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ᯓ★'s P.S. hes so ooc in this i hate it😭😭

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← ゛masterlist ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

The neglect wasn't malicious, not at first. It was the absurdity of it all—the endless cycle of heroism that devoured everything human. You watched them chase meaning in the chaos of Gotham, building empires of justice on foundations of broken bones and buried secrets, while your own existence felt like a pointless jest in an indifferent universe. Men, you came to realize, were architects of their own cages, trapping themselves and everyone around them in webs of duty and dominance. Your father, your brothers—they embodied it, their love a distant echo, conditional on utility, alienated by their obsessions. You loved them once, in that profound, aching way that twists the soul, but it metamorphosed into something else: a quiet fury, a desire to see them unravel under the weight of their own constructs.

So you left. Slipped away one night with a backpack and a manuscript half-written in the dim light of your untouched room. You changed your name to Y/N L/N, severing the Wayne tether like a bug shedding its exoskeleton. The world didn't notice at first; why would it? But then your books came—torrents of words that poured from the wounds of your past. Novels laced with dramatic betrayals, where protagonists orchestrated the exquisite suffering of those who had wronged them. Characters of labyrinthine depth, grappling with guilt and redemption in isolation. Tales that mocked the absurdity of human striving, where heroes chased illusions in a void. Stories seething with contempt for patriarchal tyrants, men who built thrones on the backs of the overlooked. And beneath it all, a love that lingered like a scar—profound, alienating, forever unrequited.

Your fame erupted like a storm. "Echoes of the Void" was your breakout, a bestseller that critics hailed as a masterpiece of existential dread. Then "Shadows Unforgiven," where a family of vigilantes crumbled under their own hypocrisy. Book after book, each one a veiled autobiography, your life transmuted into fiction. The public devoured them, unaware that the tormented souls on the pages were echoes of real neglect, real alienation.

The Batfamily didn't connect the dots until the interview. It was a prime-time special on a national network, you seated in a sleek studio under soft lights, your latest release—"Fractured Thrones"—clutched in your hands. The interviewer, a polished woman with a keen smile, leaned forward. "Y/N, your work is renowned for its raw emotional depth. 'Fractured Thrones' feels particularly personal. The protagonist—a young woman abandoned by her powerful family—crafts her revenge through subtle, literary torments. What inspired this?"

You paused, your gaze steady, dramatic in its intensity. The camera caught the complexity in your eyes, the absurd humor lurking beneath the surface. "Inspiration comes from life," you said, your voice a blade wrapped in velvet. "I grew up in a house of men who fancied themselves gods—saviors, really. They patrolled their domain, enforcing order, but forgot the ones left behind in the shadows. My character... she's me, in a way. Neglected, invisible. And yes, she makes them suffer, not with fists or gadgets, but with the truth of their failures exposed for the world to see. There's a certain poetry in watching empires fall from within."

The interviewer's eyes widened. "That's quite the revelation. Are you saying this is autobiographical?"

You smiled, a twist of lips that held no warmth, only the cold satisfaction of vengeance fulfilled. "Let's just say the absurd tragedy of it all—their love, so profound yet so utterly detached—taught me everything. I don't hate them, not anymore. But forgiveness? That's for stories with neat endings. Mine don't have those."

The broadcast went viral. In Wayne Manor, the family gathered around the screen in stunned silence. Bruce's jaw tightened, the lines of his face etching deeper with realization. Dick paced, murmuring, "That can't be... Y/N?" Jason swore under his breath, his fists clenched— he saw the parallels to his own resurrection, twisted into narrative punishment. Tim cross-referenced your books in seconds, pulling up passages that mirrored their lives: the absentee father, the brothers lost in their wars. Damian scowled, denying it at first, but the evidence was irrefutable.

They found you weeks later, at a book signing in Gotham's central library. The line snaked out the door, fans clutching your works like talismans. Bruce approached first, flanked by the others, their civilian guises doing little to hide the tension.

"Y/N," Bruce said, his voice low, gravelly with regret. "We need to talk."

You looked up from signing a copy, your expression unchanging—complex, layered with the absurdity of this reunion. "Do we, Father? Or should I say, Bruce Wayne? It's L/N now. Has been for years."

Dick stepped forward, ever the peacemaker. "We didn't know. We were so caught up in... everything. But your books—we see it now. We're sorry. Come home."

Home. The word tasted like ash. You laughed softly, a sound laced with contempt for their masculine hubris, their assumption that apologies could mend what they'd shattered. "Home? Where I waited in vain for a glance, a word? Where your love was a ghost, profound in its absence? No. I've built my own empire, one where you all suffer beautifully on the page. That's my revenge—your sins immortalized, your failures dissected by millions."

Jason growled, "You think writing about us makes it even? We can fix this."

"Fix?" Your eyes flashed with dramatic fire. "Life isn't a vigilante's tidy resolution. It's absurd, meaningless cycles. You men with your capes and codes—you trapped me in yours. I escaped. And as for love... I loved you once, in that deep, alienating way that changes a person forever. But it's gone, metamorphosed into this." You gestured to the stack of books. "Unforgiven."

Tim tried reason, pulling up quotes from your interviews, but you waved him off. Damian, silent until now, muttered, "This is beneath you."

"Is it?" you replied, your tone venomous. "Or is it exactly what you deserve?"

But you didn’t. You haven’t. You literally fucking can’t.

And it's not just any scene. No. Of course not. It couldn’t be like… a rainy dialogue scene, or a tender flashback, or a filler chapter. Not even a fight scene. No, it has to be that scene.

The smut scene. The climax, if you will. The penultimate, long-awaited, pants-dropping culmination of twenty chapters’ worth of tension. And you’ve got nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

You’re standing in the middle of your living room like a gremlin about to spontaneously combust, barefoot, in one of Nanami's old dress shirts, hair a fucking mess, coffee mug abandoned on the floor because you got distracted when you thought of a single sentence and then immediately hated it. You're pacing. Your laptop is open on the coffee table. The TV is playing something you forgot to pause.

And the cursor keeps blinking.

Blinking.

Blinking—

You groan. “Fuck.”

(Which is ironice because that's the one thing you can't write).

You drag your hands down your face, down your neck, press your fingers to the back of it like the pressure will make your brain work harder. It doesn’t.

Your characters are right there. You can see them. They're in a bed, or against a wall, or maybe on a balcony—whatever. It doesn’t matter. They want to fuck. You want them to fuck. You just… can’t get there.

And the worst part? The truly infuriating part?

You used to be good at this. But now? Now every time you try to write something even remotely hot, your brain short-circuits like a nun in a strip club. It’s all mechanics and no spark, all “he touches her waist” and “his lips meet hers” and what the fuck am I writing, a 2008 Wattpad vampire fic?

You want it to be gritty. Visceral. A little gross. That kind of sweat-slick, breathless, mind-melting need that feels so real it leaves your skin warm while you type it. The kind of scene you reread ten times because the filth lives in the details and you fucking nailed it.

Except you’re not nailing anything. Especially not your boyfriend.

Your face burns.

That’s part of the problem too. It’s been—what? Two weeks? Maybe more? And not for lack of trying. You’re just so fucking tired. You’ve been writing until 2 a.m. every night, drinking too much coffee, skipping dinner, ignoring your vibrator like it owes you something. And Kento’s been patient. So fucking patient. But you’re feeling the distance. And it’s crawling into your writing like rot.

You groan again. Loudly. Dramatically. The neighbors are probably worried.

“I swear to God if I don’t figure this out I’m going to go outside and let a car hit me.”

And that’s when the door clicks.

Your back goes straight. Your eyes go wide. You freeze like a raccoon caught stealing trash.

“…I’m home,” comes the low, familiar voice of your boyfriend.

Kento Nanami stands in the doorway, tired in the shoulders and sharp in the jaw, a briefcase in one hand and a paper bag from the konbini in the other. His tie is loosened, his hair’s a little wind-tousled, and the second his eyes land on you—wild-eyed, pacing, braless in one of his old button-ups with absolutely no pants on—his brow creases in that soft, concerned way he does when he’s already halfway into husband mode.

“What happened?” he asks immediately.

You throw your arms up. “My brain has betrayed me.”

He sighs. Closes the door. Sets down the bag and the briefcase. You’re already ranting before he even gets his shoes off.

“I can’t do it,” you blurt, breathless. “I’ve tried everything—music, candle, rereading horny fanfiction, even pulled out my annotated smut folder—nothing is working. I’m this close to just writing ‘and then they fucked’ and calling it a day. Do you know how many people are waiting for this book? They’re going to eat me alive. They’ve waited for twenty chapters. Twenty chapters of slow burn. I can’t blue ball them. It’s unethical.”

Nanami blinks once. He’s still by the doorway. Still wearing his coat.

“…You’re talking about your book.”

“What else would I be talking about, Kento?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes sweep over you, slowly, like he’s assessing something under a microscope. The shirt you’re in is unbuttoned too low. Your cheeks are flushed. Your pupils are blown. And you’re pacing like a sex-deprived ghost in an empty Victorian manor.

His voice is patient. “Have you eaten?”

You scoff. “I had coffee.”

He sighs. Again.

You’re back to pacing.

“I just—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I used to be able to write this kind of thing in my sleep. I love writing smut. It’s fun. It’s cathartic. It gets people off, Kento. Off. And now I can’t even get through a paragraph without feeling like I’m writing bad porn with a thesaurus. I tried writing ‘he thrusts his cock’ and almost burst into tears. Thrusts, Kento. Thrusts. I should be jailed.”

He moves through the apartment like a shadow, quiet but grounded. Doesn’t interrupt. Just walks toward the kitchen, rolls his sleeves up as he listens to you lose your mind.

“You wanna know the last thing I wrote before I spiraled?” you continue, arms flailing like a madwoman, “It was ‘she whimpered into his kiss.’ Whimpered, Kento. What am I, writing for Harlequin?? It’s off-brand. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassing. I’m a fraud. You should break up with me before my career tanks and we have to sell your ties on Depop—”

You freeze mid-step.

There’s the soft, comforting sound of the kettle turning on.

Tea. He’s making you tea.

You stare.

“Did you…?” you blink. “Are you making me chamomile right now?”

His voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that borders on deadpan but still warmer than any voice has a right to be.

“You’re spiraling,” he says. “Tea usually helps.”

You want to cry. Or kiss him. Or both. Maybe kiss him while crying. That feels thematically appropriate.

Instead, you flop face-first onto the couch.

“This is humiliating.”

You hear the sounds of mugs. The little metal clink of honey being stirred.

“It’s not,” he says. “You’re passionate. It matters to you.”

You roll onto your side. Dramatic. Limp. Tragic heroine in a period piece.

“I haven’t gotten laid in fifteen days. I counted.”

A pause.

Then, the quietest, most curious tone: “Did you actually count?”

You groan into a pillow.

He brings you the mug.

You sit up. Hold it with both hands. Sniff it, because you’re deranged and in love and want to smell the care he put into steeping it.

And when you glance up at him—tired but still composed, sleeves rolled, forearms taut, a tenderness in his eyes that no man has any business aiming so directly at you—you feel the curl of something in your gut that’s got nothing to do with writing.

“…I think I need to get railed,” you say.

He blinks.

You sip your tea.

“Not now,” you clarify. “Maybe later. Just. You know. For research.”

He sits beside you. Brushes your hair back from your forehead with those stupidly gentle fingers. Kisses the top of your head like he’s not been thinking the exact same thing for the last two weeks but was too fucking respectful to push.

“Research,” he murmurs.

You nod solemnly. “Purely academic.”

His fingers trail down the nape of your neck.

“I’m happy to assist,” he says.

And God, it’s that voice. That low, calm, reverent voice. Like he’s not offering to rearrange your organs but confessing something sacred. You shiver.

You glance at your laptop.

“…What if I just wrote ‘he makes her tea and then fucks her into the next dimension’ and left it at that?”

He hums. “I’d read it.”

You sigh, a little softer this time. Lean into him.

And just like that, the pressure eases. The storm calms. Not gone. Not fixed.

But... quiet enough to breathe.

(You still don’t know what your characters are doing.)

*-*

You should be in horny jail.

Like. Maximum security. Life sentence. No parole. No visitation rights.

Because somehow, after the tea and the breakdown and the spiraling monologue about the unethical crime of blueballing your readers, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch next to Nanami Kento—a saint of a man—and pitching him porn for three hours straight.

“And what about—wait, hold on—what if he like…pinned her hands above her head, right?” You mime it with one hand as you type with the other. “Like, just held them there, totally in control, all that delicious dominance energy. And she’s begging for it, but he’s being all patient, just dragging it out—”

Nanami hums quietly. “You mentioned something similar an hour ago.”

You blink. “Did I?”

“Yes,” he says, glancing over your shoulder, where the screen glows with paragraph fragments and open tabs of inspiration references, “You also suggested shower sex, balcony sex, and something you referred to as ‘reverse cowgirl but make it grief-stricken.’”

“Oh right. Yeah. I’m keeping that one.”

Nanami just nods. Patiently. Politely. While you—a menace with a MacBook—start into yet another brainstorm.

“And maybe—wait, okay—what if she rides him, but like…not in a hot way at first? In that slow, kind of…deliberate way, like she’s got something to prove. Like, ‘I can take it, I can do it myself.’ But then it turns messy, and she starts sobbing and he’s just watching her lose her mind and—"

“Love,” he says, calm as ever, “you’ve described seven positions. It’s almost one in the morning.”

You freeze mid-keystroke.

“Wait…what?”

He lifts his wrist, glances at his watch like it betrayed him. “Twelve fifty-six. You haven’t stopped talking for approximately…three hours.”

You blink. The cursor is still blinking back at you. You glance at your notes. There are at least five bullet points titled “HE MAKES HER SEE GOD.” Your fingers are cramping.

“I…” You squint. “Oh my god. I haven’t even written the scene.”

Nanami reaches across you—warm, slow, deliberate—and closes your laptop.

“HEY!”

“You’re clearly exhausted.”

You are, actually. Your joints ache, your thoughts are melting into soup, and your shirt (still his, still oversized, still unbuttoned to dangerous depths) is sticking to your back with sweat. But there’s so much work to do, so much to write down, and what if you forget the really juicy bit about riding his thigh and *—

Nanami picks you up.

“Kento!”

“Sleep schedules are important,” he says, already walking toward the bedroom like you don’t weigh a damn thing, like you’re not flailing in his arms and protesting weakly while your thighs cling instinctively around his hips. “If you’re not going to rest on your own, I’ll help you.”

You’re spluttering. “You can’t just—carry me off like this! I’m an artist, I have processes!”

“Your process involves vibrating with sexual frustration until you pass out,” he says, dry.

“Exactly! It’s called passion!”

He tosses you gently onto the bed. You bounce. The mattress sighs beneath you. He’s already removing his tie.

You swallow.

“Wait,” you whisper, watching the deliberate way his fingers work the buttons of his shirt, sleeves already rolled to his elbows. “Wait, what are you—?”

“You wanted to do research,” he says, calmly, his gaze dark and deadly steady. “So. Let’s research.”

Your mouth goes dry.

Oh. Oh shit.

He kneels on the edge of the bed, palms sliding up your bare thighs, thumbs brushing where his shirt barely covers you. You forgot you weren’t wearing panties.

You forgot everything.

“You’ve been teasing yourself all night,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours, that glint of softness always in his gaze but buried now beneath something far darker. “Talking about all the ways your characters should be touched. How they should fall apart. But you haven’t even come once, have you?”

Your breath stutters. “N-No.”

“I know.” His hands splay across your hips. “I’ve noticed.”

And then he’s got you under him. Fast. Sure. Effortless. You gasp—your shirt bunched around your ribs, wrists pinned in one of his hands while the other drags down your ribs, down your belly, lower—

“Let’s fix that,” he murmurs.

He tastes you like you’re something he paid for. No. Like something he earned.

Tongue slow. Precision exact. Hands on your hips like a scholar anchoring a page, steadying the corners of a sacred text so he can devour it one line at a time.

He doesn’t even fuck you at first.

He studies.

He kisses the inside of your thigh like he’s thanking it. Fingers brushing along the skin like parchment, reverent. There’s something devastating about how silent he is, how deliberate—how he doesn’t even make a sound when his mouth finally finds you, lips dragging across your cunt like worship, and then—

“Fuck—Kento—”

—then he moans, low and broken, as if he’s finally found the thing he’s been starving for.

And it doesn’t stop.

Not when your legs start shaking. Not when your hips buck and your voice rises. Not when your fingers curl in his hair and your thighs clamp around his ears. He wants that. Encourages it. Growls against you like your desperation is a reward.

“Don’t hold back,” he breathes into you. “Let me feel it.”

You come on his tongue like prayer. Like sin.

But he doesn’t stop. Not even when you whimper that you can’t, not even when you twitch away. He just tightens his grip and keeps going, like this is the only thing in the world that matters.

You lose count.

Two orgasms. Three. Four.

You don’t even know what time it is anymore. All you know is that his mouth is unforgiving, his voice is wrecked, and you’re falling apart.

And then he lets you breathe.

Not for long.

Because he’s guiding you up, settling onto the bed with his thighs spread wide, voice rough as gravel. “Come here.”

“Kento—”

He drags you into his lap and sets you on his thigh.

“You wanted to know what this felt like,” he murmurs, voice fraying at the edges. “So learn it. Ride me.”

Your hips jerk the second you grind down, slick already soaking his skin, and the heat of him, the thickness of that muscle under you—it has you gasping.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” he whispers, hands on your waist. “You’re doing so well.”

You drag your cunt across his thigh, riding it with stuttered moans, every pass against that muscle sparking another little burst of electricity through your spine. You can’t look at him. You can’t. But he’s watching you, rapt, chest heaving.

“Good girl. Just like that.”

You come again.

Hard. Loud. Legs trembling.

He shudders beneath you, like just watching you fall apart on his thigh is almost too much.

And then he flips you, fast and fluid and impossibly gentle, and you gasp as he lays you flat and kisses the underside of your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—marks you up with a quiet kind of urgency.

When he slides inside you, he groans like it hurts.

You choke.

Because he’s so deep, and he doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, pressed all the way in, forehead to yours, breath warm across your lips. And then—

Then he fucks you like he’s got all the time in the world and a point to prove.

A slow, devastating rhythm. Your legs bent near double, his body bearing down over yours like gravity, like fate. You hear your own voice but it sounds far away. Like someone else's moans. Like background noise.

All you can focus on is the way he’s moving. The way he holds you—one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip tight enough to bruise. The way he says your name between clenched teeth every time you tighten around him.

"You take me so well,” he breathes. “Fuck—look at me, baby—look at me while I ruin you."

You do.

You do, and your vision blurs.

It’s too much. He knows it. You know it. But he keeps going. Keeps pushing. Keeps telling you how beautiful you are, how perfect you feel, how he’s going to make sure you remember exactly what this scene should look like.

You lose count of your orgasms.

Seven. Maybe eight. Maybe nine.

You’re not sure, because at some point time stopped existing and all you could focus on was his voice—low and thick with praise, telling you to keep going, to take it, to look at him—and his body, golden and solid and warm and unrelenting over yours.

You ride him. Again. Even when your thighs are shaking and your arms are too weak to hold yourself upright. He just holds your hips and guides you, gaze locked to yours, like he can will you through it. Like you owe it to yourself to take every last bit he gives.

When your head falls forward, he catches you. Pulls you to his chest. Wraps an arm around your waist and lets you fuck yourself into oblivion on his cock, whispering—

“You’re so good, sweetheart. You wanted to write this? Then feel it. Learn it. Memorize how full you are, how much you can take. Fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight—”

You’re sobbing.

Actually sobbing. Lips trembling. Eyes wet. Nails digging into his shoulders as another orgasm rips through you, messy and sharp.

You collapse against him.

And then he flips you over again.

No words now. No teasing. Just him, panting, sweat-slicked and gorgeous and desperate as he lays you on your stomach and fucks you from behind, hand flat between your shoulders to keep you steady, mouth at your ear as he breaks you open.

“You’re not done,” he groans. “I know—baby, I know you’re tired. Just one more. Let me see you fall apart for me one more time—fuck, I need it—”

You come with a wail, the angle, the pressure, the way he’s losing rhythm and moaning into your neck as he fucks you through it—

You’re not even sure what happens next.

Just heat. And light. And the feeling of his mouth on your shoulder, murmuring something half-shattered and worshipful as he fills you, cock twitching inside you as he finally lets go.

And then silence.

Not real silence. Just softness. The kind that comes after a storm.

You’re both shaking.

He kisses your back. Your spine. The backs of your thighs. Pulls out slowly. Gently.

And Nanami—quiet, reverent, glowing in the dim light—presses his forehead to yours and says, “You did so well.”

You’re limp. Boneless. Soup in human form.

He carries you to the shower. Washes you gently. Kisses each bruise, each bite. Dries you off with a fluffy towel and lets you wear another one of his shirts. Brushes your hair. Gives you water. Holds you under the blankets like you’re glass. Like you matter more than anything.

His voice, low and exhausted and loving, whispering thank yous into your skin like you gave him something sacred.

You fall asleep with his fingers trailing patterns on your spine and the hum of his voice saying, “Just rest. I’ve got you.”

You don’t remember falling asleep.

*-*

You wake up at 12:47PM.

But you wake up the next day with bruises on your hips, bite marks on your neck, and so much goddamn inspiration you can barely type fast enough.

Your thighs are screaming. Your hips ache. You roll over and whimper softly, wondering if your spine was replaced with a wet spaghetti noodle.

Nanami is not in bed. The smell of something savory is wafting from the kitchen.

You try to get up. You fail. You try again. Your legs shake.

“Don’t push it,” comes the voice from the door.

You blink. He’s standing there in his lounge pants, hair mussed, a spatula in hand.

“You’re not allowed out of bed yet,” he says, walking over, brushing your cheek with his knuckles like you didn’t ride his face for ten minutes last night, “You’re still recovering.”

You pout.

“But—”

He cuts you off with a kiss to your temple.

“You can write from bed.”

Your stomach flutters.

So you do.

Laptop open. Bruised thighs spread lazily under the sheets. You start to write—really write—fingers clacking fast and free, as the scene finally clicks.

And you narrate while Nanami plates brunch in the kitchen.

“So then,” you murmur, typing, “she spreads her legs for him, but instead of going straight for it, he just kisses her knee. Real soft. And she starts shaking because she knows what’s coming.”

Nanami hums thoughtfully from the stove. “Add that he holds eye contact. The whole time.”

You grin.

“I’ll dedicate the chapter to you.”

“You already did,” he says, walking back in with eggs and rice and a proud little smile. “And I’m very flattered. Write it down while it’s fresh, sweetheart. But brunch is in ten.”

You write:

“He made her come so many times she forgot her own name. She remembered it when he whispered it, kissed it, spoke it like it was a benediction.”

And then:

“She’d never written a better chapter in her life.”

And then:

“Extensive. Fucking. Research.”

A/N: live laugh love writters block, i wanna explode

edit: i realised as i re-read this, that i didn't tag who this was for, its for @pseudowho, good luck with your book!

Masterlist

Months upon months of late nights and early mornings. Piles upon piles of drafts, edits, and outlines. Half finished, abandoned sketches of your characters to help you visualize. A whole wall in your office dedicated to your story, plastered in sticky notes and taped up index cards.

And for what?

Downstairs, the front door opened and shut. A soft grunt traveled up the steps, follow by some clattering. Then the thump of heavy equipment being set on the entryway credenza. A softly said curse, then another sigh.

Your husband was home.

You didn't need to be there to know exactly how he moved. Each meticulous placement to ensure all of his work items were where they needed to be.

It had been one of those mornings. Where he was up and out the door before the dawn broke. You had flopped into bed beside him barely an hour before. He never complained, only ever throwing an arm over you and pulling you flush to his warm, broad chest.

You'd hidden the other 27 rejection letters. Drying your eyes, you hid this one as well. They all fit neatly in a small, ordinary brown box. You had it stuffed in the back of a drawer in your short filing cabinet.

If Leon could save the world, you could do this.

You checked your face in the bathroom mirror. Your eyes were red. Maybe you could pass it off as allergies. It was that time of year, after all. Just to be safe, you put drops in them.

"Anybody home?" called Leon.

You blotted your eyes, then made your way to the top of the staircase. Your husband stood at the bottom, one arm leaning on the rail. Looking just as rugged and handsome as the day you had met. Though that was over a decade ago now, your stomach still fluttered. It didn't help that the fitted shirt and work pants got you every time. What could you say? Who didn't love a man uniform?

"Welcome home, my love," you said, meeting him halfway down the steps. He put a hand on your upper arm giving it a gentle squeeze, a soft signal for a kiss. You never hesitated to answer the request.

"For a minute, I thought you were going to be my next rescue mission."

You avoided his gaze. "Sorry, I got…absorbed."

Leon made a soft noise, somewhere between a grunt and hum, then moved around you. You followed as he headed to the bedroom. You always flinched a bit when he took his shirt off. Not that you didn't admire the view. But the scars from his missions - they always reminded you just how dangerous his job really was. How lucky you were that he had gotten a long fine so far. Although you were always aware, especially the times when they sent him away, that one day that phone may ring with a call no body wants to answer.

"How are things with your book coming along?" he asked, back still to you.

You hummed half-heartedly and picked at the fraying hem of your shirt. "Still haven't heard yet."

"Really?" Leon swapped his dark blue work cargos for plaid pajama pants. "Those publishers are sure taking their sweet time."

"Yeah."

He tossed his clothes in the hamper in the corner of the room. Then came to you, pressing his lips against your temple. "You're already a best seller in my book."

That one stupid line had warm butterflies swraming in your belly, lightening up the sadness. If only a little bit. You didn't have the heart to tell him you were up to nearly 30 rejections now. You wouldn't be a seller of any kind at this rate.

That night, you went to bed when he did. Once you felt his breathing even out against you and the light snores started in your ear, you let some more tears fall. They gently lulled you into the darkness of sleep.

Leon often told you that many of his dreams were nightmares. Recreations of the things he lived. But, more frequently, you were always in peril in them. Being chased by Mr. X, where you were constantly caught and thrown against walls and through windows. Or waiting for him just on the otherside of a wall, yet he couldn't get to you. Or locked away somewhere dark, alone and afraid, with the threat of being jabbed with some new virus if he couldn't find you in time.

You knew Leon's biggest fear, even if he never admitted it out loud, was something from work — from his past — coming back to bite him. Going after one thing in his life he held softness for. If you ended up infected because of something he did, you were sure that he'd never forgive himself. And you didn't want to think of the self destructive path he might go on.

You, on the other hand, didn't really have nightmares. However, they were growing more frequent the last few weeks. Other than pouring over new query letters and doing endless research into the wee hours, avoiding them had been a main motivation. Even if you wanted nothing more than to be in bed with your husband.

Tonight was no different.

Another rejection letter came. This time, Leon was the one who went to the mailbox. Asking with soft eyes if he could watch you open it, since you finally got an answer. You could practically see a faint red glow from within the envelope reading REJECTED. Still, with trembling hands, you popped the seal and opened it.

Then the house shook. And the rejection letters began to flood in. Appearing in endless waterfalls from drawings and cabinets. Pouring down the fireplace, shooting from under the front door. They crashed down the staircase like a tsunami. A few even came from you. Their sharp corners digging into your esophagus and mouth, making tears prickle your eyes.

"What the fuck?" asked Leon, opening one envelope and then another. "So you lied when you said you hadn't gotten anything."

You were still choking up envelopes. Gagging and gasping as the final one came and the house went still. Drawing in ragged breathes, you wiped at your mouth. No blood. Just saliva and mucus.

"Lee…" you coughed, stumbling to him. "Please…I can explain."

"We promised not to hide things from one another. You quit your fucking job to do this." He scooped up a handful of envelopes and threw them at you. "It's embarrassing enough to admit your spouse is unemployed. I knew you were a failure. I knew you couldn't fucking do it. Maybe I should'e run off with Ada when she offered. - I can't even look at you."

Leon went to the front door. You tried to go after him as left. But the envelopes acted like quicksand. Collasping and sinking, sucking you down into a dark and lonely void.

You gasped as you came out of your dream. Bolting up and wrenching out of Leon's grasp. He was immediately awake, jolting up right next to you. His muscles coiled, eyes scanning, ready to attack anything hidden in the shadows. You panted, clenching the sheets in your fists.

It was just a dream, you reminded yourself.

Beside you, Leon sighed and cursed under his breath. Running a hand over his face then through his hair. He turned to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. You hid your face in the crook of his neck.

"Bad dream?" he asked, voice husky with sleep.

"Yeah." You nodded. "Sorry."

"We all have 'em. Some of us more than others." He rubbed your back a few times, then pulled you back down beside him. "Don't worry. I won't let the monsters get you."

If only monsters were what you were worried about.

In the morning, Leon left at a reasonable time. You'd eaten breakfast together, over which you promised to tell him if you received any sort of reply. One way or the other. Rejection letters 29, 30, 31, 32, and 33 came in the mail later that day. It seemed like you got back what you sent out in triplicate.

Some authors recieve hundreds of rejections before their book is picked up, read a post.

Top Five Tips to Get Your Book Picked Up by a Publisher First Try, claimed another.

5 Reasons Agents Are Rejecting Your Queries

I'm an Agent and These Are the Manuscript Mistakes I Reject on Sight

When Is It Time to Give Up on Publishing Your Book?

You read and watched post after post. Each one watered the seed of doubt that had been rooted firmly in the back of your mind since you first thought about writing a book. The more posts you read, the more it sprouted. Until finally you found yourself questioning everything that had lead to this point.

What were you even doing?

How could you be so stupid?

Leon had told you it was okay if you wanted to quit your job and pursue this. He'd seen how much the place was draining you, and offered you unconditional support to chase your path. Why did you do that? Surely he had just been playing nice and not actually expecting you to take him up on it.

You could talk to him when he got home. Maybe he could pull some strings and land you with a cozy desk job at the DSO. Perhaps then you'd actually feel worthy when he introduced you. Especially since his name was usually preceeded by 'the'. He'd saved the President's daughter for God's sake. Meanwhile, you couldn't even get people to look at your work.

If ever you felt insecure of your place in your marraige, it was now.

Letters 34 through 41 came in the mail the following day. And you had enough. You slapped them down, one by one as you opened them, on the credenza with every intention of hiding them later. You would make up some excuse and give up on the whole endeavor entirely. Eventually, Leon would have to stop asking. Right?

Sure, he'd helped you a lot along the way. He wasn't one for fiction books, but he'd made the exception with yours. He read every draft and revision. Going through it with you forwards and backwards. He had been your seceond set of eyes, the first beta reader. He caught smalls things when he could and criticized when you asked for it. You just wished he would've told you it was a lost cause sooner.

You dumped your master manuscript into your office trashcan. It was filled to the brim with all the other drafts and drabbles you'd tossed in there. Though you'd occasionally find them uncrumpled on your desk. You began to tear down all of your outline notes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. A triology? Just who were you kidding?

You spent the rest of the day lying on the living room sofa. Something random droning in the background as you got lost in your phone. The day passed around you. The front door unlocking told you the time. You blinked, squinting at the windows to find dusk starting to settle in.

You listened for the usual sounds.

Leon taking off his coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. The thump of each boot as it was kicked off. The clicking of buckles as he undid harnesses. Next would be the him putting them down. But then sound didn't come.

You waited. Still nothing. He usually put them on — the credenza!

Shooting to your feet, you raced into the entryway. Leon stood there, a very serious expression crumpling his features. He was reading one of the letters, and had two others stacked with it. You'd forgotten to put them away…

"Babe," you muttered, his eyes flickered to you. Softening.

"I see you heard back," he replied, "Sucks. But there'll be others."

You could it see in the way he looked at you, he still had hope for this stupid project. Your balled up hands were pressed tight to your thighs. Tears burned in your eyes, threatening to spill, while a knot tied in your throat. A prickle ran up the nape of your neck, making your ears hot. The burn of shame was an old friend.

"Hey," Leon sighed, coming closer to you. He placed a hand on your upper arm and squeezed slightly, but you couldn't look at him. "Don't let it get you down. It'll all work out."

You shook your head, barely able to whisper, "I lied."

"What do you mean?"

The tears came then, and you hugged yourself tightly. "I have been hearing back. None of them want it."

"Ah." Leon pulled you in, you wound your arms around his torso while he enclosed you safely in his arms. "You could've told me."

"I was embarrassed. You're out meeting important people and saving the world! While I —" You laughed humorlessly, it was muffled by his shirt. "— I'm just at home. Writing my stupid stories. And not even being successful at it. I think I'm just going to give up on it."

"Would that make you happy?"

That thought hadn't even crossed your mind.

"Does it matter? Where's the point? It's never going to get anywhere. I'd just be better off getting a job. I never should've left my other one." You took a deep, quivering breath. "I've seen the way people look at me when I'm with you. You're the guy, and I'm just…me. I can't do what you do. — I don't want you to be embarrassed that you married me."

"Never gonna happen," Leon stated, squeezing you just a bit tighter. "You'll never be just some person. Not to me. — Sorry if I ever made you feel that way."

You sobbed into his shoulder until the tears dried up. Figuring it was time he saw them, you brought Leon the hidden box. He read through them carefully. Although you weren't sure that any one was different from another. Other than what company was on the letterhead and who signed their insincere apologies.

His face gave away nothing. But he did make you dinner and hold you a little tighter that night when you went to bed. Kissing on your neck and arms. Whispering sweet nothings and reassurances. In the morning, your manuscript had mysteriously found its way back onto your desk and the notes you'd ripped off the walls had been sorted into piles.

Leon had been called away during the night. You barely remembered his phone going off or him stumbling around half asleep in the dark trying to get dressed. However, this morning there was a note left in place of his equipment.

There is something you can do that I can't, it read, Write a book.

That little note was enough to refuel your confidence. It was short and sweet, but it was exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from him. He was right. You had done something he couldn't. Or at least something he hadn't.

And, in the days that followed, you finally received your very first acceptance letter.