’s reluctance to want to join her. She knows that he doesn’t want to be in the spotlight, it’s not where he tends to thrive. Instead, he happily will hang out in the shadows and drink the open bar, eyes sharp as he looks for threats. And she’s compromised to the fact of letting him come as a bodyguard instead of her boyfriend, something that still raises flags in her mind when she thinks back to the conversation she had had with him.

He’s been reluctant to do what she wants before, but this time it felt exceptionally like he was dragging his heels in concrete, unwilling to budge even as she pushed her bottom lip out at him and batted her eyes. For some reason he seems on edge and skittish, and he’s almost demanded that he not be in any pictures. Maven tries to shake that annoying feeling in the pit of her stomach (is he embarrassed to be seen with me? is this too much? is it me that’s making him uncomfortable?). It’s hard to do though and she’s tempted to tell him he can stay home, that it’s fine.

Instead, she rises from the chair that she had been sitting in, fiddling with her loose curls, and heads over to the bedroom. She knocks once, a sharp rap of her hand that holds a ring on it. “You almost ready in there? Do you need help with your suit at all?”

[somebdyloved]

Guilt plants its seed in his stomach and grows a thick stalk up through his throat, stifling back every word that tries to come out of his mouth. Every time he tries to tell the truth, it feels like his throat only gets tighter, the stalk growing and growing-- only to be pacified and stumped when he keeps the lie going. Shane looks at himself in the mirror as he puts himself together, pacing himself with Maven in the bathroom as every slight shuffle in there lets him know she’s still getting ready. He looks like a caricature of himself, with a fresh fade and a blue suit and accessories he never knew you needed for this sort of thing, cuff links and a handkerchief in the pocket. His beard’s grown out and trimmed, too, a clean goatee wrapped around his chin. 

For once, Shane doesn’t look like he’s been picked out of the mud. Most would say he looks nice, though he’s still adjusting to the sight of it, someone who’s dressed like he’s going to be more than just a bodyguard at whatever fancy event. 

He’s fixing his tie when he hears Maven open up from being in the bathroom, her hair all curled and pretty over her shoulders, looking beautiful as ever. His lips part at the sight of her in the mirror, taking whatever second he can to glimpse at her in her full glory before he has to turn around and acknowledge her. “Hey,” he says, softly, “hey, pretty girl.” 

Arm wraps around the small of her waist and he pulls her in for a delicate kiss on the side of her head. She smells sweet and warm, probably using a fancier perfume for the occasion. “Yeah, I just, uh,” he chuckles. “I always get stumped by this goddamn tie. Was never really good at it, you know.” 

He appreciates the way she bridges the gap between them, pulling him closer as she starts folding his tie. He looks down at her, taking her in, before his eyes meet hers. Hushed, he asks, “You sure I should be goin’ to this type’a thing?” His fingers absentmindedly mess with the fabric on the side of her dress. “Last thing I wanna do is pull the attention off you. It’s your night, yeah, baby? Ain’t want you thinkin’ I’m left out or somethin’ if I’m just standin’ in the sidelines.” He plays it off cool-- he’s good at that-- but at this point, Maven probably knows him better, and can probably pick up something’s wrong. He’d be dumb not to think she’s as smart as that; he just hopes she doesn’t choose right now to bring it up. 

[somebdyloved]

They never know the walk home. 

The limping because they tried going for your kneecap and sweeping under you like that, or the way you’re holding onto your rib with an arm that’s dislocated because they got a couple good kicks in when you were down. 

They never know the way you zip your coat up and toss your hood on, going from the man with the white painted skull on his bulletproof vest to just someone you should walk the opposite direction from if you saw them on the street, like maybe they got fucked up like that for a reason. They never know the way that sometimes, those two men are the same exact one. 

They never know the walk home because they’re usually already dead.

Frank’s vision is blurry. 

Each step is scored by a soft grunt. Usually, the adrenaline that kicks in when he first draws his guns keeps on going, fueled by each bullet that hits the ground, stuck on seeing red until it’s all over. And it’s what can sometimes make him seem like a tank made of bulletproof steel. But at the end of it, when they’re all dead and seeing red shifts to this soft pink, closer to white, the adrenaline is fading away and he’s got to rely on being a plain human again. 

He crosses State Street without looking, and it’s the honk that he gets from an incoming car that wakes him back up. He keeps limping across the street, though, tossing up a bloodied middle finger to the car as it drives away. God, he could use one of those. 

The street lights are piss yellow and he feels hungry. Down the street, he sees the bodega, but knows it’s going to start to raise questions if the owners keep seeing him at this time of day all beat up to hell. The name Frank Castle is dead in the water; Pete Castiglione is clean, and he doesn’t want to raise suspicions among the people who know him as such. He huffs. Guess it’s military rations again tonight, since nobody’s exactly paying him for all the shit he does, and he doesn’t go stealing the bloody money usually in the bags he finds, either. 

When he lands in bed, he doesn’t know if he can get back up. He stares at the popcorn ceiling in his shitty apartment and swallows in attempt to recalibrate himself as alive. A minute or so passes before he rolls himself back up and reaches in his bedside cabinet for a ration. Hand finds emptiness. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. He drags himself out of bed and into the shower, and the water gets all that soft pink he was thinking about earlier. 

Pete comes out of there when he’s done. He doesn’t have the beard and mane to hide behind, but he reaches for a black hat that should at least draw less attention to the beet-red bruise on the side of his face. Pete makes his way to the bodega as the sun just so barely rises, and the door’s the first to greet him, its hellish bell loud in his ear. It’s silent after that-- not unusually so-- as he reaches for a pre-wrapped sandwich in the corner, head ducked as he makes his way to the register. It’s only at that moment that he hears the cashier shudder. 

He looks up, brows furrowed; it’s Miss Betty, and she’s the oldest member of the Cardenas family who owns the bodega. She’s got the fear of God in her eyes with her hands up, and he watches as a single tear comes down her cheek. 

“Don’t. Fuckin’. Move.” 

And Pete doesn’t. At least, not right away. He tosses his sandwich down on the counter and slowly lifts his arms up, turning around. 

“I said, don’t move, asshole!” 

As Pete’s turning, he sees the gun first, a GLOCK 17 you can get from the dirty likes of Turk if you get close enough to Hell’s Kitchen. It’s pointed at him, then shifted to point at the head of who he’s got hostage, a small blonde woman whose unable to breathe with the scum’s arm around her neck. 

In one swift movement, Pete pushes the gun out of range, and the fucker shoots it, missing Betty behind him and hitting the cigarettes she’s got behind the counter. Pete grabs the gun and throws it, yanking the woman from the robber’s arms and tossing her out of the way too before he headbutts the robber. 

The scum’s still got his footing, though, but he’s reversing as Pete walks towards him, pushing him away from the woman with just his physical presence, and it’s clear now that the scum’s scared. Maybe it’s because Pete’s cap was no longer on.

“Recognize me?” There’s a smirk on his lips. 

Pete crosses the fucker and knocks him out cold. He lands in the aisle, knocking down a shelf of canned goods. Nonchalantly, he looks back at the two women, picking up his hat and putting it back on as he limps towards the front. “Call the police.” And, as a payment for what he’d just done, he grabs the sandwich and heads for the door. 

[somebdyloved]

strychninetwiitch​:

The nightlife has always been some of Delilah’s favorite things; for someone who likes people watching, it’s prime real estate. She’s seen entirely too many people get into questionable cars, seen more guns pulled than she wants to admit, has found comfort in the flashing of police lights, etc. When you’ve got the graveyard shift that nobody else seems to want to take on, it almost becomes fun to watch the high speed of New York City bustling by through the doors.

She’s just gone out to take another box of coffee pods to the dumpster (mind the rats! throw and run!); the annoying sound of jazz music fills her ears as she does so. The Apricot isn’t too bad of a neighbor, but she’s seen her fair share of shady folks coming out of it, and their bullies don’t tip her well enough to be open late. Besides, she’s had it with the goons and their looks, both of her up and down and of what they can get for free, trying to assert dominance that she doesn’t take them up on.

She is surprised though when the man lands in the puddle, looking entirely too nice to be one of the club’s usual victims. Her eyebrow raises ever so slightly as she finishes dropping the box (after kicking the side of the dumpster of course); since when do they throw nice looking boys out into puddles? That’s usually the scrawny ones who haven’t paid up on their debts (that’s right, she knows what goes on in there).

His words surprise her though, and she lets out a soft chuckle. “Please. You’re not the first guy they’ve thrown out of there. What’s your MO? What did you promise them, your first born if they’d give you a couple of stacks? Were you jonesing for some dopamine with some pills?”

His first instinct’s to scowl in disgust. Miles isn’t stupid, he knows what shady dealings go on in the clubs he’s vying for gigs at, but he’s always done good to distance himself when it comes to those things. He’s gotten an offer or two from a manager who didn’t really care for his actual talent, and more so his persuasive demeanor. He’s known better than to get his hands dirty with that mess. 

But he shakes his head, an almost mocking smile appearing on his face. “I wasn’t jonesing for anything other than a slot at their next show tomorrow night,” he says, matter-of-factly. He pulls something out from his back pocket, and holds it up to her. 

It’s his pair of sticks. 

“I’m a drummer,” he says. “But I’m a drummer without a band, and I guess people don’t really find that much value in solo acts anymore.” There’s contempt in his tone. But Miles has been at this for almost a decade now, right from the moment he’d gotten tossed out of music school. He doesn’t need school or a gig at the shady Apricot to show everyone that he’s good. 

Still, would’ve been nice to earn the $150. 

“And what are you?” he asks, New York accent full-fledged; he narrows his eyes at her and looks her up and down. “They still got 50s diners around here?” 

Truthfully, Miles should find his way out into the corner and make way for another bar, but a quick glance at his watch tells him whatever open slots there might have been are already full at this point. He’d spent too much time at the Apricot and getting tossed out on his ass hurt his ego, too. Softening the blow with a conversation with a girl who might just be as pathetic as him (or if he’s lucky, even more so) would do him some good. “...Or is that a cute little outfit your sugar daddy made you wear?”

[somebdyloved]

It’s fucking killer when the ground’s wet. 

Miles breaks his fall on his shoulder, landing in a puddle that splashes against his neck and gets a trickle in his mouth. He winces, rolling over onto his back as he holds onto his shoulder, looking up and over at the Apricot’s bouncer. The warm yellow neon sign behind him lights up his close-to-seven-foot silhouette, and he mumbles something incoherent, cracking his knuckles. For such a soft fucking name, the people they’ve got working here know how to really kick a man when he’s down. 

“You know, with those muscles, you’re in the wrong business, pal,” Miles manages to say, mouth upturning in a wolfish smirk. “Sure you don’t wanna try out WWE instead?” 

The grunt scoffs, and in his gravelly voice, issues what should be Miles’ final warning, what gets him to throw the towel in: “Come back here again and boss’ll make sure no jazz club in town wants anythin’ to do with ya.”

For a split second, Miles parts his lips, taken aback by the statement. Honestly, he should have seen it coming, and there’s a part of him that should know he can’t keep this gimmick on for much longer, but he never thought he’d hear that. He always thought he’d had a nice tug of war with the clubs across town, even if all he ever did was cause trouble; at least, they could say he’s good at what he does, a hound with the sticks. That was at least redeemable in him. Now it feels like they’re done playing with him, that they’re using their brute strength to pull the rope all the way to their side, and leaving Miles hanging toothless. 

Miles furrows his brows. The grunt slams the back door shut with a metal clang. Miles gets up with some struggle, eventually gaining his footing. He takes off his sport jacket and whips it in the air, getting any of the water from the puddle off of it-- but it’s soaked. He sighs. But a figure casts a reflection in the puddle near his feet, and in between the red hand walking signal and the sign for Apricot, stands a girl who might have just witnessed him getting tossed on his ass. 

“That’s what they do when they really like you,” he says, clearing his throat. He grabs his jacket by its hanging loop and tosses it over his shoulder, looking at the girl. The street lamp’s casting a nice light on her face; he’s never seen her before, and wonders why she’s taking an alleyway this goddamn late. He raises a brow. “You should see what they do to the greats, like Buddy Rich? They gave that guy a black eye and a broken rib after he did a drum solo in there.”

[redbelles]

Hey man, you know You’re never coming back

RED RIGHT HAND by NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS

[somebdyloved]

strychninetwiitch​:

He smells absolutely putrid once the window is rolled down; Cherri keeps herself composed and her expression schooled, but it seems into her senses and sticks in the back of her throat, ancient like dirt and threatening to choke her. Fingers twitch ever so slightly at her side; there’s an unadulterated power that threatens to ooze from every inch of his vehicle. Someone has marked him with sigils to protect him — whoever has is clever and clearly wants him to be taken care of. That alone sets her back a few steps, an invisible force making her calves tense when they hit that border of where she’s standing, preventing her from getting closer. Red smoke threatens to crawl its way up her throat; this would be so much easier if she could just get him to tell her what his real agenda was. That’s a risk though that she can’t take on — exposing their operation for something that’s just a hunch isn’t something that she can do. Nix would have her head on a platter — as much as she hates him, he can smite her, and she hasn’t lived this long just for that fucker to do that to her.

A hum rests in the back of her throat, trying to cut through the absolute bullshit that this guy is spewing. She doesn’t know if what he’s saying is true; Nix would be the only one who would invite him to discuss a deal, but he hasn’t said anything to her. Does that really matter? She’s not sure, because the other doesn’t owe her any sort of explanation for his meetings. He usually tells her though if someone’s coming in. Eyes narrow a little bit at the man before her; he’s too tan, something that she doesn’t hold within her own porcelain skin. He has a slight accent, one that she’s heard far too many times in movies. He isn’t from around here, and he hasn’t been here long enough to lose the twinge of it.

“What’s the name of your informant?” She’ll play along for as long as she needs to, eyes narrowed and her body aching to move forward. If she could just get close enough, she could hum her way into his mind, like an angry bee that has been disturbed from the hive. She wants to scream and destroy him, just because it feels like absolute desert sand in her throat right now. She can’t place it, but it’s something ancient that makes her hackles raise. This man is trouble.

The safest thing to do though, is to lead him into the club. Nix is in there and his power combined with her own will be enough to subdue any threat. Not to mention the others that are a little more wild and out of control — they’ll destroy him in seconds if she gives the command. So she can stand out here, freezing her tits off, or she can invite him into the den of sin and watch him slowly crumble underneath the weight of them all.

Cherri’s bored, which means that she wants to play with her food. So she’ll humor him, eyelashes batting slightly at the hundred dollar bill that’s flashed in front of her face. If this fool wants to step into her realm, that’s his problem, anyway. She reaches forward but the barrier stops her, and she schools her expression and presses back on her heels. “Well come on then darling, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

She makes sure to walk behind him until she gets to the door; turning her back on someone like him isn’t a chance she’s willing to take. Once he steps through, she follows, and she allows the door to slam shut with a infinite ring throughout the building.

Faces turn to look at them, and her eyes meet Nix’s. “I guess your appointment’s here.”

Nix’s eyebrow raises and he sweeps his eyes over the man, “Yeah, I got no appointments today, Cherri.”

The lights flicker throughout the building as her anger flares an an inhuman growl falls from her lips as she turns toward the man in question. There is nothing but hatred and fire in her eyes; no one makes a fool of her and lives.

Within a blink of an eye, her hand is around his throat and slamming him into the wall with a loud crack. “You have five minutes before I eat your fucking soul. I suggest you start talking and do it the easy way before I fucking pull the information from you the fun way.”

She goes from steel to honey in a second without notice, and Kiawe furrows his brows just the tiniest bit. He doesn’t want to tip her off that the alibi’s bullshit, but he figured it was general enough to pass, and it was. Honestly, he shouldn’t be so concerned with the validity of his statement; all he’s got to worry about is that it worked, and what he should do next once he’s in there. If he comes right out with what he needs from this woman and her crew, then one of two things is going to happen: They’re going to laugh and think he’s insane, or kill him. Neither will be conducive to the ending he wants. 

Nevertheless, heavy boots mark footsteps slowly on the snow. He’s still getting used to this, and the frigid temperature makes him every bit of vulnerable. He heads inside the club and the doors slam shut behind him forcefully; he looks over his shoulder to see if the blonde is still behind him. For such a small woman she has a large shadow. But he glances back in front of him, nearly flinching when he sees everyone in the club is looking at him now. 

He stiffens, and he wonders if it’s visible. The music seems to have come to a complete stop. He looks around and parts his lips, about to introduce himself until the blonde speaks for him. Next thing Kiawe knows, he’s in the hot seat, with a terrifying growl coming up from behind him. “Hey, I--” 

The man doesn’t even get a chance to buffer before he’s pinned against the wall in one fell swoop. Cherri’s brute strength makes a crack in the wall behind him; he grunts, grabbing at her hand and trying to pry it, but feeling it tighten around his throat whenever he tries pulling it away. For the first time ever, his feet aren’t touching the ground, and this is someone who’s over six feet tall. 

“What the hell--” Kiawe chokes out. Her otherworldly strength and the monstrous noise that erupted from her just moments ago prove that she’s exactly what Ty had said she was: a demon. He feels stupid, but scared trumps it all; he’s going to die, and he’s not going to be able to save his little girl.

“Stop it!” 

Kiawe shifts his eyes to the left, where a small brunette emerges from the corner, approaching the two of them. Judging by the way everyone else cowers, this girl’s the only one brave enough to stand up to the blonde. 

“Cherri, I said stop,” she says. “You’ll kill ‘im. We don’t even know what he’s here for. This could be all a mistake, and you’re-- you’re willing to kill somebody innocent just so you don’t have to look stupid?” 

Before the blonde can say anything more, another woman with red hair comes to the girl’s side. “She’s right,” she says, softer. “He... He’s got one of our imprints. You-- you can’t see it, but I can. His file was empty because he’s not supposed to be here. I think he needs our help.” 

[ssweeneys]

BILLY RUSSO not giving a fuck

[somebdyloved]

strychninetwiitch​:

[ amelia > outgoing ] : doc says tests were right [ amelia > outgoing ] : they want me to take vitamins 😠

[ ford > amelia ] : What is wrong with vitamins? U should be taking them anyw ay. 

[strychninetwiitch-deactivated20]

[ jager > outgoing ] : soooooooo i managed to slip your usb drive to a contact of mine @ big machine. [ jager > outgoing ] : how’s it feel to be called the “new taylor swift”? [ jager > outgoing ] :  🙃

[somebdyloved]

[ emily > jager ] : sorry, what?? [ emily > jager ] : you’re messing around with me right??