#kind of a prequel to that thread | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nahimjustfeelingit-writes · 15 days ago

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Wrought in Honey and Flame

Amelia’s backstory. A Hoodoo Apprentice prequel.

Summary: Amelia Broussard’s backstory unfolds in a slow-burning tale of grief, magic, forbidden love, and the dangerous sweetness of longing.

Warnings: Light smut, Angst, Flashback

“Sweeten a man’s thoughts with sugar and fire, and he’ll follow you straight into the water.”

— Old conjure saying, St. Landry Parish

“I didn’t mean to burn him. I only wanted to be loved. But some of us are made from things that don’t cool easy.”

— Amelia Broussard

Long before Amelia Broussard ever opened her eyes to the world, she was already a secret the bayou couldn’t keep.

In Louisiana, folks say the feu follet are trickster lights that drift just above the water at night—flickering blue-white orbs that draw travelers off the path. Some say they’re the souls of unbaptized children. Others swear they’re witches in exile, restless and cruel.

But the oldest tellings—the ones whispered over boiling pots and told in French-Creole by candlelight—say the feu follet are fae folk, born of swamp mist and starlight, wild as river currents and bound by rules older than blood.

They don’t marry. They don’t bear children.

And they sure as hell don’t fall in love with humans.

But Lysara did.

Lysara was not of the Bright Court—not silver-haired and crowned in jewels like the fae in books. She was wilder than that. A bayou-born daughter of dusk and marshlight. The kind of beauty whispered about in nighttime stories, where men vanish following flickers between the trees.

She stood at just under average height, but nothing about her ever seemed small. Her presence filled a space the way mist fills a field—slow, sudden, impossible to hold.

Her skin was a radiant bronze-brown, with undertones of gold that caught the light like wet stone. It shimmered faintly when she moved, not like glitter, but like heat rising off summer roads. People often stared and couldn’t say why—only that she glowed.

Her hair was thick and long, black as swampwater at night, but when it caught the moonlight, it revealed strands of deep green and indigo, like oil slick on river glass. She wore it loose and wild, tangled with moss threads or little clover flowers when she returned from the trees. It curled like smoke around her shoulders and sometimes moved even when the air was still.

Her eyes were the color of dark amber honey, flecked with motes of green and gold. When she looked at you, it felt like sunlight filtering through cypress trees—soft, warm, but full of secrets. The kind of eyes that saw through you, and into you, all at once.

Her lips were full, always slightly parted, as if she were holding back laughter or a sigh. Her smile was rare but devastating—not from cruelty, but from the way it felt like light breaking over the bayou after days of rain.

She walked barefoot, even in places she shouldn’t, and she never made a sound. Her footsteps were silence. Her presence was thunder.

She smelled of wild things—crushed mint, fresh rain, and the faint sweetness of night jasmine. If you got close enough, you’d catch a trace of something deeper: like damp earth, warm sugar, and candle smoke. That scent lingered long after she left a room, clinging to clothes and memory.

Her voice was low and melodic, with a lilt like wind in the reeds. When she spoke, it was as if the trees leaned in to listen. There was music in her tone—not song, exactly, but rhythm. Gentle. Lulling. Dangerous in its softness. She never raised her voice. She didn’t have to. You heard her whether she whispered or wept.

Lysara was a full-blooded fae of the feu follet kind— born of light, moon-soaked waters, and marsh spirits.

Her court was wild and ancient, dwelling in the bayous of southern Louisiana, hidden in veils of mist and magnolia bloom. The feu follet fae are luminous, emotionally potent beings who walk the line between seduction and sorrow.

Lysara was known for her beauty and her curiosity about humans, which made her suspect in her court. She often slipped into the mortal world to dance at the edges of hoodoo rituals and funerals, unseen by most —but not all.

August Broussard was a mortal man—a preacher’s son and jazz pianist in Louisiana. Handsome, thoughtful, and disillusioned with the rigid expectations of his family.

He was tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and a long, lean frame shaped by years of hard work under Southern sun. There was something statuesque about him, like he’d been carved from river stone and polished by time, a man who carried the weight of expectation but bore it with quiet ease.

His skin was deep umber, rich and dark as fertile soil, with undertones of copper that came alive when the light touched him. It gave his features a kind of glow that wasn’t magical, but still arresting—the glow of a man fully alive in his body.

He had high cheekbones and a strong jawline softened just slightly by a neatly kept beard. His nose was straight and broad, his mouth full but rarely smiling— though when it did, it changed his whole face. His teeth were ivory and even with a touch of gold, a flash of brightness that felt earned, not effortless.

His eyes were dark brown, almost black, with a steadiness to them—the kind of eyes that could silence a room without raising a voice. When he looked at you, it felt like a quiet challenge: Tell the truth. Say what you mean. But those who knew him well swore his eyes held a softness too, something protective, especially when he looked at Lysara.

His voice was low, resonant—a preacher’s voice, but without the fire. He spoke with patience, depth, and a quiet conviction that made people lean in. Whether reading scripture, reciting poetry, or simply asking how your mama was doing, there was music in the way he talked. Earthbound music. Southern gospel. Muddy water hymns.

He often walked alone at night, especially after gigs, humming lullabies his mother used to sing. One night in the bayou, he saw a flicker of light—and followed it. That’s where he found Lysara. She didn’t flee. She laughed. And she kissed him before he could ask her name.

It began as a secret—stolen hours under cypress trees, in the crook of Spanish moss.

Fae magic does not know time the way mortals do. A season to a fae can feel like a lifetime to a human—and for August, those nights were eternal. Lysara fell in love despite knowing she shouldn’t. Fae are not meant to bear children with mortals—it breaks laws older than any written. Her court warned her: “If you carry his blood, you’ll lose your light. Or worse—your child will bear both hungers.”

But she was already pregnant.

August called her his ‘sugar-light.’ She called him her jeune fou, her foolish boy. They met under moss and moon, traded kisses for poems, made love in wildflower patches only the fae remembered.

For a season, it was bliss.

The bayou sang with it. Her glow softened around him. His music changed; became richer, aching.

But when her people discovered she’d conceived a child, the swamp itself recoiled.

“A feu follet does not give life,” they told her, “If you keep the child, you will fade. If you stay in this world, you will tear it apart.”

August asked her to stay. To live with him. Raise their child. Lysara wanted to, more than anything. But her magic began to change. The child inside her dimmed her glow, made her ache in ways she didn’t understand. Her kin grew fearful of her. She was no longer safe in the fae realm and not safe in the human one either. On the eve of Amelia’s birth, she returned to the Broussard family home in the dead of night. She was weak. Fading.

She didn’t want to let go. August begged her not to.

“Stay. We can raise her. I’ll love her. I’ll love you. Just be mine.”

But she wasn’t made for staying. She was made of in-between. The longer she held the child inside her, the more her glow dimmed, her skin thinned. Her kin turned their backs. Her magic faltered.

August’s mother, Mère Vivienne Broussard, was a powerful rootworker and midwife. She had seen Lysara once before, dancing at a crossroads when she was a child. She knew what she was. Knew what her son had done.

She helped deliver the baby.

“She shines too bright,” Vivienne whispered, “She’s not meant for here.”

Lysara, dying, begged her, “Raise her. Hide her light. Teach her love but not hunger.”

Vivienne agreed. But she made her own vow: Amelia would know the truth one day. And no man — no magic — would claim her before she knew who she was.

Lysara kissed Amelia’s forehead once before she vanished in the mist before dawn. Vivienne wrapped baby Amelia in blue silk with silver threads, fabric woven with old fae symbols to protect and veil. She laid her gently on her own doorstep, as if someone had left the child by accident.

She called the neighbors and said only, “A baby’s been left at my door. Looks like kin to me. I’ll take her in.”

After Lysara’s disappearance, August spirals quietly and grieving, still holding onto his baby girl from afar. He’s changed. He stops playing music in public. Whispers swirl around town about him. August becomes an object of suspicion—a Black man seen consorting with someone people claimed was ‘not right.’ One night, a white woman accuses August of ‘looking at her wrong’ in the street. No crime. No trial. A mob forms. He’s taken from his home. He is lynched at the edge of the swamp, near the same waters where he first met Lysara. His mother, Mère Vivienne, buries him quietly, lighting candles for both her son and the daughter of magic he left behind.

a few days after August Broussard’s death. Vivienne sits in her candlelit living room in New Orleans. Rain taps on the roof. Outside, the town pretends not to know what happened. Inside, she’s building a shield between Amelia and the world.

The baby wouldn’t sleep unless she held her. Her beautiful granddaughter.

Vivienne rocked gently in an old creaking chair that belonged to her late husband, her arms full of too much light and too much sorrow. The child swaddled in blue silk shimmered faintly, even in sleep, her breath like moth wings, her skin warm like sunlit water.

Vivienne had seen many things in her years. Rootwork and spirits, dreams that came true. She’d pulled babies out of women screaming, buried others too small to cry.

But this child?

She was something else entirely.

Born of a man whose love got him killed. Born of a woman who vanished like fog. A child glowing with fae fire and carried by blood that made her a target before she could even walk.

Vivienne whispered a prayer under her breath—not one from the Bible, but older. A calling to her people. To the old spirits. To the ancestors who walked barefoot through fire.

“Watch over her. Don’t let her shine blind. Don’t let her light get twisted...”

She lit seven candles and placed a small jar of honey on the windowsill.

She’d done what she could for August. Washed his blood off the porch, cut a lock of his hair, buried it deep beneath the cypress tree he used to sit under when he played the blues alone. But she hadn’t saved him.

She couldn’t save Lysara either. That poor glowing thing who looked at her like a girl begging to come inside from a storm.

But this baby?

This baby girl she could raise. Quietly. Carefully. Between hymns and hoodoo. Between sugar water and salt lines.

“You gon’ grow up strong,” she whispered to the infant, “But quiet. Hidden. I ain’t letting the world eat ya’ like it did ya’ daddy.”

Amelia stirred, eyes fluttering—and for the first time, they glowed.

Just for a moment.

Vivienne didn’t flinch. She only pulled her closer.

“Ain’t no light that bright that can’t be taught when to dim.”

She blew out six of the candles. Left one burning.

Always one.

And as time passed, the girl glowed…

It’s a warm Louisiana evening, thunder rumbling in the distance. Mère Vivienne is brushing her hair on the porch. The storm hadn’t broken yet, but the wind told secrets.

Seven year old Amelia sat between her grandmother’s knees, her little feet bare, a book clutched in her lap. Mère Vivienne’s fingers moved through her hair slow and steady, the same way she stirred a pot or mixed herbs for a customer—with intention, with knowing.

“Keep still now,” she murmured.

But Amelia fidgeted. Her skin prickled. She was too warm. Not from the weather, from inside. She opened her mouth to speak and light leaked from it. Just a flicker—like candlelight dancing on a wall. But Vivienne saw it.

Her hands paused.

“Did you feel that?” Amelia whispered.

Vivienne didn’t answer right away. She placed a cool hand over the child’s heart.

It beat fast. Glowing faintly beneath the skin.

“I didn’t mean to,” Amelia said, trembling. Misty–eyed.

“I know, baby. You never do.”

Vivienne stood and went inside. She came back with a glass jar filled with bay leaves, ashes, and a drop of molasses. She anointed Amelia’s temples with the thick mixture, muttering words that weren’t English.

“What’s that for?” Ameila asked.

Her grandmother exhaled, “To keep ya’ light low. Ya’ too little to carry what ya’ carry. Too many people see brightness and want to break it.”

Amelia didn’t understand. But she nodded.

She fell asleep in Vivienne’s lap, glowing faintly, the storm finally breaking overhead.

Then there was a time when she was nine years old, it was a late summer evening in Louisiana. Amelia was playing in the yard behind her grandmother Vivienne’s shotgun house. Crickets hummed. The smell of warm bread and woodsmoke lingered in the balmy air.

Amelia was supposed to be skipping rope. But the rope had other ideas.

Every time she got to seven, the air shimmered.

The first time, she thought it was just heat.

The second time, she saw fireflies hovering in daylight, circling her, matching her breath.

The third time, the rope sparked in her hands.

It wasn’t flame. Not exactly. More like light—gold-white, flickering across her fingers like something alive.

She dropped the rope and backed away.

The fireflies followed.

She ran inside, heart pounding, hands trembling.

Vivienne didn’t flinch when she saw her.

“It’s coming sooner than I thought,” she muttered, already lighting a candle, “Your mama had the same shimmer in her blood.”

Her teenage years were torture living in secret.

Vivienne taught Amelia how to dim her light with baths of blue hyssop, chamomile, and graveyard dirt. She taught her to speak softly to mirrors, to never cry in public, and to carry iron when walking alone at night.

But it didn’t always work.

Her glow leaked out when she was overwhelmed, when she blushed, when she bled, when she loved anything too much.

At fourteen, a boy tried to kiss her under the magnolia tree.

When he touched her cheek, he gasped—said she felt ‘like warm lightning’ he never looked her in the eye again.

And then 1922 came, a little before Amelia’s eighteenth birthday.

Tragedy struck.

The house smelled of mint and old pages.

Vivienne lay beneath a quilt stitched with protective sigils, her breathing thin as thread. She reached for Amelia’s hand.

“You were born from something wild, baby. Something bright. You got both the ache and the hunger in you.”

“What am I?” Amelia questioned between sobs.

“You ain’t a curse, no matter what anyone says. But you got to learn to walk careful…”

Vivienne placed a velvet pouch in Amelia’s palm.

Inside: a small, obsidian pendant strung on red thread, and a folded note wrapped in oil paper.

“This’ll help keep ya’ light tucked in. When ya’ feel like you’re gonna glow, hold it. Think of me.”

Amelia cried.

Her grandmother cupped her cheek, smiling weakly.

“Don’t be afraid of what you are. But don’t trust the wrong hands to love it, either.”

Vivienne died that night. Quiet. The candle at her bedside snuffed itself.

After the funeral came a new scenery. Amelia packed up and moved to New Orleans with Celine, her aunt, in a tall, polished house along Esplanade Avenue, in a neighborhood lined with magnolia trees, wrought iron gates, and quiet money.

The people there were Black and powerful—bankers, doctors, teachers, wives in pearls and linen gloves.

They didn’t speak of hoodoo or ghosts.

They spoke of Jesus, of dignity, of not being like the old folk from the backwoods.

Celine was marrying Nathaniel, a doctor with a voice like scripture and skin like mahogany. He didn’t smile easily. He didn’t touch often. But he looked at Amelia— really looked.

Celine Broussard was raised in a world where appearances were survival—especially for light-skinned Creole women navigating both privilege and constraint within the Black elite. Her family, especially her mother Vivienne, carried power behind closed doors through conjure and healing, but in public, they cultivated a gentle image of piety and refinement.

Marrying Nathaniel—a well-respected, dark-skinned Black doctor and preacher—elevated her. It allowed her to reinforce her position in society as ‘The First Lady’ of the church, admired for her beauty, her grace, and the impression of virtue. It gave her legitimacy not just socially, but spiritually.

She loved the idea of being admired.

Celine warned Amelia:

“No glowing. No humming. No stories about spirits. You keep that side of you locked tight. You hear me?”

Amelia nodded.

But the light inside her wasn’t meant to stay hidden forever.

Celine first noticed it in the plants.

Her lilies, so carefully tended in the front window, leaned toward Amelia when she passed. The camellias bloomed early. Her lavender wouldn’t dry right—it stayed wet, fragrant, pulsing like it was still alive.

Then it was the animals.

The neighbor’s cat refused to cross the porch unless Amelia was gone. Dogs barked through fences. And birds lingered too long outside her window.

Then it was the light.

Flickering candle flames. Mirror surfaces humming with faint gold. Once, Celine swore she saw a second reflection of Amelia in the glass—glowing, smiling faintly—even when the girl looked solemn.

She began to pray harder. Burn frankincense. Salt the thresholds. She said nothing.

But she watched.

Sunday Morning at Mount Calvary Baptist Church

1925:

The church smelled of sweat, starch, and sweet oil— the holy trifecta.

Crisp white gloves, pressed suits, and polished shoes filled the sanctuary like a river of devotion. Ceiling fans turned slow and deliberate overhead, clacking in rhythm with the rustling of paper fans printed with funeral home ads. The choir had just finished a number that shook dust from the rafters—all low moans and high wails, voices lifted to Heaven and somewhere deeper. Somewhere closer.

The sanctuary was a long rectangle, wood-paneled and warm, with windows painted in pale stained glass that let in the sunlight like softened fire. The pulpit stood elevated at the front, wrapped in white lace and gold-trimmed velvet, and behind it towered Dr. Nathaniel DuPont, pastor, healer, and pillar of the congregation.

He preached like thunder rolled through his chest.

Not loud. Not wild. But with a stillness that commanded. When Nathaniel spoke, the room leaned forward. Every syllable landed like a nail in wood—deliberate, strong, crafted to last.

“There is a light,” he said, holding the air in his palm, “and it is not ours to hold or to dim. It is the Lord’s. And He places it in each of us as He sees fit. But beware, beloved, for not every light comes from God. There are other lights. Strange ones.”

There were nods. Calls of mmm and tell it. The kind of agreement that passed down through bone and blood.

From the first pew, Celine Broussard, fiancé of Nathaniel DuPont, sat tall and polished like she was carved from marble. Wide-brimmed cream hat. Gloves that matched. A delicate veil shadowed her painted mouth. She never said amen aloud, but her posture exuded satisfaction—a woman not just engaged to the preacher, but master of the house of God itself. People whispered about how refined she was, how her women’s ministry raised more money than the men’s ever could. They said God had blessed her hands.

And maybe he had. Or maybe someone else had.

Celine’s rootwork was never visible, never spoken of. But it was there. It was in the oils she dabbed behind her ears before service. In the bathwater she poured down the drain before hosting luncheons. In the church donations that always seemed to circle back to her. She kept her altar locked in a back closet and wrapped her working jars in lace handkerchiefs, but the spirits knew her by name.

Beside her sat Amelia Broussard, a shadow in silk.

She was too quiet, too still. Fresh-faced from grief, still mourning the death of her grandmother—the woman who had raised her, taught her things in secret and in moonlight. Here, under Celine’s roof, she had no footing. No roots.

Her dress was simple. Her hands folded. She barely blinked as Nathaniel spoke. She didn’t say amen. She didn’t move. But she felt everything.

And the eyes—the eyes of the congregation felt her back.

They looked at her like something uncertain. She was family, yes. But not of them. There was something soft about her, something other. A strange shine behind her gaze, like dusk just before the lightning bugs appeared. Her presence unsettled. Women whispered behind fans. Men looked twice and then looked away, shame burning at the edges of their thoughts.

Amelia didn’t know the words to their hymns. She didn’t know the names of the women in the second row. But she knew the weight of judgment.

She felt it press into her shoulders like hands from behind.

And yet, when Nathaniel glanced down from the pulpit, just once, and their eyes met, something passed between them. Not recognition. Not yet.

Just an ache. The kind grief carves into those who pretend they’ve moved on.

He looked away quickly, back to the Bible.

“Let your light so shine before men,” he said, voice deep, solemn, “that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in Heaven.”

Amelia lowered her gaze.

Because her light did shine.

But it had never belonged to Heaven.

Four Years a Flame in Hiding

New Orleans, 1922–1926

Amelia Broussard, aged 18 to 22

She bloomed slow, like something half afraid of sunlight.

The house was beautiful but cold. Celine kept it pristine, full of lace curtains and polished wood, and every mirror wiped spotless. Amelia learned to walk through it like a ghost—quiet, careful, unseen. She kept her grief hidden beneath silk and prayer.

At eighteen, she was still all colt-legs and caution. By twenty, she had grown into her curves like honey settling into glass—smooth, deep, sweet. Her hair thickened into a wild halo of curls. Her eyes, wide and dark, held a flicker of gold that never went out, though she tried to dim it.

Because Celine watched her.

And so did Nathaniel.

She made friends—eventually.

Girls from church, mostly. They called her pretty but strange. They liked to braid her hair and tell her which boys liked her. They whispered during service and passed notes folded in fans.

Sometimes she snuck out with them, just after supper, when the heat of the day clung to the bricks like molasses. They’d meet boys on corner stoops, near the ice cream parlor or behind the neighborhood school. Boys who smelled like pomade and cologne. Boys with hands that moved too fast but words that melted like butter.

Amelia let them kiss her.

She’d lean back against peeling wood and part her lips just enough. Let them touch her cheek, her collarbone. But she never let them past her dress buttons. Never let their breath tangle too long in her throat.

Because she couldn’t trust what might slip out of her— that golden shimmer that burned brighter when she was flustered, the flicker that made boys fall too fast, too deep.

One boy swore he saw light in her mouth when she sighed.

Another tried to follow her home after one kiss and carved her initials into a tree.

She stopped seeing him after that.

By day, she was Celine’s niece. Respectable. Quiet. Presentable.

She wore pastels to service. Said ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir.’ Read scripture aloud at the dining table. Nathaniel barely looked at her when they ate, but she felt the crackle of tension—low and persistent, like heat behind the walls.

He was kind. Reserved. But sometimes his gaze slipped.

Celine never mentioned it. But she noticed everything.

By night, Amelia became someone else.

She would lock her bedroom door, turn down the lamp, and draw the curtains tight. Then she’d pull out her grandmother’s leather-bound journal from beneath a loose floorboard. A book soft with age, full of folded prayers, dirt smudges, and wax seals.

She practiced quietly.

Footwork first—where to step to find or lose a thing. Crossroads blessings. Ways to turn someone’s tongue or sweeten a neighbor’s opinion.

She whispered Psalms into jars and slipped cinnamon under her tongue. Pricked her finger just once, to learn what power tasted like. Learned to blow smoke just so. To anoint. To hide.

All of it in secret.

Because even though Celine worked root too—Amelia felt the difference. Celine’s work was all command and iron, her jars full of hair and heat and pressure. Celine’s magic controlled.

Amelia’s didn’t want to control. It wanted to call.

To beckon. To illuminate. To stir.

Which made it far more dangerous.

Suppressing her light was the hardest thing.

At first, she used cotton gloves to hide her fingertips when they glowed. Sat in cold baths to calm the fire in her blood. She prayed hard and often. Chewed bitter roots to keep her magic still. Bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper every time she smiled.

By twenty-one, she had learned to keep it in—most days.

But it was like trying to hold back tidewater with her bare hands. Especially when she was alone. Especially when Nathaniel passed too close. Especially when her own loneliness pushed against the corners of her ribs, aching to be seen.

She became a woman quietly, secretly, dangerously.

Not the kind who bloomed in public.

The kind who kindled in private—learning her curves in candlelight, whispering her grandmother’s name when the light started to rise. She didn’t need anyone to tell her what she was becoming. She felt it every time a boy looked at her too long, or a married man tipped his hat, or Celine’s gaze cut sharp like a blade across her back.

She was becoming something Celine feared.

Something even Nathaniel, for all his righteousness, would not be able to resist.

The Ride Home

Early Summer, New Orleans, 1929:

The heat didn’t let up, not even after sundown.

Church had run long. Nathaniel’s sermon had been on temptation, but his voice had softened by the end— less fire and brimstone, more like a man preaching to himself. The congregation lingered in the fellowship hall, sipping sweet tea and fanning themselves. Celine was still inside, smiling tightly at Sister Marguerite’s gossip, already halfway into next week’s planning.

Amelia slipped out onto the front steps, arms folded around her waist. The cicadas had begun their night chorus, humming like something ancient and relentless. Her hair clung to her neck in damp curls. She longed for air, for stillness. For somewhere she could be herself again.

A shadow fell across her shoulder.

“Would you like a ride home?”

She turned.

Nathaniel stood a step below her, his hat in his hands, shirt collar slightly unbuttoned, sweat darkening the edges of his vest. The look in his eyes was practiced— neutral, authoritative. But his voice had a catch in it, low and unreadable.

“I can walk,” she said, though her feet ached in her Sunday shoes.

“It’s late. Celine won’t be leavin’ no time soon either. Got work to do back here. I can take you to the house, Amelia.”

She hesitated, searching his face for motive.

He didn’t touch her. Didn’t crowd her. Just waited.

And she said, “Alright.”

The car was quiet.

A clean old Ford, smelling of cedar and something sharper—maybe bay rum or holy oil. The windows were cracked, letting in the warm wind as they rolled past the dark oak-lined streets. They didn’t speak at first.

That was, until he broke the silence.

“You’ve grown,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road, “Not just older. Wiser.”

Amelia glanced at him, then quickly away. “That what you tell all the girls?”

He laughed, surprised. “You’re not a girl.”

The words hung between them.

She shifted in her seat, suddenly hyperaware of her own body—the curve of her thigh against the leather, the pulse in her wrist, the way her bosom sat full and rose and fell with her shaky breath.

“…You used to call me that when I first came to live with Celine.” Amelia recalled.

“Well,” he said, “you aren’t that anymore.”

Silence.

The house came into view—tall, pale, still glowing with electric light. Celine’s fortress. Amelia felt her ribs tighten just looking at it.

He pulled to the curb.

“Thank you,” she murmured, hand on the door handle.

But before she could open it, his fingers touched her wrist.

Just lightly.

Just long enough.

The heat from his skin went through her like flame. Her light—that cursed, beautiful thing—sparked under her skin, flickering behind her eyes.

She didn’t move. Neither did he.

“I know what it’s like to live in someone’s shadow,” he said quietly. “To feel like you gotta shrink just to survive.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Then he let go.

She slipped out of the car without another glance, heart pounding like a drum in her throat. She didn’t look back until she was halfway up the walk—and even then, only once.

He was still sitting there, hands on the wheel, unmoving.

Watching.

Then came the sweetening of the flame.

Nothing transpired for some time, but then by late fall, 1929—Amelia is twenty-six.

It began with the brush of his hand again.

This time, he didn’t pretend it was accidental.

It was a Wednesday. Bible study had ended. Rain tapped soft against the chapel roof. Nathaniel offered her a ride again, and she took it again—this time without hesitation.

He didn’t speak when they reached the house.

Didn’t let go when his fingers grazed hers in the doorway. His touch lingered—thumb grazing her palm, a pause full of something unspoken.

Then he leaned in.

Not to kiss her. Just to look. To be close enough that she could feel the breath between them. Her light stirred beneath her skin, drawn to him like a tide to moonlight.

“You feel it too,” she whispered.

“I’ve been fighting it longer than I can stand.”

And then she was back inside the house, alone, trembling, lit from within like a paper lantern about to catch fire.

That night, she made the jar.

Not for him exactly. Not at first.

She lit a white candle and a blue one. Wrote her full name and his, folded the paper in honey, and pressed it into a small jar with rose petals, brown sugar, orange peel, and cinnamon. She added his handwriting—a scrap from a discarded sermon draft. A sliver of his sermon robe’s thread. A whisper from her mouth.

“Sweeten his thoughts of me. Pull him close, let it build.”

It was half rootwork, half instinct.

Part of her—the fae part—understood how sweetness could snare. How longing could bind. How fire could feed. When the wax melted down, she felt it inside her. Like something opening.

The first time happened days later.

Celine was away—called out to tend to a friend dealing with her own mother’s sudden illness. Nathaniel stayed behind to tend the church. Amelia wandered into the sanctuary just before dusk, barefoot and silent, drawn by something low and humming in the air.

She found him in the pulpit. Alone.

Reading scripture by lantern light.

He looked up when she entered—and didn’t look away.

Neither spoke.

She stepped forward like sleepwalking. He came down from the altar like he had waited a thousand years. And when their bodies touched, it wasn’t desperate—it was inevitable. As if the universe had always planned for this.

He kissed her first. Gentle, reverent.

Then again. Harder. With tongue and grunts.

He lifted her onto the front pew, parted her thighs with trembling hands. Her dress hiked up over her hips. She felt like silk and smoke, warm and wet, breathless beneath him. She let herself open—not just her body, but the light inside her, that golden, forbidden thing.

He got on his knees and spread her flower that bloomed with arousal and inexperience. Nathaniel removed his glasses so they wouldn’t fog his vision. He took one look at Amelia, at the way she glowed like the sun. He delve in for a taste of her and Amelia moaned so angelic.

“You taste so good…this virgin pussy is so good, baby…”

She wanted Nathaniel to be her first. She needed him to break her down.

And he responded to it. Moaned into it. Sank into her like a man starving.

Nathaniel fucked Amelia in that church like he ain’t have pussy in a long time. The sound of their sex echoed within the sanctuary beneath the large cross nailed to the wall. Instead of preaching the word, Nathaniel preached lustrous.

“Pussy so tight…been wanting this pussy for so long…you take me deep, baby…look how you take me…”

He lifted so Amelia could watch. Dress hiked up. The ache had settled into a tingle she was addicted to. The wetness and the heavy girth of him. He had grown man dick and it fucked her with talent and attentiveness. Something the younger men couldn’t give her. Nathaniel hooked her legs over his arms and plowed into her, claiming her pussy as his, thick sweat trickling down and over her.

Amelia gasped with each stroke. Eyes glowing and brows pinched together.

“Yes, Nathaniel! Take me! Take your pussy!”

He groaned.

Nathaniel picked her up and fucked her standing. She glowed in his arms. Powerful. All consuming.

“You tugging on the root of my dick, baby…what kinda pussy you got?” Nathaniel spoke between moans.

“I–I feel like I’m gonna climax!”

Amelia felt Nathaniel hold her legs open further and he dipped her, drilling into her while she clung to his neck. He fucked her so hard her breasts popped out of her silk dress and bounced.

“NATHANIEL!”

Her head lulled back and her eyes crossed. Like she was capturing the holy essence. Nathaniel didn’t stop feeding her broken in pussy with seven inches of fat dick. He felt her grip him up tighter, tugging on his dick like a boa constrictor to its prey.

“You gonna make me cum, Amelia…”

Nathaniel sat her down and dug in her with all he could, sweet moans tickling his ears. He pressed his lips into hers, swallowing her cries of pleasure. Nathaniel felt himself ready to bust.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

Nathaniel pulled out, jerking his hot semen all over Amelia’s pubic hair. He fought to catch his breath.

After, Amelia lay stretched out across the empty pews, chest rising slow.

Nathaniel sat nearby, his head in his hands. Regret already thick in the air.

But Amelia didn’t feel shame.

She felt powerful.

Not over him—though she knew now she had that, too.

But over herself. Her own body. Her own hunger.

Her light hummed low under her skin, fed by touch, by heat, by the release of holding back for so long. Her magic had fed. And it wanted more.

She turned her head toward him, lips still swollen, curls wild across her shoulders.

“I’ve never felt like this before.”

“You shouldn’t,” he muttered, eyes dark. “We crossed a line I can’t uncross.”

“But you wanted to.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because the truth was in the way he looked at her now —not like a child or a niece or even a woman from the pews.

He looked at her like she was dangerous.

And she was.

The jar never left her room.

She hid it beneath her bed, in a velvet pouch wrapped with silk thread. The honey inside grew darker over time, thicker—like time itself had settled into it. Like all the sweat and sighs and secrets between them had soaked into the sugar.

She’d light the same candle when she wanted to stir him. And it worked.

He would show up.

Late at night, with excuses and shadows. Under the guise of checking the lock on the side gate. Or coming to leave a Bible in the parlor. Sometimes he’d only linger near her door. Other nights, he’d slip in.

And each time, she gave in.

Not because she was powerless—but because she wanted him. Loved him. Needed him to need her.

He was her first.

The first man to see her, want her, touch her.

And every time he returned, it reminded her: she could keep him.

But she couldn’t keep all of him.

Even as he loved her, he married Celine.

The wedding was a church affair—lace and pearls and lilies. The First Lady of the church, finally crowned. Celine glowed with pride, not love. She wore success like perfume, thick and heavy. Her smile was sharp, her hands cold as crystal.

Amelia stood on the church steps, watching the white doves release, the crowd clapping, her heart folding into itself like paper in flame.

Nathaniel looked at her only once that day.

A glance.

It was all she needed.

Still, it continued.

Behind closed doors. In hotel rooms. Once even in the church office, late on a stormy night when he said he couldn’t help it.

He told her he loved her. Told her he wished he’d met her first. Told her she made him feel young, like God hadn’t given up on him yet.

And she believed it.

But belief doesn’t hold a woman through the night.

Eventually, she began to see other men.

Not because she didn’t love Nathaniel—but because she needed to feel wanted in the open. Not stolen. Not hidden. Not touched only in shadows.

She let young men take her dancing. Let them kiss her neck, slow and soft, on streetcars and porch swings. Let their hands touch her waist in public.

She never slept with any of them.

But Nathaniel saw.

And it worked.

His jealousy flared like a match—sudden, violent, consuming.

“You think I don’t see the way he looks at you?”

“Let him look. At least he’s not ashamed.” Amelia argued back.

Nathaniel never said he was ashamed of her.

But he never said he wasn’t, either.

Amelia kept the jar anyway.

Even when she thought about smashing it. Even when she hated herself for lighting that candle again.

She kept it because it was hers. Because it had worked. Because it was proof that she could take something, shape it, and make it stay. Even when the world told her she was unnatural. Even when Celine gave her that tight, knowing smile across dinner plates and prayed longer every time Amelia passed the salt.

The jar was control.

A spell for sweetness. For longing. For power disguised as love.

But it was still love.

And with every stolen night, Amelia changed.

Her light burned lower, but deeper. No longer wild. No longer flickering.

It smoldered.

Nathaniel never understood how much of her he was feeding. How each kiss—each desperate return—wasn’t weakening her. It was growing her.

She stopped asking him to choose.

Because she knew he never could.

Celine had always been watchful.

She never raised her voice, never accused. But she could peel flesh with a look. And lately, she looked at Amelia too long. When they sat together in the parlor, the silence between them grew heavy. Sticky.

She asked strange questions.

“You still lighting candles in your room at night?”

“You walk with so much light, girl—don’t let it blind you.”

“I remember how your grandmother glowed before she burned out.”

Celine started keeping track of her husband’s hours. Staring longer at his collars. Laying out shirts with starch so sharp it scratched his neck—as if she wanted the marks left behind.

She began sprinkling powders at thresholds, whispering at night behind her closet door. Her altar grew fuller—oils, bones, a cracked jar of molasses.

And when Nathaniel came home one night too quiet, smelling faintly of gardenia and guilt.

The walls of the parlor hummed with silence, too still for midday. Outside, cicadas droned in the heat, their song like static under the thick tension in the house.

Celine sat perched in her velvet chair, her back rigid, hands clasped so tightly in her lap her knuckles paled. Nathaniel was just inside the door, hat still in hand, the sweat of the street clinging to his collar.

“…I ran into Sister Deveraux at the market this morning,” Celine said coolly, eyes fixed on the embroidered cushion beside her. “She said she saw you stepping out of the Hotel Maison. With a girl.”

Nathaniel blinked. He remained still, like prey trying not to spook the huntress. “She must’ve been mistaken.”

Celine finally lifted her gaze. “Don’t insult me.”

He sighed and set his hat on the small table near the door. “Celine—”

“You’ve been slipping!” she cut in, rising from the chair. “Sneaking in late. Avoiding me. You barely touch me anymore. You think I wouldn’t notice?!”

“I’ve been working more. You know the clinic’s short-staffed.” Nathaniel argued in his defense.

“The Lord may forgive liars, Nathaniel, but I am not so generous.” Celine replied spitefully.

That stopped him. He stepped forward, tone low. “You want the truth?”

“I deserve the truth.”

His face faltered, but only for a moment.

“You’ve built this life to be a monument. A museum. No room in it for love. Only appearances. Respectability. You stopped seeing me years ago, Celine.”

Celine’s lips parted, then flattened. “So you find yourself in the arms of some little whore instead?”

The word struck him. His jaw clenched, hands balling at his sides.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done,” he said, voice trembling, not with fear—but guilt, “You think you can shame me into righteousness, but you don’t know the half of it.”

A silence stretched between them like a drawn blade.

Celine’s voice dropped to a hush. “Who is she?”

Nathaniel’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.

Celine stepped forward, searching his eyes.

“It’s someone close, isn’t it? Someone I know.”

Still, he said nothing.

Her voice broke. “Is it her?”

His silence was answer enough.

Celine staggered back like she’d been slapped.

“My niece?” Her voice cracked. “That girl I took in? That child?!”

“She’s not a child.”

“You raised her with me!”

“NO! You raised her. You used her to fill a silence you refused to face. She was never yours to control.”

“And you think she was yours to take?!” Celine’s hand flew to her chest. “You disgust me.”

“I never meant to hurt you,” Nathaniel said, stepping back toward the door, pain etched deep into the lines of his face.

“No,” she said coldly, “You just wanted to ruin the last good thing you had.”

He stood there for a breath longer, then reached for his hat.

“I’ll come for the rest of my things tomorrow.”

He left without another word. The door clicked shut like the final nail in a coffin.

“I hope she’s worth your soul.”

A day later, Amelia sat cross-legged on the wide windowsill of her small room, overlooking the alley behind the jazz club below. A trumpet floated up, muffled and mournful, while cigarette smoke curled like lazy ghosts around her. Her suitcases sat half-unpacked beside the bed.

She hadn’t meant to stay long. Just long enough to figure out her next move. It had been two days since she’d fled Celine’s house. The walls there had started to close in, thick with tension, judgment, and the shadow of everything she and Nathaniel had done.

She thought she might weep again, but her tears had dried out like the swamp after a long drought.

A knock rattled the door.

Her heart jumped, but when she opened it, no one was there—only a slip of paper tucked under the door.It was Nathaniel’s handwriting.

Room 302. If you’ll still have me.

She looked down the hall, but it was empty.The club downstairs burst into applause, the crowd roaring under the rise of the saxophone. Amelia pressed the paper to her chest, eyes fluttering shut. She didn’t know whether to run or to open the door wider. But in her bones, she already knew what she’d do. The hotel room was Nathaniel’s final goodbye. A discreet room above a jazz club, late one afternoon.

The hallway smelled of sweat, cigarette smoke, and the ghost of old perfume. Room 302 waited at the end, its number brass-plated and tarnished by years of fingertips.

Amelia opened the door slowly.

Nathaniel stood inside, hat in hand, kinky hair damp from the walk in the rain. The soft light from the bedside lamp gilded the edge of his profile, catching the deep lines of guilt etched around his mouth.

For a moment, they just looked at each other.

“You came,” she said, voice hushed.

“I shouldn’t have,” he answered.

“But you did.”

He shut the door behind him and crossed the room in three slow steps. She stood in a simple cotton slip, her curls loose around her shoulders, face bare but glowing with something that wasn’t of this world.

“Tell me not to touch you,” he said.

She didn’t.

So he did.

His hand rose, trembling slightly, and cupped her cheek. “I thought I could stay away,” he whispered, “I told myself it had to end.”

“I know.”

He kissed her.

It wasn’t the kiss of a man who planned to stay. It was the kiss of a man starving, who knew the meal was his last. His mouth claimed hers with longing and guilt braided tightly together. Her hands slid beneath his coat, pushing it off his shoulders, and he let it fall to the floor.

His fingers moved with reverence, pulling the strap of her slip down her shoulder, tracing the path with his mouth. She moaned softly as he trailed kisses down her collarbone, her breath hitching when he knelt and pushed the fabric down past her hips.

Amelia guided him to the bed.

He worshipped her slowly at first—his mouth moving over her belly, her thighs, between her legs— murmuring prayers in the shape of her name. She arched under him, her body lighting from within like swampfire. The glow behind her eyes pulsed, faint but unmistakable.

When he entered her, it was deep and unhurried, as if he wanted to memorize every sound she made. Her hands pressed into his back, her mouth at his ear. Usually, he couldn’t last inside of her, but this time, he fought the urge to release prematurely. He wanted it last.

“I love you,” she said.

He froze for a second—just a second—and then moved faster, as if to chase the truth back into the dark.

They came together wrapped in sweat and shame and something too sacred to name.

After, he lay beside her in silence, one hand resting on her bare thigh, the other pressed over his eyes. Amelia turned her head to look at him.

“I know you’ll go back to her,” she said.

He didn’t deny it.

“She’s calling you already,” Amelia murmured. “I can feel it.”

He sat up, hands trembling. “I don’t want to hurt either of you.”

“But you already have,” she said, softly.

A wind picked up outside the window, rattling the loose panes. The jazz had long since faded into quiet. Something was stirring beneath the surface of the night.

The sheets were still warm when Nathaniel rose from the bed. The sun filtered through the gauzy curtains, casting golden stripes across Amelia’s bare skin. She lay on her side, watching him button his shirt with practiced guilt. His collar trembled in his fingers.

“I can feel it, you know,” she said softly, “When you start pulling away, even before you speak.”

Nathaniel paused, knuckles tightening around his cufflink.

“It ain’t about you.” Nathaniel spoke.

“That’s a lie.”

He turned, his jaw hard, lips thinned like a closed door.

“Celine’s been looking at me different. Watching. I come home smelling like… like gardenia and something older. Something that ain’t her.”

“You said she didn’t believe in magic,” Amelia murmured.

“She don’t. But she believe in sin,” He walked over and crouched beside the bed, the weight of his body making the mattress shift, “This can’t go on.”

Amelia’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers curled in the sheet.

“Don’t say that. Don’t make this something ugly. You came to me. You followed me here.”

“I was weak.”

“You were human.”

He cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing the high arc of her cheeks.

“You’re not, “His voice cracked, “I don’t know what you are, baby, but I can’t be part of it no more.”

Her eyes shimmered—not with tears, but with light. That faint, otherworldly glimmer just under the surface of her brown irises, like a candle’s reflection in a puddle. He kissed her once, too quickly. Then stood and gathered his coat like it was a shield.

She didn’t try to stop him.As the door closed, Amelia sat up in the quiet, the ache settling between her ribs. Outside, a jazz trumpet wailed in a slow, lonely note.

New Orleans, 1932 – Late Night

The parlor smelled of ashes and rosewater.

Celine sat on the floor before the cold hearth, her silk house robe open at the throat, curls unpinned and wild like a storm had passed through her. Candles circled her—red for passion, white for peace, black for truth. She held Nathaniel’s undershirt in one hand, still damp at the collar with the sweat he’d worn out of their home.

Her mother had taught her not to meddle too much with the heart. “A man’s will is like a snake,” she once said. “If you force it into a jar, it’ll still try to bite.”

But Celine didn’t care. Not tonight.

She ground cassia bark with her teeth, letting the heat burn her tongue, and spit it into the bowl. Next came his hair, plucked from the comb in their bathroom. Then a sliver of her fingernail. Her blood, drawn fresh from the palm. Last, a pinch of dirt from the church steps where they married.

She chanted low:

“Come back on bent knee, with guilt in your chest.

Forget her taste, remember mine.

Dream of the wedding bed,

And wake with my name in your mouth.”

The candle flames jumped.

The room trembled—or maybe it was just her heart, fluttering like a sparrow with a broken wing.

She bound the shirt around the bowl with red thread, tied it thirteen times, and buried it in the hearth ashes, whispering, “Let shame drag you home.”

Meanwhile, Amelia feels the shift

Across the city, in a room above a jazz club, Amelia startled awake.

Her breath came fast, heart pounding. The air had turned heavy, like the moment before thunder cracked. She felt it — the pulling. Not from Nathaniel. From something around him.

A spell.

She sat up in bed, pressing her hand to her chest. She could still feel the echo of Nathaniel’s touch, the softness in his voice when he said he didn’t want to leave her again. But something in him was bending now. Like a tree forced against its natural lean.

“Celine,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes and tried to calm the glowing heat rising in her blood—that strange, ancient light that wanted to push back, to unravel whatever had been done.

But she didn’t fight it.

She let him go.

And Nathaniel returns home.

The front gate creaked open as the sun began to rise. Celine had fallen asleep in the parlor, slumped against the velvet arm of the couch. She woke to the sound of keys turning in the door.

Nathaniel stepped in, his coat wrinkled, face drawn, eyes red. He looked like he hadn’t slept—or had dreamed too much.

She rose, wordless.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said.

“You did,” she said, voice soft.

He came to her slowly, like a man walking into a confessional.

“I—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I just—”

“I do.” She stepped closer. “It’s her. She bewitched you.”

He blinked.

“No woman takes another woman’s man without some sort of working. I see the shine on her. Something ain’t clean.”

Nathaniel didn’t argue. He simply sagged into her arms, overwhelmed by guilt, by something pulling him back—home, whatever home meant now.

Celine held him tightly, but her eyes stared into the dark, calculating.

Amelia prepared to leave.

Later that afternoon, the sky hung low and gray. Rain threatened. Amelia stood at the edge of her hotel room, her suitcases packed. Her hands lingered on the window ledge one last time.

The jazz club’s music below was faint, just a memory now.

She hadn’t heard from Nathaniel since dawn. That meant he went back. She felt the severing of it, like someone cutting a thread tied to her soul.

She didn’t blame him. Not entirely.

Celine had deep magic, thick with old pain and old pride. It was the kind of rootwork that clung. But it wasn’t truth. What she and Nathaniel had—that had been something real. Even if it wasn’t meant to last.

She touched the necklace her grandmother had left her —a simple glass bead on a thread of fae silk. It shimmered faintly in her hand.

“I’m going home,” she whispered, and meant it this time.

To St. Landry Parish. To the cypress trees and waterbirds. To the memory of her grandmother. To the swamp that still knew her name.

She turned her back on New Orleans, on the secrets that had bloomed there like poison lilies. And walked out into the rain.

Return to St. Landry Parish

Two Days Later:

The road curved through cane fields and low hills thick with cypress and willow. The train dropped her at a depot that hadn’t changed in twenty years. A single mule cart waited near the platform, and the driver recognized her at once.

“You Vivienne’s girl?”

She nodded. “Amelia.”

He tipped his hat. “Thought you looked like her.”

The ride to the old house was slow and swaying, the path muddied from summer rain. Spanish moss clung to the trees like secrets. Birds called from deep in the swamp, and the air buzzed with that thick, honey-slow stillness she remembered from childhood.

The house stood just where she left it—weathered but proud. White paint peeling from the shutters. Porch swing hanging crooked. Ivy claiming the back chimney.

But it was home.

Amelia stepped up the porch steps slowly, her boots echoing against the wood. She unlocked the door with the same iron key her grandmother had given her at eighteen. When it opened, the smell of old cedar, dried herbs, and dust washed over her like a baptism.

Inside, time had barely moved.

The dried bundles of rosemary and mugwort still hung from the rafters. Her grandmother’s rocker faced the hearth, a folded shawl still draped across it. On the mantle, a cluster of faded photographs, candles burned down to stubs.

She walked through the kitchen, trailing her fingers across the table where her grandmother used to crush herbs in a stone mortar. She touched the cupboard that once held charms and tinctures. A smile flickered across her face, then softened into something lonelier.

She didn’t cry.

She simply breathed.

And then—something stirred.

A creak in the floorboards beneath her grandmother’s bedroom. A memory whispered against her skin. She followed the pull to the far room, the one where Vivienne used to sleep.

Amelia opened the armoire. Beneath folded linens, she found a small chest bound in worn red leather. She lifted it gently, set it on the bed, and opened the clasp.

Inside:

•A bundle of fae silk, soft as spider thread and shimmering faintly in the light.

•A worn journal, its pages edged in gold leaf, written in a looping hand.

•A silver pendant shaped like a flame. When she touched it, her fingertips glowed faintly in response.

She opened the journal.

On the first page, there was writing in her grandmother’s script. Amelia settled down to read it.

To my dearest Amelia. If you are reading this, then you have begun to glow too brightly to hide it anymore. You are not just of this world. You are born of the feu follet—child of the marsh flame, the shimmer between dusk and dark. Your mother was fae. Your father, human. What you carry is both blessing and burden.

Amelia sat down slowly, heart thudding, the words ringing like bells in her ears.

Her fingers trembled as she turned the page.

I kept your truth from you to keep you safe. But you’ve always known, haven’t you? The way animals follow you. The way you light the dark. The way love burns too quickly in your hands. It is not madness. It is power.

She closed the journal gently, pressing it to her chest. The pendant still pulsed softly in her palm, warm now, alive.

And for the first time in weeks, she wept.

Not for Nathaniel. Not even for the girl she used to be.

She wept for the truth.

For the strangeness inside her finally having a name. For the ache of being other, and the strange peace of finally seeing herself—all of herself—clearly.

She stood, walked to the mirror in her grandmother’s old room, and looked at her reflection.

The soft glow behind her eyes was no trick of the light.

She didn’t need to hide anymore.

The house had settled around her like an old cloak. Floorboards creaked in familiar places. Wind sang through the trees outside. But inside Amelia, something new had begun to stir.

She sat cross-legged on her grandmother’s bed, the red-leather journal resting on her thighs. The pendant still lay against her chest, faintly pulsing like a heartbeat not her own.

She opened the journal again.

The ink was faded, but the writing flowed in her grandmother’s firm, looping script. The pages smelled faintly of rose oil, cinnamon, and smoke.

Your mother’s name was Lysara. She came from the swamps north of Belle Forêt, where the will-o’-the-wisps still gather under moonlight. She was not fully of the Bright Court — not one of their silken elite. No, she was bayou-born. Wildblood. Faeling. And she fell in love with your father, August, a preacher’s son who liked to fish the river bends at dusk. He saw her light one night, followed her flame, and never turned back…

Amelia’s breath hitched. She turned the page.

…Their love was forbidden. Not just by the fae, but by the people. The old women whispered your mother was a spirit. A temptress. They weren’t wrong. She loved fiercely, too much. And when you were born, glowing and quiet and beautiful, she wrapped you in silk spun from her own hair and left you on my doorstep. She kissed your brow and vanished before the sun rose…

Amelia swallowed hard, tears blurring the words. She turned to the next entry.

…I raised you in secret, masking your shine with salves and shadow work. You were always drawn to fire, to love, to water. You didn’t cry like other babies. You hummed. And when you grew, you made animals follow you like you were made of honey…

She reached the last entry.

…You are feu follet, child. A flame spirit. You carry the light of both bloodlines—human and fae—and your glow will always draw hearts, stir longing, cause unrest. You must learn to use it wisely. Love, when it flows through you, can be sweet…or ruinous…

Amelia closed the book, heart thudding. She pressed her lips to the cover as if to kiss the memory of Vivienne, her grandmother, her protector.

Everything made sense now. Why Nathaniel had been drawn in like a man pulled toward flame. Why animals tilted their heads when they saw her. Why her touch stirred heat and hunger, even when she didn’t mean it to.

She had always been half-light.

Now she knew why.

That evening, as the last light bled through the trees, Amelia lit the hearth.

Not out of need—but memory.

She moved barefoot across the floor, gathering the things her grandmother once taught her to use: sweetgum bark, cypress twigs, a pinch of cinnamon. She added dried rose petals to the flame for remembrance, and a drop of her own blood on the coal for truth.

She stirred the fire with an iron poker, then sat before it in silence.

No prayers. No chants. Just her presence. Her breath. The crackle of flame.

The air around her shifted.

It was subtle at first—a warmth blooming in her chest, the scent of honey and night-blooming jasmine curling around her shoulders. A faint shimmer began to thread through the smoke, like silver light dancing between the sparks.

Then she heard it.

A whisper—not with her ears, but inside her blood.

Welcome home, child of fire.

She didn’t flinch.

She let it wash over her.

Outside, fireflies gathered by the window. Inside, her skin shimmered faintly, her heartbeat slowing to the rhythm of the land.

She pressed her hands into the wooden floor, grounding herself. She felt her grandmother’s energy in the bones of the house. Felt the memory of old rituals humming beneath the boards. Felt the swamp lean in, curious, as if the land itself had been waiting for her return.

Amelia closed her eyes.

And for the first time since fleeing New Orleans…since discovering what she truly was—

She felt still.

Whole.

The girl, the lover, the root worker, the flame.

No longer hiding. No longer afraid.

St. Landry Parish – Three Days Later:

It came mid-morning, in a plain envelope, the handwriting unmistakably his—careful, upright, the tail of his s still curling like it did when he wrote scripture notes. She’d received letters from him before.

Amelia stood at the porch with the letter in her hands. Her stomach clenched.

She didn’t open it right away.

She laid it on the kitchen table beside a mason jar of fresh moon water and a sprig of black sage, then stared at it for a long time. The house was still. The birds outside quieted.

Eventually, she unfolded the paper.

Amelia,

I can’t find peace. I see you when I close my eyes. I wake up next to her and feel like a man buried in the wrong grave. I know I hurt you. I know I ran. But I can’t pretend anymore. Please. Just one more time. Let me see you. I’ll come to you if I have to…

Nathaniel.

She folded the letter, hands shaking. Not with longing.

With rage.

He had chosen. And now he wanted to un-choose? Now he wanted to come back, after all he’d torn up in her?

She didn’t burn the letter. She didn’t cry over it.

She just left it there, and walked into the swamp to gather Spanish moss, barefoot and bright with silence.

Dusk – Two Days Later:

The sun sank like a slow coin into the horizon, painting the bayou in deep gold and violet. Cypress knees poked from the water like crooked fingers. Bullfrogs called low in the distance. A heron shifted in the reeds.

Amelia stood waist-deep in the marsh grass near the edge of her grandmother’s trail, skirts hiked in her hands, the water cool against her calves.

That’s when she heard it.

Twigs cracking. A breath she didn’t recognize. A presence.

She turned slowly.

Nathaniel emerged through the moss and brush, soaked in sweat, chest heaving. He looked older somehow. Like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Amelia,” he said, voice cracking.

She went still.

He took a step forward, but her eyes flashed with something not human. The dusk light caught the shimmer in her irises. Her hair moved like it was alive with static.

“I told you not to come.” Ameila spoke with venom.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, stepping closer. “You wouldn’t write back. I—I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t pray. It’s like you’re inside me now.”

“You don’t get to say that!” she said, voice trembling. “You left me! You chose HER!”

“She put something on me, Amelia! I know it now. I can feel it wearing off. You’re the one I want—”

“No,” she said sharply, stepping back. “You’re just chasing what you broke. You want to fix it, not keep it.”

His eyes darkened. “You think this is easy for me? You think I haven’t been tearing myself apart trying to—”

She raised her hand and he stopped mid-sentence.

“You played with my heart,” she said, voice low and heavy. “You laid in my bed and told me you loved me. Then you left. And now you come into my land like it still belongs to you?”

The air shifted.

Fireflies blinked around her in erratic patterns.

Nathaniel took a step back. “Amelia…”

But it was too late.

The hurt inside her flared—too bright, too wild. It sparked like flint in her blood.

A glow began to rise off her skin, her hair lifting on a breeze that wasn’t there. Her body shimmered like the swamp lights—unearthly, tragic, burning from the inside out.

“I told you not to come,” she whispered again.

Nathaniel stumbled, suddenly disoriented. He looked around like the trees were closing in. The path was gone. The water deepened.

“Amelia?”

The swamp responded, not with words, but with pull. The mist curled, thick and golden, rising from the water like hands. The land had always known her. Now it answered her grief.

Nathaniel tried to move toward her, but his feet sank deeper into the mud.

“Please,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean—”

She screamed.

Not loud, but raw. A sound that cracked the sky open inside her chest.

The light burst from her, sudden and wild.

Nathaniel slipped, hit the water hard. The glow clung to him like fireflies in a storm. He reached for her, eyes wide—

And then the water pulled.

He sank.

She lunged forward too late, hand outstretched.

“Nathaniel!”

Silence.

The ripples calmed.

The birds stopped singing.

The only sound left was the rush of her breath and the glow fading from her skin.

She fell to her knees at the water’s edge, trembling, numb. The swamp watched, impassive. It had only obeyed the wound she carried.

Her light flickered faintly, soft as a candle in mourning.

St. Landry Parish – That Night:

Amelia sat at the water’s edge until the moon climbed high, casting a silver veil over the trees. Her skirt was soaked, feet caked in mud, curls limp with sweat and mist.

She hadn’t moved since the bayou stilled.

The air buzzed faintly, like the magic hadn’t quite settled. A few fireflies still blinked around her, circling close, drawn to the grief that clung to her like perfume.

Her hands trembled in her lap.

She had seen death before.

But never like that.

Never because of her.

Her breath came shallow, uneven. She didn’t cry—not yet. The shock hadn’t cracked enough to let the tears come.

She stared at the place where he went under. No body surfaced. No bubbles rose. Just dark water and memory.

And still, part of her wanted to call his name again. Part of her wanted to believe the swamp might spit him back out—angry, coughing, yelling her name.

But it was over.

He was gone.

And she had done it.

She didn’t walk home. She wandered.

Branches snagged her dress. Mud pulled at her ankles. The night hummed with crickets and frogs, but it felt like the swamp had eyes now—and they were all on her.

By the time she reached the porch, she was shaking.

Inside, she stripped out of her clothes and washed her hands at the kitchen basin. The water ran red-brown with bayou dirt, her reflection warping in the rippling surface.

Her eyes still glowed faintly.

Too bright.

Too much.

She gripped the edge of the sink and finally gasped out a sob.

A single, ugly, sharp noise—ripped from the pit of her.

And then another.

And then she was on the floor, crumpled in front of the basin, the pendant around her neck glowing dim as a dying star. She wept hard, her body folding in on itself like flame snuffed by rain.

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispered to no one. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.”

But the land didn’t answer.

The swamp didn’t forgive.

And neither did she.

Now, the sweetening jar she’d made for Nathaniel changes. Inside has darkened. Not rotted — but thickened, like it’s carrying something unsaid. The jar sometimes fogs from the inside without temperature change. When Amelia touches it, she swears she hears faint echoes: his voice, or her own.

The rose petal has turned black at the edges. The note remains intact, but the ink bleeds slightly, as if the words are dissolving over time.

Most strange of all:

The jar has begun to warm when she dreams of him.

It hums faintly.

Soft. Sad. Almost like a heartbeat trapped in glass.

She keeps it in a velvet pouch inside her belongings — hidden, but never far. She tried once to bury it. The next morning, it was back on her windowsill, beads of honey at the lid.

Later that night, she sat in her grandmother’s rocker with the red journal in her lap. She didn’t open it. She just held it, like a child might hold a doll for comfort.

She tried to feel her grandmother’s presence.

Tried to imagine her hands, her voice, her touch.

But all she felt was heat under her skin, like embers buried beneath her flesh.

She knew now what her grandmother meant by blessing and burden.

She had the power to enchant, to glow, to stir hearts.

But she could also burn.

And she had.

“I’m not meant to love,” she whispered, “I ruin it.”

The rocker creaked softly as she moved.

A soft breeze stirred the curtains. Somewhere out there, the swamp was reclaiming him.

She thought about the way Nathaniel had looked—confused, afraid, reaching for her even at the end.

She could still feel his hand brushing hers before he sank.

The ache turned cold.

She rose, walked to the hearth, and placed the journal on the mantle.

Then she lit a single white candle. For the dead.

“For you,” she murmured, “For what we had. And what I took.”

She let it burn until dawn.

The glow didn’t vanish overnight.

It took days of practice. Days of sitting still in her grandmother’s old garden with soil between her fingers and her bare feet pressed into the earth. Days of whispering her own name over and over, as if calling herself back from the edge of becoming something too wild, too luminous.

Amelia learned to ground it.

To slow her breathing when her power flared.

To imagine pulling all that radiance back inside her body like coals drawn under ash. Still warm. But hidden.

She drank teas made from moss and wild yam and cooled her pulse with damp cloths of mugwort and fern. She stitched little sachets of lavender and salt and tucked them into her dress pockets, charms to keep her aura muted.

By the seventh day, even the birds that once lingered near her began to treat her like one of their own again. The fireflies stayed at a distance.

She had tamed her light. Or at least caged it.

No one would suspect now—unless they already knew.

The Visit from Celine:

It was near dusk when Amelia heard the sharp crunch of carriage wheels on gravel. A fine-boned white mare stopped at the edge of the path, its reins held by a man in a clean gray suit—hired help.

From the carriage, Celine descended like she was still stepping off the pulpit stairs: spine straight, jaw set, dressed in black satin like mourning suited her even when there was no funeral.

Amelia met her on the porch with calm eyes and clean hands.

“Celine,” she said, voice smooth.

Celine tilted her chin. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to come this far.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wrote Nathaniel,” Celine said, “He never wrote back. Then I followed his trail. I found your name in the ledger at that hotel on Chartres. I know he came to you.”

Amelia didn’t blink. “He left me too, Celine.”

Celine studied her face like it was scripture, her dark eyes taking in every line, every breath.

“I know he loved you,” Celine said, with the faintest quiver in her voice.

Amelia looked past her, out toward the trees. “And he still went home.”

Silence. Thick as summer heat.

Celine stepped up onto the porch, close enough to smell the rose water in Amelia’s hair. “You’d tell me if you knew where he was?”

Amelia met her eyes. Her voice was steady. “If I knew, I’d tell you.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not really. She had known. Just not anymore.

Celine watched her a moment longer, then relented. Her grief didn’t show on her face, but Amelia could feel it—taut and tight, roiling under the surface.

“Vivienne always said you were too soft,” Celine muttered. “But I see now. You’re just quiet. Not innocent.”

She turned and stepped down. The carriage rolled off with a brittle dignity.

Amelia waited until the wheels were long gone before she sank onto the porch steps and exhaled—deep, full of something that wasn’t quite relief.

She had held her mask. She had passed the test.

But she couldn’t stay.

That night, under a quilt that smelled faintly of dried camphor and cedar, Amelia stared at the ceiling and asked herself where she could go.

Not back to New Orleans.

Not deeper into the parish, where old families remembered her face too well.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift like smoke—and then, like a warm note rising through memory, she saw her.

Annie.

Older than her by seven years, but never unkind. Strong hands, even as a girl, always tugging Amelia’s hair into ribbons or lifting her up so she could reach the sycamore fruit hanging from the tree.

Annie had laughed easily, talked slow, but watched everything. Her eyes were brown-black like polished stones, always catching glints of what others missed.

Her mother had been a healer, one of Vivienne’s few trusted friends.

Sometimes, when Vivienne left for her rootwork rounds, she’d leave Amelia with Annie. They’d sit on the back porch and Annie would braid herbs into Amelia’s curls, telling her stories about bones that danced and crossroads men who could grant you music in your fingers if you gave them something of your soul.

Annie had smelled like sassafras and moonflower, and even as a teenager, there was something grounding about her — like standing in deep water, cool and slow, but never dangerous.

St. Landry Parish, Louisiana — Summer, 1912

Amelia is 8. Annie is 15.

The colored section of Opelousas was a patchwork of red-dirt roads, shotgun houses, and porches that sang with gossip and music. Heat shimmered off tin roofs, and the air was thick with cayenne and the sound of washboards scraping rhythm into the afternoon. Zydeco spilled from radios and mouths like prayers.

Amelia ran barefoot down the road, curls bouncing, a rusted sardine can swinging from her hand. She was looking for crushed bottle caps to turn into charms. Her grandmother said she had a gift for finding the right ones — the ones that still held stories.

But the neighborhood children didn’t see that as a gift.

They called her strange.

“Swamp girl.”

“Creepy eyes.”

“Glows when she get mad.”

She tried to ignore them. But today, they’d followed her. Threw bits of gravel at her back. One boy grabbed her hair and pulled — hard.

“She ain’t right. She’s like a candle about to catch fire.”

That’s when she heard the voice.

“Let her go, ‘fore I put a root on your whole house.”

The kids froze.

Annie stood at the end of the alley, hands on her hips, skirts dusted with red clay. Fifteen and tall for her age, with smooth brown skin and sharp eyes like she’d seen more than most grown folks ever would.

She marched over, pulled Amelia behind her, and stared the boys down.

“You pick on little girls, you gonna learn what your mama’s belt feel like and what a snake root under your bed’ll do.”

They scattered.

Later that day, Amelia sat on Annie’s porch, knees pulled to her chest while Annie oiled her scalp.

“They call me names,” Amelia whispered.

“People fear what they don’t understand,” Annie said, parting her curls with careful fingers. “But fear ain’t the same as truth.”

Amelia relaxed beneath her touch—the rhythm of the comb, the scent of sweet almond oil, the hum of someone who cared.

Inside, Annie’s mama—Miss Geneva—hummed over a pot of herbs and bones. She didn’t talk much, but she’d given Amelia a long look earlier. A look like she’d seen her before. Not her face. Her light.

Later, Amelia overheard her speaking to Annie in a low voice.

“You watch that one. She’s touched. Not just by spirits…by something older. Something that walks between.”

“You mean like a ghost?”

“No. I mean like the wind that stirs before a storm. Like the glint you see in a fox’s eye right ‘fore it disappears. Girls like her shine too bright, baby. And light like that either draws folks in… or burns ‘em up.”

Annie didn’t understand all of it then.

But she remembered.

And so did Amelia.

Years later, when the memories blurred and the road twisted, Amelia would still remember the feeling of Annie’s hands in her hair. The sound of her defending her. The smell of fried okra drifting through the air.

And most of all—that someone had seen her, even if they didn’t yet know what she was.

Amelia hadn’t seen her in years.

But maybe… maybe she’d still be in Clarksdale.

Still working roots. Still living slow. Still sharp-eyed and warm.

Maybe she’d open the door, if Amelia knocked.

She would go to Mississippi.

To Annie.

To whatever came next.

St. Landry Parish – Two Days Later:

Rain tapped gently at the tin roof. The sky outside was overcast, low and thick like it couldn’t decide whether to cry or break open. Inside, the house was hushed. Amelia sat at the kitchen table, wrapped in one of Vivienne’s shawls, a cup of tea cooling beside her elbow.

Before her lay a blank sheet of paper, cream-colored and faintly textured. It looked too fine for what she was about to confess.

She dipped her pen in ink and began to write.

Dear Annie,

It’s been some years since I last wrote, though I’ve thought of you often.

I hope this letter finds you well, and that Mississippi has been kind to you. I heard, some time ago, that you and your mama had set up shop for healing and rootwork near Clarksdale. If she’s still with you, please send her my love.

I won’t pretend I’m writing with lightness. Things have gone dark for me here. My grandmother passed, and I’ve been adrift ever since. I tried staying with family, but it wasn’t right. Not safe, not for my spirit.

I remember how you used to braid herbs into my hair and tell me stories about the ones who walk the in-between. You always seemed to see more than others did—even then.

I need that now. Someone who sees. Someone who doesn’t turn away.

I was wondering if you might have room for one more. Just for a little while. I can work, clean, help with the healing if you still do that kind of thing. I won’t be a burden. I just need a place to be quiet. A place where I won’t be looked at too closely.

If it’s not too much to ask, write me back or send word to St. Landry Parish. I’ll wait.

With warmth,

Amelia Broussard

She read over the letter once, twice, and folded it carefully. No magic, no charm worked into the ink. Just truth—the parts she was brave enough to share.

She sealed it, wrote ‘Annie Fontaine, Clarksdale, Mississippi’ across the front, and set it near the door for the next post.

As she stood and looked out the window, she saw a single ray of sun slip through the clouds and strike the cypress trees beyond the fence line. The light shimmered briefly—not fae, not power. Just light.

Hope.

Clarksdale, Mississippi – One Week Later:

It was near sundown when Annie came back from tending old Mrs. Rucker’s hip poultice. The wind carried that earthy Delta scent—mud, cotton, honeysuckle—and the porch boards groaned beneath her sandals the way they always had.

Her mother’s old dog, Duma, lifted his head and huffed, tail thumping.

“Don’t get up on my account,” Annie murmured, grinning slightly.

She stooped to pick up the mail off the porch table— mostly circulars, one letter from Jackson, and then—

She paused.

The envelope was cream-colored. Southern Louisiana postmark. Handwritten in ink that curved gently, like someone who’d been taught to write with care.

The name hit her in the gut like memory:

Amelia Broussard.

Annie didn’t sit to read it. She opened it right there in the slanting light, her rough fingers careful, her heart suddenly tapping like a drum.

As she read, her eyes softened—then darkened. She reached the part where Amelia asked for shelter, and something in her throat went tight.

I just need a place to be quiet. A place where I won’t be looked at too closely…

She looked up from the page, the edges of her mouth pulled taut.

“Baby girl,” she whispered, “What’ve ya’ gotten yourself into?”

She folded the letter carefully, pressed it to her chest for a moment, and closed her eyes.

Annie remembered the way Amelia used to hum without knowing it, the strange way cats followed her around the porch like she was dripping cream. She remembered Vivienne’s warning once, years ago: “That child shines too bright. Best hope she learns how to shade herself before someone tries to bottle her up or burn her down.”

Annie didn’t write back.

She just set a bed with fresh sheets, cleared out the back room, and told herself: When she comes, I’ll be ready.

Arrival in Clarksdale

Four Days Later:

Amelia stepped off the train in Clarksdale with a small suitcases and a tired heart. The heat clung to her like breath on skin—Mississippi thick, sun low and orange in the sky.

The town moved slow. Mules in the street, voices floating from storefronts, blues drifting faintly from a porch radio.

She felt exposed, but no one looked too long. She had dulled her light well.

Still, the closer she got to Annie’s house, the more her stomach knotted.

What if Annie didn’t want her anymore? What if she had changed? What if—

Then the door opened.

Annie stood barefoot in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, a smear of flour on her cheek.

She looked at Amelia once, just once, and all the worry in Amelia’s chest crumbled.

“Get on in here,” Annie said, voice low and warm like river silt. “You look like you been run ragged.”

Amelia didn’t speak. Her throat was too full.

She stepped forward and Annie opened her arms without asking. Amelia melted into them like rain into soil. Annie held her close, one hand behind her head, the other stroking her back with long, patient movements.

“You ain’t gotta say a word yet,” Annie murmured. “You’re safe now.”

And Amelia believed her.

In that porch-light dusk, wrapped in the scent of woodsmoke and magnolia, something inside her exhaled.

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#nahimjustfeelingit-writes #sinnersfanfiction #annie sinners #sinners 2025

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dearsnow · 10 months ago

Text

A WAITING GAME

- coming from a broken family, you often had to wait for next time you would be loved. meeting your new neighbor changed that. (robert “bob” floyd x fem!reader, angst and fluff, SLOW BURN, essentially just scenes of you growing up with our favorite WSO, slight prequel to the events of top gun: maverick, includes random original characters to drive the plot ⚠️ alcoholism is a major theme, some instances of harassment from a bully, and like one sexual innuendo but nothing graphic)

word count: 20,135

a/n - ohhhh my gosh, it’s finally here 😭 it’s genuinely the size of a novella, which is insane. i really hope you guys like this bc it took so much time and effort. it’s also the longest thing i’ve ever written, which is amazing in its own right. if you’re the type to listen to music while reading, i suggest a steady stream of hozier, noah kahan, phoebe bridgers, and leith ross <3

Your whole life was a waiting game. Waiting for school to end, for school to start again, for the house across the street to finally have new occupants, for your mother to put the bottle down, for the fairies you were so sure existed to appear in your popsicle stick fairy house, for your stones to finally skip across the creek, for something, anything to happen before you drove yourself insane. And, above all else, you waited for love. It was a pitiful way to grow up, really. Just sitting and letting the days pass by so you couldn’t feel the burning ache of loneliness that writhed and spat in your stomach. You never thought that you could cease this pattern of waiting for something that would never fulfill you, until, inevitably, things changed.

The “for sale” sign that you could see so clearly from your second-floor bedroom window had been replaced by a cheery “sold” sign. Something about it excited you; new neighbors, new people to talk to and play with and bother with your incessant imagination. There was also fear, too. The fear that they would turn a blind eye to the scent of cigarettes woven into your papered walls and the nail marks on the insides of your palms. You took your mind off the notion when you saw a boy right around your age step out of the moving van.

He had glasses, sandy brown hair, a cast on his foot, and a scared little frown. You slid off your bed with a small huff, your socked feet hitting the dusty carpeted floor. This was something new, for once. The stares of the stuffed animals strewn around your room comforted your mild anxiety as you walked through your door frame and down your rickety wooden stairs. You had to move one foot down and then pull the other to match. You were too afraid of keeping just one foot on a single step, even while you clutched the peeling handrail. You hit the bottom and opened the unlocked front door, peering out into the hazy, sunny day.

You were still in your socks, but you figured it didn’t matter. They were pink and yellow striped, just a bit too small. You traipsed across your dying front lawn and across the street, cautiously watching for cars. There were none. The boy turned, his blue eyes locking with yours, and you froze. It was the middle of a hot Montana day, the dry, summery kind that makes your mouth shrivel up, but all you could focus on was how he looked at you with curiosity. Gone was the frown. You peered down, staring into the black asphalt. Oh. You were still on the road. Your feet moved on their own, and you found yourself on the sidewalk, toeing the grass of his lawn. It wasn’t dying.

“Your socks are inside-out,” was the first thing he said. His voice was quiet and kind, like he was trying not to embarrass you. He pointed at the threads hanging off of the seams.

You nervously tucked your hands behind your back. “I know. I like them to be.” He accepted the statement, pulling his hand back and planting it nervously on his hip. His one sock was right-side-in and tucked into a little orange shoe.

That day, as mundane as it was, became one of your favorites to remember.

The next day, after your introduction, you and the boy (who you quickly came to know as Bobby) went down to the creek. His mother had supplied you with sandwiches and cookies in little brown paper bags, folded neatly and marked with your names. You had never eaten out of a brown paper bag before.

Bobby was careful in how he scaled down the small, rocky hill that bordered the creek. He smartly put your lunches on a safe outcropping, to be eaten later. While climbing, he put all his weight on his non-injured foot and was sure to not step on any stray branches. You, having been down this path many times, guided him.

“Don’t step there, Bobby. That’s where the snakes are.” You said, eyeing the little gathering of rocks. He hummed gratefully and adjusted his path.

As you both made it to the bottom, he made sure to stay far enough away from the water so as to not wet his boot. You, however, didn’t really care. Your feet plunged into the soggy ground; it’s not like your shoes weren’t meant to get dirty. He picked up a stick and poked at the rivulets of water in front of him, squinting into the glare. “So, how old are you anyway?” He asked. He was crouched down to help the slightly too short stick prod into the mud.

“Seven.” You responded. You had picked up a stick of your own. “How old are you?”

He watched your movements with careful eyes. He was always watching, you noticed. Always planning. It’s like he was trying to predict every movement of the creek, every motion of your arms. You felt a shiver run down your spine. You didn’t think you could ever be so observant. “I’m eight, been eight for five months now,” came his steady voice. He furrowed his eyebrows as you waved your stick into nothingness, jabbing at something he couldn’t see. He gazed at the air like whatever you were so focused on would materialize if he stared hard enough. “What’cha fighting?”

You smiled crookedly. You could see the scene so clearly in your mind. You and him on a pirate ship, fighting off the attackers who were trying to claim your ride. You were balancing on the plank, sword ready. “Pirates. It’s real fun, you should try.” You slashed the air and saw clothes tearing, blood pooling at the wood under your feet.

“How do I try?” He asked curiously. He stood up fully and held his stick in both hands.

“Just imagine. They’re coming from a ship across the creek, and our ship is here. I’m… I’m fighting the one with a big axe, and the one comin’ after you has a shiny sword.”

Again, he raked his gaze over the creek in front of him like he was trying to see exactly into your mind. He gave his sword an experimental swing, and you laughed from beside him. “You hit him! Keep going, we’ve almost won.” His eyes lit up, and he began fighting like he saw it too.

He smiled, and you cheered him on, making sure to fend off your own opponent. The creek bubbled, and he could hear the ocean roaring. He could see the flag flying high above his head, the ship across the ocean, could hear the ‘shing’ and ‘swish’ of his sword. And he saw you, warm and full of life, immersed in this world you had created. He didn’t think he had seen anything quite so pretty.

In the days after that, you saw Bobby often. He never went inside your house, though, that was off limits. Instead, you went to his.

His mom was kind. She was the type of woman to greet you with a hug, the smell of warm food simmering on a pot behind her. Her apron was stained with food and love and tiny paint handprints. When you ran up to his door and knocked (you were too short to reach the doorbell), she would open it kindly and invite you in.

Bobby’s room became a kind of utopia for the both of you. For the first few days, you would help him unpack his toys and crafts and other things of the sort. He had a lot of green army men, you noticed. But after that, you played and played until his mom had to kindly remind you of his bedtime. Your favorite games were imaginary.

He would be a merchant selling his toys, each with a special magical power. You’d assume the role of a traveling knight and barter with him, finally picking out what you believed would help with your quest. Then, in a twist of fate, Bobby would invent some sort of way the magical item went wrong, leaving the both of you to dream up new methods to best your foe. Or you’d be a mermaid and he was the sailor you were friends with. Sometimes, and this was his favorite game, he would be a pilot in the military, and you would be the person giving him instructions on the ground. He would shoot his arms out like airplane wings and soar, causing you to collapse into giggles on his soft rug. You formed a bond with him like no other. By the end of the summer, you knew him inside and out, and he knew you too.

You knew he liked blueberry syrup instead of maple on his pancakes, that his favorite subject was history, how he had a little sister three years younger and an older brother who was in middle school, and the exact expression he made when things went a awry; this sort of half-pout, where his bottom lip would jut out a bit. You knew that he got his cast from slipping on a stone in a big river during a camping trip, and even though he hates not being able to move, he thinks the scar on his ankle is pretty cool. And he knew that you were the most creative person he’d ever met, there was a monster that lived in your house, you had never broken a bone, and your eyes shone if the light hit them at the right angle.

When you finally left, as the sun was dipping down the horizon, you felt lighter.

The days without his presence were much harder.

Your mom was a hard person to pin down. She would leave early in the morning, dressed in her work clothes, and return late at night, stinking of the bar. Sometimes you’d see her periodically throughout the day, between her two main events, but she was elusive. She would stroke your hair during moments like this, eyes filled with something you only later realized was regret.

You loved her too much to notice that the way you were living was not at all how a child should grow up. You survived off of your dingy little microwave and frozen food when you weren’t with Bobby and his family. The nights, however, were worse than being alone all day.

You would pretend to be asleep more often than not, but you couldn’t really be asleep with how much noise she made. Shouting words you didn’t recognize into the phone, slamming doors, crying, pulling the magnets off the fridge and shattering the few framed pictures that were scattered around your house. It made the pit inside of you grow larger and larger.

Afterwards, when she was done with her rampage, she’d sweep up the pieces and put everything back together. She would spell out notes for you in the fridge magnets. She would open your door, just a crack, and whisper, “I love you, baby. I’m sorry.” with a blown kiss. You knew she was sorry. You knew she loved you, that she kept the cabinets stocked with the snacks you liked from two years ago, around the time she first started drinking. There was nothing you knew more than how bad she felt for treating you like she did. In your mind, you forgave her. She was doing her best. That didn’t stop you from wishing you lived in Bobby’s little house, with his kind and loving mother and stern but kindhearted father. You wished for pirates and pilots and blueberry syrup.

Sometimes, you just imagined you were there, tucked under his navy blue comforter. That thought filled the pit just enough to let you drift off to sleep.

As the days grew shorter and the weather chillier, school started. School was fun until it wasn’t.

The first day was always the best, in your opinion. You never really had any friends to miss if they were placed into other classrooms, and some of the other kids didn’t even know who you were. It was scary, sure, but it was new. It was a fresh start. This year, though, you had Bobby.

Luckily for the two of you, you were both in Mrs. Moore’s class. Even luckier for you, Brady was not in Mrs. Moore’s class.

The boy had a tendency to pick on you in school. Ever since first grade, when he caught you whispering to a dandelion, he made every day in school tougher.

He would knock your books out of your hands, scribble on your drawings, and tear your flower crowns apart. You didn’t know why. He just didn’t understand your far-eyed expression and your tendency to bury your nose in books. He was loud, with a grating voice and windswept blond hair, and people liked him. He played sports and shared his lunch. That made him very, very different from you, in a way that was hard for child brains to accept.

You were scared that Bobby would find his own trouble here. He was quiet, and that made him a target. He was too kind, too caring, too good at blending into the background.

You walked up to classroom B8, holding your little dirtied backpack on one arm. The door was painted a sort of industrial teal, with a chipped but cheery sun done in acrylics in the middle. The title, a magnet, read “Mrs. Moore fun!”. Bobby hesitated from next to you. He held out a silent hand, and you gripped it in yours. His hands were bigger, warm and slick with a thin sheen of nervous sweat. Knowing someone else was going through the day with you was a quiet comfort, so you met his wavering eyes and smiled. “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

The door swung open, and a woman with a brown bob ushered you inside. She had big pencil earrings and a pretty patterned dress. She showed you to your seats, and you were happy to learn that you were just one person away from your friend. In between you was another girl with bouncy auburn curls and freckles, whose name card read “Margaret”. You didn’t know her, but she offered you a kind grin.

“Hello, class!” Mrs. Moore began. “I know you saw my name on the door, but I’d like to learn all of yours today. How about we go around and say our names and favorite colors so I can take attendance?”

Your time in the quaint little classroom sped by like a whirlwind, barely giving you enough time to adjust to everything before you were ushered out to be served lunch and play on the sun-faded playground. Bobby’s mom had packed you both lunch today. It was like she knew that your mom couldn’t, and that you never had the money to buy the school lunch. It gave you this warm sort of emotion, like a fuzzy sweater. You and he sat on a bench shaded by a rickety old tree.

He chewed his sandwich thoughtfully as you went for the little bag of Oreo cookies first. “How do you like it here?” You asked, biting into the crumbly treat.

“It’s okay. Back in my old school, our playground had wood chips instead of sand,” he commented simply. “I like being here with you, though.”

You beamed. Bobby had lived in the town adjacent to yours before he moved, still in Montana, but with a different atmosphere. He often noted the differences, like how the cars here sputtered more and there was never quite enough shade. This, however, was all you had ever known. It was all you ever thought you could know. Your world ended after the big road that cut you off from the rest of society. Bobby made you want to wait for the day you could cross that road, in your own car that hopefully didn’t sputter, and see the world that he had known. “Me too. Most everyone is pretty great here, you’ll see. Just watch out for Brady, the one on the monkey bars. He might try to tease you.”

“Why would he?” Bobby questioned. He studied where you gestured, light eyes straining against the bright sun and wavy heat coming up from the asphalt.

You started on your sandwich, which was beginning to warm. You didn’t mind. “I dunno. He’s just like that, I guess.”

“He must be mean,” The boy beside you said, finishing off the last bite of his sandwich. He never chewed with his mouth open, you noticed. He kept it neat and tidy. “Anyone who picks on you has got to be.”

You felt your cheeks warm at his words, so you buried yourself into eating your sandwich. “Thanks. I hope he doesn’t pick on you, ‘cuz you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Bobby’s face turned a shade of red you had never seen on him, and suddenly the hand that was underneath yours was fidgeting against the wood of the bench. “You really think so?”

“I know so. You’re nice, and you let me play with your glasses. And you’re really good at climbing, even with your boot. And you make me feel good.”

The corners of his mouth tugged up impossibly high as he handed you his bag of Oreos. He liked sweets, sure, but he liked giving them to you more. He could sit there and watch you eat forever if it meant you smiled like you were doing now. “You make me feel good too, like I can’t stop being happy.”

“Ex-act-ly!” You punctuated each syllable with a little tap of your finger on the back of his hand. When he was around, you felt like you could fly. Every dandelion, 11:11, shooting star, fallen eyelash, they all went to trying to keep him in your life. Without you knowing, he did the same thing. “Oh, do you want to see what I drew during art time?”

The conversation carried on, although there are snippets you don’t remember. Something about the stray cat that you saw down at the creek and the field trip the older kids bragged about going on. Looking back on it, that era seems so far away that it could have been another life. You were so small then, so hurt, and so innocent. You just had your neighbor and dreams, both waking and asleep.

School continued, and you and Bobby began to fall into a sort of rhythm. You would pass notes to each other through Margaret, play hopscotch and four-square and wall ball until you were tired of running around, learn until you thought your brains would explode, and walk home, laughing and bright-eyed. Even Brady couldn’t dull the shine. Bobby was, surprisingly, a hard person to make fun of. Despite being quiet, he would puff up his chest and stand strong in the face of any adversity. Mostly, though, he stood up for you. He would pick up your books, help you turn scribbles into twisting dragons, and make you new flower crowns when Brady tried anything during recess. Bobby cared. In a sense, though neither of you knew what the word really meant, he loved you. So he took care of you, and you filled his life with so much wonder and joy that he wished he could be with you forever. It was like that for a long, long time.

The years came and went in elementary school. For once, you accepted every day that came to you as a new era, a new chance to prove to yourself that life is more than crumbling foundations. You experienced growth; you no longer waited for things to be over. Instead, incredibly, you anticipated each coming event, no matter what it was.

It took you a while to realize that Bobby was the catalyst of your change.

Your 5th grade promotion was a blur of smiles and hugs and tears from Bobby’s mom, coral colored fabric, and paper confetti. You posed for pictures, sang a song, and received a little certificate to display in some homegoods frame that most mothers buy. Other than that, it was just another day. You went home and played with Bobby some more, like you always did.

That certificate, crumpled and browned around the edges, is now sitting in a box, deep in your closet, paper-clipped to a photograph of you and Bobby. It rests against a snapped wishbone, one whose exact wish you have entirely forgotten, but it more than likely had to do with him. There is also a crushed penny, a number of birthday cards, and a wooden rose, among other things. It’s silly, you think, to keep them after so many years, but something in you begs to keep them safe. You suppose that you can’t be rid of every memory, not when the Floyds made so many good ones for you.

Middle school was another stage in your life, one that swirled your emotions while all you needed was stability. It wasn’t bad, per se, but it was the beginning of years of confusing feelings.

Bobby stopped being Bobby during the 1,095 days between elementary and high school. He wanted to be called Robert, and he combed his hair back, and his voice started cracking. He listened to rock and metal instead of whatever his mom found on the radio. He didn’t turn into a bad person like some of his peers, no, but he changed. You remember the first time he put in contacts instead of his big, thick-rimmed glasses.

You were sitting on the edge of his sink as he pulled his eye wide open, his fingers trembling slightly. “I can’t do it. I don’t want to poke my eye out,” he whined, setting the finger that held the contact down. “But I don’t want to wear glasses, either. I’m too old for that.”

He stared at you while you let out a short, stifled laugh. “Don’t laugh, I’m trying my best,” he groaned, but his mouth was curving into a smile, too—it just always happened when you laughed, like how he couldn’t help but smile at wedding bells.

“Can you even see what you’re doing?” You asked. You tapped the glass reflection to the side of you, sending out a soft clink. His vision had never been the best, but his optometrist just upped his prescription. He didn’t want to be seen with the thickness of the glass he was given, no, he wanted to “look cooler”. So there he was, with blurry vision and a nearly invisible contact balancing on the tip of his finger.

“Yeah.” He paused, considering his options, before looking down with a sigh. “No. I can see the blue, but I have no clue if my eyes are two inches or two millimeters away.” He sounded so disappointed that it sent a twinge of hurt through your heart. He liked dealing with problems on his own, namely so that no one else would have to go out of their way to help him, so that must have been a humbling experience for him.

“Let me guide you, then,” you chirped. “I’ll use your hand to put the contacts in so you can get a feel for where to stop next time.” You let the tips of your fingers brush over his hand, ghosting over the raised hairs just enough to let him sense it. Robert squinted at you.

You seemed like an angel perched on the tile counter. He couldn’t see the exactness of your details, like the curves of your lips, but you had a form that he could recognize anywhere. The shade of your hair, the sparkle in your eye. He would carry those memories for as long as he lived. What worried him was that he didn’t know exactly how far away from him you were sitting. So, because he didn’t trust himself to not miss his eyes, and because he trusted you like he trusted his heart to beat, he agreed. “Okay.”

You took his hand in yours, careful not to knock the precariously balanced contact off, and he widened his eyes. You weren’t sure if it was because of your touch or because he wanted to assist with the contact placement. You slowly brought his hand up, towards his eye, feeling his pulse under your fingers. His lips were pursed, a testament to his nervousness. He never did like things touching his eyes, but he would brave it until he unavoidably went back to glasses. With a gentle, caring motion, you helped him rest the contact on his eyeball. He flinched at the initial touch, but accepted it, blinking rapidly to shake off the contact solution. His eyes were pretty, you noticed. As messed up as they were, they had the most intoxicating shade, like a stormy ocean.

“Want the next one?” You were already unscrewing the contact holder as he nodded slowly. He closed the eye without a contact and gaped at you.

“I can see!”

“I think that’s what contacts are for,” you quipped. He pretended to roll his one eye, but you could see the humor bubbling up from within him. The lighting was nice, he thought. The way it shone around the edges of your hair was heavenly.

“Well, yeah. Could you help me with the other now?” He probably didn’t need much help this time, given that one half of him had 20/20 vision, but he liked feeling your hand on his. He liked being helped by you. It was a revelation for him, who had always been a bit of an independent spirit. Don’t get him wrong, he liked being around people, and as a kid he would clutch at his mother’s dresses, but he preferred to do certain things on his own. You changed that.

“Definitely.”

Things took a slight turn after that. School became harder, more work and less play. Your middle school was bigger than your previous school, so it came to no surprise to you that Robert made his own friends. Namely, he hung out with a tall, dark, curly-haired boy named Aaron and a shorter, sturdier, pale as snow boy named Samuel. They were alright, in your opinion. You liked Aaron much more. Sam became bossy and annoying when you let him ramble for too long, and though both Robert and Aaron were too polite to say, it annoyed them. It’s Aaron that you still talk to now, while Sam moved to upstate New York during your freshman year of high school.

The boys were not the most popular group in school, though you knew you weren’t either. But, to your surprise, your good friend Margaret was.

You didn’t really expect to become friends with her. She was loud, happy, excitable. She was always polite in elementary, but she truly took you under her wing as Robert started spending more time with his group. She introduced you to Sarah, Charlotte, Elizabeth, anyone that you could even remember the names of. And, along with her constant joviality, she wasn’t a bad friend.

The only problem was that she was deeply in love with Robert Floyd.

“You don’t even get it ‘cuz he’s like your brother at this point, but he’s gorgeous. He’s basically perfectly my type,” she sighed, falling back onto her plush pink bed. Her legs kicked up just a little, and her curls fanned out around her head like a halo. “I want to ask him out soooo bad. Do you think he’d like me? Wait, do you know if he’s a good kisser? That’s important, I think.” You threw the pillow you were holding on top of her face, and her laugh rang out like the chime of a bell. She was perfect. She deserved someone like Robert, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

You didn’t know why it hurt at the time. Just the idea of him dating someone else, holding hands with someone else, loving someone else, made you sick. You chalked it up to being jealous that eventually another person would take up your best friend’s heart. It was only much, much later that you realized you were in love with him, too.

Margaret tossed the pillow to the other side of her bed. “Really, you need to tell me.”

You gave a tight-lipped smile. “He'd like you, Margie. I mean, who wouldn’t?” Her smile was genuine. It hurt you to say, but you weren’t lying. You didn’t think you could ever lie about something like that.

“But is he a good kisser? Please, I need to know, I’m dying!” She prodded. You rolled your eyes, glancing up at the perfectly painted ceiling. Like everything about her, it was pristine.

“No idea. He’s never kissed anyone.” He could be good, maybe. Everything he did was soft and methodical, so just the idea of him capturing a person’s lips with his own, his calloused hand resting on the back of their head… no, you couldn’t think about it. Your eyes snapped to attention.

“I’ll have to change that.” Her tone was sing-songy, and to you, it sounded almost mocking. It couldn’t be, because neither of you knew your actual feelings, but it struck you the wrong way.

“I’m sure you will.”

Margaret tried everything to get closer to Robert. She flirted, she downloaded songs from his favorite bands, she begged and pleaded for you to invite him to every outing the two of you planned, and she talked to him constantly to try and worm her way into his heart. She never knew him like you did, though, and she hated it.

When it was just you and him, things were different. You were the only one he let call him “Bobby” and play with his fingers when you were nervous. He even let you ruffle his hair, despite him spending half an hour in his bathroom trying to get each strand to lay perfectly. He would open his closet and pull out his comic collection without a hint of embarrassment, and you and he read them together underneath a blanket tent in the middle of the night—after his parents started letting you sleep over, of course. They gave you both “the talk” before you spent your first night there, and Robert was rolling his eyes and blushing the whole time. He would never do that with you, he assured them. You were just friends.

Friends who ultimately ended up falling asleep on the same bed, paying no attention to the blow-up mattress on the floor of his room.

In any case, you tried to get Robert and Margaret together. The time you tried the hardest was the start of your seventh grade year, when Margie insisted that she needed a boyfriend before Christmas. You, being a good friend, invited them both to go to the mall a short drive away from your houses.

Margie’s mom drove, because she was always up for helping her daughter with her romantic interests. She knew about Robert, sending you and her daughter knowing smiles whenever he would politely answer Margie’s rapid-fire questions. You felt a little bad for the boy, who wasn’t used to so much attention.

The little car (too little, in your opinion; Margaret took the middle seat and was pressed against Bobby for the whole ride) finally arrived at the mall after a few minutes of slight awkwardness. You all stepped out, and Margie’s mom kissed her on the forehead and said she would be back in two hours on the minute. Two hours was a lot at that time.

Your friend immediately pointed out a clothing store, pulling you along to look at flouncy dresses and colorful tops. You could tell that it made Robert a bit uncomfortable, but he went in anyway. During your usual mall trips with him, the both of you made a beeline for the comic store, or simply shared some pretzels while walking and talking. It was only rarely that you wandered into the clothing stores, and most of the time, you just looked and walked back out. You never had the money on you to buy anything more than a volume or two of a comic. “These shorts are just perfect, don’t you think?” She asked you, but her eyes were staring pointedly at Robert.

“They’re nice,” you said. He nodded in silent agreement, slipping his hand into the pocket of his jacket. He didn’t ever really have an opinion on clothes. Someone could wear the most awful outfit and he’d shrug, offering the notion that people should wear what they want, while Sam laughed at the silly combination. Margie tore through the rest of the store, giving you hanger upon hanger of clothing to hold while she rifled through the racks. Robert trailed behind.

Just as the weight of the tops you were holding on your left arm accumulated into a painful soreness, you spotted something out of the corner of your eye. It was a dress.

Robert silently grabbed the clothes from you, following your line of sight. The dress was as close to perfect as a dress had ever been to you. The color, some variation of your favorite, complemented the tone of your skin perfectly when you held your arm up to it. The cut, the stitching, the little details sewn on—it was gorgeous. As you reached out to touch it, Margie squealed.

“That dress! I need it, grab it for me, would you?”

You hesitated. It was the only one like it on the rack. Instinctively, you glanced back at Robert, and he had this confusing expression on his face that you had only seen once or twice; furrowed brows, tight lips, and a burning in his eyes. You looked away and took the dress down.

You probably wouldn’t be able to afford it. Checking the tag, you were right: thirty-eight dollars. Even after doing yard work and tutoring the little boy down the street, you hadn’t been able to keep that sort of sum. “Thanks,” she purred, “I’m gonna try everything on now. Wanna watch the fashion show?”

A part of you didn’t. You were envious, glowing green at the amount of things she could pick up without even checking the tag, but as a good, people-pleasing friend, you pushed it aside. So, you followed her past the door of the spacious dressing room while Robert waited outside with the clothes that didn’t fit into the ten item dressing room limit.

She looked stunning in every outfit, but she threw most of the pieces off with a frustrated sigh. The waist wasn’t cinched enough, or the color clashed with her hair, or the pant legs were too short to cascade over the top of her shoes like she wanted. If you had the money, you didn’t think you would care.

Then came time for the dress. It was one of the last things that she tried on, and she slipped it back over her head almost immediately after putting it on. “It just doesn’t work for my figure,” she muttered.

You picked it off the floor gingerly, holding it up to yourself in the mirror. “Can I try it on?” You asked. She lit up with surprise, a happy glint dancing in her grin.

“Of course! Go ahead.”

You undressed in the corner and stepped into the dress. Margie helped you smooth it out and fasten it just right, her fingers ghosting over your shoulder blades. When you looked in the mirror, your jaw almost fell open.

It hugged you perfectly, the length stopping just where you assumed it was meant to stop. It was casual enough to be worn normally, but it had that fancy touch that made it suited for a romantic dinner date or uppity party. You almost looked like royalty. You could just imagine it, waving to crowds with a slow hand from a horse-drawn carriage. Bobby would be beside you, as always, and Margie and Aaron in the carriage behind you. Sam would be dealing with the horses.

You were shaken out of your thoughts by a faint knock on the door. “Hey, are you guys ready? There’s a bit of a line out here,” came Robert’s voice. Margie was dressed by that point, so you opened the door, still clad in the dress.

“I just gotta change out of this and then we’ll be ready.” You gave a small twirl, and Robert choked on air. “It’s too expensive, but it’s nice to dream,” you said with a small grin. You didn’t know if it reached your eyes or not, but you knew the boy wouldn’t call you out for it. Not in public, at least.

You looked beautiful. That’s all that he could see, all that he could fathom. You slipped back into the dressing room, and he was left stunned.

Before anything else, though, you looked happy in the dress. Sad that you had to leave it, but it made you happy. Robert was nothing if not a sucker for seeing you happy.

Your group finally checked out after a few minutes of the cashier ringing up Margie’s clothes. It was nearing the end of your mall trip, but you managed to visit the comic store and pick up a bite to eat along the way. At some point, while you were flipping through a comic book, Robert slipped away and returned with a grocery bag. It was something his mom wanted him to pick up, he said, and you didn’t feel the need to question him. You just mumbled a conversation starter into Margie’s ear and slipped away as she excitedly whipped around to relay it to him.

She never did win him over. She tried and tried, and you helped and helped, but it seemed he didn’t have an eye for her.

Everything came to a sort of explosion near Christmas. The ground was powdered with a thick blanket of snow, the trees were bare, save for dripping ice, and houses put out beautiful, twinkling lights. There were even singing decorations from your neighbor to the left. When you breathed, the air would puff out in gentle clouds. It was, in essence, a perfect, picturesque winter. It was also one of your favorite times of the year.

Your mom always made an effort during the winter months. She came home earlier to hide in the bathroom, trying to muffle the sounds of wrapping paper and scissors. In the morning, you would see the fruits of her labor tucked under your little plastic tree. It wasn’t perfect, but she wanted you to experience some sort of joyful Montana holiday. You also spent more time indoors, snickering with Robert in the library or blowing on sweet hot cocoa by his crackling fire. It was times like these that you really felt at home.

His family knew about your situation. They didn’t make your mom feel like a villain, no, but they knew she was struggling, and they did their very best to help you out. That’s why you were bundled up on their couch on one frigid day, when Robert came home with a pinched frown.

He wasn’t mad, exactly. You had never known him to be mad. But he was uncomfortable in a way that made you want to throw your blanket over him and make him whisper his troubles to you.

“What’s wrong?” You asked. He wasn’t surprised to see you in his home—he never was. He sat down next to you with a heavy sigh.

“Margaret asked if I wanted to date her,” he murmured, throwing his head back against the couch cushions. This piqued your interest. You knew something like this would happen eventually, but you didn’t expect him to be so uneasy about it. Margie had been talking about asking him out for ages, and you just smiled and nodded. Her bright, bubbly personality was a large contrast to his, but you figured that opposites attracted. He had never shown a hint of distaste at being around her. No distaste that you had seen, at least.

You looked at him, confusion creasing your face. “What did you say?” Maybe it was just the wrong time. If he were to crush on anyone, it would be her, not that he had ever talked about his crushes to you. That seemed like something he would only tell Aaron, despite you being his closest friend.

“I said no. I just… I don’t like her like that.” His voice came out as an almost groan as he rubbed at his eyes. He turned his head to rest it on your shoulder. The weight sent a heavy warmth through you, but you were still so bewildered that it hardly even registered.

“I thought you would. Did she do something wrong?”

He shook his head, looking up at you, and then back down at the fire blazing away in his fireplace. Slowly, he wrapped your blanket around himself, as well, sharing your heat to ward off the cold. “No, she’s nice, but I don’t feel that way about her.” You still didn’t get it. If you were him, you would jump at the chance to date her. She was pretty, funny, and her family was well off. However, something in you uttered that it takes more than that to make someone love you. And that something was a bit happy, because Robert rejecting Margie meant that you could have him all to yourself again.

“Oh,” you breathed. “Do you feel that way about anyone else?”

That question breached the sanctity of your relationship in a way. You had never asked him about his love life, and he had never asked about yours. It was unspoken. You knew, deep in your heart, that if he asked you, you wouldn’t be able to say anyone’s name but his.

His face was tinged with red. It was hard to see, but you knew it was there. “I dunno.”

You lapsed into a subdued silence, not knowing whether to press forward or not. You decided on the latter, just listening to the near-silent spitting of the fireplace. You knew that Margie wouldn’t be happy, and you would get an earful over the phone that night, but you knew that, like all things, this would pass.

Bobby would be your closest confidant for another Christmas.

You were right when you assumed that Margie wouldn’t take it well. You spent night after night listening to her laments, rubbing a soothing pattern on her back as she cried. You didn’t even know if she was upset that Robert didn’t like her or if she was upset that she got rejected, but you gave her a listening ear no matter what. The calls and in-person interactions only ceased when she went to spend the week of Christmas with her family in Utah.

You, naturally, spent most of your time with Robert. For the entirety of winter break, it was just you and him, which was something that hadn’t happened since elementary school. It gave you a chance to think about things—your feelings in particular.

You slowly realized that you didn’t want to just be his friend. You didn’t know it was love, not yet at least, but your heart beat faster when he was around, and you felt the need to keep him around for as long as possible. It was something further than platonic. A crush, maybe, that was only furthered by the events of Christmas day.

You spent the rare morning with your mother, who had been given a single day off by her boss. It was odd to have her around to make breakfast, not smelling of the bar, and humming around a piece of toast. “It’s almost ready, honey. Why don’t you start on the presents while we wait?” Her voice was only slightly muffled by her food. You nodded silently and pulled out one of the three little gifts wrapped up under the tree. Two from her to you, and one from you to her. It didn’t disappoint you to not receive the dozens of wrapped boxes that your friends did; from a young age, you had realized that any gift at all was precious. You slipped your fingers beneath the wrapping paper and pulled the taped folds away gently, careful not to rip them.

As you unfolded the creases, the box underneath revealed itself to you. It was a shoebox, and within were a pair of shoes that you had been eyeing for a while now. Your face lit up with surprise. She had really remembered? “Thank you, mom.” You grinned. She laughed, turning the heat off from under the scrambled eggs she was tending to.

“I’m not a bad gift giver, hm?” she hummed, sitting down next to you. You pushed the gift that you wrapped for her into her grasp, and she looked down at it with a guilty expression. “I didn’t notice you got anything for me, sweet thing. I’m sorry. I don’t want to be the type of mom that doesn’t deserve a Christmas gift.”

You took her hands off of the present and wrapped them around your shoulders, her normally cold fingers giving off a soft heat. “You aren’t. You do your best, mama, and I love you all the same.” You couldn’t bring yourself to be mean to her when she had spent an important part of her paycheck on you. It was true, that she did all she could think to do, but some part of you wanted her to be better. You still hoped that she could pull herself together and make breakfast for you every day, so you wouldn’t have to microwave pizza pockets or slump over to Robert’s house for a bite to eat. But you were her child, not Georgia Floyd’s, and hoping and wishing couldn’t change that. You had come to terms with it when you saw her watery eyes undoing your sloppy wrapping.

It was a jewelry tree that she said she wanted nearly five months ago. It was expensive, sapping your meager funds, but you knew it would make her happy.

Your mother was one for jewelry and pleasantries, when pleasantries were made to be found. You figured that she liked to feel fancy, with glass diamonds and greening gold. It was the best gift you could think to give her.

She looked up at you as tears began to stream down her face. She wiped them away hastily. “Thanks, baby. I appreciate you more than you know, more than I could ever tell you.”

Your next gift was a book you had wanted for a while but could never seem to find at the library. You thanked her profusely, and spent the next half hour eating with her and talking. Like normal families do. Normal families with normal moms. You could almost picture a man, your father, coming in from the cold outside with the mail in his hands. A roaring fire, a sibling, a pet. Maybe a beagle like Bobby had. But the illusion was shattered when she pulled herself up and wrapped her scarf around her neck, muttering apologetically about having to pick up a Christmas shift after all as she hugged you close. You needed the money, she said. That didn’t make it hurt any less.

Nearly as soon as she left, there was a quiet knock on your door. You opened it slowly, not excited about hearing from the Jehovah’s Witness that frequented your neighborhood. Instead of him was Robert. And he was carrying a gift bag.

“Hi,” he blurted, “this is for you. Merry Christmas.” He handed you the bag, careful not to put his foot through the threshold of your house. You opened the door wider, a pleasant grin spreading onto your face.

“Come in, I have something for you too.”

He hesitated. He had never been inside your house before. You had never explicitly told him he wasn’t allowed, but you usually had some excuse as to why he couldn’t stay over. Over the years, he had learned to just stop looking past the barely cracked-open door and pull you away to his place instead. But, with your insistence, he breached the unknown.

Your house wasn’t as furnished or comfortable as his, but it didn’t really matter. There were two brooms laid against the kitchen wall and a dustpan between them, and your small couch had a tear on the seam. The cabinets didn’t exactly close right, and your faucet leaked. Other than that, it was a normal house. He marveled at a picture of you and your mom stuck to the fridge with a magnet, with the edges folded over like it used to be in a frame. You let him wander for a minute or two before pulling him into your bedroom.

It was completely and utterly you. Books, comics, and little craft projects filled much of the shelf next to your bed, and the sheets were messily crumpled on your mattress. You had a little closet and a mirror that rested against it, slightly smudged with fingerprints. There was even a poster from some movie you liked hung above your headboard. You opened your closet and pulled a small wrapped parcel out from the depths.

You handed it to him with a shy look. “I hope you like it.”

As he took the gift from you, he could feel a significant heft to the package. “I’d like anything if it was from you. It’s the thought that counts, right?” He sat on the edge of your bed as you nodded slowly. You were still a little worried that he wouldn’t be happy, but you knew him. He would thank you profusely if you had wrapped him a lump of coal. He might have even displayed it proudly on his shelf. The thought was enough to have you stifling a laugh. “You should open yours first.”

You obliged, pulling out the tissue paper delicately. Your fingers closed in around something soft, like fabric. Through the gaps of your hands, you could see your favorite color. Your heart leaped out of your chest. “Is this…?”

Bobby nodded, beaming. You took the article of clothing out fully and almost cried at the sight.

It was the dress you had wanted at the mall. The one that had fit you perfectly, and the one that Margie had almost taken from you. You hugged it to your chest. “Thank you, Bobby, thank you. I love it so much.” Your voice was quiet, brimming with emotion. He just opened his arms, and you dove into them, the both of you uncaring of the tear marks that would form on his thick jacket. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” You exclaimed, louder this time, but still muffled by his chest. He just laughed and pulled you in closer.

“You’re welcome, you’re welcome, you’re welcome.”

That meant more to you than anything else could have. Not only did he notice what you liked, he bought it when you couldn’t. It was more than just a gift.

Robert would’ve given up his entire stash of money, carefully tucked away in his dresser drawer, to make you react like that. It was no contest.

He opened his gift next and had to scrub the wetness away from his own eyes. It was a model plane; more specifically, a version of the Super Hornet. The plane he had heard about entering service years ago, and the plane that he dreamed of flying. He ran his hands along the wings in wonder. “It’s perfect.” He choked out. “Thank you. I’m gonna put it on my shelf as soon as I get home.” You knew he would say something like that, but that doesn’t stop you from feeling good.

He stayed for a bit, after that, talking to you about anything and everything, as you usually do. It was nice to see him lying on your bed, staring up at your ceiling. And it was nice to have this sort of alone time with him. When he reached up to pick a piece of fuzz off of your shirt, you almost melted in place. You never thought your heart could beat that fast.

After he left, you felt your joy walk out the door behind him. All you could think was that you couldn’t wait to see him again.

You never had to wait long.

The rest of middle school went by fairly quickly, as did Margaret’s sadness. She got over her affections before moving on to the next poor sap, dragging you along with her. After eighth grade, she would always mention how nice Aaron looked in his church clothes and how pretty his eyes were. Not having to worry about someone taking Bobby away from you was just another weight off of your shoulders. You also grew a lot during that time, physically and mentally. You were taller, happier, bigger, stronger. It was in part due to Rob, as he liked to be called sometime during your freshman year, and in part due to your mother finally going to rehab.

You didn’t know it was rehab. You didn’t know much at that age, not of yourself or other people, so it was just one more thing to add to the list. She just told you that you would have to stay at Rob’s for a few months, and they accepted your presence with kindness. His mom seemed to look at you sadly during that time. You chose to ignore it, focusing on how grateful you were to have a home while your mother was away.

High school was better. Much better, in your opinion. You felt like things were finally coming together.

You had a small, quaint, stable friend group, consisting of you, Margaret, Rob, and Aaron. They were fun. You didn’t think you could enjoy going to football games or pep rallies until they were there with you, cheering and joyful. Even studying was full of inside jokes and nudging each other with your elbows until the flashcards were forgotten and the air was thick with laughter. You started to enjoy your classes, too, because you had a clearer goal in your mind. You were going to apply to your city’s college and room with Margie, considering you both got in. So you threw yourself into school with full force, hoping that your future would be just as great.

Rob wasn’t planning on going to your college. He hadn’t told you, not yet, but he was applying to the Naval Academy. He was finally going to achieve his dreams, even if he felt endless guilt about leaving you to be on your own. He didn’t want to lose you, but the temptation of the sky drew him in until he couldn’t escape the magnetizing force.

The first year was, other than a few football games and watching Margie perform in the school play, relatively uneventful.

Dungeons and Dragons began to reign supreme as your group’s favorite pastime, although Margaret didn’t quite understand the story that Aaron concocted. To her credit, she tried. She played an elvish ranger with long flowing hair and a past of tortured princesshood, while you decided on a sweet halfling druid, and Rob a powerful human wizard. Nothing was more fun than losing yourself entirely to the tale, drawn in by Aaron’s dark voice impressions and the little figures that danced across the map he drew. It was a more grown-up form of playing pretend, and you were entranced by every second of every session.

By the time your mother returned home, fidgety yet quiet, you had established a nice sort of life. You moved back to your house, bittersweetly thanking Rob’s family for taking you in, and you spent the rest of the school year and the summer that followed with her.

She was different. She wasn’t like she was prior to the drinking or during the drinking, but a new person entirely, like she shed every part of herself and started fresh. She slept in, but got ready for work as you were walking out the door. She cooked, but with a tremor in her hand that was never present before. There were no more midnight rampages, but you got the feeling that she didn’t fall into her bed until very late hours. It was odd, at best, but like always, she did what she could with what she had. You continued to support her every step of the way.

Starting your sophomore year was less exciting than transitioning to a whole new school, and the nerves that had preceded every other year had faded into the background. You were more sure of yourself. Still naive, but there was some confidence in your step. The classes were tough, but you were tougher. Of course, the people who picked on you in the past were still jerks, but it was nothing you weren’t already used to.

You finished the year with a smile on your face and a finger linked with each of your friends.

Summer was the same as it always was. Fun, lazy, anything you wanted to make of it. You and the rest of the group frequented the lake closest to Aaron’s house, as his older brother was no stranger to driving you around in the car he had fixed up the summer previous. It was during one of those trips that you discovered quite a few things about the people around you.

Margaret was splashing around in the lake, completely unfazed by the freezing water. Well, she was fazed at the beginning, but she quickly adapted. “Come in, it’s so nice!” she called, flicking a drop of water towards you. You blocked it with the edge of your towel, not keen on getting your book wet.

“Later, I’m still reading,” you grumbled. Rob was perched behind you, reading over your shoulder as the pages flipped. You had just returned from the water and were trying to wait out the little kids that were flailing around in the shallows.

She made a face until she spotted that Aaron was also out of the water. Shrugging, she stepped closer to the shore, and tugged on his arm. That action sent him stumbling into the lapping waves, to her delight.

He let out an indistinct shout before resigning himself to being wet once again. “Warn me next time, geez! I could’ve died,” he moaned, pushing a wave of water straight into Margie’s face. She just laughed in delight.

You ignored the two as you worked on your book, delving further into the story of a girl on a mountain, traversing through the thick forest in an attempt to wake her comatose father. Rob read right along with you, keeping your pace perfectly. You never needed to ask him when he wanted you to turn the pages—it was like your eyes read at the same speed, your brains processing the same things. Among other things, that was convenient.

The air began to grow colder as you began the second-to-last chapter, the sun casting longer and longer shadows. It wasn’t evening quite yet, but the blazing afternoon sun had softened. You looked up with a start. It had clearly been a couple hours, but where were the other two members of your group?

You turned around to face Rob. “Have you seen Aaron and Margie recently?”

He quickly scanned the area with a slight look of panic sewn into his features. The lake was empty, the shore was clear of visitors, and even the sky was barren. “No, but we really need to find them before Marcus comes back with the car.” They were simply gone. “Here, why don’t you stay with our stuff and I’ll go look?” he suggested, standing to wipe the gravel off his shorts.

“I don’t want to split up.” You were wary of the quiet, unsure if something would come out of the land around you and take you, too. “We can hide the bags in that dry spot under the dock and come back for them later.”

He just nodded in agreement, taking the larger share of your things and helping you conceal them within the rocks and overgrown water weeds. The two of you then set off to find your friends, calling their names into the sound of sloshing water and twittering birds.

It was almost twenty minutes later when you began to hear someone sniffling and a distinctly feminine voice trying to calm them down. Margie and Aaron. You and Rob looked at each other, then swiftly moved towards them.

Aaron was crouched down in the middle of a little clearing, his head in his hands. Margie was sitting and whispering to him, something you couldn’t quite make out. You had never heard her whisper before. It didn’t matter, though, because they quickly spotted you.

“Guys, I’m not sure it’s a good-”

“No, it’s okay.” Aaron cut Margaret off. “They can hear it.”

You dropped to your knees to get on their level, Rob quickly following suit. “What happened?” you asked, gently reaching out to brush Aaron’s hand. His face was slick with tears, his normally neat hair lopsided like he had tried to run his fingers through the thick coils.

He hesitated, slightly, but Margie patted him encouragingly. “Margie told me how she felt.”

Okay, another confession within the friend group. That wouldn’t explain the running away or the crying, at least not him crying, so what else? Rob spoke up, voice restrained. “How did that make you feel?”

“Bad,” he muttered, looking up at the girl with guilt in his brown eyes. “Not because I don’t like her, but because I can’t.” His voice trailed off into muffled sobs once again as he sunk into Margie’s arms.

Oh. You exchanged glances with Rob.

That wasn’t exactly news to you, but you had never been able to voice your suspicions out loud. It just made sense. Margie liked Aaron, and Aaron didn’t like girls. He didn’t even have to explain fully, you and Rob just hugged his shaking form.

There was a very hushed, heartfelt talk after that. The fact of the matter was, you and your friends loved Aaron, and that was just a new fact about him for you to love. It also surprised you a little.

You knew you would be okay with it, but Rob and Margie grew up with you. They knew your area and the opinions that floated around. You never expected them to be hateful, no, but putting aside the thoughts that were so instilled in your hometown would be difficult for anyone lesser than them. It showed you that your friends wouldn’t dream of hurting the people around them, the people they loved.

When anyone, you included, presented the group with a new side of them, they were accepted with open arms.

Junior year was tougher than the previous. Your rocks remained by your side, but certain people pulled at the strings binding your sanity like a child with a ball of yarn. One of those people ended up being Brady, who after a couple years of a mild hiatus, began making fun of you more than ever.

He was in all the same rigorous classes as you and your friends, leading him to be able to torture you during lessons. In addition to that, his last name was similar enough to yours for him to be placed behind you in most of those classes.

The vast majority of the torture involved stealing your belongings, throwing things at the back of your head, making fun of your looks, hobbies, anything, and passing you notes that read like a stupid teenage boy’s jeers. Sexual innuendos, frankly abhorrent pick up lines, and gross questions crumpled under your fist almost every day.

You tried to tell the teachers, the principal, anyone that would listen, but they all said the same thing: boys will be boys. Brady was too good of a student and too important of an athlete to punish. Hell, the most he got for cutting off a section of your hair was a verbal warning. Every day, you and your friends got closer and closer to punching him in the face. None of them liked him, for good reason, but even their protection couldn’t fully stop him. Everything exploded in the spring, right before your junior prom.

You sat at your desk during your English lecture, desperately trying to pay attention to your teacher who was droning on and on about The Great Gatsby. You shifted your leg a bit, just enough to feel a piece of paper pressing into the underside of your thigh. You pulled it out, confused.

It was a thick, decorated section of stationery with a few words scrawled on it in cursive. It read, “Meet me by the gym after school,” signed by someone who called themselves your secret admirer. You looked down at the prose. It didn’t look like Brady’s handwriting, something you were quite sure of. But who else would’ve written it? You tucked it in your pocket, not wanting to decide whether or not to go right then and there.

You did end up going, which was your biggest mistake. You sat on the edge of a planter near the entrance of the gym, picking at the seam of your shirt. It wasn’t long before everyone who had gym class last period filed out of the school, leaving you utterly alone. It also wasn’t long before Brady appeared, walking towards you like he was on a mission.

You stood up, poised to leave if he did anything other than walk right on by. Unfortunately for you, he held up a hand as if to tell you to wait. “Hey,” he grinned, “you got my note?”

You paused. “Your note?” You didn’t think he even knew how to write in cursive, much less make it as neat as it was on the stationary. You wouldn’t be surprised if he paid one of the artsy girls to write it for him.

“Yeah.” He stared down at you. There was a gleam in his eye that you didn’t like. “I wanted to ask you to prom.”

Prom? He wanted to ask you to prom? You were baffled. There were a million better fitting people at his disposal, ones that didn’t hate him with a passion. He had made your life hell that year, and multiple years previous to that. You almost scoffed at his words.

“Well, I would rather you didn’t.” You said. You turned to leave, but his hand caught your wrist in a vice-like grip. His eerily green eyes burned holes into yours.

“What, you’re just going to leave? After leading me on for so many years, playing hard to get?”

You were stunned. You weren’t aware you were playing anything. Everything he did just seemed mean, and you responded to it like any victim of bullying would. You just balked, uttering a quiet “huh?” when he wouldn’t let go. Try as you might, you couldn’t break his grip as he ranted about you being so obviously into him. He even tried to pull you closer, until two familiar hands grabbed his arm and shoved him back.

It was Rob, and he was furious. “What the fuck? Leave her alone,” he snapped, forcing himself into the gap between you and Brady. You rarely heard him curse, and you had never seen him as mad as that. Brady just rolled his eyes with a psychotic little laugh.

“Oh my god, did you think I was actually into your little girlfriend? Shove off, dude. I was joking. Who in their right mind would want that thing hanging off them in public?” he scoffed. You couldn’t tell if he was serious about anything right then. He was contradicting himself constantly. If the prom thing was a joke, was he just making fun of you again? Or if the prom thing was serious, was he deflecting? Your mind was reeling, and you just wanted to sit down and get your head straight. The place where Brady had grabbed you was pulsing, sure to form a bruise during the night.

Rob said something you didn’t remember before he put a protective hand on your shoulder and ushered you away. All you could hear was laughter, Brady’s and a couple other boys’. You didn’t even see the other boys arrive, and if they were there the whole time, you weren’t aware. The whole walk of shame just felt like a fever dream, with you fading in and out of reality until Rob sat you down on the edge of his mattress. You couldn’t even tell how you got there. Rob tilted your face towards him, concerned, and you realized you were crying.

“Don’t let him get to you.” His voice was soothing, like he was speaking to a scared puppy. “He was just being an asshole.”

“Did you hear everything?” You sounded pathetic, but you didn’t care.

Rob shook his head. “When I came over, he was in the middle of some spiel. I was just on my way to lacrosse practice before I saw you.” Ah, yes, he was in lacrosse. And he was usually early. The things you remembered after dissociating continued to surprise you. He wiped the tears off your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

He hated seeing you like that. Brady didn’t deserve to make you cry. No one did, not even yourself. He wanted to pull you under his covers and let you sigh into his shirt, like always. He wanted you to forget about everything and just hold on to him.

You wrung your hands in your lap, trying desperately to process everything. The situation was just so… bizarre. You didn’t know what to believe, but at the end of the day, you figured it didn’t matter. Brady will be Brady. Out of nowhere, you started to laugh. Rob’s eyes widened, but he cracked a smile too.

You devolved into cackles on his bed, with him doubled over next to you. Hysterics, some might say. But it was all you could think to do at the time, all your tired mind could handle at the moment. Of course, you talked about it after, but the laughter was the key to getting you through the situation.

You had waited all your life for a big confession of love, and your “first one” went to shit immediately. Luckily, like always, Rob was there to pick up the pieces.

Prom came and went without another word from Brady. Instead of going to the dance, however, you and your friends spent the night at a diner. The place had a playplace definitely designed and designated for little kids, but that didn’t stop you from climbing up the sides and playing a good old game of tag. You were winded by the end, a cramp crawling its way down your side, but it was more fun than sitting around a bowl of punch would be. The dances were never your thing, anyway.

Both Margie and Aaron had a curfew as the night marched towards 10:00, but you decided to go back to Rob’s house for a movie or two. He could drive, and it was the most amazing excuse for him to ferry everyone everywhere. He never minded. So you got in his car, and he let you choose the music, and you talked the whole way home.

As you finally arrived, your voices fell to hushed whispers. His family was more than likely asleep—save for his brother, who was spending his first year in college on campus. Rob locked the door and fumbled for the TV remote in the near-darkness as you thumbed through his DVD collection.

There wasn’t much selection. His family encouraged spending time with each other instead of spending time staring at a screen, so their DVDs consisted of old children’s films, a few action movies, and The Princess Bride. You had seen every one of them countless times, but the action movies more so. Frankly, you were tired of Men in Black and The Terminator, so you pulled out The Princess Bride. It was his sister’s favorite, but you liked it enough.

Rob raised his eyebrows at the selection but accepted it, popping the disc into the player and tugging a blanket over your body, already nice and comfortable on the couch.

The first few times you watched movies together, Bobby would be silent. He stared at the screen with rapt attention, losing himself in the plot and acting. Over time, as you both learned to remember each twist and even a few distinct lines, you started talking while the movie played. It went from movie discussion to just anything, with the film serving as background noise to your conversation. A bit of you wondered why you didn’t just pause the video or talk somewhere else, but it was familiar, and somehow far better than conversing in silence. This time, you were discussing how far you could go in your friendship before Rob would stop metaphorically saying “as you wish”.

“I feel like you would say no if I, like, asked if I could pick your nose. Which I wouldn’t do, but you wouldn’t let me, right?”

He considered it for a moment, shrugging noncommittally. “If I had a reason to believe there was something in it, I might.” You scrunched your nose in response, shaking your head to the thought of it.

“Well, I’m not sticking my finger up there any time soon.” You pushed his face away from yours with your finger, pressing lightly into his forehead. He fell back, settling into the couch cushions.

“Thank god. I really think I’d let you do anything, though.”

You sat up, following him onto his side of the couch. There was a playful smile on your lips. “Anything?”

He nodded, face flushed in the dim lighting. He blushed so easily at the slightest provocation—it would be funny if you hadn’t already teased him for it hundreds of times. “That’s fair. I’d probably let you do anything too, but within reason.”

He tensed, eyes flicking across your face. He seemed like he was considering something. He had a concentrated look on his face, weighing the pros and cons. You had seen that face numerous times in the past, but right now, it confused you. Before he could think any better of it, and before he could get in his head about his newfound impulsivity, he opened his mouth. “Is kissing you within reason?”

You paused. Don’t get ahead of yourself, you thought. It’s for the sake of the conversation. Right? It wasn’t like he thought about kissing you as much as you thought about kissing him. He was just so handsome, every day, all the time. It only got better with the years developing his features. It wasn’t like he had a major crush on you, too. “Sure.”

“Then…” His gaze dropped to your lips. He was hesitating, like you were going to shove him away and call him disgusting. But it was finally happening, and your heart beat faster and faster in your chest.

“As you wish.”

Your lips connected, and his hand cradled the back of your head. It was like nothing you had ever experienced before.

Warm, soft, a bit of teeth, but that didn’t matter. You felt like you were flying. Your dream finally came true—the one where you had his loving touch, where you melted into his arms like he would be able to hold you together. You prayed to anyone that would listen to never let you wake up.

When you pulled away, Rob’s face was red and dazed. He could hardly believe that he did that, and that you let him. He had been harboring so many feelings, ones that he himself had only realized in middle school. He tried everything to deny them, to push them to the side, because he didn’t think he could make you as happy as you deserved. But he couldn’t deny himself enough to not kiss you, not when you looked so perfect, lit up by the television screen. He was a strong person, but not that strong.

You were utterly flustered. A short silence filled the air for a moment before you opened your mouth, closed it, and then opened it again to speak. “So…”

“Can I be your boyfriend?” He blurted. That was quick. “I know it’s… weird, but I really love you, and I have for a while.” He looked away shyly, blue eyes pointed towards anything but you.

“Yeah. I’d like that,” you smiled.

Your school year finished with an absolute flourish. You had a boyfriend for once. Margie was delighted when she found out.

She squealed so loudly that you thought she would collapse the walls of her room, her hands immediately finding a place on your shoulders to shake you. “You and Rob, oh, I knew it! You’re perfect together.” She had matured so much after middle school, and the thought made your lips curl up into a smile.

Telling Aaron was easier. He looked at you with a knowing smile and then nodded, satisfied that you had both pulled your heads out of your asses long enough to realize you were in love with each other. As Margie was your victim while you were contesting your feelings, he was Rob’s. He knew that everything would work out better than any of you.

Bobby didn’t quite know how to go about informing his family, so he decided on inviting you over for dinner and giving a whole, uninterrupted speech about how he wanted to let them know that you were more than just a friend now. His little sister, Jodie, just rolled her eyes and said, “We know.” He reddened under their laughter, but his hand was firm in holding yours under the table.

Your mom was the person you were most worried about. She liked Rob, but you had never really been able to talk to her about those things. In the end, you casually dropped it during a conversation, she made some little comment about it, and you moved on. It wasn’t much of a big deal.

After the initial reactions, your relationship with him didn’t change much. You still did everything together, and you still spent hours talking with him, but there were a few sneaky kisses in between words and a few instances of hand-holding. It was heaven.

Despite you having a similar dynamic, it felt more real, like you weren’t skirting around a touchy subject anymore. You were fully immersed in said subject, and Rob was the perfect accomplice.

You knew him to be kind, gentle, and smart, but everything was amplified tenfold over the summer before your senior year. He held you with a special determination, never hiding how much he loved you through touch alone. He pulled you away from Brady whenever he approached, letting you hold his hand instead of looking at him. You saw a side of him that he kept carefully locked away.

He never left behind his love of comics and flying, but he let you in on those secrets. He finally told you that he was applying to the Naval Academy (which you realized was the reason he was spending so much time at the gym, and why he was an Eagle Scout, and captain of the lacrosse team, etc. etc.), and even though he was worried that you would react badly, you tried to support him. It lifted a kind of weight off of his shoulders and let him be fully honest with you about everything.

You had never been in a better place. He kissed you, brought you flowers, held your hand, and walked on the outside of the sidewalk. A gentleman, as he always had been.

One of your favorite memories during that time was when he took you out to eat with his first ever paycheck. It wasn’t any place particularly fancy, as he worked a minimum wage job flipping burgers, but it was special all the same.

Rob was dressed in a polo, hair smoothed and combed (which was a whole lot better than his style in middle school, in your opinion), and glasses perched on his nose. He had taken to wearing them again as he hated getting dry eyes while working out. And, man, did he work out. He was getting a bit big for his clothing, his arms pushing against the fabric of his shirt, and chest noticeably straining against the cloth. You pulled your eyes away from his body, face a little warm when you noticed he noticed.

For once, you didn’t know what to talk about. It was your first real, proper date, and the pressure left your mouth dry. You drummed your fingers on the table before deciding to end the tension. “Do you remember when we first met?”

He blinked, but smiled fondly at the memory. “Yeah. I still had that big cast, and you didn’t have any shoes on. I was jealous, you know,” he laughed lightly, “you got to feel the ground with both your feet.”

He reached out to take your hand, but stopped just short of your digits. You closed the gap and linked your fingers. “I was jealous that you had a cast with signatures on it. Apparently breaking a bone was cool to me, until I realized it meant you couldn’t go splash in the creek or roll down a hill.”

“That was awful. I think I cried once because I couldn’t chase a newt into the water.”

“And I had to sit by the edge of the stream and hold your glasses so you could wipe your eyes!” It was like yesterday for you, hand resting on his shoulder and mouth whispering soothing words until he could pick his glasses from your outstretched hand. He didn’t cry often, but you supposed that particular day took a toll on him in a way that you could not recall.

“You’ve always been great at comforting me.”

“I haven’t done it in a while, though. Hey, maybe you should get that boot back so I can see if I still have the magic touch,” you teased. He shook his head vigorously.

“Are you kidding me? I never want to see another medical boot again.” He paused. “Well, actually, it wouldn’t be so bad if you were there. Y’know, for moral support.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you as it formed a smile. “For sure. I would dote on you—cucumbers on your eyes, a warm towel wrapping your hair, anything you want. Maybe I could even carry you down to the creek and find a few newts for you.”

“Carry me? You would probably break your back.” he scoffed, somewhat shyly. You didn’t even know a person could scoff shyly, but he was the king of consistency; he did everything with that little bashful tilt of his head.

“You never know. I’ve gotten pretty strong lately.”

“Show me sometime, then we can discuss the ‘carrying me down to the creek’ thing.”

“...give me a few more years and we’ll see.”

You talked about memories for hours upon end, until the restaurant workers had to gently push you out the door. The time you accidentally ate a fly while swinging, and he consoled you as you washed your mouth out a million times. When Margie accidentally left you two locked in her closet because she didn’t want her parents to make you leave. Even when Rob’s parents sat you down and said it would be okay with them if you two dated—which was met with outward disgust and internal hope. Throughout the reminiscence, his hand was held tightly in yours, and his eyes sometimes watered. It took everything in you to not sob at the idea of not being able to form these kinds of memories with him. It was kind of your last-ditch effort to truly be with him, in a way that no one else could be, before school started up again. You knew that soon, you would be stuck in class, and after that… after that, there were but a few brief weeks until he had to leave. You hadn’t been apart from him since you met, and each new day ticked down like a massive, ominous clock. You would just have to wait for him to return, as you waited for him to arrive in the first place.

Just like you assumed it would, time passed quickly. Senior year was packed with homework, tests, college applications, more homework, more tests, watching lacrosse matches, cheering and whooping at football games, club meetings, swinging on the local park’s swings until you got sick with laughter, driving, and breaking curfew. It was fun. Everything could be fun if it was with the right people.

After things had died down, you discovered that your college and Naval Academy decisions happened to align somewhat perfectly with each other. Margie, Aaron, and you all got your letters a few days before Rob did, and you waited to open them together. Even holding the envelopes was stressful, like your entire future rode on a few printed words. They did, actually. That made it even scarier.

“Okay, we’ve all actually got to open them this time,” Margie groaned. She had counted down from three at least four times at this point. You and the boys were too scared to rip open the seals. It was amazing that she had held back from tearing them apart herself. “Three, two… one!”

The sound of tearing paper filled Rob’s bedroom, and you all eagerly held up the letters to the soft, warm glow of his overhead light.

Congratulations!

…pleased to offer you…

You did it. You all did it. A beat of shocked silence filled the air as you took glance after glance at your own and everyone else’s papers, but it was quickly broken by Margie’s scream. She threw her arms around you, tackling you to the floor, as she yelled, “Everyone got in! Everyone got in! I knew it, I knew it, I knew it!” You laughed in her grasp, everyone releasing a breath of relief that they didn’t know they were holding. Margie pulled Rob and Aaron into her bear hug as well, until everyone was in a big, happy pile. A twinge in your heart knew that these letters meant nothing would ever be the same again, but you pushed it aside for the joy of now.

Rob grinned, his glasses crooked on his face. “Good job, guys. Congrats. You all really deserve it.”

“You deserve it too, Bobby. Getting into the academy is hard, but I know you worked harder.” You gave him a peck on the cheek as Margie swooned and Aaron gagged.

It took about two more seconds for the moment to devolve. Aaron folded his acceptance letter into a boat, which he then got stuck in Margie’s hair. Six pairs of hands worked to detangle it, but she didn’t make it any easier with the amount of giggles she was releasing. It was going to be okay, you thought. High school would end, and college would begin, but you could deal with everything coming your way. Your best friends would be with you, and your best-est friend would be an email away. An email and a million miles, but an email nonetheless. He had already created a folder just for you.

Things changed, as they always have and always will. You would cry, and yes, you were stuck biding the time before your soon-to-be long distance boyfriend returned, but that change was beautiful.

After packing your meager belongings into a duffel bag and a half-wheeled suitcase, your mom drove you to your college dorm for move-in day. She was sad to see you go, but she joked that she could host the A.A. meetings in your room during your absence. She was okay to live on her own, she assured you. For the first time in a long time, you fully believed her.

She helped you set up, greeting Margie as well, then gave you a squeezing hug and walked back to her car. You likely wouldn’t be able to see her for a while, considering that you didn’t have your own car, but you had survived without her in the past, and you would again.

Everything felt new and exciting, the world alight with opportunities. Every class prompted a discussion within yourself, and every party forced that discussion to present itself. You found that enjoying reality had a sort of grounding effect, even when you were clinging to a wall during a wildly chaotic frat house rager. Margie had joined the adjoining sorority, so those things were often places you could hang out. Man, did you hang out.

With (almost) complete and utter freedom, you could do just about anything. You worked at a Jersey Mike’s on campus, so you had access to free sandwiches and money; that meant the world was your oyster. You and your friends dabbled in school organizations, danced to loud music, stuck your heads out of sunroofs, and edged your way into the campus culture. The librarian ended up kicking you and your English 101 classmates out of the library after you violated the “quiet study” rule a few too many times.

The school part was, admittedly, less fun, but it was a good experience nonetheless. You ended up switching majors twice during your first two years of college, as you were not exactly sure what would be useful or even what you wanted out of life, but you settled on something eventually. Aaron stuck straight on his path to pre-med with biology, while Margaret switched from political science to education. As the general education requirements were fulfilled and the more targeted classes began, your hangouts dulled down a little bit. Aaron was constantly stressed and no longer had time to roll down the sunroof, and even Margie had things to do. She was interning at a school district a few miles from campus. The new friends you made had less and less time to talk. It left you feeling a little disgruntled, but between harder work and dictating your newly boring life to Bob, there was no time to spare.

He started signing off his emails as Bob; whether it was to sound professional or because it was what everyone in the academy called him, it didn’t matter. You accepted it, like you did so many things about him.

One email chain in particular is now printed out on thick, bordered paper, stuck in one of your million half-filled-in photo albums. You thumb through them from time to time, just to look at the memories.

From: [email protected]

Hello, my love!

I haven’t had a chance to read your past emails, sorry! They keep me busy here (not as busy as plebe summer though haha) and downtime is a thing of the past. I will read them in a few days, if all things go well. I’ll tell you about my past few weeks in the meantime. Well, my past few weeks haven’t been all too interesting, but I figured I’d write it down anyway.

Mickey and I have been going through the motions. The classes can be tough, but nothing compares to Ms. Norton’s gov assignments. There’s workouts, class, and a little downtime before it all starts up again. Luckily, I’ve been getting more freedom lately. That’s the perk of being a responsible student ;)

Yesterday, I saw this guy flick peas at his friend (were they friends? Possibly, maybe, I’m not sure) and get absolutely torn apart by an instructor that was watching. I had to cover Mickey’s mouth before he laughed so he wouldn’t get reprimanded. That’s the kind of “exciting” thing that happens here, by the way; I’m sure the others get up to mischief, but with the hawks watching and the stakes so high? I’d rather imagine all the trouble you get into at college instead. It softens the blow.

That being said, enough about me. I want you to send me a million (ok, maybe not a million, I’d be fine with a couple thousand) emails about everything you do. I hope that wasn’t super creepy. I just miss you a lot.

I miss your humor, your laugh, and your smile. I miss feeling your thumb rubbing the back of my hand when you get bored. I miss smelling your shampoo, and I miss kissing you. I wish I had snuck some of your perfume in with me along with the photos, but that might be too sappy of me. I’d get made fun of relentlessly if this email were to fall into the wrong hands, but I don’t care anymore. Oh, I miss home, too, so visit my family when you have the chance. Tell me everything.

Anyways, I hope this email finds you well. I’ve got to go to bed now, but I’m sure I’ll be dreaming about you. Catch you at midnight!

Love,

Bob.

P.S.: Mickey wanted to say hi, so I let him have the keyboard for a few seconds. Bob is such a sap about u, Hometown Girl, I send my deepest sympathies. Also HELLO! -That was Mickey. Expect a message from him every email from now on, because he won’t stop threatening to tape my socks to the ceiling??

To: [email protected]

Hi Bob!! And hello Mickey. I hope he hasn’t been bringing me up too much.

Don’t worry about reading all my emails all the time—nothing too eventful ever happens anyway. And if it did, I’m sure Margie and Aaron would let you know as well.

All the work you guys have to do sounds insane, like crazy insane. I don’t think I could ever work out and then go through a million tough classes. I die after 30 minutes at the gym. You’re lucky all the instructors like you, because I’m sure the others get a ton of flack.

The most trouble I’ve gotten into this week was forgetting my homework and having to lie to my teacher. I told her I got frat flu and couldn’t get out of my dorm to go to the library… which was highly unethical, but you do what you have to do. As for the others, I haven’t seen Aaron in weeks because he’s prepping for his finals. We just finished midterms. He’s so studious it actually shocks me. Our favorite roommate is asleep at 7:49 PM, and I have to shield my laptop screen from shining too close to her. I’m sure she gets into trouble that I don’t even want to think about… she brought two separate guys to the room within four hours. TMI, but you’ve heard it all anyway.

Instead of a million emails, I hope a few long ones will suffice. I miss you too, so much. I hate having to wrap my arms around a pillow instead of you—it should be classified as a deficiency, honestly. A Bobby deficiency. I’m the sickest patient imaginable.

I visited the fams on Sunday. Jodie is doing really well in high school! She’s in all the advanced art classes and is enjoying her schedule immensely. Chris was there too, with his fiance. Which reminds me: even though the wedding hasn’t even been planned yet and probably won’t be for a couple years, he wants you to be his best man!!! He asked me to warn you before the fancy wedding court invitations go out. Brotherly love and all that. You don’t have to say yes, he said, but he wants that unfortunate little buzz cut by his side on his big day.

Your parents are doing well, and so is my mom. We’re all getting together this weekend to prep a giant care package, which I hope will be well enjoyed by you and your friends. I need to finish up my stats homework (ugh), so I’ll cut this message short, but expect more after I close my textbook. I hope to see you in dream world too <3

Love,

Hometown Girl.

From: [email protected]

Good morning, Randle,

I was wondering about placing a hold on the item we spoke about over the phone. I can call again on Saturday, sometime during the afternoon. Please reach out if it’s still an option.

Thanks,

Robert Floyd.

From: [email protected]

Sorry about that last email, honey! That wasn’t meant for you. I’m just looking at a lock for my bag. Mickey likes to rifle through my things. I’ll email you more later.

Love,

Bob.

To: [email protected]

It’s alright, enjoy your lock lol.

Love,

Not Randle.

You didn’t have any reason to question his words at the time. Well, you never had a reason to question any of his words, because he could beat George Washington in a telling-the-truth competition. Now, you know that Bob’s a damn good liar—not that he would ever lie to hurt you. It’s just the nice secrets he keeps, like the one he kept the entire time he was training to be a naval aviator.

As his education progressed, though, his eyesight kept him from doing the one thing he truly wanted to do: be a pilot. He just missed the requirement, as he explained in a short, sad email after his eye test. It was crushing, to say the least, but Bob bounced back quickly. He always did. He was never one to sit and mope about a problem, no, he took the next best thing. He began training to be a weapon systems officer, and he was damn good at it.

His graduation, adorned with the markings of a star student, came with no surprise, and neither did his transition to the actual Navy. He did flight training, conditioning, and every other rigorous step to climb his way to the top; by the end, he was a new man. He graduated from Top Gun for god’s sake. Documenting his development were emails, short visits, letters, the whole shebang.

The one thing that didn’t change was his love.

He was still goofy, nerdy, and kind. His skin may have been tougher, after years of being hardened by the world around him, but he took the time to care for the people in his life. He people-watched, just as he always did, and called you every sweet nickname that would get anyone lesser embarrassed. He still blushed like a madman, whether it was from pulling Gs or your tight hugs. And, which may just be the best thing he kept, he maintained his loyalty to the people in his past. He was a Montana kid, through and through.

You changed, he changed, the world changed. Everything was constantly moving. You maintained consistency in your waiting, though. That was the only thing that didn’t budge. You marked the dates that Bob would come back home in your calendar, counting down every second like you would miss him if you didn’t. One of those dates ended up being Margie’s wedding.

The year of weddings was upon you; Bob’s brother had just gotten married half a year before, and three of your other friends got married between then and Margaret’s wedding. Even Aaron was eyeing rings, constantly emailing you pictures from catalogs in an attempt to find the “perfect” band for his boyfriend. It came with being full-fledged adults, you assumed. Everyone was settled in their grown-up jobs or grad school, and therefore had more time to spend with their respective partners. Except for Bob, of course. He was sent everywhere under the sun. From Virginia to Hawaii, Hawaii to Texas, Texas to Nevada, and, most recently, Nevada to California. The last in-person interaction you had with him was four months ago when you flew to Lemoore to visit. There was no time for proposals, even if you had been with him long enough to be considered married in everyone else’s eyes.

You were Margie’s maid of honor. You helped with planning, invitations, booking, buying, organizing, setting up, and pretty much all the details since she showed you the large, sparkling diamond on her ring finger. You even helped pick out her dress. It was a classic ball gown-style beauty, with delicate lace and heavy frills. It was exactly her.

Bob was a groomsman, even though he and the groom weren’t particularly close. It was your closeness to both Margie and her fiance that brought him to the bachelor party in the first place. In the days before the wedding, you and Bob shared a room close to the wedding venue.

Being with him again made you the happiest you had been in a long time. You felt complete, like when he was gone, your heart just ached and ached until he could come plug up the holes again. Living in that small motel room was a breath of fresh air, and sharing a bed with him in complete privacy was amazing in more ways than one.

It was strange, in a way, like you didn’t really know him anymore. He had friends you had never met and a job you knew nothing about in a place you had only visited once, but he was intricately tied to your hometown through a series of souls and bonds. He was balancing between two worlds, and a part of you wondered where he would fall if the beam were to become unsteady. And another part of you hoped he would take you with him when the time came.

During the ceremony the next day, you thought that you wanted to be the one walking down the aisle next.

The wedding went well, as most weddings did. There were tears from you, tears from the audience, tears from everyone except for the children Margie taught, as they were too young to really understand the beauty of two people devoting their lives to each other. The cake was cut, frosting smeared on the newlyweds’ cheeks, the dances flowed flawlessly, the pictures turned out perfect, and even Margie’s mother-in-law was happy. It was honestly the most beautiful wedding you had witnessed in your life.

When the time came for the bouquet toss, you were so far back in the crowd that it didn’t even have a chance of landing in your outstretched hands. You stood there for moral support, really, as the girls around you pushed their way to the front. There was a countdown, a little shove from the person next to you, and a bouquet of poppies tossed high into the air. It sailed in an arc, red and orange streaking through the air. Despite everything, despite the odds being stacked against you, it was heading right in your direction.

You reached one arm out, squished between bodies, and caught it.

The uproar of the people around you filled your ears as you pulled the flowers to your chest. The crowd parted, and Margie came barrelling towards you, wrapping you in her lacy arms. “Yes! I just knew you would catch it, I always do. You’ve got to help me plan the wedding when it happens, because I know it will, and you’re going to need the perfect dress and the perfect venue and the prettiest invitations and…”

She carried on for a while, and you smiled into the soft, decorative leaves.

You saved the flower petals, pressed in a big dictionary under your desk. You saved every flower you had ever been given. Parts of them, at least. Your corsage from senior prom, the bouquets Bob had shipped to your door, and the marigolds your mother grew in her new garden are spread out across your bedroom. Most of your memories are tucked away in secret places, only noticeable if you know where to look.

After the wedding, you returned to your little apartment, smack in the middle of the busiest part of your town. The cars speeding by were significantly worse than Bob’s light snoring. It was the first time you had lived on your own, though, which was supposed to be important. You were free.

You could eat ice cream for breakfast, or in the late hours of the night, and you could sing loudly in the shower. You could even buy most of the clothes you saw in stores on your brand new salary and organized savings. However, you found that you didn’t necessarily want to do all that. You just wanted every day to be over already. Work was too much, waking up to an upset stomach was too much, checking your email every thirty minutes and seeing nothing was too much, and those goddamn people in the room above yours were too much, constantly blasting music and stomping around. Like always, you found yourself waiting for things to change again. You imagined you were anywhere else with anyone else, finding a sick sense of comfort in the fantasies. You thought you put those little phases behind you, but being an adult alone was so frustrating that you found yourself going back to old patterns.

Margie was caught up in the married life, Aaron was constantly working, and your frequently long-distance boyfriend was states away. The only comfort you got was periodic visits to your old neighborhood, checking up on your mom and Bob’s family.

You stood in the middle of Georgia Floyd’s flower bed, tugging at a weed, hands adorned with thick, weathered gloves. The thing just wasn’t coming out. The little thorns were sticking to your sleeves, and you were drenched with sweat. It was the beginning of fall, and the leaves were turning all shades of fiery reds and somber oranges, but the sun was still high in the sky. The thriving asters and dahlias next to you taunted you with their beauty, bending in the slight breeze. Georgia stood in the shade of her doorway, one hand on her hip and the other holding a glass of lemonade. “Sweetheart, you’ve been workin’ so hard here. Take a drink, go home, be merry. I’ll get B… I’ll get someone else to pick up where you left off, ‘kay?”

You sighed, wiping the perspiration away from your brow with your forearm. “Yes ma’am. Thank you.” She handed you the glass and shooed you away from her flowers, making sure to take the gardening gloves you had peeled off and tucked under your arm.

You hadn’t expected to be weeding today, but with Jodie at a friend’s house, Chris a state away on a work trip, and Bob’s father, Harold, off somewhere, she needed a helping hand. She had gotten a bit weaker over the years, no longer able to bend as well as she needed to in order to clear away the low-growing weeds, and you loved her more than enough to help out. You were her second daughter, she always said. A part of the family, no matter what. You walked across the street to your mom’s place and opened the door with your key.

She had to go grocery shopping a while earlier, leaving you alone in the house. Given that the grocery shop was less than five minutes away by car, she should’ve been back by then. You didn’t pay it much mind, though. You just stepped into your bathroom, hung up your clothes, and took a well-deserved shower.

After a good forty-five minutes of steam, hair dryers, and other pampering, you were ready to do absolutely nothing. The chair on your small front porch was all set up, and you held a book in your hands, ready to sit and see the yellow and orange sky cascade over the pages. When you stepped through your doorway, however, someone was waiting for you.

Bob. His hair had changed since you last saw him. It was longer but still military-issued, combed neatly, not a lock out of place. He was dressed well, too, with slacks and a slightly open button-up. You were suddenly glad that you had put on the prettiest dress in your arsenal—one he knew very well. He opened his mouth and then shut it with a look of determination.

“Bobby? What are you doing here?” you asked. He wasn’t expected back for months yet, and you certainly didn’t think he had time to visit. You were happy to see him, of course. Hell, you were overjoyed to be in his presence. But what was he doing?

He stepped forward, shined shoes crunching on a bit of gravel, and you met him in the middle. As he pulled you into his arms, hugging you tight to his chest, you breathed him in. He was really here, back home, after all that time. You finally pulled away after what seemed like eons and a millisecond all at once, and he clasped your hands in his, your book forgotten on the ground. His eyes were stormy, brimming with what looked like an onslaught of tears. You rubbed your thumbs up and down his hands worriedly.

“Is everything okay?” Your voice came out as a tremble, slightly terrified at the prospect of something having gone wrong. Did someone die? Did he almost die? It didn’t help that he cleared his throat like he was steeling his nerves.

He put one of your hands on his chest, over his fluttering heart, and pressed a gentle kiss to the other. “There’s something I need to ask you.” You nodded, too concerned to speak. “I’ll… I’ll start with this. I love you so much it hurts me. When I first met you, years ago, I knew that I wanted to be around you forever. Your kindness, curiosity, your heart, everything just pulled me in and never let me go—not that I ever wanted to go, no, I knew you were too special to leave behind. I had to put so much in the past, but not you. Never you. I grew with you, and laughed with you, and loved you in a million ways. Throughout all that time, you waited and gave me your utmost support when my dreams took me a thousand miles away. Now, I’m still living a thousand miles away, but I don’t want you to wait here anymore. I want you to come with me and stay.” He took a breath, and his heart hammered under your fingertips. “What I’m really trying to get at is that I want to have a future with you. I want to be your husband.”

The world stopped in that moment. Did you hear him correctly? His eyes searched for a response on your face as he slid a black, velvety case out of his back pocket. He slowly lowered to one knee, keeping eye contact, and opening the box to show you the shiny contents.

“Sweetheart, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

You brought your hands up to your mouth. After all this time, the moment you dreamed of as a kid was finally happening. You nodded once, dropping down on your knees and nodding a million more times. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you,” you breathed, voice loud and quiet at the same time. Your arms found their place around him, like they had many times before, but something was different. New, in a good way. Like you were safe, completely safe.

Like while his ring was on your finger, you would never have to wait to be loved again.

You smile at the printed digital photos spread out on your bed. Bobby hugging you in 5th grade, the both of you in matching witch and black cat costumes, pumpkin buckets dangling from your fists. A snapshot of “the shaving incident”, in which you had come out with cut up legs and Robert with a cut up face. There was even a silly photo of him carrying you bridal style on your prom night, with your arm thrown over your face like a swooning princess. Your favorites, though, are the proposal photos.

Your mom hid around the corner to take pictures of your silhouettes in the sunset, while Bob’s mom pulled out her camera from across the street. They had coordinated everything perfectly, down to the fake shopping trip and weeding break. It was no coincidence that your mother washed the load of laundry that contained your favorite dress first. The meticulous planning from the people who know your routines best still makes your head spin when you think about it. They all knew about the proposal for at least a week before it happened, and they made sure it was absolutely perfect, down to the manicured background and time of day. Bob even managed to get away from work for a couple days to propose.

The ring is beautiful too. It’s the perfect mix between flashy and subtle, the main stone is cut exactly how you like it, and the band is the right amount of tight. When you asked your fiance about how he got it so exact to everything you had dreamed of, he said, “research”. You later found out from his mom that he had bought the ring while he was still at the Naval Academy from the best jeweler he could find: Randle Montgomery. Knowing that he was planning on proposing all those years ago makes it a different kind of special.

Your closet is open, the boxes and boxes of memories all pulled out and scattered around your room. The dictionary under your desk has been opened, and the flower petals and other flower material placed carefully into a container. A few minutes earlier, you even stumbled upon a written agreement you and Bob signed in middle school, agreeing to marry each other if you weren’t taken by 30. The wooden rose he gave you, also in middle school, was halfway sticking out of a cardboard holder, leaning on a series of first day of school photos Georgia took. You’ve taken to calling her Mom now, at her request.

All of your photo albums are open, with most of the pictures taken out. You’re trying to compile everything, every memory, into a new, large album. The new album is brown leather, stamped and embroidered with little inside jokes and important moments. Inside, you’ve documented every single stage in your life with Bob.

Some of the pictures even feature Margie, her husband, Aaron, Jodie, Chris, Georgia, Harold, your mom, Mickey, and everyone you’ve met along the way. Seeing the compilation of every person, every moment, that made you who you are brings tears to your eyes.

You spend the next two hours tucking pictures, flower petals, and anything flat enough to fit into the album. By the time you’re done, your hands are coated in a fine layer of dust, and your front door is opening.

“Honey, I’m home!” the intruder calls, and you hear the telltale jingling of him placing his keys on the bookshelf in your living room. You stand up, wipe your hands on your pants, and walk out of your shared bedroom.

Bob unzips his flight suit to the middle, letting it hang around his waist for the time being. His boots are neatly placed with the rest of his shoes; he’s tidy even when he’s tired, which is a phenomenon you don’t understand whatsoever. His hair is messy, his glasses are crooked, and he’s giving you a tired little smile. It was surely a long day for him. You open your arms, and he slouches into you like he was meant to be there.

“I was just about to get dinner started. Go take a nap, and it’ll be done by the time you wake up,” you murmur, kissing through his undershirt. He shakes his head softly. His hands hold steady on your waist, his pulse humming through the contact.

“I’ll help. What were you thinking for tonight?”

You lead him into the kitchen, pulling out various ingredients from the pantry on the way. Pasta sauce clinks on the tile counter as you say, “Pasta. It’s quick enough. I’ll put mushrooms in the sauce, too, as a treat. You deserve it after the day I’m sure you’ve had.”

“You read my mind, baby,” he sighs, resting his head on you. “We had some rough ejections, but nothing too scary. And there’s talk of calling a few people to San Diego for a Top Gun mission, so every little mistake pulls people further away from that opportunity.”

He steps away from you for a moment. The absence of warmth sends a chill down your spine, but after he opens the box of spaghetti and turns up the heat on the pot of water you’ve placed on top of the stove, he stands behind you again. You look up from your place chopping vegetables. “Do you want to go back to San Diego? I feel like we just got settled in Lemoore.”

“Well, I’d like to marry you before moving, but I’d be honored to be a part of Top Gun again. Those missions are… dangerous, though, to say the least, so I want to have a wedding ring with my dog tags.”

You tap on his chest lightly, eyebrows furrowed. “If you do get chosen, you’d better be careful. I’m not prepared to be a widow.”

He smiles, a little sadly and a little reassuringly. “I’ll do my best.”

When you hear the pot of water boiling, Bob drops the pasta in, and you turn your attention to the sauce simmering in your saucepan. You add mushrooms, onion, some ground beef, parmesan, and a lot of love. Before long, both parts are done, and you put a heaping portion on your fiance’s plate.

Your dining room furniture is basic, just a wooden table and two chairs. Neither of you have been able to decorate the house to your standards, considering you’re both working and you just moved in a month ago. It’s nice, though. Not permanent by any means, but nice.

Not having any big decorations make it easier to move, you figure. By now, you know very well that living with a Naval aviator means moving from place to place until he gets a permanent station. Even then, there’s a chance they could change their minds and slap him onto the opposite side of the country. You’re just hoping that you can get married by a beach before that happens.

Speaking of the wedding, you need to do some serious planning. You swallow your bite of pasta. “I finished the photo album today.”

“Really? That’s great!” Bob beams. “I’m going to call the venue after work tomorrow to see if the date we picked out is possible. If it is, I think we can put the album by the entrance so people can look through it.”

“That sounds really good. Margie’s coming down next week to help me pick out decorations and stuff, so we need to decide on a color palette.”

“Hm… what do you think about our favorite colors? So we can represent both of us together.”

All the wedding talk makes you both excited and tired. You want to marry the love of your life and have a great time doing it, so every detail needs to be looked over again and again to ensure it goes according to plan. Bob’s a great help, despite him having so little time during the day. Living with him, finally, is like a dream come true.

Everything is like a dream come true now. When you were little, before the Floyds appeared in your life like a fairy god-family, you prayed for something like this to happen. You begged and pleaded for your mom to get better, for you to have friends, for you to fall in love. Every part of that, miraculously, happened. Your life changed from miserable to joyous in a matter of days.

You’re going to marry the boy next door, and you’re going to be happy doing it. As you settle into bed, with his arm around you and a ring carefully placed on your bedside table, you think that all you’ve ever waited for has finally come to lull you to sleep.

Taglist: @withahappyrefrain @seitmai @winelover27 @shinzowosasageyoooo

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iamthedukeofurl · 1 year ago

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One interesting thing that can happen in long running media is that the general cultural background can shift under the work, recontextualizing it as it is being written. I'm specifically thinking of the Order of the Stick, a Dungeons and Dragons themed webcomic that started in 2003 with the titular party of adventurers going through a dungeon.

From left to right, we have Belkar Bitterleaf the halfling ranger, Vaarsuvius the Elf Wizard, Elan the Human Bard, Haley Starshine the Human Rogue, Durkon Thundershield the Dwarf Cleric, and Roy Greenhilt the Human Fighter. The comic takes place in a fantasy setting that knowingly runs off the rules of Dungeons and Dragons third edition. Characters talk about rolls and bonuses and intentionally take levels in various classes. At the start, the comic was a pretty basic gag comic about the D&D rules, basic fantasy/adventure tropes, ect.

In the 20 years the comic has been running, it has updated about 1300 times, not counting bonus strips exclusively made for the printed version, and several print (or PDF) only side and prequel stories. It has also dramatically grown from it's roots, the art has improved while keeping the same general aesthetic, and the gag-a-day comic has become a sweeping fantasy epic. The characters have grown beyond their initial bits (Belkar is a Murderhobo, Elan is stupid, Haley is greedy, ect), and it's genuinely up there as one of my favorite stories. But anyway, let's talk about Vaarsuvius. If you look at the above art, You'll notice that the characters tend to have three types of body shapes: Rectangles for Roy, Belkar, and Elan, feminine curves for Haley, and Robes for Vaarsuvius. This presentation is a pretty consistent signifier of gender and/or somebody wearing robes. Early on, part of Vaarsuvius's running gag became their ambiguous gender. At the time, it was a fairly common joke in fantasy to talk about how Elven men had androgynous or "Girly" appearances, so V was part of that. Instead of a singular pronoun, characters would generally just abbreviate Vaarsuvius's name as "V", and whenever the narrative would have naturally provided some indication of gender one way or another, V would resolve the situation without providing any such indication. For example, an early gag has the characters seeking out a set of modern style bathrooms in the dungeon. When they find them, V says that their "More Efficient elven biology" means they don't have to go yet, so they wait outside while the boys go into the Men's room and Haley waits in the inevitable long line at the women's. When Vaarsuvius reveals that they are married, they use the term "Spouse" to refer to their partner, when we see their children, the children are clearly adopted (V and their partner both have pale skin, their children have darker skin) and refer to Vaarsuvius as "Parent". Vaarsuvius themselves seems to have trouble identifying other people by gender. Characters outside the central cast might refer to Vaarsuvius as "He" or "She", but doing so was always shedding light on that character's perspective, rather than saying anything about Vaarsuvius. The assumption behind the gag is that Vaarsuvius must be either male or female, and the joke is that the narrative/Vaarsuvius themselves keeps finding ways to avoid "Revealing" their gender. Fan wikis and official books list Vaarsuvius's gender as "Ambigious" and on the forum there used to be a regular, multi-part thread dedicated to debatings Vaarsuvius's gender, even after the author declared that it would "never be revealed".

Anyway, going back to the start, it's 2023, and something shifted at some point, both in the comic and in the general cultural background. The jokes about V's gender kind of fell off, not just because the gag got played out, but because the basic assumption behind it simply doesn't work anymore. Everybody knows that Nonbinary people exist. There's no point in the comic where Vaarsuvius switches from being "Ambigiously Gendered" to Nonbinary, in fact, the entire comic reads just fine if you read Vaarsuvius as male or female and just not caring enough to clarify their gender to anybody and at some point other characters just stop thinking about it. But it's interesting to see how a character trait that was once included in even the most basic character descriptions (Varsuvius: Elven Wizard. Arrogant, Intelligent. Ambigiously gendered) just kind of got washed away by a rising tide of cultural nuance towards gender. Also go read OOTS, it's pretty great.

#order of the stick #oots #webcomics #long running media #posts that have been swimming in my head until I let them out

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padmestrilogy · 7 days ago

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it’s always been fascinating to me how uninterested the prequel trilogy is in the prophecy of anakin’s birth, how he is supposedly destined for greatness. sure it moves the plot forward, and there’s some deleted stuff going into palpatine’s machinations, but the overall effect is a de-prioritization. anakin’s mindset and his choices are what the movies care about.

This is a pretty interesting analysis. I've seen plenty of media about Chosen Ones,and Anakin never struck me as anything other than an extraordinarily intelligent,talented boy/young man. Namely,a prodigy - and we see plenty of them even in real life. He doesn't seem to be particularly kindhearted(other than in TPM) nor uniquely resilient from a moral standpoint.

Those are my two cents. I just found it interesting that Anakin was a promising,selfless young child and became Vader,then he was the main enforcer for an evil overlord and decided to stop the horrors.

yea i’ve faced some pushback for not really caring about “inherent good”/“inherent evil” in star wars, and i won’t say the moral stakes of the saga aren’t often done in black and white, or that star wars doesn’t pull heavily from mythology. but i think a relinquishing of supposed all powerful destiny & fate is built into luke’s arc as well. and that is enhanced by the pt!

from birth the jedi are counting on luke to kill vader. he has a lifelong obsession with his father. vader tells him his destiny is the dark side; yoda tells him there’s no room for error, if he starts down the dark path, he’ll always be that way. and there is a lot of conflict in luke’s psyche: the dagobah forest vision gets this across very strongly lol. & the culmination of his arc shows luke going against both what the jedi & the sith believe he was prophesied to do. and luke’s plan changes all the time, and he nearly does fall to the dark side. he does start down that path. and what saves him is who he wants to be, the choices he makes.

& with anakin, i mean i would say he shows kindness in aotc and rots lol, but i get what you mean about it not seeming like an “inherent” trait, because anakin is an even more conflicted young man, and whereas luke wants to be good, anakin wants to be a good jedi. and it’s again, illustrated very bluntly, that he thinks being a good jedi is antithetical to being in touch with his emotions . (people can debate whether that is the #real jedi training or not all day. it remains central to anakin’s emotional spiral that he feels he must split himself in two!) so he gets so wound up in duty and possessiveness, he ends up more impersonal and clouded.

no one seems to care about this parallel besides me and a few fellow insane people in my mentions, but palpatine and obi-wan serve a similar narrative role in their respective trilogies as mentors who move the red thread of fate along, with anakin’s fall being that he commits to his mentor’s quest for bloodshed, and luke’s triumph being that he rejects obi-wan’s call for more of the same. and either way it’s not about who deserves to suffer or to be redeemed, but that stopping suffering is good and damning people forever is bad. so much is internal!

#don’t know why i typed so much i already have a post on this lol #star wars

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thisblogisaboutabook · 1 year ago

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Neon Moon

Azriel x Reader/Rhysand’s Sister - Angst

Rhysand’s sister grapples with a one-sided mating bond that has yet to snap for the Shadowsinger. When a drunken night brings the two closer together than ever, Azriel is made aware of a circumstance that could change the course of her life.

This is a one-shot that is able to be read as a stand-alone fic.

This is also a prequel to Wicked Felina and elements of this prequel will be involved in the remainder of the series. Wicked Felina Part 5

Warnings: Sexual content, alcohol, language, age difference concerns

Y/N - 19 Years Old

When the sun goes down on my side of town, that lonsesome feeling comes to my door.

Pretty moans echo through the walls of the House of Wind only broken by an ocasional deep groan.

I roll over with an aggravated sigh, pulling an overstuffed pillow across the back of my head, covering my ears. Not that it will do any good. Curse being High Fae and the exceptional hearing that comes with it.

I lay awake, taking deep breaths, trying to sink into the starry depths of my mind but Azriel’s hook-up of the week lets out a particularly loud cry of pleasure before her moans are muffled by what I assume is a gloved hand and a low reprimand.

I roll my eyes. He may as well chide her with a warning of “Shh, don’t wake the baby.” by the way he treats me.

Never mind the fact that I am an adult now. I have tits for cauldron’s sake, nice ones at that. I wouldn’t be wearing this oversized, ridiculously soft knit sweater if I didn’t.

And yet he still views me as a child.

It’s cruel to think that on my eighteenth name day, a golden thread snapped. Tethering my soul to him… and yet, he has no clue. That, or he does, and has no intention of acting on it, refusing to view me as anything other than the little sister of his best friend.

I’ve got a table for two, way in the back where I sit alone and I think of losing you.

So I grin and bear it. And if I happen to wear clothing a bit too cheeky when he is around and other males inevitably gawk at my exposed skin, thus prompting the overprotective bat to shuck his sweater off and toss it to me, and then I spend the rest of the night drinking him under the table? Well, that will have to do for now. So, I wait for the day his soul is ready to seek mine.

Y/N - 21 years old

He’s watching her again. He always does. She dances through the room like petals on a breeze, enamoring the crowd with vivacious conversation as she skirts throughout those gathered in the room. How will I ever compare to the radiant and lovely enigma that is THE Morrigan? I shouldn’t feel bitterness toward my cousin and yet I do. I get why people flock to her, she’s kind and lovely, strong, somehow both approachable and unobtainable. She’s a total pain in my ass busybody cousin-acting-as-older-sister I never wanted.

I requested that the band play Azriel’s favorite song tonight. The one time he’ll loosen up and let himself enjoy a moment. It has become a routine, our dance. The one time that he holds me a little closer. The one time I can pretend he sees me as the mature female that I am and not the child I was.

But tonight, the song plays, and it’s Morrigan in his arms, not me. It’s not the first time he’s chosen her over me. When she’s here, I don’t exist.

I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t watch this.

I spend most every night beneath the light of a Neon Moon.

I turn to leave, exiting the hall, winding through the crowd of pompous nobility from all courts. The garden. I’ll find solace in the garden, beneath the glittering stars, among the fragrant blooms. Sneaking down a quiet corridor and out a shadowed alcove, a guard opens the door for me and the warm, lavender scented breeze greets me like a friend. My steps fall swiftly, distancing myself from the evening revelry. As I wind down a path of blooming roses, a loose stone causes my sole to slip, bracing myself for the fall and the sting of rock to my palms. Instead, I am shocked to feel warm, strong arms catching me. Looking up at my savior, a few long golden locks of hair fall over the concerned, emerald green eyes staring down at me.

Y/N - four months later

“Shit, Shadowsinger. You look like you could use this more than me.”

The start of a grin tilts the left corner of his lips upward as an incredulous laugh slips from his throat. Reaching a scarred hand toward the bottle of my brother’s finer wine and swiping it from me.

Azriel’s hazel eyes assess the bottle, giving a raise of his brow. “Looks like you’ve done a number on this one already.”

“I never do things halfway.” I tease. Giving a nod toward the wine that was indeed half-empty. His dark brows rise again as I unveil a second bottle before he could remark on it. “Some Spymaster you are. You should’ve know I’d come prepared with the best selections from Rhys’ secret-” The playful jest is interrupted by the tickle of a shadow trailing up my arm and spiriting the second bottle right out of my hand, eliciting a pout of my lower lip.

“Hey, now that’s just greedy.”

The handsome planes of Azriel’s face illuminate in the twilight, causing my heart to stir. Perhaps it’s the way the night shrouds him in ominous twilight, or the way his shadows sit strewn across his shoulders but I know tonight was hard for him.

Mor had shown up to dinner as radiant as ever, a red dress clinging to her delicious curves, some male she’d picked up at Rita’s on her arm.

Now if you lose your one and only, there's always room here for the lonely

I should leave him alone but I can feel it in my chest. Stoic and broody? Yes. A lonely soul? Also yes.

And damn, do I know I deserve better than to be the female that will never be chosen first? Yes. And yet, he’s my mate and more importantly, my friend.

“Scooch over,” my arm waives in a correlating gesture. “This grass is dewy and cold and this dress is far too thin. Your leathers can handle the chill, I’m stealing your warmth.”

With a small shake of the head, a lock of raven hair falls over his forehead, Azriel scoots, exposing the vacated patch of grass for me to sit on. “Gods, it’s still chilly.” I complain as I swipe one of the bottles back from the Shadowsinger.

“Nobody asked you to come out here.”

“And yet here I am.”

Azriel eyes meet mine, a small flicker of emotion passing behind them. “Yes.” He whispers fondly. “Here you are.”

I ignore the blush threatening to redden my cheeks and fire back at him. “Your breath smells like a vineyard. You’d already gotten started on the drinking without me?”

Recognizing the rhetorical question for what it is, Azriel presses his lips to the bottle, tilting his head back as he takes a long swig of the bittersweet wine. My breath catches as a harsh swallow bobs his adam’s apple. Heat pools through me and I quickly turn away, searching for something, anything to distract from the effect he has on me.

To watch your broken dreams, dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon

Shadows dance around us, like figures on the wind, weaving in and out of the moon’s luminescent rays.

“Y/N…” I turn to face him as a scarred hand reaches for me before seemingly thinking better of it and pulling back. “I didn’t dance with you at the ball.”

It’s my turn to laugh incredulously. “That was months ago Azriel, why bring it up now?”

That peculiar flicker of emotion crosses his eyes again.

“I’m sorry.”

I pause, taken back by the apology. Had he known how much it hurt to see him dancing with her? Thinking on it, I can’t seem to grasp whether it is better or worse that way.

I freeze, grappling with emotion as he ruffles his hair with a scarred hand, dragging his palm over his face. “Y/N. The conflict that wars within me, it’s… .”

Confusion conveys on my features and I resist the urge to dive into his mind and read exactly what he’s thinking. “What?” I ask as his sentence trails into a void of lost words.

He shakes his head as if he’s already pushed whatever he was about to confess aside. Hurt washes through me and I begin to turn away. A broad, calloused palm grasps my wrist. “You’re beautiful, Y/N.” He leans closer, his wine addled breath mingling with my own, only centimeters separate his lips from mine.

I think of two young lovers running wild and free. I close my eyes and sometimes see you in the shadows.

I’m certain he can hear my heartbeat as it roars through my ears. My eyes flutter looking into his heavy-lidded hazel and onyx eyes. His head tilts, low voice barely more than a rumble.

“You’re everything.”

Azriel inhales, his gaze searching mine in a silent ask of permission, preparing to close the hairs-breadth of distance between our lips. Suddenly those lust-addled eyes go wide, nostrils flaring, and he abruptly pulls away, swiping my bottle of wine as he withdraws his hand. “You don’t need any more of this, Y/N. Go to bed.”

My mouth gapes slightly, processing what just happened. “What?”

“It’s late and I have to leave for a mission for your father in the morning.”

He stands straight, stretching out his tall body and those glorious, broad wings, stiff from sitting on the ground.

My heart is crushed, once again. The words that could change it all sitting on the tip of my tongue.

You’re my mate. You’re my mate. You’re my mate.

But his feelings for my cousin still run strong and we have centuries ahead of us. I refuse to be in second place.

Azriel extends a tanned arm to me, eyes now softened, a slight crease between his brows as he takes me in. “Come on, Y/N. Let’s get inside.”

Taking his extended arm, we walk in silence through the grand entryway of the House of Wind, winding down the corridors within, stopping at my room, I murmur a rushed “goodnight.” before escaping behind the shield of my door, to the quiet lonesome solace of my room.

I sense Azriel’s presence outside my latched door for several moments before his steps pad down the hall opening the door one down from mine, into his room.

No telling how many tears I've sat here and cried, or how many lies that I've lied telling my poor heart he’ll come back someday.

Azriel

Azriel couldn’t take it. The way the walls closed in around him. Sleep was always just out of reach but tonight, he felt the weight on his chest in a crushing embrace.

If you lose your one and only, there's always room here for the lonely.

He’d spent the past few years dicking around, ignoring the shift he’d felt toward Y/N. For fuck’s sake, she was Rhysand’s little sister, barely an adult. She’d always gravitated toward him in her childhood. Looked up to him. And he cared so deeply for her, like a little sister. And then soon after her eighteenth birthday something began to shift in his chest. Something that he felt so incredibly wrong for feeling - and yet something he’d buried deep within begged him to accept that it was right.

He was a bastard for it and latched onto his feelings for Mor even harder, despite the fact that they’d simmered down in previous years. And then Y/N had changed her demeanor toward him and he knew- gods, he knew she wanted him but he couldn’t do it. Rhys would kill him for it if her father didn’t first. It was so wrong.

And it had gotten harder and harder recently. He’d brought females home, spent more time around Mor when she’d visit, anything to push her away without actually owning up to what his feelings were.

And then Mor had shown up on a whim tonight with some male that she’d picked up gods knows where, he couldn’t even fall back on clinging to her, leaving him forced to face how strongly he felt toward Y/N, so he’d indulged in booze and snuck out to sit beneath the moonlight and drown in his own pool of self-pity.

To watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon.

When she’d found him, any semblance of willpower was gone. Y/N was a goddess beneath the moonlight. Kind, strong, intelligent, and so damned beautiful and, out here, it was just the two of them. So, he’d finally given in. One kiss, one kiss would help him see how wrong this was. And yet as he leaned in, all he could feel was how right it seemed to be.

Until he’d inhaled, taking that final breath of courage to close the distance. That’s when he smelled it, the shift in her scent. Her scent was there but there was something somewhat familiar and earthen intertwined a scent so light and sweet, almost like roses. A scent that was not her own, not of her.

She was pregnant. He had no idea by whom but the realization sobered him up entirely. He swiped her wine and panicked. Did she know? Should he say something? Instead, like the older brother figure he’d once viewed himself as to her, he escorted her into the house and told her to go to bed, ensuring to keep the alcohol out of her reach.

Gods, he didn’t know what to do from here

He spent the rest of the night flying, taking in the stars and the moon as they shone brightly above, ethereal just like her.

He’d go on his mission this week, and Y/N and her mother would travel to the war camp that her father was at to visit him, and when she came back he’d talk it all out with her.

Yes, he’d support her and love her however she needed to be, whether it be as a friend, as chosen family, or as something more. It would all work out. It had to.

Come watch your broken dreams dance in and out of the beams of a neon moon.

————————————

Although this is a one-shot, it is also the prequel to Wicked Felina, you can read Part 1 here.

Tags

ACOTAR general: @lilah-asteria @thecollegecowgirl @mochibabycakes @nickishadow139

Wicked Felina tags: @glittervame @julesofvolterra @saltedcoffeescotch @candyjaypoppins @st4r-girl-official @nocasdatsgay @gxdsmonsters @honk4emoboyz

#acotar #sarah j maas #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #a court of silver flames #a court of frost and starlight #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #rhysand’s sister #Rhysand #Velaris #pre-acotar #azriel x rhysand’s sister #Tamlin #Spotify

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maidenvault · 4 months ago

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If so many things in Star Wars that seem fine on the surface actually have this dark underbelly/subtext people insist is actually suggested in the films, then what is the point in each case? What does that actually leave us with?

If the Naboo, a democratic civilization of learning and culture like many that thrived during the golden age of widespread peace and prosperity that was the High Republic era, live on land that was stolen from the Gungans and don't acknowledge this (an idea the films on their own don't support), then...why is that a thing? How does it serve the movies' themes if that's a thing? If their tradition of having child queens on the throne is actually taking advantage of children in a psychologically damaging way and not just a particularly silly and fantastical fairy-tale element in these family films, and that other benevolently ruled world of Alderaan is also actually kind of shady because its laws allow Leia to serve as Senator when she's a teen, what does that actually say about anything?

If in the prequels era the Sith are the evil conspirators influencing everything; and the Senate is getting more and more corrupt; and the Trade Federation, Techno Union, and Kaminoans are the most reprehensible kind of capitalists not helping anything; and the Jedi Order is also rotting from the inside with something or other; and the Grand Army of the Republic is fighting a war against cruel oppressors that's nonetheless supposed to be clearly unjust or misguided in a way everyone should have seen somehow, and the Naboo and lots of other societies aren't much better...then what exactly does that say about this world? Besides "Woah, this is pretty fucked up, isn't it?" Why are all these things so fucked up at once, what's the common factor? What's the lesson?

If the star wars are so often just about a very obviously bad group of people and other groups of people who are only nominally better, does that really enrich the story or just leave us with nothing? Things aren't automatically interesting or meaningful because they're dark. It's honestly really bleak if it's only some individual people who can serve as an example of what's good in the world (insert Qui-Gon or your other pet character who you hold up as The One Special True Jedi based mostly on fanon here). The fact that Leslye Headland wanted to tell a story like The Acolyte because she thinks SW is defined by underdogs fighting an evil institution so the Jedi can only be good if they're underdogs and not an institution is bleak.

In the prequels, Anakin's fall to the dark side and the Republic becoming the Empire are two story threads that parallel each other in obvious, meaningful ways. It's heavy-handedly emphasized that the causes of both were fear and hunger for power, which SW constantly shows to be closely related. If there's also this slow descent into their own destruction happening with the Order due to their own tragic flaws, to the point that - as I've seen argued - they would have fallen eventually even without Palpatine destroying them, that's something that just happens to be going on at the same time for some reason, very conveniently for Palpatine, and it doesn't neatly fit in with those other two threads the same way. It doesn't happen because the Jedi act on fear or have anything to personally gain from what they do. It happens because of...one or five of like fifteen different possible flaws of theirs, depending on who you ask. They were arrogant/stagnant/bureaucratic/a cult/cool with slavery/using child soldiers/dogmatic or many other (usually imprecisely defined) bad things that the Order supposedly became because...well we don't know why or what it has to do with everything else going on in this era, the point is they were bad okay! If this is really The Point then it overcomplicates and obscures what the point even is. It makes the tragedy of the prequels about everything that can go wrong going wrong, all over the place, to the point that it's about nothing.

I don't know, I just don't think it's an overwhelmingly emphasized message throughout the franchise that institutions are all inevitably subject to corruption so you should just burn it all down and be a cool, rogue gray-Jedi person carving your own path alone or whatever. I don't think it's about this. Even TLJ, as I've argued a million times, ultimately says thinking that way just serves the bad guys. What is often emphasized is the importance even a seemingly insignificant individual can have as part of a whole, the power of connection between living beings and being stronger together, and the importance of preserving democracy actually in order to protect the most defenseless underdogs.

#jedi order #padme amidala #leia organa #meta #my meta #star wars #the clone wars #my sw meta

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uinferno · 7 months ago

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I made a previous post about the nature of the Zelda timeline, but thinking back, how it all came together is very amusing.

Now "The fans care more about the timeline than Nintendo does" and "Nintendo never developed the games with a timeline in mind" are both true. However, that doesn't mean "all Zelda games are wholly unrelated and irrelevant to each other." Unfortunately, the reality of the matter is that Nintendo developed each game with one other game in mind and only one other game, and so by pure proxy all games naturally fall into a timeline despite the fact the people putting Echoes of Wisdom together didn't give Spirit Tracks much thought.

It's sort of a "proof by induction" kind of deal. Adventure of Link was deliberately written as a sequel to Zelda 1. A Link to the Past was developed as a prequel to Zelda 1. Links Awakening as a sequel to ALttP. Ocarina of Time as a prequel to ALttP (fleshing out backstory in its manual). Majora's Mask was a clear sequel to OoT. For the first 15-ish years a Prequel-Sequel pairing pattern was followed. When Oracles and Four Swords games were done, they didn't fit super neatly with the "main timeline," but they were also not made by Nintendo (they're Capcom games save for Four Swords Adventures but that springboarded off of Capcom's Zeldas).

Then, continuing, Wind Waker explicitly recounts Ocarina of Time in its prologue. Twilight Princess explicitly discusses Ocarina of Time's child ending after Arbiter's Grounds. Phantom Hourglass and Spirit Tracks both explicitly refer to Wind Waker. Then, along comes Skyward Sword, the game developed with the entire Zelda franchise in mind. Paired with Hyrule Historia, giving us the modern timeline we know.

A Link Between Worlds is an explicit follow-up to A Link to the Past. Triforce Heroes is its funky little sibling. Breath of the Wild and Tears of the Kingdom are the only ones that are truly unmoved by the other games. Hell, TotK is pretty unmoved by BotW too. All things considered, they're close to the exception rather than the rule.

The nature of the Zelda Timeline is neither super developed and rigid in its structure like more straightforward game franchises, nor is it apathetic of its kin, like Mario or Final Fantasy. It's a sprawling web where time and again, the developers take a dangling thread from one game to weave their own tapestry until at the end of it they made a fucked up, hyperbolic quilt with 5 squares to a vertex. You can't actually cut it out as they're pretty securely interwoven, but it's not going to lay flat either.

#zelda #the legend of zelda #zelda timeline #loz #ocarina of time #majoras mask #a link to the past #links awakening #wind waked #twilight princess #skyward sword #breath of the wild #tears of the kingdom #phantom hourglass #spirit tracks #echoes of wisdom #speaking of shout out to eow for being the first zelda game in a decade to have a codified placement in the timeline #between albw and zelda 1

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sophie-hatter-jenkins · 4 months ago

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Part 11: Curly

A March 2025 Hinny Microfic for @ginnystrophyhusband using Prompt 12

765 words (believe it or not, I've cut this viciously! It was a lot longer a couple of hours ago)

All the March prompts that I write will be set in the same universe as, and form a prequel to, this fic. Hopefully they'll all stand alone, but they'll also form a little story of their own, which is why they're numbered.

Fair warning - it's going to be fluffy!

Read them all from the beginning on AO3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time Ginny moves to Pembrokeshire it is high summer. West Wales is experiencing one of its infrequent but absolutely ferocious heatwaves. There’s a breeze coming in off the Atlantic, but even that can’t do more than temper the worst of the sweltering heat.

It is not weather that favours any of the Weasleys, but despite this, Ty Môr is a hive of activity. There’s an absolute mountain of stuff to move, and Ginny’s both grateful and relieved that she has such a big family to help out, even if they are all wilting in the heat. As well as Harry, Ginny and her parents, Ron and Hermione are here, plus Bill, George and Percy. Everyone is pitching in, and there are people everywhere, fetching boxes, carrying furniture, or finishing off all the little jobs that need to be done.

Ginny stands at the centre of it all, opening box after box and telling people where everything should go; this drawer for that, that cupboard for this, getting it all just where she wants it.

Or at least, that’s what she’s trying to do.

It starts well enough, but by late morning, things are threatening to unravel. Ginny’s hot and sticky. There are a lot of decisions to be made, everyone has questions, and she hasn’t stopped all morning so she’s feeling pretty frazzled. It would be a lot more manageable, she feels, if she wasn’t being so thoroughly undermined by her mother.

Molly Weasley sticks to her daughter like glue, and is apparently hell bent on telling her that every single choice is terribly wrong and will inevitably lead to domestic disaster—when she’s not gazing at Ginny with teary eyes and muttering things about ‘her baby being so grown-up’, that is.

It is driving Ginny absolutely nuts.

By the time as the sun creeps up towards its apex, she’s bitten her tongue so many times that she’s in danger of severing it, along with the thin thread of sanity to which she is clinging. She desperately doesn’t want a fight, because she loves her mum and she knows it’s coming from a good place, but it can’t last; Ginny is too hot, too irritated and too stressed. There’s an explosion coming, and isn’t going to be able to stop it.

That’s when Harry arrives, as though she’s somehow summoned him in her hour of need.

He’s a welcome sight at any time, but especially now, wearing an old t-shirt that drapes appealingly from his angular shoulders, and a pair of cut-offs that Ginny’s particularly fond of, which may or may not have something to do with the way they fit so snugly to his hips.

He’s helping Hermione to levitate another stack of boxes into the kitchen, and though they’re busy with their task, Harry’s eyes still go straight to Ginny. He takes one look at her expression and immediately sets down his boxes, whispering something to Hermione, who nods briskly.

“Molly?” says Harry, approaching them. “Did you say you’d got some lunch for everyone? I think the troops are getting hungry.”

Molly checks her watch. “Gracious is that the time? I’ve got some Cornish pasties ready to go in the oven, but the boys must be about ready to eat their own fingers!”

“They’ll be fine for a little while I’m sure, especially if there are pasties on offer,” he reassures her. “If you need a hand, why don’t I come with you? Hermione can help Ginny here.”

“Oh! Well, that’s very kind of you, dear.” Ginny isn’t sure whether her mum is talking to Harry or Hermione, and she thinks that her mum probably isn’t either. “But are you sure you’ll manage without me?”

This is very definitely aimed at Ginny. “Yes mum. We’ll be fine.” She tries not to look too thrilled by the idea. “I’d love a pasty too”

“Thought as much,” says Harry, shooting her a cocky grin. Ginny blows him a kiss in return.

“I won’t be long!” her mum promises, but Harry’s already guiding Molly towards the front door, heading for the spot beyond the gate where they can apparate.

Ginny breathes a sigh of relief.

Hermione laughs, tucking her curly hair behind her ear. “Harry rather got the impression that was how you felt.”

“Am I really that transparent?” wonders Ginny.

Hermione shakes her head. “I think it’s more that he just knows you really well. You and your mum.”

Ginny leans back against the kitchen counter. “Well, he was right about more than one thing.”

Hermione quirks an eyebrow. “Oh yes?”

“I’m bloody starving.”

#harry potter #ginny weasley #hinny #harry x ginny #harry potter fanfiction #ginnystrophyhusband

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 10 months ago

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1. And If I Get Burned, At Least We Were Electrified.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

A deep yawn slipped from your lips as you descended the creaky wooden stairs, each step bringing you closer to the dimly lit bar area below. The comforting warmth of the takeaway coffee in your hand did little to fully shake the lingering sleep that clung to you. With your crossbody bag pressed tightly against your chest and your phone occupying your other hand, you navigated the sudden shift from the bright, sunlit morning outside to the bar’s shadowy interior. The contrast was jarring, momentarily disorienting, and you found yourself squinting, blinking a few times as your eyes adjusted to the low light.

The faint smell of stale beer and cleaning products hit your senses, and you paused briefly, the familiar atmosphere slowly wrapping itself around you. Just another day, you thought, taking a slow sip of your coffee to wake up a little more. Your footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as you made your way further inside.

“You’re late,” came a voice from behind the bar, breaking the silence. You glanced up to see James, your friend, leaning casually against the counter. His signature smirk was plastered across his face, his arms crossed in front of him. A white cloth was carelessly slung over his shoulder, a familiar sight after years of friendship and shared shifts.

Without missing a beat, you held up your coffee cup as if it were a shield against his teasing, “There was a line,” you replied defensively, trying to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. You could already tell this was going to be one of those days. You slipped your phone into your bag and moved to the side office, the small room barely big enough to hold the essentials. The bag hit the floor with a soft thud, a sigh escaping your lips.

As you stepped back into the bar area, you noticed one of your colleagues struggling to maneuver a trolley full of alcohol bottles into the storage area. You made a mental note to help them later, but for now, your attention was fixed on James, who was watching you with an amused expression, his arms still crossed.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Well, in the spirit of full disclosure,” he began, “we just had Remy Lebeau’s crew here.”

You froze mid-sip, the coffee catching in your throat as you swallowed too quickly. You coughed, eyes widening as his words sank in. “Why?” you rasped, narrowing your eyes suspiciously as you glanced around the bar. “Who owes him here?”

James straightened up, unfolding his arms but keeping that smirk on his lips. “No one, apparently. They’re looking for a—quote—neutral spot for a meeting—unquote.” He paused for emphasis, eyeing you as if to gauge your reaction. “So they gave the boss lady a shit ton of money to close the bar down for the night. They’ll be here for some kind of meeting.”

You blinked, the implications hitting you immediately. “Thank fuck I wasn’t here,” you muttered under your breath, relief washing over you. “And thank fuck I won’t be here! It’s Friday, I’m off at 3.”

James’ laugh was genuine this time, the deep, rumbling sound filling the quiet bar. But there was something in that laugh that made you wary. He leaned back on his heels, arms once again crossing over his chest in that way that told you bad news was coming.

“And that’s where I rain on your little parade.” His grin widened, almost gleeful now. “Kate called in sick.”

Your heart sank, the coffee now feeling like a lead weight in your stomach. “No...”

“You’re replacing her, 10 to 10,” he said, the words like a hammer to your carefully laid plans.

Your face fell as the reality of your situation settled in. “I had plans,” you mumbled, the words barely audible even to yourself. Visions of a quiet evening at home, maybe catching up on that show or finally finishing that book, all crumbled before you like a house of cards.

“Not anymore, you don’t.” James’ laughter followed you as you stared at him in disbelief. He didn’t even have the decency to look apologetic. Instead, he turned back to the dishwasher that had just beeped, signaling the end of a cycle. He reached in to pull out the dozens of hot, steaming glasses crammed inside with the same casual ease, while your mood plummeted further.

You stood there in the middle of the bar, still holding your now lukewarm coffee, mentally kicking yourself for not calling in sick yourself this morning.

As you and James cleaned up the bar, the sound of heels echoed from around the corner, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the silence like a knife. Abigail emerged, a folder in her hands, her expression as unreadable as ever. She came to a stop in front of you, her gaze flicking briefly to the takeaway coffee cup still in your hand. Abigail Norman was not a woman you forgot easily. Even before she spoke, her presence commanded attention with a force that could quiet a room. She was older, though you could never quite pinpoint her age—somewhere in her mid-fifties, perhaps—but the years had done nothing to soften her sharp edges. Her dark brown hair, carefully styled into loose curls, framed her face in a way that might have made someone else look approachable, even warm. But for Abigail, it only sharpened her already severe appearance. Her features were angular and precise: high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and hooded eyes that always seemed to be calculating something just out of your reach.

Her makeup was meticulously applied, but not overdone. The crimson lipstick she wore was a signature of hers—bold, unapologetic, and a signal that she was not to be trifled with. A soft brown eyeshadow and a thin line of eyeliner emphasized her dark eyes, which, despite their cosmetic enhancement, remained cold and distant, like two polished stones. They were the eyes of someone who had seen too much and trusted too little.

She dressed in business attire that was both elegant and intimidating. Today, it was a tailored gray suit, the pants perfectly hemmed to reveal the iconic red soles of her Louboutin heels. The suit accentuated her slim frame, adding to the impression that she was not just a businesswoman, but a force of nature. Every step she took echoed through the bar, the sound of her heels against the floor an almost ominous reminder of the authority she wielded.

Abigail was not known for small talk or pleasantries, and she had little patience for anything she deemed frivolous. You’d once cracked a joke about money laundering, given the sheer number of businesses she owned—bars, restaurants, and even a high-end boutique or two. But one sharp glance from those cold, steely eyes had shut that down fast. It wasn’t just that she didn’t find it funny; it was as though the mere suggestion that she could be anything but above board was an insult she wouldn’t tolerate.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” she commented, her tone clipped, not bothering to hide her irritation.

You forced a smile, already bracing for the lecture. “Traffic. You know how it is in New Orleans,” you lied smoothly, though you knew it wouldn’t land.

Her eyes shifted to the cup in your hand, and a small, knowing smirk tugged at her lips. “I’m sure it was.”

Abigail’s gaze lingered for just a moment before she moved on, her sharp eyes scanning the bar. As usual, she missed nothing. Her presence alone was enough to make you and James fall into line, though you both tried to keep things light with your usual banter.

“I suppose you’ve heard about tonight then?” she asked, not really waiting for an answer.

You nodded. “I have.”

“And that you’re working 10-10 now. Kate’s called out,” she said, barely looking up from the checklist in her hands.

Feigning concern, you put on your best sympathetic face. “Oh, that’s a shame. Is she okay?” you asked, handing your cup to James, who silently tossed it into the bin behind you.

Abigail didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You know what Kate’s like. She cries about wanting the shifts, so I give them to her, and she never shows up.”

Her eyes flicked up from the checklist, pinning you with that steely gaze. “I know how much you two enjoy making running commentary about our guests,” she said, motioning to you and James, who was now trying to suppress a grin. “So for tonight, I suggest you both shut the hell up. Make Mr. Lebeau and his friends comfortable, or I’ll make sure neither of you work in this city again.”

You and James both nodded, the threat as real as the woman standing before you. It wasn’t the first time Abigail had reminded you of the precarious position you held, and it wouldn’t be the last.

As she turned to leave, she paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Also, neither one of you are very subtle,” she added, her eyes sparkling with a hint of amusement, though her face remained perfectly neutral.

Once she was out of earshot, you and James exchanged a grin, the tension lifting slightly. You both knew better than to push too far, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t have a little fun in the meantime.

“Think she’s planning on making herself the queen of New Orleans?” you asked, grabbing a bottle of cleaner and spraying down the benches.

“Oof,” James scoffed. “If she is, she’ll be making the mad dash to her hairdresser in about thirty minutes.”

You chuckled, as if this was a conversation you’d had before. “Maybe we should be protecting Remy Lebeau from her,” you commented lightly, reaching for a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and pouring three shots in quick succession.

“Here’s to 11 a.m. shots and Remy Lebeau possibly becoming our new boss daddy,” you laughed, raising your glass. James and your other colleague snorted in response as they grabbed their own glasses.

You all knocked back the shots, the burn of the alcohol barely registering, before a voice called out from the back room.

“You’re paying for those.”

You winced, but couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. <><><><><><><><><>

The clock on the wall ticked over to 8 PM, and the bar was eerily quiet. You and James had been killing time for the past hour, throwing crumpled paper into a small recycling bin behind the bar. It was a poor substitute for the bustling Friday night crowd that should’ve been filling the place with noise, laughter, and chaos. Normally at this time, the bar would be packed, with bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, the hum of conversation and clinking of glasses filling the space. But tonight, it was dead. The absence of life felt unnatural, and after a while, the silence started to crawl under your skin.

“So, what were your plans for tonight?” you asked James, taking another shot at the bin and missing by a mile.

He lazily handed you another crumpled paper ball, shrugging as he took a long sip from his water bottle. “I was gonna take Nat out to that new Italian place by the river, but, well... as you can see, that all went to shit.”

You winced slightly, knowing how hard it was to get a reservation at that place. “Is she at least understanding about it?”

James chuckled, retrieving the paper you’d missed and making the shot himself in one smooth motion. “Yeah, when I told her the reason, she said it was fine. She’ll just hang with her sister tonight.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “It helps when you’ve got someone understanding.”

James raised an eyebrow at you, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “What about you? Any hot date I need to know about?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you tossed another paper ball. “Not even close. Honestly, I think I’m done with dating until the men of New Orleans decide to pick up their game.”

James laughed, a low, amused chuckle. “Ouch. That’s rough.”

You grinned, pointing at him. “Oh, you’re definitely included in that Barnes.”

Before he could respond, both of you froze at the sound of Abigail’s voice echoing from the hallway. You exchanged quick glances, panic flashing in your eyes, and immediately scrambled to clean up the mess of paper and empty cups you’d left behind. It was a mad dash to make the bar look like a professional establishment again, both of you trying to act like you hadn’t just spent the last few hours goofing off.

Abigail entered the bar, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, followed by a man in a white suit and four others trailing behind him. The man in the white suit was large, with a thick neck and broad shoulders, clearly someone used to commanding respect. Abigail stopped in front of you and James, her cold eyes flicking over you both with an air of disapproval.

“And this is our bar staff,” she said, her voice dripping with an almost forced politeness. “If you need anything, feel free to ask them, and they will be happy to provide it.”

You and James forced smiles, but yours felt more like a grimace, especially when Abigail shot you a brief but pointed glare. The men nodded silently, then moved toward the large circular table for twelve that had been set up in the far corner of the bar. The man in the white suit took his seat at the head of the table, while the others flanked him, standing like silent sentinels.

Abigail leaned in close to you, her voice a low, icy whisper. “Try to be a bit more pleasant when Mr. Lebeau arrives.” Her tone left no room for argument—it was a warning, and a familiar one at that.

You exchanged a quick glance with James, both of you tensing slightly. The red-haired waitress was already at the table, nodding furiously as the man in white pointed to various items on the menu. You could tell by her expression that she was nervous, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to keep up with his rapid questions.

And then, as if on cue, you heard it—the loud, fake laugh that Abigail reserved for only the most important guests. It echoed through the quiet bar, signaling the arrival of the man you’d been nervously anticipating all night. You were midway through complaining to James about how hungry you were when the door swung open, and your head automatically turned.

Remy Lebeau walked in, and the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. It was as if all the air had been sucked out, leaving only the weight of his presence. He was the kind of man who didn’t need to announce himself—his mere existence did that for him. He wore a dark blue suit, perfectly tailored to his lean, muscular frame, with the top button of his white shirt left undone, giving him an air of casual confidence. His hair was dark and not overly styled, it fell slightly on his forehead. His face was sharp, angular, with a jawline that could probably cut glass. Five men walked in after him, each dressed in a type of calm and casual neatness that if you didn’t know any better, you would say it was a group of friends having dinner after a day in the office. But of course you knew better.

If New Orleans had a king, his name was Remy Lebeau. In the underworld, he was a legend, a figure whispered about in dark corners and back alleys, where people knew better than to speak his name too loudly. He was the kind of man that everyone respected—whether that respect was born out of admiration or fear depended entirely on which side of his temper you’d found yourself. Few dared to cross him, and those who did rarely lived to tell the tale.

Lebeau wasn’t just any mobster. He had clawed his way to the top with a combination of sheer cunning, brute strength, and a ruthless disregard for anyone who stood in his way. His nickname, "The King of New Orleans," wasn’t just a title; it was a statement of fact. Every racket, every scheme, every underhanded deal that went down in the Crescent City had his fingerprints on it. And if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be long before it did.

Behind his suave, charming exterior—and he was charming, that much was undeniable—was a man with an iron will and a heart as cold as the Mississippi in winter. His reputation for cruelty was well-earned. A hard hand and an unforgiving nature defined him. If you owed him money, you paid. If you crossed him, you disappeared. And if you made the mistake of underestimating him, well, you didn’t get the chance to make that mistake again.

Lebeau was a master of contradiction. He was known for his impeccable manners, his smooth Cajun drawl, and his love of fine things—tailored suits, expensive bourbon, and even finer women. But beneath that polished exterior was a man capable of terrifying violence. He could be laughing with you over cigars one minute and have you dragged to the bayou the next, never to be seen again. His crew was fiercely loyal, but not because they loved him—because they feared him. And in Remy Lebeau’s world, fear was the currency that bought loyalty.

He was also a man who understood the value of appearances. He kept his hands clean, at least on the surface. His legitimate businesses—clubs, restaurants, even a few high-end hotels—were fronts, a way to launder the dirty money that flowed through his empire. But everyone knew the truth. No one got that rich, that powerful, in New Orleans without getting blood on their hands. And Lebeau’s hands were soaked.

In moments of generosity, he could be magnanimous, even charming. He’d be the first to buy a round of drinks for the house, to shake hands with the mayor, to slip a generous donation to the church. But that charm was as much a weapon as the gun tucked beneath his tailored jacket. It disarmed people, lulled them into a false sense of security, right before he made his move.

But it wasn’t his appearance that struck you the most—it was the way he carried himself. There was an undeniable magnetism about him, an aura of control and danger that radiated from every step he took. His movements were smooth, deliberate, like a predator who knew exactly where he stood in the food chain. His smile was charming, almost disarming, but his eyes told a different story. They were dark, calculating, like he was constantly sizing up everyone around him, deciding who was useful and who was expendable. He had the kind of eyes that could flip from warmth to ice in an instant.

When those eyes finally met yours, you felt a chill run down your spine. Though he was smiling, you could see the darkness beneath it—this was a man who didn’t get where he was by being nice. He was dangerous, and you knew it. Every instinct in your body told you to be cautious around him. This wasn’t someone you wanted to cross; this was someone who could ruin you with a single word, and you wouldn’t even know it was coming until it was too late.

As Remy walked further into the room, the men at the table all stood, their posture stiffening as if his presence alone demanded respect. He gave them a nod, his smile never faltering, but you noticed the way his eyes flicked back to you and James for just a second longer than necessary. It was a glance that made your stomach tighten.

Abigail greeted him with her usual over-the-top enthusiasm, her laugh grating on your nerves even more than usual, but you were too focused on Remy to pay much attention. The way he commanded the room without even trying was unsettling, to say the least. You’d heard the stories about him—the King of New Orleans, the mobster with the iron grip on the city’s underworld—but seeing him in person was something else entirely. He was more than just a rumor, more than just a name whispered in hushed tones. He was real, and he was right in front of you.

James nudged you lightly, pulling you out of your thoughts. You quickly tore your gaze away from Remy and focused on the task at hand, your heart still pounding in your chest. The night had just begun, and already it felt like it was going to be a long one.

As you moved behind the bar, you couldn’t help but glance back at Remy one more time. He was talking to Abigail now, his voice low and smooth, though you couldn’t make out the words. The way he stood, the way he moved—it all screamed power. And for the first time in a long while, you felt completely out of your depth. This wasn’t just another high roller or VIP. This was someone far more dangerous.

And tonight, you were in his world. <><><><><><><><><> Laughter rippled through the large table, catching your attention as you and James busied yourselves tidying up the bar. Remy clapped one of his men on the shoulder, saying something that sent the whole table into another round of chuckles. So far, the evening had remained friendly, the mood around the room still light. But beneath the surface, you could feel something else—something tense, something electric.

You’d been working overtime all evening, and the exhaustion was starting to creep into your limbs. The idea of the weekend, of not having to come back here for two full days, was practically the only thing keeping you going. You’d lost count of how many times Abigail had swanned in, fluttering her lashes at Remy, each time asking with exaggerated sweetness if he and his entourage were enjoying themselves. You and James had exchanged plenty of glances, barely holding back your amusement every time she left the room.

You kept your voices low, but it didn’t seem to matter. Every time the two of you snorted in laughter or made a quick quip at Abigail’s expense, Remy would glance up from the table. His eyes would lock onto yours, that ever-present smirk playing at the corner of his lips, like he could hear every word you were saying. His gaze pierced through the dim lighting of the bar, and each time, it felt like he was looking right into you, like he could read your thoughts. The intensity of his attention was unnerving, and yet… there was something magnetic about it. You couldn’t help but feel drawn in, as if some invisible current connected the two of you across the room.

“We’re so getting fired by the end of the night,” James muttered, crouching down to grab a few bottles from the drink cupboard. His voice was light, but there was an edge of real anxiety behind it. “Might need to learn how to make our feet look real pretty, ‘cause that’s the only way we’ll be paying rent this month.”

You laughed, but the tension in your gut didn’t dissipate. “Speak for yourself. I’m more worried about getting killed before the night’s over. If not by the guys in here, then by Abigail herself. She looks like she hasn’t slept in days.”

James stood up, wiping his hands on his pants. “You think Abigail sleeps?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You didn’t notice the subtle shift in the atmosphere as you continued stocking the shelves. “Yeah, upside down on the rafters, like a bat,” you joked, letting out a laugh just as you felt a slight nudge at the back of your feet.

The laugh died in your throat as you turned and locked eyes with Remy Lebeau, leaning casually against the bar. That smirk—the one that had been haunting you all night—was wider now, more pronounced. His presence sent a jolt through you, and you immediately looked down at the floor, your heart racing. You knew you were in trouble. A man like Remy didn’t sneak up on people without a reason.

“Abigail’s y’ boss, right?” Remy’s voice was smooth, with that thick drawl that rolled off his tongue like honeyed whiskey. He wasn’t even acknowledging James, his eyes fixed solely on you, that grin never leaving his face. There was a playfulness in his tone, but underneath it, you could sense the weight of his power—a reminder that playful or not, he was not a man to be taken lightly.

You swallowed hard, trying to salvage the situation. “She’s a great boss,” you managed to say, though your voice sounded a little too high-pitched for your liking. “Really,” you added, though the word trailed off awkwardly as Remy raised an eyebrow, his amusement deepening.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the silence stretch between you, making you feel more and more like a deer caught in headlights. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he handed James a large bill, his eyes still locked on you. “Grab me ‘nother bottle of wha’ we been drinkin’,” he said, though it was less of a request and more of a command.

James took the money, but you were already moving, grabbing the bottle from the shelf with shaky hands. As you passed it to James, Remy gave you a small wink. “Keep th’ change,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. Then, without another word, he pushed off the bar and strode back to the table, leaving you standing there, breathless.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest. James, who had been watching the entire exchange with barely concealed amusement, finally let out a snort of laughter. “Well, that was something. Should I start looking for job openings now, or wait until morning?”

You shot him a look, though the humor in his eyes made it hard to stay irritated. “Oh, we’re definitely screwed. I’ll let you know if I find a job that’ll take us both.”

Before you could say anything else, the red-haired waitress wandered over, her eyes following Remy as he walked back to the table. She glanced between the two of you, curiosity written all over her face. “What was that all about?” she asked, leaning against the counter.

You shook your head, trying to shake the lingering tension that clung to you like a second skin. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be spending my weekend job hunting after tonight,” you muttered, finally tearing your gaze away from Remy and focusing on the waitress. “What about you? What brings you into the lion’s den?”

She glanced toward the kitchen, then back at you, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Abigail wants me to cover you while you take your break. Vis has made something for dinner in the back.”

“Oh, thank god,” James groaned, handing over the white cloth he’d been using to clean the bar. “I was starting to think I’d have to start nibbling on the bar snacks.”

The waitress listened as he gave her a small list of tasks that needed handling, but you were only half-listening. You couldn’t shake the feeling of Remy’s eyes still on you, even from across the room. Every time you let your guard down, every time you let yourself slip into the rhythm of the evening, there he was—watching. Observing. Every smile he flashed at his men, every laugh he shared at the table, felt like it was tinged with something else. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but there was a dangerous edge to his presence, something that made your skin prickle with nervous energy.

As you and James made your way toward the kitchen, you cast one last glance over your shoulder. Remy was leaned back in his chair, his arm draped casually over the backrest, and his eyes were still locked on you. That smirk was back, curling at the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. For a moment, it felt like the rest of the room disappeared—just you and him, caught in that charged silence, where everything seemed to hang on the edge of a knife. His gaze was intense, like he could see right through the bravado you wore like armor, right down to the nerves fraying underneath.

You turned away quickly, your pulse kicking up as you tried to steady your breathing. Vis, the older cook, handed you a large burger with fries on the side. The comforting smell of sizzling food and the clatter of pans usually made the kitchen feel like a safe haven, but right now, it was a sanctuary from the tension simmering in the bar.

“How’s it going out there?” He asked, his voice low and gruff, as if he knew exactly who was still on your mind.

James grabbed his food and shook some salt over the fries, leaning casually against the counter. “Well, in the space of several hours, we’ve watched Abigail try and find herself husband number—what is it again?” He glanced at you with a knowing grin.

“Four,” you mumbled around a mouthful of fries.

“Four,” James repeated, drawing out the word with exaggerated exasperation. “We’ve been dying of hunger all night, and our lovely head barmaid here has been making bedroom eyes with a certain mobster.”

You choked, spluttering and coughing as you struggled to catch your breath. “I’ve been what now?”

James waited patiently as you recovered, his expression not unlike that of a cat who caught a canary. He turned back to Vis, who watched the scene unfold with quiet amusement. “Anyway, Remy overheard us talking smack about Abigail, and now we’re pretty sure we’ll be fired by tomorrow. He’s definitely gonna tell her.”

You nodded, your expression grim as you took another bite. “He’s absolutely gonna tell her,” you agreed, though the thought of Remy tattling on you seemed oddly out of character, “Anyway, I’m going to go eat this out the back. Its getting a bit too stuffy in here for my liking.” “It’s cold out there,” Vis pointed out, “Don’t forget a jacket.”

You gave the chef a warm smile as you told him you’ll be fine, you just need a bit of a breather. But all you could feel was the weight of the evening pressing down on you. The kitchen was too warm, too stifling, and the thought of Remy’s lingering gaze still made your skin tingle uncomfortably. Grabbing your plate, you pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night, the clamor of the bar fading as you settled onto an old crate against the wall. The night air was a welcome relief, crisp and biting against your heated skin.

You were midway through your burger when the door creaked open again, and Remy stepped out, his presence as effortless as ever. He gave you a nod of acknowledgment before fishing a cigarette from his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, he lit it, the glow briefly illuminating his face in the dark. He took a long drag, then held the pack out to you.

You shook your head, feeling awkward now that the bustling bar was behind you. Out here in the cool night air, the streetlights casting long shadows, there was nowhere to hide from Remy’s sharp, knowing eyes. The way they seemed to take in everything about you—every nervous glance, every fidget—it made you feel exposed. Vulnerable, even. You were used to fading into the background when things got too intense, blending into the noise and activity of the bar. But now, with just the two of you standing outside, there was no escaping his attention.

Remy shrugged casually, slipping his cigarette pack back into his jacket pocket and leaning against the brick wall beside you. He exhaled a plume of smoke, the scent of tobacco mixing with the crisp night air. “Should really quit, I know,” he said, his voice carrying that lazy, Southern drawl that somehow made everything sound like a suggestion rather than a command. “These things gonna kill me ‘fore I even see my next birthday.”

You smirked despite the tension crawling up your spine, popping another fry into your mouth as you tried to keep things light. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rich, and when you glanced over, his eyes were still on you, unwavering. “So, it’s no’ jus’ reserved fo’ the staff, huh?” he teased, his voice warm but edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “This is jus’ who y’ are.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, your heart picking up pace. His gaze had that effect on you—like he could see past the words you were saying, right into the truth of you. Unsettled, you looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the few remaining fries. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I’m overtired and not really thinking straight.”

Remy tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet, intense way of his, like he was weighing your words carefully. “Then why y’s till here, if y’ wasn’t suppos’ t’ be?”

You shrugged, your fingers nervously picking at the edges of your half-eaten burger bun. The question hit a little too close to home. “One of the other bartenders called in sick, and…well, rent’s due.” The words came out casually, but there was a weight behind them, a kind of resignation you hadn’t meant to let slip. You quickly looked down, embarrassed by how vulnerable that admission felt.

There was a beat of silence, and when you dared to glance up, Remy was nodding slowly, his expression thoughtful, as if he understood more than you had said. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nose. “That’s fair. Gotta keep the lights on somehow.” His eyes flicked back to you, assessing, but not unkind. “You like workin’ here?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. No one ever really asked you things like that. You paused, really thinking about it for the first time in a while. “Yeah, I do. It’s not so bad, you know? Except for the occasional rowdy customer or—”

“—or Abigail,” Remy finished for you, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His laugh was soft, but it caught you off guard, and despite yourself, you found your own lips curling into a smile.

You rolled your eyes with a half-laugh, the tension beginning to ease from your shoulders. “She’s not always that bad. Just… selectively intolerable.”

Remy’s smirk deepened as he flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the pavement, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Selective’s one way t’ put i’,” he said with a chuckle, his tone light but carrying that ever-present edge of danger. “Y’ got some guts talkin’ about her like that when she’s just inside, though.”

You laughed, but it was a nervous sound, the kind of laugh you let out when you’re caught off guard but still trying to play it cool. “Yeah, well… I’m learning to live dangerously,” you teased, though the irony wasn’t lost on you. You were standing next to the most dangerous man in the city, and yet somehow you felt more at ease with him than you did with your own boss.

Remy’s eyes softened, just a fraction, but enough for you to notice. “Danger, huh? Don’t seem like th’ type t’ go lookin’ fo’ it.”

You shrugged, your fingers still toying with the edge of the burger wrapper, trying to keep your hands busy so you wouldn’t betray just how on edge you felt. “I’m not, usually. But tonight’s been…not my normal clientele.”

He didn’t ask what you meant by that, but the way his gaze lingered told you that he understood more than you were saying. There was something magnetic about him, something that pulled you in even though every rational part of your brain was screaming at you to keep your distance. He was dangerous, yes, but there was something else there—something that made you want to know more.

Remy took a final drag of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. “Different ain’t always a bad thing,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. He pushed off the wall, standing a little closer to you now, the space between you growing smaller, more intimate.

You swallowed, feeling the weight of his presence. The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth noticing in that moment—made your skin tingle with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. You weren’t sure if you should say something, or if the silence between you was enough. The air felt charged, thick with unspoken words and possibilities you weren’t sure you wanted to explore.

But Remy didn’t push, didn’t rush. He simply stood there, the smirk on his lips fading into something softer, something more genuine. “Y’ got more goin’ on than people give ya credit for, don’tcha?” he asked, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugged, but his eyes never left yours. “I can tell. Not jus’ anyone can handle a place like this. Or people like me.” His words hung in the air between you, heavy with meaning.

You felt your heart skip a beat. The way he said it—so casually, so matter-of-factly—made you realize that he wasn’t just talking about the bar, or the job, or even Abigail. He was talking about you. About what he saw in you. James poked his head out, eyes flicking between you and Remy, noting the flushed cheeks and the lingering grins. “Duty calls,” he said, his tone casual but his gaze curious.

You nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to escape the intensity of the moment. But as you turned to head inside, you felt Remy’s gaze on you once again, and when you glanced back, he gave you a slow, knowing smile.

“See ya ‘round, chérie,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. And as you walked back into the bar, your heart still pounding in your chest, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly that smile meant—and what it might mean for you.

As you walked back into the bar, the door swinging shut behind you, your heart was still racing. The cool night air clung to your skin, but inside, you felt flushed, like you were carrying the heat from that encounter with you. You could feel the remnants of adrenaline, the way your pulse hadn’t quite settled, the way your mind kept replaying his words, his smile, the way his eyes had looked at you like he saw more than just a bartender.

You slid behind the bar, grateful for the familiar rhythm of your work, hoping it would ground you. But even as you wiped down the counter, as your hands moved through the motions of stocking bottles and refilling glasses, your mind kept drifting back to him. To the way his presence had a gravity all its own, pulling you in despite every logical part of your brain telling you to be careful.

James sidled up next to you, his posture relaxed but his eyes still sharp. He wasn’t going to let this slide, not without at least poking at it a bit. “What was that about?” he asked, a smirk tugging at his lips, his voice light but his curiosity palpable.

You shrugged, trying to play it off like it was nothing, even though you felt like you were still vibrating with the leftover tension from that moment. “Just talking to the customer,” you said, feigning indifference as you wiped down the already clean counter. Your heart was still beating a little too fast, and you weren’t sure if it was from the adrenaline or something else. “Same as any other night.”

But it wasn’t the same as any other night, and you both knew it. This felt different—charged, dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the usual rowdy patrons who came in and out. This wasn’t just about serving a drink, or even dealing with a VIP customer. This was about you and Remy, the way he looked at you, the way his words seemed to carry more weight than they should have.

James raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying your attempt at nonchalance. He didn’t say anything, though, just gave you that knowing look, the one that said he had seen plenty and understood more than you were letting on. But to your relief, he didn’t push. He just turned his attention back to the bar, though you could tell his ears were still perked, waiting for whatever was going to unfold next.

You tried to shake it off, to focus on the task at hand—anything to distract yourself from the way your mind kept circling back to Remy. But it was hard to push it away. Every time you closed your eyes, you could still see his smirk, could still hear that low, teasing tone in his voice. You couldn’t help but wonder what that smile meant—what he had seen in you that had made him linger, that had made him stay out there with you just a little longer than necessary.

And what did it mean for you?

This wasn’t just a flirtation, a passing glance with a handsome stranger. This was Remy Lebeau—the man who held the city in his hands, the man whose name alone made people straighten up and walk a little faster when they heard it whispered in the streets. He wasn’t someone you could afford to get involved with, not in any way. But the way he had looked at you, the way he had spoken to you, made it feel like maybe you already were involved, whether you liked it or not.

The truth was, you had felt something in that moment. Something more than just the usual anxiety that came from dealing with someone dangerous. There had been a spark there, something electric, something that made you want to know more, even though every instinct in your body told you to be careful.

And that terrified you.

Because Remy wasn’t just a man. He was a force. He was the kind of person who could change your life in an instant, for better or worse. And right now, you didn’t know which way that scale was going to tip.

You glanced back toward the table where Remy had returned, his posture relaxed, his attention seemingly back on his men. But even from across the room, you could feel that pull—the magnetic tension that seemed to hum between you, even when you weren’t speaking, even when you weren’t looking at each other.

James was saying something, probably making a joke to lighten the mood, but you barely heard him. Your mind was still on Remy, on that smile, on the way he had said your name like he knew you, like he was already planning the next time you’d cross paths.

And deep down, you knew that wouldn’t be the last time.

“Hey,” James nudged you lightly with his elbow, bringing you back to the present. “You okay? You’re zoning out.”

You blinked, forcing a smile as you nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… tired.”

But you weren’t good. Not really. Because now that you had felt that spark, you weren’t sure you’d be able to ignore it. And as you glanced back at Remy once more, you couldn’t help but wonder what would happen the next time you found yourself standing alone with him.

And whether you’d be able to walk away as easily.

The steady hum of conversation and bursts of laughter from the table in front of you kept pulling your attention. You glanced up again, eyes instinctively seeking Remy in the crowd. But this time, he wasn’t looking at you. Instead, his head was turned slightly, focused on the man beside him. They sat close, their postures loose and comfortable, like old friends sharing stories over drinks.

Remy’s mouth curled into a small, easy smile as the man spoke, his hand moving to gesture lazily at something across the room. Whatever it was, Remy let out a low chuckle, a deep, gravelly sound that sent a ripple of warmth through the air. His usually sharp, predatory gaze had softened—just for a moment—as if he had let his guard down in this pocket of calm.

It was almost unsettling, seeing him like that. You had grown used to the intensity that clung to Remy like a shadow, the way his presence always demanded attention. Even when he wasn’t looking directly at you, you could feel him, like a storm brewing on the horizon. But now, in this moment, it was like watching a different man altogether. He seemed... normal. Like he could be anyone sitting at that table, sharing an inside joke with an old friend, without the weight of everything else he carried.

Your fingers drummed lightly on the bar as you watched them, an unexpected knot forming in your stomach. It was easier when he kept his distance, when there was that invisible line between you—barmaid and mobster. Simple. Clear. But the way he laughed now, the way he seemed so at ease, chipped away at that separation. It made him feel closer. More real.

James nudged you with his elbow, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You staring again?”

You blinked, heat rising to your face. “I’m not staring,” you muttered, shifting your focus back to the glass in your hand, though you couldn’t resist sneaking one more glance.

“He’s off duty,” James teased, his voice laced with amusement. “You don’t have to be so on edge. You know, the guy probably eats breakfast just like the rest of us. Maybe reads the paper in the morning. Hell, I bet he even feeds the pigeons.”

You snorted, the mental image of Remy LeBeau sitting on a park bench, casually tossing breadcrumbs to pigeons, almost making you laugh out loud. “Yeah, sure. Right after he settles some ‘business’ with those same pigeons.”

James shrugged, grinning. “I’m just saying. Maybe he’s not as dangerous as he looks.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts lingered on what James said. There was truth to it, as much as you didn’t want to admit it. Remy had a way of shifting between worlds—one minute he was the dangerous, unflinching mobster who could snap a man’s neck without blinking, and the next he was... this. Calm. Collected. Human.

A sudden bout of laughter from Remy’s table broke your train of thought. You glanced up again, almost instinctively, and this time, your gaze collided with his. It was brief, but unmistakable—his eyes locking onto yours for just a heartbeat before he turned back to the conversation at his table. It sent a spark of electricity down your spine, and you quickly looked away, feeling foolish for even thinking it meant anything. But then, like a needle scratching across a record, a low comment from one of the men at Remy’s table cut through the noise. The words were muffled, too quiet for you to catch, but the effect was immediate and unmistakable.

The entire table went silent.

The tension in the room thickened, settling like a storm cloud about to break. You could feel it in the air—everyone could. It was the kind of silence that pulled everyone’s attention, even the staff at the far end of the bar who hadn’t heard the comment. All eyes flicked to Remy.

He sat perfectly still, his body unnaturally calm. But his jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck flexing as he stared up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowing as though he was silently counting down, trying to rein in whatever fire had been lit inside him. For a moment, you dared to believe he might let it pass.

But you were wrong.

In slow-motion clarity, you watched as Remy stood up, the chair scraping against the floor in a sound that made your skin crawl. His calm was terrifying—more menacing than any shout or slam of fists could have been. His movements were smooth, deliberate, as if every action had been calculated long before the man had even opened his mouth.

Without a word, Remy reached across the table, his hand moving with deadly precision. In one swift motion, he grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and yanked him out of his seat like he weighed nothing. The man barely had time to react before Remy slammed him against the wall, the sound of the impact echoing through the bar with a sickening thud. The force was so great that even the picture frames on the wall rattled, one of them dropping to the floor with a sharp crack . Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the heat rising to your face as you tried to process what you were seeing.

Beside you, James shifted nervously, his voice barely above a whisper. “Should we… step in or something?”

But you both knew better. This wasn’t a situation where stepping in would make any difference. This wasn’t a bar fight you could break up with a few words or a polite request to “take it outside” like you usually did. No, this was something else entirely. This was a warning. A lesson. A reminder of who had the power in the room.

Remy held the man pinned against the wall with one hand, his grip firm and unyielding. The man tried to muster some semblance of defiance, but his bravado crumbled under the weight of Remy’s gaze. You could see it—the transition from anger to fear, from cocky to desperate. His eyes widened, darting around the room as if searching for someone to save him, but there was no escape.

You couldn’t hear what Remy was saying, but you could see his lips moving, his face inches from the man’s. His words were quiet, almost a whisper, but they carried the weight of a death sentence. Whatever Remy was telling him, it was enough to drain the color from the man’s face. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he tried to stammer out an apology or explanation, but the words sounded hollow, useless against the force that was Remy’s quiet fury.

For a moment, it looked like Remy might go further—that he might actually snap the man in two, right there in front of everyone. His knuckles were white, his muscles tense, and you could feel the room collectively hold its breath, waiting for what would come next. But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, Remy released him.

The man stumbled, his feet awkwardly finding the ground as Remy let go. He nearly collapsed, his legs shaky, his breathing ragged. But before anyone could fully process the shift, Remy’s demeanor changed—like flipping a switch. His cold, calculated anger melted away, replaced by a smile that sent a chill down your spine. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator toying with its prey.

Remy wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders, pulling him close in what would have looked like a friendly gesture to anyone who hadn’t just witnessed the violence a moment earlier. The man flinched at the contact, but he didn’t dare pull away.

“After this, mes amis,” Remy announced to the table, his voice loud enough for the entire bar to hear, “we’re gonna take a little drive.” His tone was light, almost jovial, but the menace was still there, just beneath the surface. The kind of menace that didn’t need to be shouted to be understood. He guided the man back to his seat with a firm, almost fatherly pat on the back, forcing him to sit beside him like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just slammed him into the wall with the force of a hurricane.

The other men at the table nodded stiffly, their expressions tense, eyes flicking between each other but not daring to meet Remy’s. They knew better. They understood. Whatever unspoken rule had just been broken, Remy had laid it down again, and none of them were going to challenge it.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding, your hands trembling slightly as you grasped the edge of the bar for support. Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Part of you wanted to look away, to pretend you hadn’t seen it, to go back to the safety of serving drinks and keeping your head down. But another part of you—some darker, more curious part—couldn’t stop watching.

Remy’s control was absolute. He didn’t need to raise his voice or make a scene to remind everyone who he was and what he was capable of. He had made his point in a way that was far more effective than any outburst could have been.

Beside you, James let out a shaky breath, his voice barely a whisper. “What the hell just happened?”

You shook your head, still trying to process it yourself. But deep down, you knew exactly what had happened. Remy had sent a message—a reminder that he wasn’t someone to be crossed. And the man he had just tossed around like a rag doll had been lucky, if you could even call it that. Because whatever was waiting for him on that “drive” Remy had promised, it wasn’t going to be pleasant.

You glanced over at the table again, your eyes catching Remy’s for a brief moment. He was seated now, his posture relaxed, his arm draped casually over the back of his chair. But his eyes were still sharp, still watchful. He caught your gaze, and for a split second, that smirk returned, the one that made you feel like he knew exactly what you were thinking.

And in that moment, you realized Remy hadn’t just sent a message to his men.

He had sent it to everyone in the bar—even you.

From your vantage point behind the bar, you watched the scene unfold, your heart pounding as you tried to process what you’d just seen. Remy’s easy laughter and casual arm draped around the man were a stark contrast to the tension that still clung to the air. It was a performance, you realized—a carefully crafted show of dominance that ensured everyone in the bar knew exactly who was in control.

James nudged you again, his voice a nervous whisper. “What do you think he said to him?”

You shook your head, unable to tear your eyes away from the table. “I don’t know. But whatever it was…it wasn’t good.” You could see it in the way the man sat rigid, his eyes staring straight ahead as if afraid to move, afraid to breathe wrong in Remy’s presence. Remy, meanwhile, carried on like nothing had happened, taking a swig of his drink and engaging in light conversation with the others.

But the atmosphere was different now, the easy camaraderie that had existed before was replaced by something darker, something that hinted at the dangerous undercurrents that ran just beneath the surface. You watched Remy, the way he settled back into his chair, his arm once again draped casually over the backrest, that same smirk playing at his lips as he caught your eye from across the room.

It was a reminder, you realized—a stark, unmissable reminder of who he was and the world he navigated with such ease. And as you returned to your work, you couldn’t help but feel a mix of intrigue and caution pull at you. Because for all the light-hearted banter and stolen moments, Remy LeBeau was still a mobster, and the line between charm and danger was thinner than you’d ever imagined. <><><><> As the night drew to a close, the clock ticked past 1 a.m., and the once-boisterous group began to quiet down. Abigail, her smile as wide as ever, finally made her way over to Remy. They exchanged words in hushed tones, their conversation a murmur that contrasted sharply with the occasional clinking of glasses and the fading laughter of the last few patrons. Abigail’s eyes kept darting toward you and James, her gaze narrowing slightly as if she was calculating something behind that carefully maintained facade.

You shook your head slowly, dreading the inevitable fallout. You could feel the tension in the air like a charged current, waiting to discharge. The bar had mostly emptied, with only a few lingering stragglers remaining—those who seemed to follow Remy wherever he went. The man Remy had thrown against the wall was still around, standing with one of the stragglers, but you knew better than to think Remy would let him leave just yet with the rest of them.

You let out a loud yawn, the exhaustion of the night weighing down on your shoulders like a heavy cloak. It had been a long shift—longer than usual, or at least it felt that way. The hum of the bar had finally quieted, and the last few patrons had trickled out, leaving behind the faint smell of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke. You placed the final glasses into the washer, the repetitive clink of glass on metal soothing in its predictability.

But then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a familiar figure moving toward you with that easy, confident stride. Remy.

You straightened instinctively, your muscles tensing in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the strange, magnetic pull that seemed to exist between the two of you. His presence had a way of making the air around you feel heavier, charged with a kind of energy that made your skin tingle. It was a subtle thing, but undeniable. You could feel it in the way your pulse quickened whenever he was near, in the way you were hyper-aware of his every movement.

He noticed Abigail’s hawk-like gaze following the two of you, her suspicion palpable even from across the room. Remy, ever perceptive, gave you a reassuring nod, a silent message that said more than words could. His demeanor had shifted again—gone was the edge, the danger that had simmered beneath the surface earlier in the night. Now, his voice was softer, almost kind, as he stopped in front of you.

“Ge’ some sleep, chérie,” he said, his accent curling around the words in that warm, lazy way that made them sound like a personal invitation. “Migh’ come back ‘nother day.”

Your lips curved into a tired smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The exhaustion was hard to mask now, and you could feel the weight of the night settling into your bones. “It was lovely meeting you,” you replied, your voice polite but lacking the energy to match his charm. The words felt mechanical, like something you were supposed to say in a situation like this, but they didn’t quite capture the knot of emotions tangled inside you.

Remy’s smirk widened just slightly, the kind of smile that made you feel like he could see right through the veneer of formality you were clinging to. There was something almost predatory in the way his eyes lingered on you, but not in a way that made you feel unsafe. No, it was different. It was like he was waiting, biding his time, knowing that whatever tension simmered between you hadn’t been fully explored yet. And maybe, just maybe, he was as curious as you were about where it might lead.

He slapped the top of the bar twice in a casual farewell, the sound sharp in the silence of the now-empty room. It was a gesture that felt oddly intimate, like a private joke shared between the two of you, even though nothing had been said. Then, with one final glance, he turned and walked away, his movements unhurried, as if he knew he’d be back.

As he strolled toward the door, you felt the strange pull of chemistry hanging in the air—an invisible thread connecting you, even as he put distance between you. There was something unspoken between you, something that hummed quietly beneath the surface. It wasn’t just attraction, though that was certainly part of it. It was more than that—a kind of recognition, maybe. Like he saw something in you that you hadn’t fully acknowledged in yourself yet.

Abigail’s eyes followed Remy until he disappeared out the door, her expression unreadable. You braced yourself for whatever sharp remark she was about to throw your way, her usual cutting tone still echoing in the back of your mind. But instead, she surprised you.

“Go home,” she said curtly, her voice devoid of the malice you had come to expect from her. It wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t cruel either. More like… resigned. “Have the weekend off. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

You blinked, taken aback. That was unexpected. You exchanged a quick glance with James, both of you waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Abigail to say something that would tear the moment apart. But she didn’t. She just turned and walked away, her silhouette disappearing into the night with the same cold efficiency she always carried. Her departure left a strange silence in the bar, like the calm after a storm.

James let out a low whistle, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Looks like your flirting saved our asses tonight,” he said, though his words were more playful than accusatory.

You turned to face him, arching an eyebrow, though you couldn’t help but smile at his ridiculous conclusion. “How does Nat put up with you?” you asked, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. The sarcastic remark was half-hearted, more reflex than anything, but it was enough to cut through the lingering tension that had wrapped itself around the night.

James chuckled, shaking his head as he grabbed his own things. “You know, I ask myself that question every day,” he replied with a grin that softened the mood.

But even as James’s lighthearted banter faded into the background, your mind kept drifting back to Remy. The way he had looked at you, the way his presence seemed to linger in the space long after he had left. There had been something between you tonight—something more than just polite conversation or casual flirtation. It was like a spark had been struck, and now you couldn’t help but wonder if it would catch fire the next time you crossed paths.

And deep down, you knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

As you and James locked up the bar and headed out into the cool night air, you felt a strange mix of relief and anticipation swirling in your chest. The night was over, but it didn’t feel like the end. Not really. There was something unfinished, something unresolved between you and Remy.

You could still hear his voice in your head, soft and teasing: “Migh’ come back ‘nother day.”

The question wasn’t if he would come back—it was when.

And when he did, you weren’t sure if you’d be ready for whatever was going to happen next.

But you couldn’t deny it anymore. There was chemistry between you, that much was obvious. And the more you thought about it, the more you realized how much you wanted to see where it would lead. <><><><><><>

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your small apartment, a sharp contrast to the dim, muted atmosphere of the bar from the night before. Your home was modest—cozy, even—with mismatched furniture that you’d accumulated over the years. A secondhand couch, a coffee table you’d found at a flea market, and a few pictures on the walls that gave the space a touch of warmth. It wasn’t much, but it was yours, and after nights like last night, it was a refuge.

You barely had time to adjust to the daylight before your phone buzzed on the nightstand, the sound cutting through the quiet like a knife. Squinting, you glanced at the screen. Abigail. The clock read exactly 11 a.m., and you groaned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you answered.

“Get your ass to the bar now,” Abigail’s voice was sharp, no prelude or explanation.

Still groggy, you sat up, the weight of the previous night settling in your chest. The encounter with Remy had left you rattled, though you hadn’t fully processed why. There had been a strange tension between the two of you, something unspoken but potent. And now, with Abigail calling so early, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were about to find out exactly what that something was.

You fumbled out of bed, grabbing the nearest comfortable clothes you could find—a well-worn hoodie and sweatpants. It wasn’t the kind of outfit you’d be proud of in public, but right now, you were barely awake enough to care. After a quick rinse of your face, a splash of coffee into a travel mug, and a hasty brush of your teeth, you grabbed your keys and headed out the door.

The drive to the bar felt like a strange déjà vu of the night before. The streets were quieter now, the sun casting long shadows as you passed by familiar landmarks. When you arrived, the bar looked different in the daylight—less of a shadowy haven and more of a place that had seen its fair share of stories. The kind of place where, if the walls could talk, you might not want to hear what they had to say.

You pushed through the door, the familiar ding of the bell echoing through the empty space. The bar was eerily quiet, devoid of the usual clatter and hum of conversation. You made your way upstairs to Abigail’s office, your unease growing with each step.

Her office was a stark contrast to the dim and worn bar below. Sleek, modern, and cold. The minimalist artwork lining the walls and the polished chrome furniture gave it the feel of a high-end corporate boardroom rather than a place where bar brawls were settled on a nightly basis. Abigail sat behind a large, imposing desk, her posture perfectly composed as always, her gaze assessing you from the moment you walked in.

“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite her. You obeyed, sinking into the chair, though its stiff, uncomfortable leather only added to the tension coiling in your gut.

Abigail wasted no time. She reached into a locked drawer, pulling out a large envelope and sliding it across the desk toward you. “I don’t know what the fuck you did last night with Remy LeBeau,” she began, her tone clipped, “but one of his men dropped this off for you early this morning. Of course, you weren’t here, so I said I’d make sure you got it. They called it a ‘tip.’ Just for you.”

Your eyes flicked down to the envelope. It was bulky, the edges slightly crumpled, and your name was scrawled across the front in messy handwriting. You hesitated, the weight of Abigail’s gaze heavy on you, before gingerly opening it. The soft crinkle of paper filled the silence as you pulled out its contents.

Bundles of hundred-dollar bills all wrapped with a security seal.

Your heart raced as you counted the bundles—four of them. Four thousand dollars. More money than you had ever seen in one place, let alone held in your hands. But it wasn’t just the money that left you reeling. Tucked between the bills was a hastily scrawled note, the handwriting jagged and hurried: Now you won’t need the hours for a while.

Your stomach twisted. The note was simple, but the implications were anything but. Why had Remy given you this? What exactly had you done to deserve such a generous “tip”? And more importantly, what did he want in return?

You looked up at Abigail, who was watching you with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something else—something darker, more knowing. She tapped her pen rhythmically against the desk, a small, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

“He’s even booked a table for him and some friends for lunch next Wednesday,” she said, her voice light but tinged with sarcasm. “So call us even for your constant shit-talking about me.”

Your eyes narrowed at her, but the knot of anxiety in your chest tightened. “So, he told you?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, unsure of what you were even asking. Did Remy say something about what you said about her?

Abigail’s smirk widened. “No, he didn’t have to. But when I spoke with him after you left, he had nothing but good things to say about you. And James, too, though,” she paused, her eyes flicking to yours with a hint of something like approval, “especially you.”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. The way she said it, the way Remy had apparently spoken about you—it left you feeling off-balance. What exactly had he said? And why did it feel like there was something more behind his compliments?

“He really enjoyed your company,” Abigail continued, leaning back in her chair, her tone almost casual now. “He said you handled yourself well—better than most. And that’s not something he says lightly.”

You bit your bottom lip, your mind swirling with questions. Was this all just a game to him? Some kind of test that you didn’t even know you were taking? And what did it mean for you that you had somehow passed it?

Abigail’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Have a good weekend,” she said, her tone signaling that the conversation was over. She leaned forward, turning her attention to the paperwork on her desk as if you were already dismissed.

You stood, the envelope clutched tightly in your hand, the weight of the money feeling both like a gift and a burden. As you walked out of her office, the door closing with a soft click behind you, the sense of foreboding that had settled in your chest deepened.

The drive home was a blur. By the time you unlocked the door to your apartment, your hands were trembling. You tossed your bag onto the couch and sank down next to it, the envelope still in your lap, staring at it like it might explode. Four thousand dollars. It was a lifeline, no doubt about it. That money could cover rent for months, give you breathing room you hadn’t had in years. But it was also a tether. A thread that tied you to Remy in a way that you hadn’t asked for, but now couldn’t escape.

You looked around your apartment—the small kitchen with its chipped countertops, the worn rug that had seen better days, the cozy couch that you’d collapsed onto after countless late shifts. This place had always been your sanctuary, your escape from the chaos of the bar. But now, even here, the weight of last night lingered.

As you sat there, the events of the previous night played over and over in your mind. The way Remy had looked at you—like he saw something beneath your surface, something deeper. The chemistry between you had been undeniable, even though you’d tried to ignore it. And now, with this money in your lap and his voice still echoing in your head, you couldn’t shake the feeling that last night had set something in motion. Something that you weren’t sure you were ready for.

The envelope felt heavy in your hands, but not as heavy as the unspoken question that hung in the air:

What would Remy want from you next?

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cosmicatta · 1 year ago

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An analysis of Portgas D. Ace through the light novels

Yes, I'm here again with my bullshit. After reading the Law novel, I was very excited to get my hands on the Ace ones too. And because I feel very intensely about him, I couldn't help turning my reading experience into a character analysis essay. Again.

So here we go!

Some notes before I start:

The edition I've read of this novel is the official Spanish translation by Planeta. When quoting and mentioning numbered pages, I'm referencing that edition.

I originally posted this on Twitter as a thread! If it sounds familiar, that might be why.

I've also posted an essay/thingie about Law's novel here!

These are just my personal impressions, I'm not trying to tell anyone how they should interpret the novel or Ace's character. I'm just doing this for fun!

Much like the Law novel, these are kind of a “prequel” to the source material. The story starts with Ace getting stuck in Sixis Island, where he meets Deuce, and follows their journey as Ace builds his own crew and later ends up joining Whitebeard.

The difference is that Ace’s novels, unlike Law’s, rely a lot more on canon events that we already know happened, because they’re mentioned or briefly shown in the manga (especially in the second volume). I’ll go a bit more into detail about this later, but either way, we can say that the novels are very canon-compliant at the very least.

Also, it’s important to point out that volumes 1 and 2 are written by different authors. I do think this has an impact in the way the narrative flows from one part to another, but it still reads like a cohesive story as a whole.

Overall, it offers a very different reading experience from Law’s novel. I guess the biggest contrast here is that we already know what’s going to be Ace’s tragic destiny, so the narration can’t really feel too hopeful.

Even if the story is lighthearted and adventurous most of the time, the tone that surrounds it all is bittersweet. And the core points of Ace’s journey are always marked by his fatal wounds: love, identity and the concept of deserving.

There is no real resolution for any of these themes throughout the novels; there can’t be, because we know Ace will only reach true understanding right before his death.

In this sense, I think the first volume does a better job at capturing that feeling of “tragic hero” that the story seems to go for, without necessarily getting too grim about it. And there’s a few things about it that get lost in the second part:

Volume 1 is written in first person, but it’s not Ace, the protagonist, who narrates the story. It’s Deuce. I think this is an interesting decision because it allows us to see Ace from the outside, through the eyes of someone who loves him.

And what we see from Deuce’s perspective contrasts with the image that we know Ace has of himself. This is especially interesting for 2 reasons:

He shows what Ace craved for all his life but didn’t know he already had until the end: love and respect.

He’s offering the readers a version of Ace’s identity crafted by an outside viewer, which is also what Ace keeps doing all the time: defining himself in relation to others.

These are going to be the main ideas that shape Ace’s journey from the start and what both novels try to explore.

Although Deuce and Ace’s relationship doesn’t start off in the best way, from the beginning Deuce sees a light in him that he has never known in anyone before. This even reflects in the way he describes Ace physically:

(Quotes roughly translated from Spanish):

P. 27: “He played with his radiant black hair.”

P. 129: “His pupils glowed with the colors of the sea floor.”

But what is most emphasized about Ace throughout the narration is his kindness and gentleness—he shares his fruit with Deuce while he’s starving too, he has a place for all kinds of rejected outlaws in his crew, he helps Isuka even though they’re supposed to be enemies, he gives the rice crackers he’d just bought to some children in Sabaody, etc.

Ace just goes around giving away his endless love without thinking too much about it. It’s in his nature. And people love him in return.

P. 66: “What does it mean to be a captain? To me, it means people love you. […] Ace was born to be a captain.”

There’s a small episode that I find very interesting in this sense—right before attacking him, a bounty hunter declares:

P. 67: “Ace! I love you!”

Ace assumes the guy only said that because his head would have granted him a ton of money. But it’s still a weird way to word it. It’s as if Ace was a shooting star that everyone couldn’t help but admire in awe, friends and enemies alike.

But, as I said before, Ace seems to be completely unaware of this, despite the very explicit ways in which people show him appreciation.

It’s at this point that we start to see the conflict between Ace’s “goals” that he set for himself and his true desires (though this will be explored in more detail in volume 2).

Although he keeps claiming to be in search of fame, he doesn’t really seem to be all that interested in it. He only reacts to his own popularity when his loved ones do, because that is what he actually wants: acceptance, validation.

P. 82: “Whenever the number [in Ace’s bounty] increased, we celebrated it. And he, in seeing us all so happy, celebrated too.”

What Ace is doing is just constantly looking for the answer to that dreadful question he asked Garp as a child: “Did I deserve to be born?” And he tries to find clues in his crewmates’ faces, in his enemies’ words, in the way the whole world around him reacts to his existence.

But what’s interesting is that he’s not just passively contemplating, he very actively tries to earn that right to live, in his own twisted way.

Yes, the world had already decided who Ace was even before he was born, but now it’s his turn. Now he can try and recreate his own image for them to see. And if he has to be a monster, it will be in his own terms.

It’s not about fame, it’s about identity. Because Ace’s identity has never been truly his own.

This is a very delicate subject for him, especially when he realizes that his bounty is growing at an abnormal speed, indicating that the government probably knows who he really is. And so, he is tormented by the idea that, despite all his efforts, he can’t escape the portrait that others have painted of him without permission.

Even those who don’t know the truth about his origins feel free to decide Ace’s worth as a human being. In this regard, his fight with Vice Admiral Draw is notable—he judges Ace not as Roger’s son, but as a regular pirate, and yet he still reaches the same conclusion and says the words that Ace fears so much:

P. 148: “You don’t deserve one more second in this world. It is because of you that so many people live in fear. […] If you didn’t exist, no one would be unhappy.”

Ace wins this fight, but he leaves with an open wound that never closes and only seems to get bigger with time.

And with this, the first volume closes in a very bittersweet tone:

P. 159: “Ace didn’t believe he deserved anyone’s love. […] But Isuka didn’t think the same, and she wasn’t the only one. The problem was that Ace wouldn’t realize. […] He was like the Sun. Everyone adored him, his enemies respected him. Ace was the center of everything. But, like the Sun, way too bright, he was always alone. […] Ace had created a home for us. But what about him? Could we find a home for him, where he’d be able to smile in peace from the bottom of his heart?”

The second volume starts where the first left it, with Ace and his crew entering the New World.

I have to say that I didn’t like this one as much as the first because, for a book that’s supposed to be about Ace’s relationship with others, it kind of falls flat at some points in that sense. Sometimes the novel seems more concerned with describing action scenes that aren’t really that interesting, or events that we already know from the manga without adding much to them.

Also, I feel like I have to mention that some scenes and description choices were a bit questionable (casual misogyny, etc.), but overall the book was still enjoyable to me.

The style and structure is a bit different from the first volume too—for starters, it’s written in third person, although the perspective is a bit all over the place sometimes. The POV keeps switching back and forth between different characters, which could a useful and interesting approach, but you need to know how to do it right, and I’d say it was a bit messy here.

But there is a good side to this, which is that we get a peek into Ace’s thoughts too sometimes.

And we see, as volume 1 already hinted, that his motivations are unclear even to himself. He insists that he wants to surpass his father’s fame, but he isn’t interested in titles or riches.

P. 61: “I don’t aspire to be the King of Pirates or anything of the sort.”

P. 74-75: [In response to “What brought you to the sea?”] “I guess I expected to find out at the sea… Though there’s something I do want to achieve. […] I’ll make sure everyone knows my name.”

Part of the reason why Ace despises the title of “Pirate King” is very obvious—it was his father’s title. But this disinterest also reveals the true reason why Ace thinks he wants the fame: it’s not ambition or vanity; it’s, again, his way of crafting his own identity.

In reality, although he directs his resentment towards his father, it’s not him he really hates, but the world that built a monstrous myth around his figure, a myth that Ace inherited.

P. 80: “This world killed Sabo. Unless you’re someone like Roger, whose execution brought a new era, it doesn’t matter if you live or die. […] Even if I can’t win their recognition, even if they hate me, I’ll become a pirate and take revenge on them all. […] One day, people won’t say ‘Ace, Roger’s son,’ but ‘Roger, Ace’s father.’”

Again, if he must be a monster, he’ll be one he’s created himself.

But it becomes clear in this volume that he has no idea how to do that. He wants to change the world, but has no plan to do so, and doesn’t even understand what that means exactly.

And here’s where Whitebeard is key, as we already know. He sees through Ace, and eventually makes him reevaluate his own ambitions, until he ends up admitting that he has no idea what he’s doing.

P. 159: [Thatch asks him] “You want your reputation to surpass that of the Pirate King, but you’re not interested in the One Piece. You don’t want to break the code either. What the hell does your flag even represent?” [And Ace answers] “I don’t know. Honestly, I thought I did, but not anymore.”

P. 224-225: “Whitebeard inviting him to be his son had seemed to him like another ‘father’ attempting to take control of his life. But […] now he understood the word ‘son’ a little differently.”

Though there’s no real resolution to Ace’s big questions in life, he slowly starts finding his own place and learning to accept the kindness he’s given, even if he doesn’t fully understand it yet.

P. 229: [Deuce asks him] “Do you think you’ll find what you’re looking for with Whitebeard?” [And Ace answers] “Yes. […] Because here I feel at peace.”

The book finishes with Ace offering his back to get Whitebeard’s Jolly Roger tattooed. With this, he’s constructing his image around the figure of a different father, one that he’s proud of. He still builds himself in relation to others, but is now more benevolent in doing so.

This is the first step of a healing project that we know will never be fully complete. And because of this, despite the ending having a hopeful and gentle tone, it’s still a bit heartbreaking. Like the first act of a tragedy.

There's a lot more interesting stuff to talk about in the novels, like the way Ace talks about Luffy and Sabo, and how it becomes clear that they are what really made him want to live and keep fighting. But this is already way longer than I originally intended, so I'll leave it here.

So, if you read this far, thank you! ♥ I hope you enjoyed it or at least found it somewhat interesting.

#one piece #portgas d ace #one piece ace #one piece meta #one piece light novel #irene.ppt

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welcometothejianghu · 1 year ago

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Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: 少年歌行/The Blood of Youth

The Blood of Youth is a 2022 live-action adaptation of the tale of a deposed, disabled, and incredibly cunty prince who's on his way back to settle the score with his asshole father, and the rag-tag band of weirdos he accumulates along the way, including Spear Girl, Bad Monk, and Fire Puppy (pictured above).

I hope you like shounen anime, because this is the most shounen anime something is allowed to be without actually being based on something running weekly in Shounen Jump. What if Nirvana in Fire were also Naruto? It would be the Blood of Youth.

This show is an underrated gem of action-packed fun that not nearly enough people in English-speaking fandom have seen. In an attempt to correct that -- and ahead of an announced second season and prequel in progress -- I'm here with five reasons you should try it out.

1. Zero thoughts head empty

You do not have to pay an enormous amount of attention to this show to understand what's going on. The show itself does not always know what's going on. It got distracted by a shiny object over there, and now we're all gearing up to go punch the shiny object. We'll get back to the main plot when we're done with the punching.

It has a million billion plot threads going on at any given moment. Bad guys roll in from sects you've never heard of before, using superpowers with stupid names, only to get kicked into next week. There's approximately eleventy thousand characters -- so many, in fact, that I ran into problems several times while making this rec post, because there aren't readily available photos of everyone I want to talk about. Just look at the DramaWiki cast list. See how it goes on for like fifty screens? That's a little what the show feels like.

Except I'm not saying that like it's a bad thing, because the show knows it's doing this, and it acts accordingly. It telegraphs pretty well who's important and who isn't (and then it goes out of its way to color-code the latter, which is handy). What you're left with is absolutely a manga-style plot, complete with training arcs and semi-relevant sidequests, all working up to the final boss match.

It is an extremely self-aware show. On multiple occasions, something would happen, I would crack a joke about it, and then a beat later the show itself would make the exact same joke. I wouldn't call it an outright comedy, but it's still very funny, and on purpose. It has no illusions about being some kind of profound, meaningful epic. Mostly it's just here for a good time.

Yet this lightheartedness is what makes the powerful emotional parts really powerful by contrast. The show is not stupid; it's just goofing around most of the time. When it knuckles down, it can be devastating. And you know what? It does wind up being profound and meaningful about some stuff. How about that.

So yeah, if you're up for something that bops merrily right along and only occasionally rips your heart out, here you go!

2. Putting the poly in polycule

Bisexuals, rejoice! It's representin' time!

Here you go, I made a relationship chart of about 40% of the show's potential and canonical ships. I could have included so many more, but I only had so much space on the image, so I had to leave out some amazing ones, like the sword hedgehog who's real into this one cougar who could easily wipe the floor with him, or the rich nerd who thinks he has a chance with the aforementioned hot butch, or the fancy MILF who cheated on the emperor with a dreamy jianghu man and is trying not to cheat on him again with a different, slightly less dreamy jianghu man. See? There's just so much.

I would also say these are not exclusive ships. They are extremely inclusive ships. I am a fan of most (though admittedly not all) of the pairings listed here, and in fact of many of the three-and-more-somes indicated by these lines. They're such a cuddle puddle of shared intense feelings that it's hard to imagine anyone getting more than mildly jealous. Moreover, the potential for romance does not get in the way of hetero friendships; a boy and a girl who are each dating other people can go do adventures together, and (mostly) nobody gets weird about it, which is nice. If anything, what makes the overall dynamic so polycule-like is how equally friends and love interests get treated, meaning that it's not difficult to see a lot of crossover potential between those two categories.

If you're like me, you're hesitant about canonical romance, especially when it's straight, mostly because so many straight love stories wind up being tiresome, gross, and/or skull-poundingly boring. You will then be pleasantly surprised by how the canon pairings with members of the main cast are not like this at all!

Xiao Se and Sikong Qianluo are the main textual romance, and golly gee, they're just cute as heck. As the chart above indicates, I like interpreting them as two Kinsey 6's who have found their single exceptions, Mulder-and-Scully-style. Maybe one of the best things about their relationship is that it gets sidelined all the time for the plot. They're not so busy being in love that they forget to get shit done. Then they get a bit of downtime and get to go on a date, and you're like, aww, those sweet gay disaster babies are gonna do a little bit of heterosexuality. Just precious.

Tang Lian and Fairy Rui are right up there with the cuteness. She's a sex-positive dancing beauty who wants to ride that pretty boy like she stole him, and he's a shy sword boy so tightly bottled up that he'll explode if he sees a bare ankle. Avoiding spoilers, I will simply say that this is a pairing of two relatively soft people, until a bad thing happens to one of them and the other hardens up about it. If that's your jam, they're here for you.

Lei Wujie and Ye Ruoye are probably the most magical and the most practical of the bunch. They have a beautiful, super-dreamy, really horny sword-dance meet-cute, complete with its own pop song ... and then that's it, they're basically just together. She likes him, he likes her, good for them. In-laws aside, it's a refreshingly low-drama situation. Besides, I always love it when the hypercompetent woman gets the sweet, devoted himbo who'd do anything for her. Ruoye's had a hard life, and she deserves someone who can dick her down good at night and make her a nourishing breakfast the next morning.

And then there is, of course, The Ship:

Xiao Se and Wuxin are canonical, textual soulmates. The show treats their dynamic as more important than any other. It's so important, in fact, that the show has to sideline Wuxin for huge parts of the drama, lest everything get too damn gay. They each get a boyfriend catch on the other. They both do fairly reckless things when the other is in trouble. They are the secret hidden happy ending to the series. They share the kind of ride-or-die relationship built on mutually being the hugest bitches in any given room. Whether or not you think this is romance, it is extremely romantic, and the series agrees as much as it can, all things considered.

And if none of those flavors of love float your boat? Well, have you considered ... eunuchs?

3. She likes e4e

So I'm on record as being real into eunuch characters, right? Well, if you're with me on that, you are in for a treat here, because these are some absolutely buck-wild eunuchs.

There's five main ones, and I can't even begin to scratch the surface of what's going there. Like, really, I don't even think I understood all of what was happening with them. They're kind of the bad guys, but then they're kind of the good guys, but then some of them are the bad guys, but then they're just working for the bad guys, but then they screw over the bad guys, and ... it's just a lot, okay? It's a lot, and it's all happening with this bunch of catty bitches.

Also, you would not believe the difficult time I had finding any images for this section. I guess for some reason, fandom isn't way into a bunch of canonically dickless color-coordinated middle-aged men in weird hats? Whatever, man, they are missing out. If, however, you have the good sense to be into the intense and complicated (semi-romantic??) relationships among colleagues who also professionally just happen to be missing their external genitalia, buddy, strap in (and maybe strap on, depending).

Don't let me oversell how much these guys are in the show. They're not. They're vaguely important at points throughout, and they become incredibly important near the end, but they're hardly main characters. They're mostly back at the palace, doing their various schemes and looking absolutely fantastic.

So if they're such a minor part of the story, why do they get their own selling point? Well, I think their presence is a good example of two specific things about the show:

Specific thing the first: It's so queer -- not gay, but queer. Thinking back to my last selling point, you will notice how many of those straight pairings may look normie on the outside, but once you get down to it are not playing by cishet rules. (For instance, I've seen a lot of people read Tang Lian's resistance to sexual advances as asexuality, which, sure!) Likewise, there are lots of incredibly important, intimate relationships that don't conform to standard romantic pair dynamics. Add to that a lot of bodies with unusual characteristics and conditions, and you've got the makings of plenty of delightful non-normative love stories.

Specific thing the second: There are so many things going on with so many side characters that there's a kink here for everyone. Don't care for eunuchs? How about slinky villains with mind-control powers? Devoted servants who would do anything for their masters? Former bad guys who owe life-debts to the good guys who saved them? Bonded pairs traipsing around the jianghu together? Sons nursing legitimate grudges against the men who killed their fathers? Alcoholic widowers with incredibly slutty necklines? Mysterious cross-dressers with unconvincing moustaches? Vengeful brides? Martial siblings? Murderous royals? Guilt-ridden half-siblings? Boring star-crossed lovers? All these and more! It's a smorgasbord of rarepair fuel!

Also, I just love these toxic drama queens. It's like if RuPaul's Drag Race had the authority to have you executed.

4. The most intriguing outfits I've ever seen in anything (and yes, I'm including Winter Begonia)

Time for a fashion show!

The asymmetrical fits, the detailed embroidery on everything, the brilliant colors -- everybody just looks so good. And yet everything still looks ... eh, I don't know if "practical" is the word I want, but at least wearable. Nobody's dragging ten-foot trains of fabric behind them or wrapped in eighty floofy layers of gauze (except Rui, but she's special). Their outfits are strange and elaborate, but they don't defy physics.

What's truly stunning is how often they get new outfits. Xiao Se alone changes clothes about once every other episode, and more if he's getting a flashback. He is the fashion plate of the whole series, and every look he serves is pitch-perfect.

They're not outright color-coded, but the main characters do have certain colors associated with them -- which is extra-fun when you watch those colors bleeding into their friends' clothes as their relationships get stronger. I also think -- and I'm willing to be proven wrong on this point, but I think I'm right -- that they recycle some characters' outfits into parts of other characters' outfits. On more than one occasion, I'd swear that Lei Wujie shows up wearing the left half of something Xiao Se was wearing a few episodes back (tailored to fit him, of course, because that dumb ponytail boy is tall).

Where I think the costume design gets massive points, though, is that the costumes are themselves adaptations.

Before the live-action series, there was a 2018 3D animated donghua. I have never watched the latter, but apparently the drama is intensely faithful to the animated visuals, to the point where some fights are shot-for-shot remakes.

Of course, you can do a lot more with unreal clothing and bodies in animation -- and you can show a lot more skin, at least according to Chinese content laws. The live-action costumers chose to preserve about as many of the appearance beats from the donghua as they could manage, while still accepting the limitations of real-life bodies and materials. You can see some side-by-side comparisons here. The live-action outfits manage to be instantly recognizable without being slavishly devoted recreating to their inspirations.

So if you're sick and tired of dreary, ill-lit shows with bland palettes, this vibrant, colorful drama may be just the thing for you. It's a rainbow from start to finish.

5. Actually a good central plot?

Despite all the wacky delightful shounen nonsense that this show has -- and it has a lot -- the core of the whole narrative, which is Xiao Se's story, is surprisingly great and cohesive.

The short version is this: Xiao Se used to be Xiao Chuhe, sixth prince and somewhat heir apparent. Then he and his jerk-ass dad had a falling-out that resulted in the prince's having his martial arts abilities all but taken from him. He's been living the life of a very well-dressed innkeeper for several years, trying to avoid all of that palace garbage. But now his jerk-ass dad is dying, which means that a lot of horrible decisions are finally having unfortunate consequences for everyone, and Xiao Se's got to get back in there to make sure everything does not go to shit and land someone terrible on the throne -- even if it has to mean taking it himself.

His central conflict is between what he used to be and what he's become. Does he miss being Xiao Chuhe, high-ranked martial artist and future emperor? Or is he happier being Xiao Se, long-suffering nobody who can barely run a business, much less hold his own in a fight? What would he be willing to do to get back what he's lost? What are his obligations to himself versus his obligations to everyone else? How much is he responsible for his father's bullshit? And why has he wound up having to babysit this stupid Fire Puppy?

It's okay, they're best friends now. Lei Wujie decided.

No spoilers, but I liked Xiao Se's ending a lot. I feel it's very true to the character and shows a real understanding of who he is and what he values. And really, at the end of the day, sometimes all you need for a happy ending is your girlfriend, your girlfriend's girlfriend, your girlfriend's girlfriend's boyfriend who's also your boyfriend, your other boyfriend, his girlfriend, and your long-distance for-real soulmate.

Feel like giving the youths a try?

You can find them on YouTube or on Viki. But be absolutely sure that no matter where you watch it, you make sure to go watch the epilogue as well. (And if you get real into the story, well, here's a link to information about all the other adaptations.)

You are also welcome for how I did not spend this post going off for five hundred years on how much I love Wuxin and his funky relationship to Buddhism. I figured that's way too niche of a selling point for most people, and might indeed have even been counterproductive. But know that I could have.

Also, I'm very happy about the announcement of a second season, because that's going to mean Liu Xueyi has to shave his head again, and he looks unbearably good with a shaved head.

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention the whole motorcycle photoshoot?

In case you hadn't noticed, the whole cast is stupidly hot. Hachi machi.

#the blood of youth #少年歌行 #bloody youths #i made this #rec post #the party is a polycule #LeiDHD

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artbyblastweave · 2 months ago

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hello mr. blastweave! Are there any recommendations for unironic superhero stories outside the big two? I finished uh. All of Astro City and i'm going insane. Webnovel or comic. Thank you in advance!

The no-big-two restriction complicates this for a couple reasons. First, one of the main draws of going indie, historically, is that it allows you to be way more viciously ironic than Marvel or DC would tolerate; Astro City being conceptualized as basically the opposite of this is a significant part of why it's so great. Second, the big two are octopi with a demonstrated pattern of eating ventures of the kind you're describing, the ones that find an exigence outside vicious irony, and drawing them via buyouts into their publication orbits, if not their "main" settings proper. There used to be a lot of Wildstorm properties that would more or less meet your criteria but they're all technically part of the DCU now; ditto for the Charleston Roster, for Captain Marvel, for the Milestone Comics characters, to some extent even with Alan Moore's Americas Best Comics properties. I think that Astro City is even technically a Big-Two comic these days.

Dithering about semantics of ownership aside, here's a couple;

Tom Strong: Alan Moore's attempted revival of the Doc Savage strain of science-heroism, following the exploits of the titular Tom Strong and his extended family over the course of a century-long career.

The Massive-verse, an independent superhero universe created by former power rangers writers and heavily styled after Toku as a result. The only thing from that that I've actually read so far is Rogue Sun, but Rogue Sun was pretty good.

Invincible: Somewhere out there on a shuttered website is a review of the comic I wrote in college under my real name, where I advanced that Invincible mainly reads as a deconstruction because of the fact that genre-typical bombastic plot events are allowed to actually stick around as part of the continuity and weigh on the minds of those who survive them; the actually minute-to-minute events of this comic are incredibly silver-age once you slow down your brain enough to register what's actually happening on the page.

Common Grounds: A short anthology focusing on the patrons of a coffee shop for superhumans.

Jupiter's Legacy and Jupiter's Circle by Mark Millar. A multigenerational story following the fraught superheroic lineages of the first superheroes to debut in the 1930s. Threads an interesting needle between Millar's established love of the silver age and his usual brand of violent edgelord realpolitik; Jupiter's Circle, the prequel set during the timeline's silver age, is a high point of the project as one of the more even-handed examinations of that era's storytelling shortcomings. This is not consistently good. But parts of it are, aesthetically, aligned with what you're asking for.

Lastly, the rebooted Valiant Universe from 2012-ish onward also generated a lot of series I thought were generally pretty straightforwardly enjoyable as quote-unquote "standard" superhero narratives, including Generation Zero, Faith, and the reboots of Quantum and Woody and Archer and Armstrong (note that I did not read the originals.) However this was a bit of a sprawl as such projects tend to be, and by it's nature as a take-two of a shared setting that imploded in the 90s a lot of it comes across as a conversation with material that I haven't read. Kind of a grab bag.

#thoughts #ask #asks #meta

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alwaysthebiggerbear · 2 months ago

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"What do you see in him?" "Everything you don't." - Jensen Ackles & Female Reader

Summary: Jensen says something at a con that initially bothers you that prompts a conversation where you admit that there are certain parts of his job that you could easily do without, not sure how that's going to affect your friendship moving forward.

A/N: I just want to make it clear that this is not criticism or commentary on what Jensen said at the Comic Con panel mentioned here or anything else he has said previously or even of his career or persona. This is just a story idea, an exploration of a theme or thread that could be within that world if that makes sense. This is a kind of sequel to "Come Pick Up Your Ghosts", and can be seen as a possible prequel leading up to "i want better for you...what's better for you than me?". Jensen and the Reader are still platonic here but if you squint, you might see a tiny little something. Just to clarify, there is no cheating/infidelity going on here, implied, suggested, or otherwise. All unbeta'd. Prompt: "What do you see in him?" "Everything you don't." Warnings: language Word Count: 5372 First posted on here: 7/28/24

Your assistant placed a file on your desk, grabbing your attention. “For the Whitman case.”

You briefly glanced up at her. “Great, Lauren, thanks.”

She nodded, picked up your empty coffee mug, and beat a hasty retreat to get you a refill, closing the door behind her. You couldn’t help but smile as you went back to your computer screen. Lauren had only been working for you a few months since Janice had retired, but she already seemed to be a great fit and had everything down pat.

You still missed your former assistant sometimes, though. Not only had you both worked together seamlessly for years, she had become a close friend and an almost motherly figure to you in times when you needed it most. You kept in touch and she invited you for holiday dinners, but as happy as you were that she was living her best life these days, there were still some moments that creeped up on you when you missed her dearly. And this morning just happened to be one such moment.

Your phone began to buzz with an incoming call. You glanced at the screen, huffing out an irritated breath at the name that popped up. Speaking of some sage motherly-like advice, you sure could use some right about now. Aggravation wasn’t your usual reaction to your best friend calling you, but this morning before you came to work, you had been catching up on some of the highlights of his panel the other day and there was one soundbite in particular that had you clicking your tongue in disappointment. You had briefly spoke to Jensen on Saturday night and he had texted you yesterday but you hadn’t known any of the specifics of how the panel went other than “It went well.” Not until you opened your newsfeed on your phone earlier and a headline popped out at you about Vought Rising and The Boys cast’s appearance on a Comic Con panel this weekend, with a video attached. That video led you to look up others until you finally arrived at the one that made you close everything out altogether and concentrate on finishing your coffee to hurry out the door.

You rolled your eyes in annoyance when your phone continued to vibrate and you hit the button on the bluetooth headset in your ear. “Hey,” you greeted curtly when the call connected. “I can’t really talk right now, Jensen. I’m about to meet with a client and—”

“Why haven’t you been answering my texts or calls?”

“Shit,” you silently mouthed to yourself and clenched your hands together. You then quietly cleared your throat. “I just told you. I have a full schedule this morning and I can’t—”

“Bullshit.”

Okay yeah, it was bullshit, he was right. Well, actually not entirely; you really had been trying to bury yourself in work since you arrived, earlier than normal (you’d even beat Lauren into the office), in order to prevent you from thinking about what he’d said and why it bothered you so much. “It is not bullshit,” you stated calmly, your jaw tensed. “I have a lot of work to do to prepare for court later this week. I told you that.”

“Y/N, you texted me early this morning, saying and I quote ‘Good morning, going to be super busy this week. Tons of work to do,’” he continued reading the message you had sent him before putting your phone on Do Not Disturb until about half an hour ago. “‘Hope you have a good shoot in Vancouver. Talk soon.’ Really?”

At that time, Lauren had decided to reappear with your new coffee. You gave her an appreciative nod and opened the file she had left for you, scanning the documents inside. “Yes, really. I just told you, I have a full week.” You waited until Lauren left and the door was closed once more. “I don’t see why that’s an issue.”

“You know damn well why.”

You expelled a quiet breath, telling yourself to bite your tongue and remain professional. It usually worked but Jensen had always had a way of getting under your skin.

“You knew I was going to call you once I got to set this morning. We even agreed on the best time for me to call.”

You did and you knew that your text was going to bother him once he received it, proven by him immediately trying to call you after you had sent it. But you just needed some space to think.

Jensen was up North shooting an episode for a series he was guesting on, coming off of Comic Con in San Diego. He had asked you if you wanted to go with him, since you had never been, but you had politely declined knowing you had an upcoming court case that you needed to prepare for. And now, having seen the video and heard what you did, you were glad you hadn’t taken him up on his offer. You would have been unable to hide your disappointment the entire time until you both went on separate flights, you going back home and him heading to Canada.

“What the hell, Y/N?”

“I’m just busy,” you muttered, gazing over the papers in front of you, pen in your hand, poised and ready.

“You forget how well I know you. That text is your polite way of saying ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you’ which means you’re pissed at me and you don’t want to talk.” You winced at his matter of fact tone. He wasn’t exactly wrong. “So again, what the hell?”

Now that he had you on the phone, calling you on your attempt at temporarily pushing him away via text, you started to examine just why you were annoyed with him — something you had been trying to avoid much like his attempts to contact you the last few hours. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t going to let this go, you both were bound to get into an argument, and then you were going to get the space you wanted, albeit a cold and tense space, until one of you caved and apologized. Something that had become somewhat of a routine in your friendship, though rare since you both usually got along very well.

So now that he was holding your feet to the fire per se, now that he was not letting you push him away so easily, you had to really think about why you were pissed, why your gut had clenched when you first heard the voice of your best friend come down the line, and why his careless off-the-cuff joke had bothered you so much.

“Y/N,” he spoke to you in a quieter tone than a moment ago. “Come on, talk to me. What’s going on?”

You took a deep breath and tossed your pen onto your desk, sitting back in your chair. Fuck it. “‘Old titties’? Really?”

There was a beat of awkward, tension-filled silence, before Jensen immediately filled it. “Wait a second. That’s what you’re pissed at me about?” He let out a laugh of disbelief. “Seriously?”

You flinched and immediately sat up straight, grabbing papers and loudly straightening them into a neat pile on your desk. “You know what? I have a court case to prepare for and I also have a 12:30 who just arrived. I have a full day, you have a full day of shooting, so let’s just end it here, shall we? Have a great week, Jensen, and good luck. Talk soon.”

The laughter immediately stopped. “Whoa, hold up a second. Y/N, don’t—”

His voice was cut off as you pressed the button on your headset and then grabbed it, tossing it angrily onto your desk. Your phone started to buzz again but this time, you snatched it up, put the call to voicemail, and powered down the device before dumping it into your handbag and shutting the drawer it sat in. You clicked a button on your office phone and a moment later, Lauren’s voice filled your office.

“Yes, Ms. Y/L/N?”

“I’m going to be working on the Whitman case for the next couple of hours so please hold all calls.”

“Absolutely. Would you like me to order lunch for you in the meantime?”

A little bit of your fury went out of you at her sweet offer. Right, you were a professional, and no matter how much your friend had just pissed you off, you wouldn’t allow it to affect your work. “That would be great, Lauren. Thank you,” you let out in a deflating and tired breath.

“Of course. If you need anything else in the meantime, Ms. Y/L/N, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the phone. “Thank you.” You clicked off the button and dropped your head in your hands. You could still hear Jensen’s laughter and “ That’s what you’re pissed at me about? Seriously?” You couldn’t completely blame him for his reaction; you knew it was something small and stupid to be angry with him for. His response to Jeff’s question on that panel had nothing to do with you after all. But the minute he’d said those words, you couldn’t help but think back to that scene he had filmed with the two older actresses from season 3. Granted, a sexual attraction to much older women was part of Soldier Boy’s character, but at the time you’d watched that scene, while it had been amusing as it was meant to be, you couldn’t help but have respect for the two actresses willing to strip down and put themselves on display for the camera like that. That couldn’t have been easy, no matter the type of the career they had embarked on, and you were in awe, wishing you could have confidence like that when you reached that age. Hell, you could do with some of that confidence nowadays. You hadn’t had sex in forever and no one had seen your bare body outside of your doctors in the last five years or so. You also hadn’t been to the beach or any pools in that time so no one had exactly seen you in any swimwear either.

Truthfully, aging was a bit of a sensitive issue for you. Not in a superficial, skin deep kind of way, but very much in a holy-crap-my-body-is-starting-to-turn-against-me-with-every-single-year way. As you got older, you continued to have more and more compassion for your elders, knowing that someday you would eventually reach that phase of life yourself. It made you appreciate your present everyday life all the more, but that didn’t mean you liked being reminded of where you (and every single person on the planet) were eventually headed. So any new gray hairs you found; any sign of aging in your skin; the fact that you absolutely had to get up at least once a night to use the bathroom now, no exceptions; how you couldn’t go without at least 7 hours of sleep a night or you’d be exhausted the whole day and even sometimes still were, not to mention the day after that and the next — you weren’t exactly thrilled to get those reminders.

You knew what Jensen had said had nothing to do with you in the slightest and you weren’t narcissistic enough to act as if it had or take personal offense to it. Even though you had been disgusted at his choice of joke, you knew he was simply on and he was providing entertainment for the cast and crowd, like he always did. People laughed at the joke and you knew none of them viewed it the same way you did. Not one of them felt as if it was an unfair indictment of your sex when they got older (something that couldn’t be helped) or if it was a commentary of disgust at the average older woman’s body as she aged or even something completely misogynistic (and even if it was, it was in character which is usually what Jensen tended to aim for when doing these appearances). No, you knew it had been taken as a simple joke as you should have taken it but you couldn’t help your visceral reaction of irritation followed by massive disappointment in your friend.

The Jensen you knew was not the Jensen the world saw. In your friendship, you had gotten to know a very different person altogether. While he enjoyed garnering laughs from people and was very quick to make witty remarks and jokes that added to a pleasant atmosphere that he encapsulated, you found over time that you really didn’t care for his public persona at times. Or at least when it came down to things like that. You knew it came with the job he was in, but you much preferred your friend to the Jensen Ackles that was solely for public consumption and engagement. Which is why you supposed you never took him up on his offers of visiting sets he was on, attending any Hollywood events such as The Boys Season 3 premiere in Brazil, or even meeting him at any of the several conventions he had booked over the years. Early on in your getting to know him, you had trouble reconciling the man you saw privately with the man who sat up on those stages or in front of those cameras. There was nothing wrong with either of them but over time, you found you much preferred it when there were no cameras, no screaming fans, no celebrities or Hollywood executives around — just him.

That didn’t mean you didn’t support his career; of course, you did. He had been successful on this chosen path way before you ever met him and he loved doing it. How could you not cheer on your best friend in a job that not only was he good at but also made him happy? But God, sometimes you wished fame, PR, and performativity weren’t part of the package. Despite the very nature of the business he had chosen to be in.

You straightened up and pulled the Whitman file closer to you. He hadn’t done anything wrong, nothing that you should feel angry with him for, and you would apologize to him later. Right now, though, you needed to get your head back into your own career and prepare for court that would be happening in the next two days’ time.

This whole thing was going to have to wait. Until you could make sense of things for yourself at least.

You watched as the couple on your screen awkwardly flirted, popping a yogurt-covered raisin into your mouth. The film wasn’t one you would usually check out; romantic comedies weren’t really your thing, especially the ones made these days. But there had been a particular selling point that caught your eye, that then had you watching the trailer, and before you knew it, you were fully invested in the movie and actually laughing at some of the cringe-inducing moments but also blatantly honest humor present throughout the story.

You were so invested that you jumped when your phone began to loudly buzz on the coffee table. You paused the movie and leaned forward to glance at the screen that had just turned on with a notification, sighing tiredly when you saw the name on it.

You picked up your phone and clicked on the message.

Just got back to the hotel. Long day. I’ll be up for a bit though. Call me if you want.

You pressed your lips together, thinking it over for a moment. You still hadn’t spoken to Jensen since your terse call earlier and you had cowardly kept your phone off for the rest of the day. Which meant that when you turned it back on the minute you walked back in your door, you had several voicemail messages (two were from him) and quite a few text messages (most were from him) suddenly blowing up the device. Everything from justified disbelief to annoyance to explanations to apologies to requests for you to answer him saturated your last several text messages. You hadn’t responded to anything from him just yet; you had been waiting until you felt ready to embark on that conversation, not sure how much you wanted to delve into when you both had it. He would want to know exactly why that joke had upset you, as any other person naturally would, and you weren’t sure if you felt comfortable enough to tell him and dump some of that crazy of yours at his feet. You knew you weren’t crazy obviously, but how could you tell your best friend that his doing a part of his job (successfully you might add) bothered you? And that you got mad at him for it? What, was he supposed to change that up because it hurt your feelings or added to your discomfort with said part of his job? Now, that was crazy.

You took a deep breath, ate a few more raisins, sipped your water, and decided the hell with it. Time to face the music. You pressed the phone icon next to his name and put your bluetooth in, waiting for the call to connect as you braced yourself for any justified irritation you might encounter. You were going to rip the band-aid off and apologize; he deserved nothing less from you after you had avoided him all day.

“Hey,” his voice greeted you warmly, something you hadn’t been expecting. It completely disarmed you, especially when you could hear the exhaustion lacing his tone.

“Hey.”

“You ready to talk now?”

You hadn’t really been truly ready about a moment ago even though you were going to push through it. But now, hearing the tired voice of your best friend after a long day of not being able to talk to him because you felt like you couldn’t — yes, you were. “Um, yeah.”

“Good.” You could hear him shifting in the background, letting out a weary sigh as he presumably settled wherever he had moved to. “Are you going to tell me why?”

You bit at your lip. “I just didn’t care for it, I guess.” You then dropped your head into your hands. Oh God, you did sound crazy.

“Oh-kay. Was it the word choice? Because I only—”

“No. No, it…” You expelled your own sigh, frustrated with yourself. “It had nothing to do with any of that.”

“Then what did it have to do with?”

You chewed at your thumbnail, not really wanting to tell him since you would sound even worse than you already did.

“Y/N,” he prompted. “What pissed you off about it?”

You dropped your hand to your lap and shook your head. Fuck it. “I just hate the forced performativity sometimes, okay? I get it, it’s part of your job, and I need to just shut up and stay in my lane. But you’re my best friend, I care about you, and sometimes I really, really dislike watching or hearing that side of you. Which is exactly why I choose not to engage with that world you’re in. Because to me, no matter how good you are at your job, and you’re incredible at it obviously, that performative bullshit isn’t you. Not the you I’ve gotten to know, anyway, and certainly not at that level. Like, sure, you try to make people laugh all the time and crack jokes, and I know you were probably a little nervous being on that panel so you had to break the ice somehow, I get it, but Jesus, Jensen. I just…” You let out another sigh and pinched the bridge of your nose, clenching your eyes shut. “I’m just not a fan of when you have to tap into that. I feel like sometimes you say things for the audience’s sake that just make me cringe sometimes and that I just can’t get behind. And that pisses me off because I want to support you but when you say shit like that, like some of the soundbites you’ve had these past few months, I just can’t. And I hate that, because I know that’s not you . And I absolutely fucking hate how judgmental I know I’m being right now but I can’t help how I feel. So that is what pissed me off about that stupid, insensitive, frat boy-ish, sexist, and quite frankly ageist joke, okay?”

A deafening silence filled the conversation then and you mentally cursed at yourself. Great. Well, this might be the end of your friendship and where you two parted ways. While the idea of it broke your heart, you couldn’t really blame him. You had just unleashed an incoherent rant of a word salad that anyone might take a second look at the concept of continuing a friendship with you for. You had called him to apologize…how had you gone this far off the intended track?

“Okay.”

Your eyes snapped open. “Okay?”

“Y/N,” he started gently, sounding like some guy on a nature documentary or something who was trying to soothe a wild animal into not seeing him as a threat. “It was meant to be a joke for the character. Just something to make people laugh while staying in character.”

“I know that. I get it, but—”

“There’s nothing more to it than that for me. We were promoting the prequel, promoting the last season, they even had me sit next to Ant since we’re going to dive deep into the whole Soldier Boy and Homelander dynamic when production picks back up. That’s all it was.”

Guilt and shame started to gnaw at you. He had explained these things to you, back when you were getting to know him, and he took you through the ins and outs of his job — even the things the public didn’t see or know about too much.

“As for the other stuff, I have to be honest, I’m not really sure what to say. I know you’re not crazy about any of it. I’ve known that for a while now. Every time you turn me down when I ask you to come to one of these things, always with the excuse of work or having to go to court. I didn’t push you on it because I figured maybe someday you’d be comfortable enough to say yes and let me show you how it all works. I get what you’re saying, I do…but, it’s my job, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment brought you up short and then made you feel even worse. It’s not that he hadn’t used it before, but something about the sad resignation that coated his voice right then caught your attention. What did he feel resigned to? “I know,” you whispered. “And I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” His voice sounded a little thicker than before that had your brows knitting together. If you didn’t know any better, he sounded slightly upset. Perhaps this had definitely been a step too far and he was now going to give you the boot. Or perhaps it was something else…something else he hadn’t told you yet that was bothering him and that’s why he had wanted to talk to you today when he asked yesterday what the best time to call you was. Oh shit.

“Jensen?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

He cleared his throat and you could hear him moving again, presumably sitting up. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?”

You let out a quiet breath of relief when he sounded better than he had a moment ago. “Yeah.” You let a moment pass before you asked, ”You sure?”

“Yep.”

“Okay.”

Another minute of silence happened, slightly less tense than before but a little more awkward. Like neither of you knew where to go from here and you both were waiting for the other to break it to give you some sort of direction.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Is that it?” His voice broke at the end of his question but he cleared his throat once more. “Are we…done?”

It suddenly hit you what he was really asking, why he sounded so resigned earlier. Your heart broke a little more at the realization and you silently cursed yourself again. Instinctually, you knew exactly what to say to lead you both out of this pool of uncertainty you had unwittingly pushed you both into. You let out an amused snort. “Dude, you saddled me with an angry poltergeist that cost me a small fortune in repairs and I didn’t show you the door then. What makes you think I would now just because you were doing your job?”

Another moment of quiet passed and you started to worry that you had ruined everything when he finally responded with, “I can’t believe you’re still going on about that. And I offered to pay for those repairs even though we both know ghosts don’t really exist.”

Your lips relaxed into a relieved smile. “Says the ghost magnet who knows they do exist.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered into the phone. “How is it that a successful lawyer like yourself still believes in that crap?”

“Probably because said crap destroyed my house while I had to stay in a hotel for two weeks. And how is it that a guy who played a ghost hunter for fifteen years, who dropped a very real ghost on my doorstep and saw the damage it did live on facetime still doesn’t believe in that crap?”

“Because they don’t exist.”

“They do.”

“They don’t.”

“They do and you know it. Otherwise, you wouldn’t let me smudge you every time you drop by.”

“I only let you do that because it makes you happy and this way I only have to hear ten times that night how I supposedly brought a temperamental ghost the last time I walked in without being cleansed , compared to the usual fifty if I don’t.”

“Oooh, buddy, guess what you’re getting for Christmas this year,” you teased. “I’m placing the order online right now.”

“Christ,” he mumbled. “Don’t you dare or you know what I’ll be sending you in return.”

“You better not. I’ll hand deliver it to your doorstep and let your ghost friends have fun with it and you.” You weren’t really going to mass order sage and send it to him like you had threatened a few times before which had prompted him to threaten to send you several ouija boards in retaliation. Your friendship was a strange one sometimes, you’d be the first to admit it, but truthfully, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Thinking about that, your smile faded and you pressed your lips together. “Jensen?”

“Mmm?”

“I really am sorry.” You truly were. You felt badly for even getting pissed at him in the first place. You still weren’t entirely sure why seeing him like that bothered you so much, despite already knowing the performativity was part of his job. It didn’t change the Jensen you knew and when he was on , it didn’t affect you. So why would it disturb you that deeply? You refused to look at it any closer, though; you had done enough living in your head for one day. And right now, you wanted to make things right with your best friend.

“It’s okay.” From the way he said it, you knew he was telling the truth. “But can you promise me one thing?”

“Yeah,” you whispered.

“Can you just…talk to me next time and not ice me out like you did? I was wracking my brains all day trying to figure out why that joke would bother you enough for you to clam up and push me away like you did. You’ve never done that before, no matter how pissed off I made you or whatever arguments we’ve had, and I just— I need for you to talk to me when that happens. No matter how pissed you are. I know that you need your space sometimes, I do too, but…don’t shut me out. Not like that. Okay?”

“Okay,” you choked out, clearing your throat and scrubbing a tear from your cheeks. You were definitely not on the verge of crying. Not at all.

“We’re still going to talk about the job thing but I’d rather do that in person if you don’t mind,” he murmured. “I don’t really want to have that conversation over the phone.”

“Okay,” you repeated.

After a moment he asked, “So, what are you up to right now?”

You wiped away another tear that was absolutely not rolling down your cheek. “Um, just watching a movie.”

“Oh yeah? What movie?”

“Uh, Anyone But You? The new Glen Powell movie on Netflix?”

“Glen Powell,” he scoffed, making you smile when you heard his tell-tale annoyance at the mention of your current celebrity crush. While you both loved the Top Gun movies, something you had in common, he had finally figured out why you wanted to watch the sequel more times than the original. He would literally grumble and wear his grumpy Dean expression, much like you imagined he was now. Sure enough, he grumbled, “What do you see in that guy?”

You couldn’t help but huff out a chuckle. “Everything you don’t.” You stared at the image on the screen of a shirtless, wet Glen that you had paused on. “Like lots and lots of muscles,” you answered honestly as you eyed the fine looking man on your television. You were biting your lip again but this time for a whole other reason.

“Muscles,” he muttered.

“And the most gorgeous green eyes you’ve ever seen,” you added.

“Seriously?”

“And a killer smile. Plus, he’s from Texas, did you know that? Austin, your old neck of the woods.” You knew he knew all of this but you couldn’t resist needling him a little. His reactions were always amusing as hell.

“Oh yeah, I know,” he said in a mocking tone that betrayed that he was less than thrilled at your listing off of Glen’s attributes.

“You know, maybe I should take you up on your offer to go to one of these public events if he’s also going to be there.”

“ That’s why you would finally say yes?”

“Among other things,” you teased.

“If I find out he’s going to be there, I’m not inviting you.”

“Jensen!”

“I’m just kidding…maybe.”

“You better be,” you growled.

“Yeah, yeah. Glen Powell,” he muttered again, making you smirk. “Lots and lots of muscles, green eyes, killer smile, from Texas…” An aggravated sigh came down the line. “Fine. What part of the movie are you on?”

“No, you have to watch it from the beginning. I’ll watch with you.” You eagerly clicked out of the movie and went back to its menu.

“So you can see more of Glen’s fine muscles?”

“It’s about the definition, not the bulk.”

“Uh huh.” He faked a gagging sound, making you chuckle. “You’re lucky I care about your happiness, Y/N. That’s the only reason I’m even indulging in this ogle fest masquerading as a chick flick.”

“Hey, it’s not a chick flick and Sydney Sweeney is in it, too, so don’t act like this great selfless sacrifice you’re making is going to be hellish torture for you.”

“Sydney Sweeney? Now, why didn’t you start out with that? Hell yes, we’re watching this movie. Let’s go.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head and smiling. Typical. “You ready?”

“Not sure how long I’m going to last before it puts me to sleep, but yeah, ready when you are.”

“Okay.” You pressed the start button and saw the familiar production logos pop up.

A moment later you heard, “Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you called.”

You couldn’t help but smile as you laid your head down on your couch pillow. “Me, too.” And you were. Regardless of anything else, no matter your disagreements past or present, first and foremost he was your best friend. As he began to tease you when Glen first appeared on screen, you couldn’t help but smile; in the end, that was all that mattered.

Disclaimer: No disrespect is meant to Jensen, Danneel, or their family. I don’t know either of them or anyone connected to or associated with them. I merely take things from interviews, con videos, podcasts, and his public persona to create the “Jensen” seen here. This is purely for creativity and entertainment purposes. Just for fun.

A/N 2: Sequel

#jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x female reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x y/n #jensen ackles #jensen ackles fanfiction #rpf fanfiction

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