#HONEY AND CLOVER RAISED ME

[mhaikkun]

what if...........................dating sim set in an art school

let's discuss

[oepionie]

—"🍳KITCHEN BLUES"various

💭masterlist | 💬ao3 link

sypnosis: you wouldn't really call yourself a chef. at most, your culinary abilities were barely above average. even so, when your boyfriend becomes overworked, you take your chances and cook something up for him. here's to hoping you don't burn down the entire dorm!

⊹ [ cw ] — slight mentions of injuries, ramshackle's oven is set on fire◞

⊹ [ tags ] — FLUFF.GN! READER | protective jade, lighthearted mentions of marriage in ruggie's part, leona's back muscles whsg, jamil calls you قلبي 'Albi' (My Heart)◞

⊹ [ character/s ] — trey, leona, ruggie, jade, & jamil

⊹ [ w.c ] — 1.5k+◞

You stare blankly at the ingredients set out before you. The words on the recipe you printed seemed to blur together. Rice noodles, honey, smoked paprika, roasted almonds—you had your job cut out for you, huh?

You turn to face your partner who was dozing off on the rickety couch at Ramshackle, a thin blanket haphazardly thrown atop his body. He looked to be in deep sleep, not minding the worn-out scratchy leather texture of the couch one bit.

Tensed shoulders and fatigue laced his muscles; both evidence of the strain he's been putting on himself as of late. With an ache in your heart, you return your focus to the sizzling pan. Making him lunch was the least you could do to help.

Halfway through preparing the bento, you heard the old couch creak. Your boyfriend finally wakes, he calls for you with bleary eyes and a hoarse voice.

"Prefect?"

✩— TREY CLOVER:

"Oh, you're awake?" You rush over to him, dropping the lunch box onto the counter. Concern laced your features as you pressed a palm against his flushed forehead. Trey sat up, the blanket slipping off his torso and pooling around his hips.

"Mhm. Is something wrong?" Trey chuckled, resting his forehead on your shoulder.

"Yeah. This fever of yours is worrying me." You grumbled as you reached for his glasses on the adjoining coffee table. You slipped it onto him and gave him a quick kiss on the nose.

"The unbirthday party is coming up, and you know I have to work extra hard." Trey sighed, rolling his stiff shoulders. Nodding, you silently slipped back into the kitchen to retrieve the bento box. Once you returned, you handed it over to him.

"I know, but I hope you still take the time to rest every now and again." Trey tucked the box under his arm and drew you into a hug. You melted into his embrace, savouring the warmth you'd been missing these past few weeks. He's been so busy that the only affection you've received from him was the ocassional peck on the cheek.

Ten seconds into your little respite from the world, Trey pushed you away with a hand on your shoulder. He sniffed the air, brows pinched.

"Is something on fire?"

"Sevens-! The tarts!"

You clutch a plate of charred black tarts in your hands, head bowed down in shame. Trey chuckled and took a piece of the inedible lump, turning it around in his hand.

"This reminds me of Lillia's cooking."

"You're not helping!"

✩— LEONA KINGSCHOLAR:

Leona sat on the couch, tail swishing lazily in the air while he watched you work around the kitchen. His emerald gaze swept over your apron-clad body, noticing the honey smeared on your cheek.

Once you finished, you walked over to him with the meal on a tray.

"How was the spelldrive training with the freshmen?" You asked, taking a seat on the floor beside him. He raised his arm to use his elbow to remove the honey off your cheek.

"It was shit." Growling, Leona pushed himself off the couch. He stretched his arms, groaning as his muscles ached from the burn. He was turned away from you, giving you full view of his back muscles straining against the fabric of the tight black shirt he had on; you averted your eyes, suddenly feeling very warm.

"See anything you like?" He grinned and flexed his arms. You squeaked and jumped back, embarrassment written all over your face. "Leona!"

He chuckled as he pulled you off the floor and onto the couch next to him.

"A-Anyways…Epel told me you stormed out in the middle of the game?" You stammered, avoiding his gaze and changing the subject. You scooped some food from the containter and fed it to him. Leona took the spoon in his mouth, chewing it throughly.

"Damn right. None of those idiots could fly straight if their life depended on it." Leona scoffed. You lifted the tray up so he could slip his head onto your lap, face tucked into your stomach.

"I see. I guess they couldn't keep up with you, huh?" You mused, running your hands through his hair whilst feeding him a bite of food.

The flavours and spices melted across his mouth, each ingredient flawlessly blending together. Leona relaxed against your form, satisfied, your food and pampering making him feel like a king.

"Who can?"

✩— RUGGIE BUCCHI:

"Is that food?" Ruggie piped up, wrapping himself in the thin blanket. He was shaped like a taco roll, with only his head sticking out from under the cover. You chuckled and nodded, taking the food you prepared into your arms.

As you brought out a platter of doughnuts along with the bento box, his tail began to wag. You approached him carefully, taking care not to drop the stacks of chocolate doughnuts. Unbeknownst to you, Ruggie was debating whether or not to marry you on the spot.

"Of course. You just looked so exhausted yesterday, I wanted to help." You said, frowning and tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Ruggie gulped, his cheeks flushing at your sweet gesture.

"What did I say about slowing down every now and then?" You grumbled, frowning at him.

"W-Well, I kinda lost track yesterday; I swear I won't do it again," Ruggie replied sheepishly, folding his arms behind his head. In truth, you were kinda right. His limbs were killing him with how sore they were right now.

"You better! I can't keep scolding you about this again and again!" You shook your head and sighed. After giving him the platter of doughnuts, you began slipping off the apron you were wearing.

"Shishishi. You sound like a worried spouse." Ruggie snickered, shoving two doughnuts into his mouth. You dropped the apron in your hand, eyes wide at the implications of what Ruggie just said. Snorting at your flustered state, he continued teasing you.

"Spare me! I'm sure you'll have plenty of time in the future to scold me." Ruggie's voice suddenly lowered to a whisper, the playful edge to it gone. "I should prolly start putting off money up for a ring now…"

"Wh-What?!"

✩— JADE LEECH:

"What might this be?" Jade appeared behind you, his towering form pressing itself against your back. An arm wrapped around you, pulling you snug against him. His hair remained dishevelled and out of place, his physique still sluggish and lethargic. Jade, contrary to popular belief, was not a morning person.

"It's just a simple little bento I'm preparing…Azul told me you skipped out on dinner last night so I um-" Feeling flushed under his intense yet drowsy gaze, you struggled to finish your sentence. "…decided to cook something up for you."

Jade hums, grasping your hands in his own. He instantly pauses as he feels the texture of scratchy woven fabric beneath his skin. The eel looked down to see your hands covered with sloppily placed bandages and bandaids.

He stared down at your damaged hands for a minute, an unsettling smile creeping up his face.

"Who did this." Jade stated firmly, a dark, pointed expression on his face. His fingers rubbed soothing circles over your palm, patiently waiting for your response. "I need names, my pearl."

You fiddled with one of the bandages wrapped around your finger.

"No one did this. I'm just not really the best person to put near a kitchen knife or a pan with boiling oil." You laughed sheepishly, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. Jade chuckled alongside you. All previous apprehension from him seemed to fade away.

"I see. I appreciate the gesture however I wish you were more careful." Jade leaned down next to your ear, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

"Allow me to take care of you first, these bandages are in dire need of a change."

✩— JAMIL VIPER:

"Albi?" Jamil groaned, raising his arms to shield his eyes from the glaring sun. He sat up and instantly regretted his decision when his head started spinning; he could already feel the start of a migraine. You rushed over and shushed him, pushing him to sit back down on the couch.

"Are you okay?" Frowning, you plopped the box open and scooped up some food for him to eat. Jamil leaned forward to take it into his mouth, humming at the taste.

Yesterday's events began to resurface in his mind. He was given a potionology assignment to complete alongside Kalim.

Everything was going smoothly until Kalim made the decision to add some sugar to the cauldron for unknown reasons. The cauldron exploded and Jamil ended up getting hit with the fumes, breathing it in. Which was probably the reason why his head felt like it was being split open.

"A bit. If my memory serves me well, the effects of this potion should wear off in a few hours." He mumbled, allowing himself to get fed by and spoiled by you. You smiled and reached for a napkin to wipe down the corners of his lips. "That's good. Is the food to your liking?"

"It tastes great." Jamil compliments, taking the box into his own hands. "Thank you for looking after me; is there anything you want me to make for you?"

"That curry you gave me the other day! It tasted so good!"

"Of course." Jamil smiled at you. Regardless of the numerous hijinks he has to deal with as Kalim's retainer and Scarabia's vice dorm leader, you've always been an anchor of support for him; holding him firm when everything appears to be sweeping him away.

A/N: This was a request! Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated and really motivating on my end!

[rachetmath]

Jaune was working as usual until he heard his scroll. He looks to see Blake calling him. He answers.

Blake: Jaune we need to talk.

Jaune: *putting a baby to sleep while controlling kids* Blake I am a little busy at the moment.

Blake: Jaune we need to discuss why you quit your position.

Jaune: I don’t know maybe because I’m not needed and might as well use my time to get stronger and probably be more useful.

Yang: Jaune come on you were plenty useful in the nursing.

Jaune: Yang they have medical professionals. They were fine without me. Plus I go back there every morning. I never left. I even have them on my scroll. They call me too. So what’s the problem?

Robyn: Look we just need you to start pulling your weight and do your job.

Jaune: *triggered*

Kid #1: Ooo you messed up lady.

Jaune”s teacher 1: Honey you felt that, right?

Jaune’s teacher 2: Mm-hm someone about to get their ass beat. And my son is about to do it.

Jaune’s teacher 1: Honey we already got ten kids.

Jaune’s teacher 2: And I love them but their still children. They don’t know how bad adulthood is yet.

Jaune: Little bi- *remembers the children* You know what how about we have a meeting about this okay?

Robyn: Fine.

The next day everyone gathered around for the meeting with Jaune being in the room first. After everyone finished what they had to say, Jaune presented himself and replied.

Jaune: So, everyone good? Okay, I’ll make this quick. I have been doing my job better than almost all of you. Almost.

Qrow: Jaune what do you mean you have been messing up-

Jaune: I know the man who can change into a bird and is a legend yet still can’t watch over a maiden and his nieces for shit is talking to me.

Qrow: Now hold up son I’ll beat-

Jaune: Bro you are the reason Clover is dead. And the reason Tyrian escaped along with Robinhood over there.

Robyn: Hey.

Jaune: And speaking of you, Ms. Hill, how the hell was Penny defending your city better than you or any of your Happy Huntresses considering the amount of citizens who got hurt? 

May: Hey we had to evacuate our citizens cause your team deserted us. 

Jaune: Well sorry, it is not like one of my friends wasn’t kidnapped and was about to die at any given moment. 

Yang: You could have helped.

Jaune: Bitch you told me not to fight. Hell we almost got him back too. Oh. And we were planning to come back. However, we were captured because I was trying to warn someone of an upcoming attack. Which happened and yet some stubborn mother fuckers wouldn’t listen. Cause they were fixated on looking for Penny. 

Winter: Mm he did. But you

Jaune: Yeah-yeah I know, the Ironwood and Ruby bs. And speaking of that wouldn’t James have killed everyone anyway if we hadn’t stopped him?

Qrow: Not to mention Harriet almost dropped a whole bomb on Mantle to kill everyone.

Harriet: Okay rude.

Yang: Okay Jaune-

Jaune: Bitch don’t get me- don’t get me started on you. You have been getting your ass beat as of late. Like in Atlas and Mantle, I don't know how that’s possible, but me and my men, have been carrying you throughout the whole ordeal. All you have been doing was not knowing how to shut the hell up.  

Yang: um…

Jaune: Like you was talking about the Ace-ops and Winter following orders yet you were following Ozpin’s,Ruby’s, Ironwood's and better yet, you were following my orders. At least I was coming up with a plan. I was helping Ren. Being a leader. What were you doing other than Blake?

Blake: Alright Jaune, calm down, You have made your point.

Jaune: Oh no the fuck I haven't. Are you Ruby's sister?

Blake: No.

Jaune: Mm I wonder what drew me to that conclusion considering you have been acting like her sister more than a blond brawler over here? Both moms left her too, yet she looked for the one who never raised her.  

Yang: *tears dropping from her eyes*

Nora: Wow Jaune, that's cold.

Jaune: Nora. Ren. My supposedly two remaining teammates. 

Ren: Come on not again. Jaune, Ruby already told us everything. What can you possibly say that she hasn't told us yet?

Jaune: For someone who was on James's dick you never once tried to snitch on us. In fact you been kinda rude half the time.Then you decided to speak out against Harriet like you and Yang didn't argue before we got caught.

Ren: That was because she was insulting Pyrrha.

Jaune: Which I understand but I thought we were past that already.

Ren: Well I was the reason Winter agreed to your plan. And I was the reason we survived the whale to find Oscar.

Jaune: Emerald and Hazel saved Oscar before we had a chance. We basically went in there for nothing. And you almost started a fight with Harriet. 

Winter: Also I was a little hesitant but I agreed to the plan. Mainly more hostages. You wouldn’t be alive if I hadn’t jumped in.

Jaune: More importantly if I were to have thrown the relic into the mix, which had one question left by the way,  you're telling me Harriet wouldn't agree to let us go. Mainly because they were looking for Penny regardless.

Nora: Wow Jaune you would thrown Penny under the bus that easily?

Jaune: If it meant a negotiation with James, probably, yes. And Nora, weren't you unconscious throughout half that experience? 

Nora: I saved team RWBY.

Jaune: Who hasn't? Cause I recall, Qrow, Oobleck, Gylanda, us, CVFY, Ace-ops, James, and Ozpin. You ain’t special.

Oscar: Damn.

Jaune: Oscar you decided to meet James and try to talk. After he made us wanted criminals. What were you thinking?

Oscar: At least I tried to reassure him. 

Jaune: And you got shot. Mother fucker you were wasting time and our efforts. Next time no one might not be able to help you. And Ozpin? It took a whole pile of shit to happen for you to finally came out and help? 

Oscar(Ozpin): Mr. Arc it was not that bad.

Jaune: He got shot. Manhandled by a Grimm. And beat up by an old man. Come on.

Ozpin: … …

Jaune: Don’t get me started on how you fucked up years before.

Pietro: Jaune. You killed my-

Jaune: I killed Penny and saved Winter. Winter was Ironwood's second in command and was in charge of a whole army during a full-scale invasion. The fact Penny had Weiss, Ruby, Blake, Yang, and Nora to choose from proves she knew all of them weren't up to the task. Plus I was trying to help her but my options were limited. I did what I had to. I’m sorry.

Pietro: You could have-

Jaune: Healed her? I TRIED!!! However let's discuss how I have been carrying every damn body on my back. I had to help Ren multiple times when using his semblance. I had to heal Oscar. Heal Nora. Amplify Weiss and Penny when it came to her virus. Hell fourth wall breaking did anyone think for a second I amplified Ren ahead of time so he can mask those same thousands of people.

RWBY fan: …. ….

Jaune: All that while running, fighting and surviving while having barely enough sleep or energy. Hell, my aura kept breaking multiple times. I am surprised I haven't passed out yet.

Winter: Mm he made his point.

Weiss: Winter, why are you siding with him so quickly?

Winter: First off I am alive because of him. Second, Weiss, you lied to my face. Like I was open with you and you never once came to me with the truth. I'm your sister. You're lucky I was willing to side with you at all.

Jaune: Facts. And for someone who lived in Atlas, you barely did shit to save it. 

Weiss: I sent ships to help Mantle.

Winter: That's the thing though Mantle. You did nothing for Atlas at all. And how did you send those ships?

Weiss: Well it was mainly Whitley.

Winter: I rest my case.

Jaune: Also aren't you Ruby’s partner? Why are Oscar, Blake, and myself filling in those shoes more than you? 

Yang: Well in the Ever After you-

Jaune: I was trying to find a way home by learning the story. But as the saying goes, “Don’t trust everything you read.”  And sorry for protecting a civilization from killing itself even though that was the only thing keeping me sane.

Yang: *silent*  

Blake: They came back though.

Jaune: They don’t remember me or their past lives. They died and came back only to die again. Not to mention I had to leave my second and long-time companion and place her in the care of a rat. Not only that I had a whole map of the Ever After. I wasn't playing around. I was seriously trying to find a way home. Yet you called me crazy.

Blake: *silent* 

Jaune: Here is what I am saying, true enough I can't fight for anything but I at least help in areas none of you can seem to grasp. I have to sacrifice my mental and physical well-being to support ya’ll. I have been doing my job as a huntsman, teammate and a friend than almost any of you. 

Nora: But Jaune you’re our leader we need you.

Jaune: I recall the majority of times you two barely follow my orders. Ruby is your leader. I don’t recall having a team move with either of you. Not just that you have Oscar and Emerald so fuck both of you. 

Ren: Are we that bad of a team?

Jaune: Yeah, and what’s crazier is I have a family I haven’t seen in years yet I’m still prioritizing a city full of savages, and you all as my friends when I can just pull a Raven and leave you be.

Yang: DUDE!!

Jaune: I’m just saying I could leave and nothing would change. Now I’m leaving cause I got a job to do!*leave*

Qrow: Well damn.

Nora: I guess we all made mistakes.

Ren: Yes.

Weiss: I’m going to call Ruby and see if we can hang out.

Yang: Can we make that a double?

Oscar: Um Nora do you think-

Nora: Calm down Oscar. Jaune may be upset but he’ll be fine. He wouldn’t leave us like that.

A few weeks later.

Ruby: Hey everyone we’re back.

Team RWBY saw a crying Nora in Ren’s arms and defeated Qrow comforted by Oscar. Ruby looks to see a letter and picks it up. Ruby and her team read the letter. Afterward, Yang is shocked, and Weiss is sad as Blake comforts them. Ruby on the other hand steps out and then stares at the sky. A tear flows down her eye.

Ruby:  Well, at least you have the common decency to tell me what you’re up to. But still…*sigh* Hope you find what you're looking for my friend. And… … Please… come back safely.

Jaune was flying on a Nevermore along with Emerald who snuck aboard to his surprise. Jaune, though irritated, continued flying as she held onto him.

Emerald: I can’t believe you tamed a Nevermore. 

Jaune: Yeah-yeah anyways why did you follow me here?

Emerald: Hey someone has to watch your back.

Jaune: You are the last person I want to cover my back.

Emerald: Well don’t be rude. But also…

Jaune: What?

Emerald: Jaune… Salem is after you.

Jaune: Really? Why? I don’t recall being a silver-eyed warrior or Ozpin’s vessel. So why me? Also, how do you know?

Emerald: Mercury told me and even he doesn’t know. He just overheard Tyrian about you.

Jaune: I fought with him a week ago. (Should’ve killed him too.) Still doesn’t make sense though. Did he hear anything from Cinder?

Emerald: No. 

Jaune: Look I already left the kingdom. Cinder mainly wants Ruby dead. And Salem will be too preoccupied to do anything about me. We’re under clear.  

Somewhere in Vacuo, Tyrian and Mercury were speaking to Salem and Cinder through one of her sphere Grimm. Salem hears Jaune has left the kingdom of Vacuo and is enraged.

Salem: WHAT?!

Tyrian: I’m sorry mistress. Please calm down.

Salem: *breaths* Very well. Cinder will meet you both in Vacuo. Therefore we will split our efforts into two. You three along with our allies will search and kill the Summer Maiden along with team RWBY and their annoying friends. I will send a request to half of them to assist me in finding him. I may even need them.

Tyrian: Them ma’am?

Salem: Yes, them.

Tyrian: Very well my queen. We will not fail you.

Salem ends the call while Cinder stands before her with an angered look in her eye.

Salem: What is it, my dear?

Cinder: Why are you after Jaune?

Salem: Why do you ask?

Cinder Ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude but that boy isn’t worth our efforts at all.

Salem: Hm… really? So how come he’s alive?

Cinder: By sheer luck of course.

Salem: True. However, there is no doubt he has gotten in the way of our plans. Like with killing the Schnee girl. Or getting the winter maiden’s power. 

Cinder: *nervous* Those were my failures, ma’am.

Salem: Regardless I need him alive.

Cinder: But why though.

Salem: His semblance and aura. With his semblance along with Gillian's, I might be able to push our army further to evolution. But I need his power to do it. 

Cinder: Then allow me to-

Salem: *snaps* 

Cinder was shut off as she could feel pain from her Grimm arm. Salem turns around and looks to Cinder and say as she closes in on her.

Salem: I recall sending you to handle said children and what happened? Oh. You costed me knowledge. You lost the maiden powers to another huntress. Hazel and Emerald betrayed us. And worse of all you lost two useful people. 

Cinder: But I gave you creation. Surly that makes up- *feels greater pain*

Salem; Ever since you came back you have been getting cocky and more foolish by the day. Draining my resources. Right now, all I want from you to do is simply play nice and follow orders. Like a good little doll. 

Cinder was terrified as she stared at Salem’s as she leaned down to look closer at Cinder’s frightened gaze.

Salem: Understand this Cinder. I was the reason you managed to obtain and control that power you have in your possession. However, you so far have continued to prove how undeserving you are of said power and responsibility that comes with it. So let me break this down for you. If you so much as make a mistake, further disrupt my plans, or worse fail me…

Cinder: … …. 

Salem: I will take everything from you. Do you understand child?

Cinder: Yes m- *screams* Yes… my queen.

Salem: Good. Now leave. 

Cinder gets up and leaves for Vacuo. Salem on the other hand walks around her castle until she reaches her destination. There she opens a huge door. She walks through the door only to be greeted by multiple eyes.

Salem: Hello my children.

???: Greetings Mother.

Salem: Mother is sorry. I wish I didn’t have to send you to do this. But there is no one but you that I trust to do this task

???: Anything Mother.

Salem uses her Grimm to present an image of the target.

Salem: Find this boy. Do however you feel it takes to bring him back alive. 

???: May we have fun hunting him Mother.

Salem: *smile* Of course, my children. You may torture him and do as you see fit.

???: Yes mother. It shall be done.

Salem: Then go. 

[skz317cb97]

Drunk Confessions pt 3

Hyunjin x Female reader

Word count: 2.1k

Synopsis: When your coworker Hyunjin walks you home, you invite him up for drinks. Things between you get heating up quickly, and it's not just the alcohol.

A/N: 18+ ONLY! A little strangers/coworkers to lovers for you all hope you enjoy! Warnings and smut below the cut!

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI! Cursing/strong language, mentions of drinking alcohol/being drunk, drunk sex (both are drunk), protected piv sex. That's it. Unless I missed something. If I did please let me know and I'll add it asap!

You were leaving work late one night when you were startled by the gorgeous guy that sat across from you in the opposite cubicle. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to frighten you.” You shook your head with your hand over your heart. 

“No, it’s fine I just didn’t realize anyone else was still here in our department.” He hummed pressing his pouty lips together. 

“Yea looks like we were both burning the midnight oil.” You laughed and agreed. 

“Come, I’ll walk you to your car.” You were a little surprised by his offer. The two of you hadn’t spoken much in your time there. 

“Oh! I don’t drive. I actually live close so I walk.” He raised his brow at you. 

“You’re planning on walking home alone this late?” You nodded. 

“That’s not safe and the weather called for rain this evening. Let me grab my umbrella and I’ll walk you home.” You were going to protest; you didn’t want him going out of his way. 

“Really that’s not necessary sir-” 

“Hyunjin.” You smiled. You liked his name. It was handsome like him. 

“Hyunjin. I’m y/n and it’s really not necessary, the sky looks fairly clear and it’s not far.” He put his hands together as if he were begging you. 

“Please? For my peace of mind?” you nodded agreeing.  

“Okay Hyunjin you go get your umbrella, I’ll wait here.” His smile was like a million watt light bulb and his eyes disappeared. 

“I’ll be right back.” He put up one finger and then dashed off. He was silly, and sweet, and insanely gorgeous and you had no earthly idea why he wanted to walk you home but who were you do refuse a request from such a man.  

Once he was back you both left heading towards your apartment building. It did start to rain a little on the way and Hyunjin held the umbrella over the two of you, walking just a bit closer so you both stayed dry close enough you could smell his cologne.  

You had a little small talk and got to know little surface things about him. He's an only child, has a dog, he seemed like a dog guy to you, his favorite food, things like that and he seemed eager to get to know more about you as well. 

As you made it to your building the sky opened up and the rain came down in sheets, thunder and lightning clapping. 

“How are you getting home in this Hyunjin?” He laughed a little. 

“Heh, bus. I won’t have to wait long.” You shook your head. 

“No way, you’re not waiting in this rain after being kind enough to walk me home. Come up for a cup of hot tea until it dies down why don’t you?” Hyunjin bowed grateful for your hospitality. 

“That sounds nice thank you.” You led Hyunjin up to your small studio apartment. 

“Make yourself at home I’ll get the kettle on.” Hyunjin went and sat on your couch and not too long later you came out with two piping hot cups of tea. You sat down next to him and carefully handed him his cup of tea. 

“It’s really hot, don’t burn yourself.” Hyunjin smelled the steaming cup of tea. 

“Oolong and... honey?” You smiled nodding. 

“Clover. I have a thing for sweets I hope it’s okay for you.” He shook his head. 

“Oh yes! It’s fine!” You and Hyunjin fell into a comfortable conversation as you drank your tea. The time flew by and before you knew it, it was past time for the last bus of the evening. 

“Oh shoot I’m so sorry Hyunjin I shouldn’t have been talking your ear off.” He pished you. 

“No it’s fine I can walk to the train, the rain has pretty much stopped.” Your bottom lip pushed out. 

“The train? Hyunjin the closest station is a thirty minute walk from here. Why don’t you just spend the night on my couch I can give you some sweats and wash your work clothes.” Hyunjin shook his head no. 

“No no I couldn’t intrude on a ladies privacy like that...” You pished him this time. 

“You’re not intruding, I’m inviting, if you’d rather not that’s fine but if you don’t want to make the long trip the couch and sweats offer still stands.” Hyunjin considered it for a moment and then nodded. 

“Okay as long as I'm not putting you out.” You laughed. 

“Not at all. I’ll go grab some sweats and a spare blanket and pillow.” He smiled brightly at you again. 

“Thank you y/n, for your hospitality.” You bowed. 

“And thank you for escorting me home safely and dry.”  

“My pleasure.” You nodded and went off to grab things for Hyunjin. Shortly after you came back with sweats and spare bedding. 

“The bathroom is just over there if you’d like to freshen up and change. Give me your clothes after and I’ll put them in the wash for you. 

“Really y/n you’re too kind.” You blushed and smiled at him and he went off to the bathroom to change. While Hyunjin changed in the bathroom you quickly went over to the part of your studio apartment designated your bedroom and changed into your own pajamas; shorts and a big t-shirt. You were just sliding the shirt over your head when you heard Hyunjin clear his throat behind you. You quickly pulled it down and spun around to find him standing there with his work clothes in hand. 

“Sorry, I just was bringing my clothes. I didn’t mean... I mean...” His ears and neck were red. 

“It’s okay Hyunjin no problem.” He nodded but was looking at the floor. You took the clothes from him and put them in the wash. When you joined him in the living room he started to apologize again and you stopped him. 

“Really it’s okay, I should have waited for the bathroom since I had a guest. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Hyunjin’s face scrunched. Made him uncomfortable? No. This was actually the last place he expected to find himself when he approached you earlier when you both were leaving work.  

It was hard not to notice you at work. You were right across the way from him and you were so beautiful. When he saw you leaving late too, he decided to attempt to introduce himself but he was so nervous he ended up scaring you instead. Then the walk, the rain, tea, and now he was sleeping over on your couch and you were worried you’d made him uncomfortable. 

“No! Not at all, I just... we can just forget it happened.” You smiled and nodded. 

“Okay. Well here’s a bottle of water in case you get thirsty in the night. I’m gonna go ahead and turn in but I’ll switch over the laundry in the night so that your clothes are dry for the morning.” Hyunjin bowed. 

“Thank you again you’re an amazing host. I’ll be sure to leave five stars on my yelp review.” You laughed and nodded. 

“Goodnight Hyunjin.” He smiled back his eyes disappearing again. 

“Goodnight y/n.” The next morning you both woke up got dressed for work and headed in as if you hadn’t just had some weird work sleepover. What sprung from that sleepover though was a routine of Hyunjin walking you home before catching the bus. Sometimes he would come up for tea but there weren’t any other over nights. You and Hyunjin grew to be closer and closer and one night after a few months of him walking you home, you invited him up for drinks instead of tea. 

“I got a couple bottles of some pricey wine as a gift; I don’t normally drink but maybe we could open one and have a glass or two together? You can always crash on the couch if you have too much.” Hyunjin laughed. 

“I’d love to.” You went up to your apartment and Hyunjin took his usual spot in your living room while you grabbed glasses and the wine. You joined Hyunjin in your makeshift living room and set down the glasses. 

“Do you mind doing the honors?” You held the bottle and opener out to him.” He smiled and took both. 

“With pleasure.” Hyunjin easily opened the bottle of wine and poured you both a glass and then the conversation, as always, flowed freely, as did the wine and before you knew it you were cracking into the second bottle. With each glass you laughed harder, moved closer, and got bolder. Then...  

“God you’re so beautiful.” You stopped laughing and froze when Hyunjin said it, then he froze as well. 

“Did I say that out loud? That was an inside thought, I’m so sorry.” You smiled and scooted a little closer to him on the couch so your leg was pressed to his. 

“It’s okay Hyunjin, I think you’re beautiful too.” He looked over at you surprised, as if he wasn’t hand crafted by God himself. 

“Really?!” You laughed at his reaction feeling confident you and put your hand on his knee giving it a squeeze. 

“Really Hyunjin. I think you’re funny, and sweet, and you are gorgeous. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you over these past couple of months.” He seemed utterly shocked. 

“I have too! I really want to kiss you.” He slapped his hand over his mouth then removed it. 

“I’m so sorry the wine has evidently removed my filter I-” Before Hyunjin could get another word out you kissed him, giving him a taste of the wine on your lips. You pulled away smiling, his eyes still closed licking his full lips. 

“Good?” you asked and he nodded. 

“So good. Come here.” He pulled you in for another kiss, deeper, with teeth and tongue. You climbed on his lap and took his wine glass, setting it on the coffee table and then kissing him again as you straddled him. You thread your fingers through his hair and pulled him into another passionate kiss, grinding against his growing erection. Hyunjin stopped you. 

“You’re drunk we shouldn’t.” You kissed him again. 

“Not that drunk...” Hyunjin stopped you again and looked at you. 

“Really?” You couldn’t look him in the face and lie. 

“Okay I am but so are you and I really want this, even before we were drunk. Don’t you?” Hyunjin nodded and when you started kissing down his neck his resolve broke. 

“Fuck it.” He kissed you and wrapped his arms around you as you started moving on top of him again. You both started hastily removing each other’s clothes until you were both almost naked, aside from your under garments. Hyunjin unhooked your bra and took one of your nipples into his mouth as soon as your breasts were freed from it. 

“That feels good, please Hyunjin, need you.” He nodded sliding you off his lap. As he removed his boxers and you took your panties off, he reached into his pants pocket and grabbed a condom out. He knelt on the couch between your legs and ripped open the condom then rolled it down his length. He leaned over you and kissed you sweetly. Just as he was about to push into you he stopped. 

“Just... are you sure, I don’t want you to regre-” You kissed him shutting him up momentarily. 

“I’m sure Hyunjin. I like you a lot, I want this, I want you.” He nodded and kissed you again as he pushed inside you. You let out a collective moan into your kiss. He felt so good, so right. Hyunjin went slow at first, rolling his hips into yours as he kissed your face and lips, down your neck and shoulder. He started fucking you deeper and harder and you could hardly contain yourself. 

“FUCK! Hyunjin GOD! Yes! That’s so good harder please!” He did as you asked and started to give it to you harder, his big hands gripping your hips. One of his long slender fingers rubbing against your clit is what sent you over the precipice of pleasure though. Your warm walls squeezed Hyunjin’s cock and he lost any restraint he had left. 

“So fucking beautiful oh god... I’m gonna cum!” Hyunjin filled the condom as you rode your wave of euphoria. He slumped next to you on your couch and you both broke out in a fit of drunken laughter as you caught your breath. Hyunjin leaned over and kissed you. 

“Please tell me you’ll remember this in the morning.” You laughed harder. 

“I will, but if I don’t, we can always refresh my memory.” 

Please do not repost or translate any of my works. My blog and stories are NSFW and 18+ ONLY! Minors, ageless, and blank blogs will be blocked!

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[italoniponic]

Caught | Trey Clover

Synopsis: Because of your difficulties with alchemy class, you asked for Trey’s help to study. However, as Heartslabyul is full of problems and crazy people, the moment between you two is interrupted. Many, many times.

Trey Clover x gender neutral reader / fluff / a bit of comedy / established relationship / use of “you” pronouns

Word count: 1327k words | Masterlist

Notes: This was something I wrote a long, long time ago. It was basically lost among my fics files but since it’s Trey, I decided that I could share a little bit of “general Trey appreciation” once in a while. Stan the baker glasses boy to good cakes and better kitchen skills!

Caught

Trey’s voice was sweet and clear, filling the room with an incredible sense of comfort as if you two were actually in the kitchen preparing a cake together. But he was only reading the contents of the book of alchemy. Nothing else.

You were split on whether the idea of asking your boyfriend to help you study had been good. On the one hand, the theoretical content seemed much more understandable when it was explained by him. On the other hand, having Trey by your side in bed and having his voice so close to your ears was also becoming an immense distraction.

What to do in such cases? You were at a crossroads between pushing yourself to pay attention and not falling into the temptation of putting your head on Trey’s shoulder to finally fall into the world of dreams. His bed was large and comfortable, the cotton blanket had a very nice smell of cinnamon.

“Are you paying attention to the alchemy lesson?,” Trey asked suddenly.

The question shook you a little, putting you back to reality. Despite this, his tone wasn’t impatient. In fact, it was quite teasing.

“I’m trying,” you replied. “But next time, we’ll study in the library. It’s too comfortable here.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?,” Trey raised one of his eyebrows, his smile widening more.

“Because... uh... you... your room... I d-don’t have to answer! Just believe me!”

Trey let a little laugh slip away. 

How difficult it was to please such a simple person sometimes! But he understood what you were saying. He was also almost dozing off himself with the first-year’s alchemy theory book, a part of the subject he thought he would never have to deal with again in life. It was the reason Trey had become used to writing down Crewel’s lessons so as not to fall asleep in class.

However, being there reading that boring content on a bed that practically begged for someone to take a rest in and right next to the one he loved the most, his desire was to stretch out and leave study for later. 

Just to lay side by side, no much more than that. Letting the afternoon go by while they held a tea party in their Wonderland. 

But if anyone caught them in those conditions, Trey would hear a lecture from Riddle as if his own mother, Mrs. Clover, were there.

“Why don’t we go to Ramshackle, then?,” he suggested.

“The ghosts always interrupt us and Grim gets bored very easily. It would be the two of us running after him and preventing some good old chaos,” you explained, laughing a little while remembering how the cat must have been sleeping alone in your room. “Well, only when I’m around at least.”

“Heartslabyul is a quieter dorm in your opinion?”

“Of course I do. You all have a great leader and an amazing, super-responsible and caring vice…,” you touched the tip of the young man’s nose. “... that is you!”

Trey smiled and stared into the depths of his beloved one’s eyes. He was happy that his company was so dear to you and you saw him in such a positive way. This made Trey wish to reward you for words and confidence. Could he make you a cake? Maybe a pie? A Coconut “little kiss”? Or, who knows, another type of kiss.

Noticing the new glow of Trey’s big honey eyes behind his glasses, you had a small premonition of what you were going to receive. 

You closed your eyes and waited for Trey to get closer. When you two could practically feel your breaths collide, someone knocked on the door.

“Clover-senpai!,” you both moved away the moment Deuce entered. “Ace is making the flamingos fight and helding bets on them!”

You held back from asking how the whole thing was possible when you heard your boyfriend take a deep breath.

“Grab the flamingos’ food and drive them back to the fence. It won’t take too long before they stop fighting,” Trey explained. “And hit Ace on the head for me.”

Deuce nodded and gave a small embarrassed nod to the couple. The door quickly closed, welcoming again the comfortable silence of the room.

You approached each other again, returning to your original positions. You held Trey’s nape, preventing him from escaping again and he held your free hand. The book of alchemy became a mere souvenir, forgotten somewhere in the blanket. You could feel Trey’s lips rubbing so close to you when a squealing sound suddenly became audible. 

The door opened yet again.

You somehow jumped in the best spy action movie stunt move off the bed and stopped with your knees on the floor to face Ace, whose torso was clamped by some pink flamingo’s legs. However, that’s not what the freshman came to warn you.

“Clover-senpai! Deuce is choking on a hedgehog cub!”

“How?!,” you both questioned at the same time.

“I… m-mean… the flamingo may have accidentally made a shot on the hedgehog and it flew right into Deuce’s mouth. At least the poor thing didn’t fall into the flamingos stable like last time,” Ace scratched his hair, half relieved, half worried.

“Are you talking about Deuce or the hedgehog in that last part?,” you asked more concerned.

“It doesn't matter,” Trey interrupted. He was getting tired of all this. “Do the Heimlich maneuver and Deuce will be able to spit out the hedgehog. Now, stop throwing things at him! And don’t make the flamingos fight anymore!”

“O-okay.”

Ace then paused for a moment, thinking about inquiring about your presence there but he ultimately gave up. Instead, he closed the door and ran away. More quacks were heard along the way — the flamingo very happy for the new ride.

You two gave up on trying to kiss again and just layed together on the same pillow, equally tired. You turned to face Trey’s exhausted expression but you smiled as you saw him play with one lock of your hair. Trey took off his glasses for a moment and closed his eyes, enjoying that moment of silence while it could still last.

You also closed your eyes, hugging your boyfriend’s torso. The scent of cinnamon — with light touches of vanilla — seemed stronger than before. Suddenly, peace was reestablished and you were in your own world again. Nothing could interrupt this sweet moment.

“Trey! I swear I’ll exterminate this entire dorm someday!,” Riddle opened the bedroom door and entered in pure rage. “A group of seniors did the favor of burning three cakes in the kitchen! Flamingos and hedgehogs are all over the place! Roses everywhere! Ink spilled where even the Queen of Hearts could doubt! And... u-uh... er… eh!”

Riddle suddenly stopped, his eyes stuck on the bed where the couple were together and were trying to sleep. Trey sat down and stared at his childhood friend, although completely blurry. And the fact alone that he was trying to focus his sight in vain was quite nervous and intimidating. But mildly unintentionally. 

I said, mildly.

You turned around in time to see Riddle’s face intensely colored red and he looked away.

Extremely embarrassed, Riddle walked around a few times until he finally reached the exit and closed the door quietly. Or at least, you both wanted him to stay that way.

“Anyone who dares to interrupt Trey and the Prefect’s moment of intimate privacy again will lose their heads!,” Riddle threatened the whole dorm in a loud voice.

Trey hid his face in his hands, wanting the floor to swallow him. He knew that Riddle tried to help you with all the good intentions but he couldn’t have had the most awful time to misinterpret the situation you were in.

It was the first time you had seen your boyfriend so embarrassed and flustered since he was forced to sing at a surprise karaoke night organized by Cater.

“L-library?,” you suggested hesitantly.

“Please…”

[traffic-was-a-b1tch]

anthem of the heart

(jake kiszka x reader) 18+

summary: you and your best friend move into a new apartment after college, wanting a fresh start in nashville. however, you come to find that your neighbors are musicians. very loud musicians who like to keep you up at night. especially one, who likes to bother you on purpose. you would hate him… if he wasn’t so hot.

warnings for overall series: eventual SMUT!!!, angst, mentions of past abuse (not jake), abuse (not jake), mentions of past sexual assault (not jake), sexual assault (not jake), enemies to lovers, cursing, let me know if I missed any. (i’m still making this series up as I go along so it might change)

warnings for this chapter: SMUT, unprotected p in v (WRAP IT UP), fingering, slight dom!jake, sir kink, praise kink, punishment kink (if you squint), kissing, cursing, let me know if I missed any!

author’s note: heyyyy! sorry for the long wait! thank you again for the likes and love for this series! let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list! as always, please feel free to give me feedback, requests, comments, etc. enjoy!!!

• • •

Chapter Eight:

you were so distracted from your celebration that you didn’t realize that jake wasn’t in bed anymore. you looked around the bedroom and didn’t see any sign of him besides his black shirt on the floor from last night.

damn. that was all coming back to you. you could still feel him all over you; his hands, his mouth, his…

get ahold of yourself.

you don’t have time for that this morning. your interview was in only 3 hours and you couldn’t risk being any kind of late.

you got up, still naked, and left the bedroom. following down the hall, you started to hear something. it sounded like a acoustic guitar, just a little muffled. you came into the living room, still no sign of jake. but the guitar was getting louder, like you were getting closer. you continued walking towards the music, and found yourself at the recording room.

the door was cracked open a bit so you heard the guitar clearly now. you could also catch a glimpse of him through the window, sitting on a stool and strumming it shirtless. he looked so beautiful.

the rhythm was familiar but you thought it was just something he wrote. that was until you heard him start to sing.

“now I don’t hardly know her,”

a beat.

“but I think I could love her,”

a beat.

“crimson and clover.”

his voice was like a husky honey; sweet and raspy. you recognized that the song was crimson and clover by tommy james and the shondells. it was a favorite classic of your mom’s. you swayed to it, never letting your eyes leave him.

he vocalized, eyes closed. you smiled at the sight of him. he was so enthralled in the music that it enchanted you. he slowly opened his eyes, finding you in the doorway. he stopped and an embarrassed smile creeped on his face.

you came into the room, closing the door behind you, clapping.

“creeper”, he teased, grabbing your hips and pulling you to him.

“come on, I like it when you play.”

he raised his eyebrows, “you used to not…”

you scoffed, “shut up.” then you added, sing-songy, “I have good news.”

“what?” his voice was still a bit tired.

“I got an interview at my dream job.” you were still giddy even talking about it.

he made a shocked face and got excited. “yes! you’ll finally be out of my hair during the day now.”

you pushed him and tried to back away, but he kept his grip on your hips as he laughed.

“let’s both hope I get this job because if I don’t and I have to deal with your bullshit for all 24 hours, I might murder you.”

he cocked his head to the side and smirked.

“but as of right now, I need to shower and get ready”, you removed his hands on your hips and turned to leave.

“mmm, no. you look fine as is”, he fought, grabbing your hand and not letting you leave.

you looked back at him, eyebrow raised, “i’m naked, jake.”

“and? no amount of clothes can replace this look right now”, he made a camera with his hands and pretended to take pictures of you.

“don’t try to flatter me in hopes of morning sex because I really don’t have time right now”, you rolled your eyes, giggling, and tried to leave again.

he stopped you again, “i’m not trying to get any, believe me. if I wanted you right now, i’d have you right now. but maybe I just like you being here.”

your eyes lingered on each other for a bit longer than what was comfortable.

he looked you up and down, taking in all of your curves, “but now that you’ve got me thinking about it…”

“jake, no. i’ll be late”, you reasoned lightheartedly.

“how much time do you have?”

you sighed, “3 hours.”

he reached up to grab your jaw, guiding you down to his level, “I only need 20 minutes.”

he kissed you softly and you deepened it. as soon as he’d kissed you, a fire lit inside you and you needed him. now.

he softly moved the guitar that was resting on his lap to the ground and urged you on his lap. you kissed hard and messily, too caught up in desire to care.

he trailed his hands all over your body, feeling your soft skin against his guitar calloused fingers. he broke from your kisses, eyes boring into you.

“don’t break eye contact. if you do, I stop. got it?”

you nodded.

his fingers found their way in between your legs before two of them lined up with your opening. he pressed them inside you slowly , causing you to moan loudly and throw your head back.

his fingers immediately withdrew. he smacked your pussy in punishment, bringing your eyes back to him.

“eyes on me.”

you nodded again, eyes wide.

“nuh uh, words.”

“yes, sir.”

his eyes darkened and he sucked in a breath. you clearly unlocked something, something he was holding back.

his fingers entered in you again, faster this time. you gasped but kept your eyes locked on his. he started moving them in and out of you slowly, slightly curling them into your spot. you moaned loudly, the feeling taking over your entire body, but fought to keep your eyes on his.

he noticed your effort and rewarded you with a, “good girl.”

he started to go faster, and you were trying your hardest not to lose it. he was right, he would only need a few minutes. you were getting closer, eyes threatening to flutter closed. you were right there, his fingers curling into you hard. you were about to…

he pulled his fingers out of you.

you sighed in frustration, “jake, what the fuck?”

he smirked in satisfaction, “seems like you forgot i’m an asshole.”

you made an upset pout face. he laughed at you, tugging down his black sweatpants and releasing himself.

you couldn’t not stare. he looked so delicious. your eyes, still tinted with anger, flicked up to his.

“come on, baby”, he cooed, “i’ll make it up to you. ride me.”

you reached down to grab him and he gasped softly. he was so hard. fuck, you needed him bad.

you lined him up to your entrance, and slowly sunk down on him.

you both moaned loudly, and you were grateful that you were in a soundproof studio.

at first, jake’s hands moved to your hips and guided you up and down. once you had a rhythm he let go, “fuck, show me how much you want it.”

you were speechless. his mouth made an ‘o’ shape as you grinded on him, head falling back in ecstasy. you put your hands on his shoulders for leverage and rode him faster.

his dick was perfect, hitting all the right spots in you. his head came back up, and he saw that your boobs were bouncing as you rode him. he grabbed them both, massaging them and moaning. he took one of your nipples in his mouth and twirled his tongue around the sensitive bud.

you could barely breathe, lost in the pleasure. he moaned especially loud against your chest when you tightened around him, trying to reach your peak.

he met your eyes again, and damn did you love the view. his own eyes were laced with lust and his expression was devilish to say the least.

“fucking come for me”, he panted.

you did, throwing your head back and gasping. you were shaking from how intense it was, and that only made jake get closer.

he snatched your hips quickly and fucked you harder. he grunted as he finally came inside you, his head falling to your shoulder.

the only sound in the room was you both panting. after a moment, you nudged his face up to look at you and kissed him softly on his lips.

he smiled and glanced at the clock on the front wall of the studio, “15 minutes. see, i’m great at quickies.”

you laughed, “good to know.” then a question creeped into your mind, one you wanted to ask when you first came in this room.

“do you ever sing in your band’s songs?”

“no, why?”

you shrugged, “I heard you singing and I think you have a great voice. you don’t even sing backup vocals?”

he shook his head, “nope. I leave all that up to josh so I can focus on melting everyone’s faces off with my guitar.”

you smiled, “is that so?”

he nodded.

after a minute of comfortable small talk, you finally lifted off of him and made your way to his bathroom. you cleaned up with a washcloth and then went back and cleaned him too.

you walked back to the bedroom to collect your clothes, grabbing your pants and shirt off the floor. you pulled them on, it was just enough to walk to your apartment. the walk of shame.

you put your phone in your pants pocket and took in your appearance from the mirror on his wall. you had a certain look about you, it reminded you of how jake looked all the time; a look that oozed desire. he was rubbing off on you, you thought. just then, he walked in and stood behind you, brushing your shoulders as he looked at you in the mirror.

“gorgeous”, he whispered in your ear.

you scoffed, shaking your head, “jake, I have to go now.”

he backed away and grumbled, “fine.”

he followed you to the front door and mentioned, “I put my number in your phone last night. text me after the interview and let me know how it went.”

you grinned at him and opened the door, “you put your number in my phone while I was asleep? wow, what a weirdo.”

he mocked a laugh as you made your way into the hallway, “ha ha ha. I better get a text.”

you smirked, reaching for the door handle and whispering, “yes, sir”, before closing the door on his face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you raced into the shower and started to wash your hair.

midway through, the door to the bathroom opened and kaylee poked her head inside the shower, “rough night, huh?”

you giggled and lathered your body, “shut up.”

“how was heeee? as your best friend, you have to tell me. it’s the law.”

“he”, you began, “was… I mean… he felt… I don’t…”

kaylees mouth opened in shock, “he left you speechless?!”

you laughed and nodded.

“lucky fucking duck”, she shook her head. “hey, but I was right. you needed that dick, girl.” she put her hands up, “i’m always right.”

“kaylee”, you laughed, “I got an interview at CMA.”

she jumped, looking at you in excitement, “oh my god!!! today?” you nodded.

she shook her hands excitedly, “oh, i’m so happy for you!!! hurry up and go!!”

she left you to finish and you tried to hurry.

after the shower, you got dressed and put on a little bit of makeup. you were ready to go just in time, with 30 minutes to spare for the drive over.

you told kaylee bye as you were walking out.

“show them how much of a bad bitch you are!”, she yelled out at you.

as you drove to CMA’s office building, you thought about this last week. the rollercoaster it had been, with plenty of ups and downs. but even still, you were still standing. standing tall, too. and as much as kaylee, and jake now too, helped you, you got this success through your own hard work. you really were proud of yourself for making it this far.

you pulled up to the building, parked, and got out of your car to take in the massive feat of architecture with dozens of floors.

it was intimidating. but you knew that this was what you wanted.

you were gonna go for what you wanted; what you knew you could get; what you knew you deserved.

walking inside was relieving, bits of color were spread all around the room. artwork adorned almost every wall and the company’s logo shone on the back wall above the receptionist.

you walked up to him, smiling, “hello. i’m here for my interview.”

he looked up and smiled too, “oh, yes of course. they’re ready for you now. follow me.”

he got up and led you down a large hallway with stained glass windows. they allowed colored light to enter the space and flood it with a heavenly feeling.

you were already in love with this place.

you approached a large office on the end of the hall. the receptionist opened the door for you and you thanked him.

a woman sat at the large wooden desk in the room, but when you entered she stood and held out her hand to shake.

“hello! my name is barbara and i’ll be conducting your interview today.”

you smiled and shook her hand.

she looked down at the frilly sleeves on your shoulders and added, “I love your outfit.”

you thanked her, feeling light as air. you had chosen a baby blue blouse, a white skirt, and little white heels for your attire. you were definitely not regretting it now.

you sat across from her and, while she relaxed back in her chair, you said a small prayer of luck. your nerves were still on high alert.

“so”, barbara began, “how do you feel today?”

you were a little taken aback. that wasn’t exactly a common question an interviewer would ask. it was sweet. like she really cared about me before we had even really met.

you chuckled, “um, I feel great. i’ve been excited ever since I got the call this morning that y’all wanted to interview me.”

she smiled, “i’m very happy to hear that.”

she continued the interview, asking about your strengths and what you would do with this job.

“ok”, she clicked her pen, “final question.”

you sat up a little straighter, preparing yourself.

“why do you want to work here? what about CMA attracts you?”

you took a breath and made eye contact with her.

“CMA speaks to my soul. the creative freedom and power you give to your clients and employees is outstanding. I love the passion that is incorporated into every project that y’all do. I love that this company is just bursting with life and love. I want to be a part of that love.”

she watched you for a moment, earnestly.

“then, I think we’re done here”, she stood and reached out her hand again.

you took it, a little scared that your answer was too passionate because of the unreadable look on her face.

you took your purse and turned to leave.

“one more question before you go”, she added.

you looked back at her, “yes?”

“when can you start?”

• • •

nothing but happiness in this chapter? yes please!!!

tag list: @gvfpal @hollyco @piratejakesgf @sunandthemoontwinflames @kiszkas-canvas @jjwasneverhere @anythingforjtk

[rwby-encrusted-blog]

Qrow: Well Lucky charm, how do you feel about finally meeting Tai?

Clover: *Carrying Bakeware and a plastic bag* I'll be honest, kind of excited. He's been your friend since you were in Beacon, and he raised those Girls.

Qrow: Good plan *Knocks*

Taiyang: Hey! you must be Clover! keeping birdbrain out of Trouble?

Clover: Doing my best, but he seems to drag me into it.

Taiyang: Heh. Yeah that sounds like Him. What d'ya have there?

Clover: I brought you some Fried Chicken.

Taiyang: ... That's a chicken finger.

Qrow: Uh Oh.

Clover: yeah?

Taiyang: That's not fried chicken

Clover: It literally Is? It's chicken, that's been fried?

Taiyang: Eh- Well, Fried Chicken is on the Bone, you eat it with a fork and knife and a side of mashed potatoes! Chicken fingers are Finger food! An appetizer!

Clover: Well ... Sorry for disappointing you. I did bring Iced Tea! *he Holds up Arizona Iced tea*

Qrow: Honey?

Clover: Yeah?

Taiyang: *Cracks Knuckles*

Qrow: RUN!

[mybelovednick]

Crimson and Clover, Honey (Chapter 3)

Main Page

Previously

Nick Sturniolo x Male!character

Summary: Nick Sturniolo is a Bookstore owner in a small town in Northern Italy. Vayu Arora is an elementary school teacher who is a frequent customer at Nick's Store. Both of them meet and they are suppose to fall in love like faith intended. But what happens when one of them is unable to let go of their past selves?

Nick x male!character Angst Fluff/comfort Hurt/comfort

TW: Non-consent, s3xual harresment, abuse, anxiety, alcoholism

~~~~~~~~~~~

“Then make me." he said

Only God knows from where; but I did muster up the courage to simply say, “If that’s what you want. Then let me get to know you better.”

Nick seemed to be caught off guard from that sudden change in my tone. “Well, come on then. I know a place.” He patted the backseat of his bike.

“Are you going to murder me? Is that it? Are you a serial killer?” I felt braver around him so I was having too much fun. I don’t know why.

“No but either way, you’re going to get to know me better.” Nick winked and put on his helmet.

He is lucky that he’s got a pretty face.

I sat behind him. He ordered me to put my hands inside the pockets of his jacket. “Your hands will freeze in the wind.” He argued. So I did what he said.

There was no extra helmet for a passenger so I had to rest my head on the back of his shoulders. His body was very warm. We were cruising through the town lights at the night. Nathan rode my Vespa at a concerning speed too. But it was something about Nick that made me feel safe.

It was February, so the wind was still very cold and it desensitized the tip of my ears. But my hands were warm and I liked it. I felt a small book inside his right pocket. But I knew better than to interrupt the ride just to ask him what it was.

My nose constantly brushed against the nape of his neck. He smelled like clean laundry almost, a bit musky and cool like the grass after the rain. It was hard to keep my eyes open as the air would dry my eyes constantly but I tried my best. I never realised how beautiful the town was. It was something about city lights in the night that left me feeling giddy like a child.

Lights from late night cafes, pastry shops, grocery stores, liquor stores, bright neon motel signs, clubs- all these lights showed us how alive the night was. They dared to blind the stars above because we humans love to conquer the night. As we always tend to say, ‘the night is young, the night is free.’ And I’d love to be young and free again.

The shadows of our silhouette competed with different light sources in the ground. These grey figures would rush up and down the plane of the road like a group of wild black cats, while being stuck to the wheels of Nick’s bike. The wind started to slow down and the sound of the engine mellowed a bit.

Nick parked his bike on a grassy patch of land on the side of the road which led to the town Cathedral.

“Are we getting married here?” I joked then I instantly regretted for attempting such a risky humour. As I started to panic I heard his laugh, he was still wearing the helmet so it was muffled. And I let out a sigh of relief.

“No, not really.” He chuckled and pulled his head out of the helmet and shook his hair. His forehead was sweating so he removed his leather gloves and moved his blonde strands out of his eyes. I simply stared at him. How could someone be this beautiful? It was unfair.

“There is an annual festival on the church grounds.” He clarified with a small smile.

“Oh, a festival? Wow I never knew about that.” I was genuinely so excited. I was ready to go when he held my hand back.

He held my hand.

“Wait, we are going in together, I don’t want the news to blame me when you get lost like a child. Follow me for one last time.” He smirked and I raised my eyebrow in confusion. “Trust me” he said. And I did.

I followed him like a child towards the festival. He was gripping on to my left hand with his right hand. He was basically sprinting past the crowds.

I memorised the shape of his hair, I memorised the creases in his jacket when he moved too quickly. I memorised the black bracelet hanging from his wrist and the way he held my dark wrist with his pale hands having reddish knuckles. The way he walked, the way he giggled while pushing through people- everything about him, I wanted to keep this moment for ever.

The night was cold and the stars were high up. But in that moment, I felt warmth of the people around me. The music was blasting through the speakers, the aroma of wine and fresh bread, pastries surrounded me like a hug. People around other people.

Isn’t it strange how gullible us humans are? We trust people we just met and sometimes hate the ones we’ve known for a long time. It goes back to my analogy of how people are simply stories. The world is a library. The funny thing is we never know when our chapters would overlap each other. It could be when you are dancing your heart out and someone joins you, or someone just sitting beside you when you are alone, silently. These are strangers.

Strangers turn into friends; friends into lovers and then, strangers again.

“Hey I wanna stop here.” I yelled because the music was too loud. He looked towards me and nodded. We were both smiling the entire time. It was something in the air that had fragrance of happiness and the stench of body heat. There many people dancing in the front.

All of a sudden, Nick slightly shoved with his shoulder. And let me remind you, that man had strong shoulders. I instantly looked at him after I saved myself from stumbling and he shrugged with a shit eating grin on his face while he clapped to the beat of ‘Paris Latino’ by the Bandolero.

I knew what to do. I held him by the thick collar of his jacket and pulled him into the dancing crowd. He was shocked but was laughing nonetheless.

I loved his laugh. It was barely audible through the blaring 90’s disco beats but it did feel like music to me, I’ve always been corny, leave me be.

Then we were there; in between hundreds of bodies, smashed closer together and his scent filled me. He said, “You are awfully brave for someone who buys porn magazines with Shakespeare.”

I rolled my eyes while moving my body to the beat. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

Nick leaned in closer to my left ear and whispered, “I know, I just wanted to make a statement”

There were shivers down my spine. I felt the cold metal of his nose ring touch the skin of my left temple and I got goosebumps behind my neck. But I did my best to keep my composure. I averted my gaze and I knew he was proud of what he did to me. The music went on. We danced and danced and danced. We were dancing, jumping, screaming along with the crowd, everyone was sweating. Beads of sweats were trickling down my back. I watched how happy Nick was, jumping like a madman. He wasn’t the best at dancing but he enjoyed himself like a child in a carousel. And I enjoyed myself too.

The music transitioned into ‘E la vita’ by Marco Armani. There was a change of pace. “I’m tired” I finally declared. As I was about to leave, Nick held onto my waist. Slowly he swayed our bodies along with the music and I followed. His forehead was still glistening with sweat. He was still smiling and his face was flushed red. My heart was racing like a deer through a forest and it completely stopped when he touched the back of my head and lightly tugged my hairs. I thought I could die right then and there because the butterflies in my stomach might as well burst open through my torso and engulf me whole.

But that moment of pure joy didn’t last long. I saw the people around us looking with scrunched noses and unapproving faces filled with disgust and displeasure.

“Nick, we are on church grounds.” I said, not being able to meet his eyes.

“So what?” he asked.

“We should go back. I don’t think people will like us…”

Now Nick removed his hands and furrowed his eyebrows. “Why.” He didn’t mean it like a question.

“Nick I know you know it.” I was trembling at this point, “It is not appropriate, let’s go somewhere else.” I tried to reason with him.

“Not appropriate? Are you joking?” He was raising his voice by now. More people turned their heads towards us.

I felt like going numb. I felt like bursting into tears. In a split second, all that warmth was gone and my hands and feet were turning cold. I held his hand softly, “Nick please let’s leave, it’s not safe.” I was pleading.

Nick stared at me for a moment, “You know what? Let’s give this audience something to actually not approve of.” And he held my shoulders and tried to forcefully kiss me. The blood drained out of my head. Out of pure reflex, I pushed him away before his lips could touch mine.

Nick looked at me for a few seconds. His eyes were not of anger. It was of disappointment, as if I had denied a child to buy him a toy. Before I could inspect the hurt in his eyes, he looked down on the bricked ground, it was dirty and grey.

I was horrified. I covered my mouth out of shock and desperation,“I…I a-am so… so sorry-… I didn’t mean to-“

“I am going to have a drink.” He finally said, still unable to look at me. E la vita was still playing around us. People were now tired of us and continued doing their celebrations. There were a hundred people around me but I felt like the loneliest person in all of Italy. Why? It was because Nick wasn’t there with me anymore.

I still to this day never understood if it was normal for a person to get so attached to another person in such a short span of time. Who was he to me? Just another dude with a pretty face, maybe. Another stranger whose story overlapped with mine for a brief moment. But that logic never succeeded to explain as to why his touch felt like I knew him for eternity. Why a simple nod or a look from him made my heart race like a horse that was finally free on an open meadow? I wanted more of him. I wanted to be his and make him mine. Once again, I felt like I was succumbing to my madness.

But I had lost, perhaps. We both fucked up. The difference is, mine was out of anxiety and denial whereas his was out of rage and disappointment.

I was sitting alone on the stairway to the church. I was drenching in sweat but the cold February breeze started to dry away my body, which made me shiver even harder. I could’ve been running on a fever, I didn’t know. My whole body was aching. My legs were starting to get sore. But it was nothing compared to the pain I was feeling from heaving while sobbing on my arms. I tucked myself as close as possible. My arms were wrapped around my knees.

Maybe an hour had passed, but there was no sign of Nick. My tears had dried at this point. My body was numb so was my mind. If I wanted to I could sit there for hours because feeling pity on myself was an art that I had an expertise on.

But I decided to look for him and maybe talk it out if I had a chance. We both deserved apologies from each other. I walked around the famed dance area. The crowd was thinning out, It was almost midnight after all. I thought I looked for everywhere for him in and around the festival. Then I saw a small alley way beside the liquor store that was off church grounds.

Nick’s jacket was lying on the ground near the entrance. My mind was spewing the worst possible scenarios so I ran towards it and my heart dropped to my stomach.

Nick was making out with another guy. Both of them were clearly intoxicated. Nick was pinned against the wall and the guy was vigorously forcing him upon him. Nick was out of it and didn’t notice me. He kept staring at a distance like a china doll and let the man have his way.

“What happened now? Shy? You didn’t seem so with your pretty little boyfriend out in the public.” The other guy smirked and bit Nick’s neck. The guy was bigger and seemed stronger than Nick and I combined. The guy was struggling to open his belt when suddenly Nick spat on him. This enraged the guy and he slapped Nick right on his face. The slap echoed in the empty corridor.

That is when my shock wore off and I sprinted towards them. I knew I could die like this. I should’ve called the police or do anything else but try to fight that hulk of a man. But the gut had its own mind. I yelled at the man and yanked at his hair. He screamed and let go off Nick. It was my chance to get away. But the guy held me by my shoulder and wrapped his hands around my neck to choke me. “How dare you?” he growled.

But Nick wasted no time to bite the man’s hand which released me from his grip. When he was about to attack us again, Nick kicked him in his balls.

Ouch.

The man collapsed. I was still high on adrenaline so I was stupidly staring at the entire situation when Nick grabbed my hand once again. And we ran away; on my way I picked up Nick’s jacket too.

We ran towards the church back door and hid behind a counter. Both of us were out breath.

And when we were able to breathe again, we seemed to forget how to speak. We were silent for what it felt was like for ages. The silence was uncomfortable. I decided to look towards my right. Nick was still breathing heavily. His eyes were bloodshot and tears had dried at corner of his eye. His chest was rapidly moving in demand for more air and his hands were trembling. I felt a tug at my chest. As if it would burst immediately.

He suddenly turned towards me; his right was completely covered by his hair. Those brilliant blue eyes turned grey in the dark church room. He asked me without skipping a beat, “Why are you crying?”

It was then when I noticed I had been crying the entire time. My tears were flowing nonstop.

I hugged him.

I don’t know why? Perhaps I got brave again. I hugged Nick. He was caught off-guard. We were sitting beside each other on the concrete floor of the church. The counter table was on top of us. He was shaking and was in shock and I hugged him. I wrapped my arms around his back and his knees that he had crouched in closer when he first sat. And I placed my head on his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry.” I sobbed like a baby. “I am so fucking sorry for everything that happened.”

I know my apology was nothing if compared to what he went through. Now he smelled like alcohol and cigarettes only. He gave me no reaction. I wanted him to cry, to let me know how he was feeling. This emotion less façade was hurting him more than anything.

Please cry. Let me help you. I was constantly reiterating it in my head. Hoping that somehow or in some way, he’d get my message.

But he didn’t.

And I kept hugging him.

I was crying on his shoulder like a little child. I felt like a failure.

A minute or two passed by and he rested his head on my hair with a sigh, as if whatever happened was nothing but a minor inconvenience. As if he was just tired.

I wanted to shake him out of this trance but I was frozen myself.

After sometime, we were quiet and out of words. Sitting there, trying to compose ourselves.

“I wish you hadn’t tried to be a hero to save me.” He whispered.

~~~~~

A/N: heavy stuff I know. Hopefully things get better. Please let me know about your thoughts. I am a new writer and any kind of support is appreciated and will mean a lot to me. Thank you. Hope you enjoyed it. <3

Tag: @ohmtoff @freshloveforthefit @miloisdone1 @nicksfavhoe @heyitsmemia @neo404 @matty-bear2 @thenickgirl @loud-sturniolos @maria4mari @solarsturniolo @darl1ngdr1sta @tkhzs @soursturniolo @nicksbf @g3z0 @certifiednatelover

[sheriffopossum]

Nellie stood in disbelief as Clover walked back into the main room where everyone anxiously awaited. Just earlier she was a cold corpse, bleeding out on the table, still as death, and yet there she was now as though none of that ever happened. Nellie wasn't real familiar with science or medicine, but even she knew that that wasn't normal.

Clover spoke to the group delicately, obviously picking her words carefully. She talked about the charity that night, how it was a test to see if the Darlings would strike, how she risked her own life to see how far they would go. She started to say how she couldn't give any answers which finally burst the dam of questions, filling the room. Nellie watched as Clover raised her hand, quickly silencing the onslaught.

Clover's voice wavered just slightly as she spoke about the reality they were in: the Darlings would hunt each member of their ragtag group without second thought. What she said next though, nearly took Nellie's breath away.

"You can come back, just like how you saw me do it," echoed in Nellie's head repeatedly. Come...back? From death, as though it were some cool party trick? She knew that members of the Darlings had some uncanny ability to do so even after being completely torn to pieces, but she figured there was some strange dark magic at play there. Now the same thing was being offered to her?

"So, are you with me?" Clover asked, snapping Nellie out of her daze.

She gripped her walking cane tightly as she furrowed her eyebrows together. Well, she thought, looks like it's now or never.

"Clover, do you remember the day I accepted your proposal?" Nellie began, slowly taking a step forward. Clover stood still as a statue, her expression neutral as the company's arms dealer moved closer.

"I certainly do, dear," Clover replied wearily, folding her arms across her chest. "You said that I was crazy--"

"I said that you was the craziest, most batshit insane person to go against THE most powerful mob in the city, hell probably the whole country!" Nellie finished for her, her southern drawl honeying each syllable. She stood before the group's leader, looking up as she planted a hand on her hip.

"But, I also said that you gave me hope. Hope that I haven't felt in years," Nellie added, her facial features softening. "I gave up hope in ever getting my brother back from those twisted bastards, just accepting that he was gone forever. But you, YOU ignited that fire back in my heart, that determination to git my Bubba back home, that he's not a lost cause."

Nellie paused, looking deeply up at Clover. Her words were softer this time, as she lifted her hand up to place on her leader's shoulder.

"Family sticks together, and I ain't about to be no bitch and run off with my tail between my legs." She gave a playful wink and smiled.

"Whatever voodoo-hoodoo shit you got cooked up, well count me in. I already got a target on my back for betraying the Darlings like I did, ain't no way in hell I'd be able to outrun them, and I fer sure ain't about to give up the chance to make a difference in this city and everyone who's been fucked by them assholes.

"Ride or die, partner. And seems like you got something to say about the dyin' part." --------------------------- ;AKSJDFLAJS;DLFJALSDKFALSDKF finally finished Nellie's reply to Clover's offer!!! I'm still not 100% happy with how the last panel turned out, but I already redid it at least 3 times so 😩 But yeah, looks like Nellie's on board the death-defying crazy train that Clover's conducting. So excited to see what happens next 💛

Clover belongs to @chimeracarnival Mob!AU belongs to @clownsuu Wonder who that mysterious brother Nellie mentioned is whoooooOoooOooo 👀

[satninpretty]

A fic request: Elvis x stand-offish girl? He's used to fawning girls, so she's intriguing and he wants to have her. The Robbie Smith encounter with Elvis kinda' inspired me. Preferably smutty, but up to you. Thank you 💖

this is might be TOO long and took forever and also covers a couple of other requests, but hope you enjoy bunny x

You and the sun

“i don’t wanna argue, ma’am...” he looks down in mock bashfulness and then straight up into your eyes. “but, uh, ain’t i your job?”

pairing: 70's elvis/reader or austin!elvis/reader whichever you prefer 

rating: M, minors do not interact

warnings: oral, handjobs, vague slightly sub elvis vibes, usual elvis stuff including his healing hands. u know how it is. 

four leaf clover, lucky strike cigarettes, something about… lucky sixes? 

you could write this song a lot faster if that fucker would stop showing off his sub-par guitar skills in the corner. he’s strutting around like a peacock in a gaudy silk shirt, howling with laughter at his own jokes. all the men in the room, even the serious session musicians you admire, revolve around him like he’s the sun. they laugh along with him, even when he isn’t funny, totally sucked into his massive, magnetic orbit. 

“man, you’re killin’ it, EP!” a big guy shouts from the corner. 

he isn’t killing it. you’ve seen him fucking around all session, laughing during takes, making up nonsensical lyrics while you’ve been trapped in the corner, roped into writing something fresh for him. it’s a lot of pressure when you’re only four months into your publishing deal with the label.

originally he didn’t want a girl in the recording room but once he saw you he made a real fuss, started introducing you to all the guys in his entourage and flirting shamelessly. unfortunately for him, he’d shown up two hours late to the session and you were too tired to find him charming or impressive. 

of course, if it wasn’t for all that ego and bravado, you would find him to be both those things. 

his voice is beautiful. it’s rich, smooth and dextrous. in one moment he sings with such a rough grit and the next with a high angelic head register, switching between them effortlessly. his raw emotion is expertly channeled into each word, each vibrato choice, each pause. and the connection to the music is real. it moves him. he jerks and swings and shimmies and his hips. when your eyes aren’t on your own handwriting, you can’t help but gaze at the way the music moves through him. 

but all of that, while impressive in bursts, doesn’t yield consistent results in the studio. 

every now and again elvis saunters up to you with his guitar thrust forward like a dick and leans over your notebook to decipher your lyrics. he gives you patronizing encouragement and winks, keeps on touching your shoulder even though you shrug him off. 

“keep goin’ little lady.” he says. or “stick at it honey.” or eventually “why don’t you come sit right here in front of me, see if we can give each other some inspiration?” 

nothing you do dampens his mood. if anything he seems to perform even harder while the men around him feed his wild energy and chain smoke and don’t look you in the eye. 

“honey…” he sighs dramatically, one eyebrow raised. “can i, uh, can i ask, have i done something to offend?”

you look up from your paper to find elvis standing in front of you, the session apparently taking a break. half the guys seem to have already left and the rest are waiting to pounce on any opportunity to get him alone. all you’ve got written down is a verse and a scrappy chorus you’re going to have to re-write. 

“no, you haven’t. i’m just trying to finish this song for you.” 

he’s full of manic energy, you can feel it radiating from him in waves and he’s bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. even while wiping sweaty strands of black hair from his forehead his smile is like the sun glinting in your eyes. it pisses you off. 

“well, i sorta feel like you’re fightin’ me here, honey.”

“i’m not fighting you. i’m here to write you a song because your catalog is tired.”

he responds to this with a sudden burst of open-mouthed laughter, so sharp that it takes you by surprise. 

“now, see, that - that’s what i mean.” he grins, placing his hand on the arm of your chair. the cool silk of his shirt brushes your wrist. “you’re just a little sourpuss.”

he smells like cigar smoke and old spice and faintly of sweat as he leans over you. 

and you have to admit it. you may not like him, but those cheekbones and that straight nose… you get it. a little. it’s roman. he’s practically statuesque. 

“i’m just trying to do my job.” 

despite the dark glasses you see his eyes light up and he tries to hide a little-boy grin. you’ve said something he’s about to use as ammunition.

“i don’t wanna argue, ma’am...” he looks down in mock bashfulness and then straight up into your eyes. “but, uh, ain’t i your job?”

there are laughs from the few guys left in the room that overhear him and he glances back at them with a smug grin.

“my job is writing. i just wanna finish this song and go home. can you move your hand from my chair, mr. presley?” 

he blinks at you for a moment under his lashes. and then, his grin never faltering, he snorts and throws his hands up in surrender. you pretend not to watch him turn on his heeled boots and walk out for his break. the rest of the musicians follow after him like ducklings, not one of them stopping to speak to you. not even the guys you like. 

.

twenty minutes later, without the commotion of all the men in the room, you’re finally getting somewhere with the song. all you need is a better bridge and maybe a different second verse and for this fucking headache to dissipate. 

you’re busy scrawling down bad rhymes in the margin of your composition book, heat beat street keep, when the big guy from earlier unceremoniously sticks his head around the door. 

“elvis wants you to come to dinner with us.” he says with zero enthusiasm. he’s wearing a loud purple suit but he doesn’t pull it off like his boss does. you can hear the echoes of male laughter from the corridor behind him. 

“tell him no thank you. i’m writing.” the guy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything and then leaves as quickly as he came, the booth falling silent again. 

bristling, you settle back down to write down a few more rhymes but you only make it five minutes before you’re interrupted again. the door bursts open, no sound of laughter in the corridor this time, and elvis himself leans dramatically against the doorframe. 

“still givin’ me the cold shoulder, huh baby?” he pouts. 

“oh god!” you whine, throwing the notebook down on the floor and massaging your left temple pointedly. “can i have thirty minutes uninterrupted?”

he has a thin cigar in his hand and he waves it dismissively, ash fluttering to the threadbare carpet. his heeled boots step towards you and he lets the door close behind him.

“you’re workin’ too hard, sourpuss. come on outta here, come have dinner.”

“look.” you sigh, the headache now rapidly spreading across the back of your skull. “when i said your catalog is tired, i meant it. i’m being paid to write you something fresh and i - i can’t work like this. i’m not used to it.” 

he frowns and runs his hand through his messy hair, glasses so dark that you can’t see his eyes. 

“you ain’t givin’ me a whole lot to work with, y’know.”

“i’m working for you!” 

you shake your head in disbelief. his cigar smoke is getting into your lungs, your headache is getting worse and he is so clearly getting off on the bickering. 

“i’m just sayin’, you know. you’ll live longer if you cut loose once in a while.”

“you’ll live a lot longer if you tighten up once in a while.”

“spicy and sour, huh?” he drawls. more ash flutters to the carpet. “naw, i-i-i think you like our little fights deep down. i’d like you a whole lot more if you just came to dinner.”

“look.” you try again. “i have a deadline and an unfinished song and a headache, so if you could-”

“i can fix that, honey.” he interrupts brightly, springing towards you and holding out the hand that isn’t holding a cigar. the ruffle of his sleeve brushes the top of your head as you pull away from him. “lemme put a hand on you.”

“what are you talking about?” you blink, dumfounded. 

“lemme lay a hand on you baby, it’ll go away.” he repeats. “it’s all energy. i- i can clear that.”

“it’s all energy? what are you talking about, healing hands?”

he’s so close to you now that his ash is falling into your lap and you’re trying to duck away from his outstretched, bejeweled hand when something catches your eye. 

“wait -” you can’t help but snort a little in disbelief, still holding him at arm's length. “really? how can anything i’ve just said turn you on?” 

your eyes are fixed on the front of his pants. he glances down at himself and then back up at you sheepishly.

“aw, i’m only a man, honey” 

he’s wearing a cocksure smile but you notice how he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, slightly uncomfortable. a little insecure chink in the armor. 

there’s an awfully heavy silence in the recording room. he is standing so close to you that you can feel the heat radiating from his body and it feels suddenly suffocating. you take a deep breath. 

but you can’t help it. 

for a fraction of a second your eyes dart to the glass window of the control room. it’s empty. the lights are all out in there, a couple of blinking buttons illuminated. you’re alone with him. he tilts his head and raises his eyebrow. fuck. you wish he hadn’t seen you do that. 

but fuck. you could. 

“c’mon, sourpuss.” he whispers. he reaches back and crushes his cigar into an ashtray. 

he knows you’re thinking it. 

keeping his eyes fixed on yours, elvis leans down to you as you tilt your face up. before he can kiss you, you kiss him first. and if only to wipe that smug smile from his face, you kiss hard. so hard that he’s taken aback at first and laughs into your mouth before you feel him go slack on his feet. 

and it isn’t bad. he meets you with equal force but his lips are still soft and insistent, firm but not hard. with one hand leaning on the arm of your chair he grabs the back of your head with the other, curling his fingers into your hair so he can angle your face up towards his. 

his roughness gives you shivers. your entire center of gravity is pulling you down, down, down into the seat of the chair. it has you squeezing your thighs together, blue dress riding up, material rough against your skin as his mouth forces you to open wider. 

you can hear your heartbeat. it’s so loud that you wonder if he can too. 

“aw, you ain’t so sour.” he murmurs, pulling away from your kiss and massaging your scalp with his fingers. you grab his silky shirt, the ugly patterns distorting on the fabric, his black hair getting in your eyes. 

you feel such a deep irritation when he laughs against your cheek that you yank at his belt buckle, pulling it open roughly. he raises his eyebrows as he looks down at you. 

“you don’t gotta be rough, honey. you just gotta ask.”

you don’t pull his pants down all the way, just the zip open and his erection out. you’re aware that the guys are only a few rooms down and your name will never escape the rumor mill of rca studios if you get caught doing this with elvis presley of all goddamn people. 

you just want to make this quick. 

when you wrap your fingers around him and stroke up hard, he stands straight and sighs heavily. you can see him wince but he doesn’t tell you to stop and you take a sick little pleasure from the way his hips pull away from you and his body goes deliciously slack for the second time. it makes you feel powerful, in control. 

“lemme lay hand on you.” he whispers, his fingers finding the top of your head again. “i’m serious.” 

you shake them off, try to reestablish the boundaries by stroking him even harder. this isn’t supposed to get soft. 

but he does feel beautiful in your hands. his skin is so silky, hot to the touch and he’s so wet at the top that he must have been hard for a long time before you noticed. you ease up your movements slightly, give him a moment to breathe, and using your feet on the floor, you pull the swivel chair closer to him so your thighs come to wrap around his. he pushes his body against you, heat soaking through silk. 

you try to gauge what your next move should be from the look on his face but his features are unreadable with those dark, protective glasses on.

“will you take those off?” you ask. 

and it takes you by surprise but your grip loosens on him when you see those baby blue eyes. they aren't what you expected. the slight cruelness of his lean body, the sharpness of his words, the roughness in his hands isn’t present in his eyes at all. they look soft. they look open.

but this can’t get soft. 

you add a second hand and twist, going harder again. he’s grimacing slightly but he still doesn’t ask you to stop and you want to see exactly how much he’ll take before he does. 

“oh. you like it like this, huh?” you purr, trying to reestablish the right mood.

but try as you might, he changes the mood right back.

he leans over your chair, both hands coming to grip the armrests either side of you. it hugs your bodies together and forces your forehead to rest against his chest as he deliberately boxes you in. the embrace is too intimate for the situation, but you allow it for a little while. maybe he needs it.  

“lift this up.” he mumbles, grabbing the hem of your dress and yanking it up to your waist so your panties are on show. you feel how his gold rings are warm on your skin where they brush the inside of your thigh. 

the lights in the room aren’t particularly bright. but if you turn your face and rest your cheek against his chest you can see how the muscles in his jaw clench everytime you twist your hands or run your fingertips in circles across the tip of him. how even his tiny facial muscles move beautifully under his skin. 

when you kiss the head of his cock he groans. the low, rumbling sound in the back of his throat makes you throb and you have a fleeting urge to kiss his neck. but you don’t. instead you take him in, hollow your cheeks and suck lightly so you can hear it again. it's like vibrato in his chest. you’re pressed so close together that he can barely thrust and can only rock his hips into you gently, smooth and rhythmic. with one hand against his leg for leverage, you taste salt. 

he strains in your mouth and you prepare yourself, his thigh tensing under your palm and his groans getting louder and you can’t help but imagine the two of you backlit by the few flashing lights in the control room. you wonder what you look like, wrapped up in such a funny, awkward embrace. 

it doesn’t take long before he comes with such a loud shout that you jump. you try to shush him by patting his thigh but he either doesn’t care or can’t control it so you just hope the booth is as soundproof as the studio makes it out to be. his hips jerk as his shout fades to a groan and you swallow around him, eventually pulling off and letting your head rest against his torso again. 

it takes him a long time to get his breath back and you feel his chest heave under your cheek, his silk shirt soft against your skin. 

afterwards he looks at you with a funny expression on his face as he buckles his belt. 

“get cleaned up, sourpuss.” he orders gently, with a smile that you can’t quite read. it’s almost like he’s embarrassed. 

but before you can get out of the chair, he places his palm firmly on the top of your head. this time you let him. you feel the sweaty heat of his hand against your scalp and you stay like that, very still, for several minutes in the silence of the recording room. 

and the weird thing is, your headache really does go away.

[wisp-of-chaos]

Meet the OC - Rosemary Thornwood

As the title suggest, another OC introduction thingie, this time for my Smalland OC Rosemary Thornwood!

More infos abour my girl under the cut for ease of scrolling

The Overworld is a dangerous place, especially when you're barely as tall as an ant or grasshopper. So it comes as no surprise that the Smallfolk lives far beneath the surface; in hidden and secured burrows until they come of age and are allowed to venture out of their cozy, warm homes on their own.

The Thornwood family is an exception to this custom.

Many generations ago, they moved to the surface and build themselves a home between the thick, interwoven branches of a blackberry bush, which soon turned into a honey farm thanks to a nearby hive of pacified bees.

And instead of returning to the safety of their kin's burrows; the Thornwoods decided to raise their children under the warm, bright light of the sun and in the company of their beloved bees.

Rosemary – or Rose, for her friends – is one of their children.

With eyes full of wonder, a curious mind a courageous heart she takes on the many adventures and trials of the Overworld; seeing every setback or problem as an opportunity to grow and learn from instead of letting them discourage her.

She spend her early years and childhood in the vicinity of her family's farm; surrounded by siblings and parents and bees to play with in the shade of the blackberry leaves.

Later on, she was tasked with overseeing and tending to the newborn larvae to ensure their proper growth and development. Rose loved her job and dutifully and proudly raised many bees to adulthood.

Among them was Thyme, a rather tiny and frail pupa with only one antennae. Rose's parents gave her little hope for the small creatures survival but she was determined to prove them wrong and to keep her newest fosterling safe and happy.

She spend extra hours with the young bee; training and feeding and playing with her whenever she could and before long, a strong and unbreakable bond was formed. Thyme followed Rose like a shadow; happily trailing behind with a slight tilt to her flight and buzzing contently while she accompanied the young beekeeper on her many adventures.

Rose was even allowed to take Thyme with her when she enlisted for the Vanguard – under the condition that she would be taking care of her all on her own and to keep her from causing any troubles. Rose – of course – agreed and took her beloved bee with her.

The years she spend at the Vanguard's training program taught her many lessons and sharpened both her mind and body. She learned to wield multiple weapons; how to maintain them and to construct traps and build shelter in the Overworld with only a few sparse resources.

The training was hard but fun and brought her the close and treasured friendship with Briar Thorn and Sepia – another Vanguard rookie and a miner, who preferred the dark, damp safety of their burrows over the bright light of the sun.

They joked and laughed, learned and earned scars together but eventually were separated when Rose was assigned to aid and defend the Historian in his research of the Giants from the past.

They parted with heavy hearts and long hugs and hopeful smiles; vowing to one day meet again. And as fate would have it, they eventually did. When Briar and Sepia went looking for the missing clover key and investigated on the strange behavior of rare, overgrown beasts their path lead them straight to the old ruins and into the depth of the crypt which the Historian – and Rose along with her loyal bee Thyme nowadays – called their home …

art provided by the wonderful @unaarista <3 (who the mentioned lovely Sepia belongs to)

and another thank you to @sumi-sprite for allowing me to let Rose befried her awesome OC Briar!

Like her? Check out her toyhouse page and learn more!

[it-happened-one-fic]

500 Followers Playlist Starter Pack: The Twisted Wonderland Version!

Thank you so much!!! I'm afraid I don't have time to do a full event (Christmas and all that jazz) but I did want to say thank you to everyone so I came up with this! I have a habit of listening to music while writing so I used few songs (I aimed for four each but didn't always make it) from my playlists to form sort of a starter pack under the cut! Again, thank you so much!!!

(NOTE: The links go to Youtube)

Genshin Impact Playlist Starter Pack

Riddle Rosehearts: 

New Rules - Dua Lipa 

Come Along - Pentatonix 

Oh No! - MARINA 

Black Roses - Charli XCX (includes cursing) 

Trey Clover:

Sugar Sugar - The Archies 

Gambling Man - The Overtones

Home - Philip Philips 

Honey Bee - Blake Shelton 

Cater Diamond:

The Tracks of My Tears - Smokey Robinson and The Miracles  

Call Me - Blondie 

Sweet Nothing - Calvin Harris (feat. Florence Welch)  

Dance the Night - Dua Lipa 

Ace Trappola:

Troublemaker - Olly Murs (feat. Flo Rida) 

Jessie’s Girl - Rick Springfield 

I Think We’re Alone Now - Tiffany 

Fire Alarm - Castlecomer 

Deuce Spade:

Waiting for a Star to Fall - Boy Meets Girl

Somebody to You - The Vamps

Hey Look Ma’ I Made It - Panic! at the Disco

Never Gonna Give You Up - Rick Astley

Leona Kingscholar:

Send Them Off! - Bastille

Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea - Fall Out Boy

We Don’t Have to Dance - Andy Black

Power Over Me - Dermot Kennedy

Ruggie Bucchi

Roll To Me - Del Amitri

Two Princes - Spin Doctors

The Way I Are - Timbaland, Keri Hilson, & D.O.E

Follow Me - Uncle Kracker

Jack Howl

Silver Night - The Rasmus

I Really Like You - Carly Rae Jepsen

Right Here Waiting - Richard Marx

I Will Never Let You Down - Rita Ora

Azul Ashengrotto:

Material Girl - Madonna

Stay With Me - Sam Smith

I’d Really Love to See You Tonight - England Dan & John Ford Coley

Diamonds - Sam Smith

Jade Leech:

Curses - The Crane Wives

She Will Be Loved - Maroon 5

Staring At You - Diane Birch

Break the Ice - Britney Spears

Floyd Leech

Out of My League - Fitz and the Tantrums

Bad Word - Panicland

Rag Doll - Aerosmith

I Was Made For Dancin’ - Leif Garrett

Kalim Al-Asim

Golden - Harry Styles

Budapest - George Ezra

Boogie Shoes - KC & The Sunshine Band

I Should Be So Lucky - Kylie Minogue

Jamil Viper:

Can’t Remember to Forget You - Shakira & Rihanna

Power & Control - MARINA

Just One Yesterday - Fall Out Boy & Foxes

Move Your Body - Sia

Vil Schoenheit:

You Make Me Feel - Cobra Starship (feat. Sabi)

Vogue - Madonna

Young and Beautiful - Lana Del Rey

Pretty in Pain - Diane Birch

Rook Hunt:

The Look of Love, Pt. 1 - ABC

Come To My Window - Melissa Etheridge

I Will Follow Him - Peggy March

Happy Together - The Turtles

Epel Felmier:

Bad Reputation - Joan Jett & The Blackhearts (cursing)

Take Me Home, Country Roads - John Denver

Cooler Than Me - Mike Posner

So What - P!nk (cursing)

Idia Shroud:

Something About Us - Daft Punk

Come Inside of My Heart - IV of Spades

He’s So Shy - The Pointer Sisters

Heavy In Your Arms - Florence and the Machine

Ortho Shroud:

Electric Angel - Hatsune Miku

One More Time - Daft Punk

Malleus Draconia:

I Found - Amber Run

Deeper than the Night - Olivia Newton John

Disturbia - Rihanna

Bad Habits - Ed Sheeran

Lilia Vanrouge:

I Love the Nightlife (Disco Round) - Alicia Bridges

Raise Your Glass - P!nk

Saturn - Sleeping at Last

We are Family - Sister Sledge

Silver:

Fireflies - Owl City

(They Long To Be) Close To You - Carpenters

When You Say Nothing At All - Allison Krauss & Union Station

Son Of Man - Phil Collins (From Disney's Tarzan)

Sebek Zigvolt:

The Glory of Love - Peter Cetera

Head Over Heels - Tears for Fears

You Belong With Me - Taylor Swift

Shout - Tears for Fears 

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐈𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝟐𝟕𝐭𝐡-𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟒𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎

The heat in Virginia is different than the heat in California. San Diego is hot--very hot, always hot. And it is a wet sort of heat, like the air is clouded with ocean water. Everything smells like warm sea salt in the summer. Virginia, though--it is disparate. It is a muddy sort of heat--not unlike the heat of Kansas summers. There is no dry season here, just like Kansas, so the heat is wetter, muggier. There is no such thing as sea-salt air here. It just smells like the earth: like mud, like leaves, like fresh-cut sweetgrass, like dusty gravel, like bloodroot and butterfly weed. 

It smells, somehow, more like home than Kansas ever has. That is the first thing I notice when I breathe my first breath of Virginia air, its heat coating my lungs thickly. 

We are in a rental car and it smells of fresh leather and vacuumed carpet in here. The windows are cracked and that sweet, muddy heat is seeping into the car and mingling with the air conditioner that’s blasting on our faces. I think if my father was here right now, if he was the same person he was before my sister died, he would whine about having the windows down and the air conditioner on. But Bradley is the one who cracked the windows--and when he did it, when he first inhaled that rich, metallic scent of his home state--I could feel his spine tingling from the front seat. He deflated with a sort of sweet relief.

“Too hot, baby?” 

He asks this with his eyebrow raised, glancing at me from the corner of his eye.  

I shake my head softly, pushing my sunglasses up my nose. I can’t stop smiling--haven’t been able to since our plane touched down, bouncing on the tarmac.  

“Just fine, Bradley,” I tell him, trying to ease the tinge of concern twisting his tone, “I’m excited. Get excited!”

His hand is on my thigh, splayed over my naked leg. He’s trying to rub a freckle off my skin with a persistent thumb--or that’s what it feels like. It feels the same way it always does, feels like there’s a pit of honey dripping down, down, down into my belly. Feels like we’ve been doing this for a long time; feels perfect. Now he pats my leg a few times, not soft but not rough, like I’m a trusty steed. Atta girl.  

My hand was resting over his, but then he’d rolled the windows down and I’d watched his sweet face slack in bliss and now my fingers are locked in the curls at the base of his neck. He’s leaning his head into my palm slightly, just so, more malleable under my touch.

“Don’t know why,” he breathes, leaning further into my palm, looking down his nose at the road, “we’re going to an empty house.”

Indian Summer by The Doors is playing now.  

His aviators are low on his nose, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he sings softly, and he’s kissed by the California sun. Still--even now, even after our months and months together--I wonder if he has his own private sky. He must engulf himself there when my back is turned, when I am out of the house, when he goes right and I go left. Because his skin is the most perfect color, even and glistening.

“Won’t be empty when we’re in it,” I sing softly, tugging on his locks. 

He chuckles, shaking his head softly. But there’s a slight smile gracing his lips now.

He was covertly nervous on the flight early this morning. Just a bouncing knee, a tapping knuckle, a fluttering eyelid. He didn’t say it, but I knew. I have known him for almost a year, but it has felt like a lifetime and then some. So I know that he wasn’t really nervous about flying --how could he be?  

I’ve heard that some pilots have trouble flying commercial because it’s out of their control, but I know that isn’t the case with Bradley. No, not really. I know that what he was really nervous about--what he is still nervous about right now on this winding gravel road--was going back home.

I first brought up the idea of going to Virginia in May. 

We took the Bronco, the soft top unfolded, and I sat in the middle unbuckled. It was strangely becoming a habit each time we were in the Bronco. It was that pull he had over me--the one that had been there since the very start of it all, the one that reduced me to a compliant puddle at times, the one that had only intensified in our time together--that made me scoot in next to him. He didn’t even have to say anything anymore. After he closed the passenger door behind me, I would be waiting for him in the middle of the bench.  

When he slid in beside me, tall and tan and perfect, he grinned and slung his arms over my shoulders. That sweet peppery scent, the one that perfumed our sheets and bath towels now, overwhelmed me for a moment as I gazed up at him.  

“Don’t know if I’ll ever get over it,” he said, shaking his head softly.  

I let my hand fall to his thigh, resting gently over the rippling muscles beneath his blue jeans. My American boy.  

“Get over what? My brazen disobedience of traffic laws?” 

That was when he curled his arm around my neck, his hand cupping my chin as he brought his thumb to my smiling lip. He stroked there very softly, careful not to smudge my lipstick that he’d watched me so carefully apply in the bathroom mirror.  

“I was gonna say you wearing that lipstick, sitting in my baby,” he said, his minty breath tickling the apples of my cheeks. 

He pressed down on my lip and I puckered, placing a soft kiss on the pad of his thumb. My kiss stained a tart-colored lip-shaped tattoo there.  

“But we can go with your thing if you want,” he finished, shrugging faux unceremoniously.  

And when I leaned up to kiss him, he closed the space between us before I could. He had been waiting for me to move, waiting for my eyelashes to kiss my cheeks, waiting for my lips to part, waiting for my chin to tilt. He tasted like toothpaste and gum, his lips very soft and smiling against mine.  

I was the one that pulled away--had to because my cheeks were flooding and I was starting to get that ache between my thighs, the one Rooster had a sixth sense for. He was still cupping my jaw, his fingers pressed into the fat of my cheeks, his thumb still red from my kiss. He pressed his forehead against mine, his nose brushing mine.  

“Think they’d be mad if we bailed?” 

I knew he was chiding. He wouldn’t miss Phoenix’s birthday, wouldn’t miss the squadron’s first celebration since August. Rooster was a good friend, loved his friends.  

I squeezed his thigh, humming, pretending to think about it.  

“But then how would she get the gift I so dutifully picked for her?” 

I was chiding then.  

He narrowed his eyes slightly, licking his lips, taking the bait.  

“It’s supposed to be our gift,” he said.  

He moved to start the car, his arm falling off my shoulders. He plucked his aviators from their holder and slipped them on in that effortless way of his, turning to grin over at me. The sun was still setting and the sky was a warm gold--but it looked like it just shined for him.  

“Yes, I’m sure Phoenix will look at the wrapping job and know that you contributed,” I teased.  

Rooster put the car in reverse and started out of the driveway, his hand resting on the passenger seat headrest, cheek turned so I could see his scars glowing in the May evening light.  

“Hey, I can’t be good at everything,” he defended, biting a smirk as he put the car in drive and turned the wheel, “that’s your job.” 

I leaned into him and his arm fell over me again. It felt like the most natural thing in the world as we started down Mulberry Street, no buckle over my lap but safe in his grip.  

“I’m starting to think you have a crush on me,” I told him, leaning forward to turn the radio on.  

He laughed--that pretty, perfect laugh. It made my fingers warm.  

“What makes you say that, baby?” 

I shrugged, knowing he had one eye on the road and the other on my form as I turned the dial, surveying the static for a good song. I was still smiling a teasing smile.  

I stopped on a station that was in the middle of playing You Make Me Feel Like Dancing by Leo Sayer.  

 Then I leaned back into his grip, his hand holding my shoulder, drawing lazy shapes there.  

“I think it’s all the sex,” I told him.  

Then we were laughing again and it was good, perfect.  

The past year had felt so entirely perfect that it made me dizzy to think about. Laughing in the Bronco, the top down, warm evening air kissing our tan skin, Leo Sayer playing, unbuckled but secured; it only felt natural to be that blindingly happy. It took us both a few months to become accustomed to the feeling, to submit to it. But somewhere between drinking cherry wine on the yarrow flower-perfumed patio on Thursday nights and dancing in the dim morning light on the entryway tile, it happened. We fell forward, fell in, tumbled then found purchase with each other.   

It was a warm night--not unlike the warm July nights of our first summer together--and the sun had set in a pool of orange-gold and sunk beneath the glittering ocean with a deliberate sort of grace.  

The Hard Deck was just as full as it was the first weekend I had reclaimed my title as Jukebox Queen. Bodies packed onto the dirty, makeshift dance floor like sardines in a tin can, peanut shells crunching over lug-sole boots and platform heels. Everyone smelled like beer and sand and sweat and cigars. It was a good smell--one that made me think of my late summer romance, one that made me think of falling in love between picnics and prosecco. It made me think of Maggie, too--everything did still.  

It was the first time the entire squadron had been in the same state since late August of 2019, after the Uranium Mission.  

As soon as Rooster and I stepped into the bar, pushing our sunglasses to our hair in tandem, we were being called home to the pool tables. Familiar faces dotted around the green velvet, strong arms signaling us to come their direction, open mouths beaming.  

Rooster’s hand was in my jean pocket, which was making me flustered, but I was too dithered to care--if not because I was so head over heels, mind-bogglingly in love with him then because my friends were in the same state as me for the first time in months.  

“Y’ready?”  

Rooster asked as I lead the charge, navigating the crowd with him trailing beside me, casual and cool as ever, throwing a grin in every direction.   

“Born ready, Bradshaw.” 

Everybody was there--dressed in civilian clothing. Bob was closest, standing beside a stack of chairs with his arms crossed over his white t-shirt. I almost gasped when I saw him--very tan, cheeks scruffy, his hair grown out just to his ears.  

“Faye Ledger, get your ass over here!” 

Bob was the first person to wrap his arms around me--we collided like magnets, clicking into place, Rooster’s hand falling from the pocket of my shorts in a silent sort of nudge.  

“Robert from Major Authors,” I called to Bob, turning my head in his shoulder, grinning against his neck, “that haircut is pushing it!” 

Rooster slyly, very discreetly, tapped my bottom one time as he bypassed our hugging forms. It was something he did often whenever he knew he wouldn’t get caught. A pat when he was in my office, as he passed by me in the lounge, while I was taking cookies out of the oven.  

Without even seeing, I knew he was wrapping Phoenix in a tight hug.  

“Phoenix won’t let me cut it,” he laughed, pulling back, holding me by the shoulders.  

“Let me take you in,” we said at the same time.  

I held his forearms and they felt bulkier, tougher than the last I’d seen him. He looked bulkier, tougher in general; his hair highlighted by the sun, his skin kissed golden, his cheeks peppered with scruff, his eyebrows darker, his eyes brighter. He even seemed taller to me.  

“Love this,” I whispered, running my hands over his stubbled cheeks, “you’re such a man now. Look at you!” 

He grinned, pleased with himself, blushing only slightly. 

“Look at me? Look at you,” he told me, grabbing my newly cropped hair in one gentle hand, “you’re bald!” 

It was an over-exaggeration, of course--one that made me bite my lip and smile. I had cut my hair shorter so that it laid against my collar bones instead of the base of my spine.  

“Howdy, kid!”  

A third voice said this.  

Hangman was standing beside us, grinning, breaking up our reunion with ease. He looked bigger too--except his hair was not grown out and his scruff was minimal. But still--his body seemed heavier, leaner. The buttons on his shirt gapped over his broad chest.  

“Tally,” Bob whispered, eyes widened.  

Hangman and him laughed together then and I was smiling, peeking between Bob’s right fist and Hangman’s lower lip, wondering if there was any sort of remnant of the beach bonfire on the last Saturday before the mission. But no--both of their skin was unblemished, just like their camaraderie. 

“Gimme some love, sugar plum!”  

Hangman’s arms were wide open, his blue eyes crinkled but shining in the low light of The Hard Deck. I was still grinning when Bob released me, when Hangman closed the space between us and wrapped me up in his arms. He held me very tight, alarmingly tight. He still felt like a marble pillar, studier than anything in The Hard Deck. That was just the way Hangman held me--the way he’d held me in the women’s restroom on the carrier when we thought Rooster was gone, the way he’d held me on the tarmac when he’d saved the day, the way he’d held me on my brick porch before he left for his next posting way back in early September.  

“How you been?” I asked him, patting the vast expansion of muscles rippling beneath his shirt, “North Carolina treating you alright?” 

He pulled back, his teeth whiter than printer paper, looking absolutely pleased. He smoothed his hand over my hair, careful not to bump my sunglasses, tugging on the cropped ends.  

“You know I’d rather be here,” he said, “but I’m the only aviator with two confirmed kills, so they treat me like a God. Which, you know--I am.”  

Before I could respond, Bob pat his back, biting a grin.  

“Same old Hangman,” he said, ambling back to the table to greet Rooster.  

Hangman was searching my face, eyes falling from my hair to my mouth and to my nose and ears and cheeks.  

“You look good,” he finally said, raising his eyebrows, “still in love with Bradshaw or have you come to your senses? My time to shine yet?”  

I pushed his chest, cheeks reddening.  

“Madly and deeply,” I told him, “sorry ‘bout it.” 

He opened his mouth again, still smiling, but then I was tugged from his grip into a softer one. Strong, yes--but scaled down. And it was when I smelled the Nivea and good shampoo that I melted into the hug.  

“Can’t hog all the Faye on my birthday,” Phoenix called to Hangman, holding me close to her.  

“It’s in my nature,” Hangman called back before winking at us.  

“Happy birthday! Thirty-two doesn’t know what’s coming.” 

“Good because neither do I,” Phoenix responded, “and your man was zero help.” 

Most of the first hour continued on like that; hugging, grinning, complimenting, scouring unfamiliarities, tugging, laughing. It was a most gleeful reunion, one that began around the pool table, everybody falling back into place like old times.  

Rooster fell into place beside me after his second round of pool, while I was conversing with Bob and Phoenix about their station in Florida. Rooster wrapped an arm around my waist from behind, kissing my hair casually without interrupting my sentence. And without missing a beat, without breaking conversation or eye contact, I let my hands fall over his and squeezed softly. We were good at that then--touching each other in the way couples did, an arm here, a squeeze there, a sly glance.  

Bob was smiling in that Bob way, like he was coyly confident about something, like he was happy about something that I was happy about. Phoenix was more obvious about it, softly shaking her head with the smallest of smiles on her pink-painted lips.  

“Can you go more than ten minutes without touching your girlfriend or will you implode?” 

Rooster set his chin atop my head and I could feel his grin. I’m sure he could feel my deep blush, could feel the string between us tighten.  

“You wanna find out?” He lipped back.  

Bob was blushing. I shook my head at him, rolling my eyes at Phoenix, at Rooster. But we were all still smiling--how could we not be smiling?  

“I do,” Coyote called from the pool table.  

Hangman nudged him, grinning, laughing.  

“Can you go more than ten minutes without touching your boyfriend or will you implode?” Bob quipped, pushing his glasses back up his nose.  

Hangman and Coyote were stunned into silence for a moment, frozen with the pool cues in their grips, as Payback and Fanboy sputtered beside them. Rooster was even impressed, nudging Bob. Phoenix was smirking and I knew it was because she got Bob all the time then--that she knew what had changed, what Bob had found in Florida besides scruff and a tan.  

After the Happy Birthday song, after the cake was doled out, after pool games had been won and lost, after drinks had been drunk and shots had been had--that’s when almost everyone in the entire bar was dancing, corralled by the Dagger Squad, who were perhaps the drunkest and rowdiest crowd in the bar. Of course they were operating under the guise that it was all for the birthday girl, the one turning thirty-two, the one everyone had missed so dearly: Phoenix. 

It was Hangman who handed me a quarter first, dropping his blue eye in a wink. I was standing beside Payback and Fanboy then, nursing my usual, watching Rooster lose a game of pool to Coyote and Phoenix.  

“I reckon you owe me a dance,” he said very coolly, chewing a piece of gum, his jaw flexing, “y’know, since you’re always breaking my heart.”  

I rolled my eyes, inspecting the quarter so I wouldn’t have to look at his eyes glowing in the crowded room, so he wouldn’t see how red his words made me.  

“I’ll dance with you,” I said, meeting his gaze, “but just remember: this is charity.” 

That made Payback and Fanboy sputter again.  

We were all, except the designated drivers, a little tipsy by then. My ligaments were becoming chewing gum, my vision a little watery, my smile red and wide. Everyone was getting looser, happier, cozier.  

“Hangman, you’re losing your touch!” Payback called, shaking his head.  

“Having to pay your women to dance with you. What’s North Carolina doing to you?” Fanboy finished, his beer sloshing as he gestured towards us.  

There was that impenetrable ego. I was certain that even a jackhammer could not chisel away a bit of it. It was something I admired deeply--also something I attributed to his asshole-outbursts, like the bonfire.  

Grinning, giddy as ever, Hangman gave a small shrug.  

“Laugh all you want, but I consider myself a purveyor of women’s rights,” Hangman said, grabbing my wrist so I was holding the quarter in the air before us, “closing the wage gap one Faye at a time.” 

Before I could even respond, a chuckle closed in my throat, Hangman was tugging me towards the jukebox and into the buzzing bodies crowding the dance floor.  

I glanced very quickly at Rooster, Rooster who somehow became more and more gorgeous every minute of every day that passed. His hair shining beneath the yellow lights, his smile one of admiration, his chest rippling beneath his Hawaiian shirt.  

“I’m gonna pay for that one, aren’t I?” He asked over his shoulder, catching my wide-eyed gaze, my gaped mouth.  

“Most definitely,” I laughed.  

When we reached the jukebox, I slipped the quarter in. He took his usual stance, leaning against it, resting his head against his fist as I carefully began to peruse the selection. It was how we’d stood when I’d reclaimed my title, when I’d outdrank him. It made me pink to think about that night, every part of it; the dancing, our quiet conversation, the man at the bar who mistook me for Maggie, the car ride home, Rooster touching me for the first time.  

“So, how’s it going really?”  

I rolled my eyes, glancing at him. I was surprised to see that he seemed genuine. He was searching my profile, dusting over me like he’d forgotten what I looked like, his mouth flat and more serious than before. It wasn’t quite as intense as Rooster’s gaze before the mission, when I’d had to rip my face away from his. But Hangman was looking at me with a certain softness he was void of when he spoke to other’s. I knew that. I knew that so much. 

We had not fallen out of complete contact. The Dagger Squad had a group text that received a fair amount of attention and we frequently video called each other whenever we could. And I kept up with everyone on my own accord--sending Coyote my cookie recipe whenever he messaged me at midnight, watching sci-fi movie trailers Fanboy sent, sharing a Pinterest board with Bob, mailing a good bottle of Hungry Hawke wine to Phoenix. Hangman was in the mix too, somewhere between him sending shirtless selfies and song recommendations I’d pretended that I hadn’t already heard.  

“Things are good,” I said honestly, smiling softly, “like stupid-good, if we’re being honest.” 

He swallowed, taking a sip of beer, surveying the crowd around us. He took a deep breath and I knew what was coming next.  

“So, you’re happy then?” 

I nodded, furrowing my brow slightly.  

“Unfortunately, I am. Very, very happy. So happy that I don’t even mind going into work anymore.” 

Hangman pretended to gag and I elbowed him. As if he minded going into work, as of he didn’t love it. He broke into a smile again.  

“How’s that promotion suiting you? Like having your own office?” 

Of course I did. Who wouldn’t?  

“Oh, sure,” I said, still filing through the song choices, “and now Rooster and I are office neighbors.” 

Hangman finally looked at me, somewhere between revolted and bemused. He stared hard at my cheek and I pretended not to notice.  

“Y’never get tired of the guy?” 

That was when we looked up together, looking out and over the crowd to Rooster, who was laughing with his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. He looked so gorgeous, so perfectly in place there at the pool table beside his friends.  

“Never,” I said to him, smiling at the way Rooster gently clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder, “who could get tired of him?” 

Hangman sighed.  

“He is pretty dreamy,” he agreed, “you know, in that puppy-dog-in-the-window, last-kid-at-soccer-practice kinda way. If you’re into that, I guess.” 

I bit my lip, containing my grin.  

“And what about you, Bagman? Gracing any ladies with your presence these days?” I asked, eyebrow quirked, “For more than a night, I mean.”  

Hangman cackled.  

“Nah,” he said, “I prefer California girls.” 

He was being cheeky--I could feel his heated eyes, his watchful gaze.  

Pressing down on 092, I turned my body towards me, still biting a grin. When my eyes found his, his spine straightened slightly and his shoulders stiffened just a tiny bit. The beer bottle was pressed close to his grinning lips, his eyes half-shut.  

The opening notes of You’re So Vain by Carly Simon flooded the bar.  

“Good thing I’m from Kansas,” I said sweetly.  

His eyes widened as he registered the song. He cackled into his beer bottle and it sounded hollow, breathy. His eyes crinkled when I reached my hand out towards him.  

“Now or never,” I told him, “you son of a gun.” 

It took less than a minute for the squadron to follow suit, everybody’s eyes heavy and half-shut, everyone’s grins spreading, hair waving in the hot air of the bar, stomping over peanuts and stamping in puddles of beer and warm vodka. And Hangman got me to himself for a short while on the dance floor, only able to spin me one time before Rooster tapped in, dipping me and peppering my face with sweet kisses.  

“Missed you,” he mumbled against the blushed skin of my cheek, “not used to sharing you these days.”  

Even Bob was on the dance floor without having been serenaded by me and Rooster. It was a good, funny thing to see how Phoenix and him operated together after they’d been flying with each other for over ten months; they were closer than before. I knew what bond backseater’s and stick jockey’s developed, knew that there was a deep mutual trust between them and it had only grown since Bob and Phoenix had left Fightertown. All she had to do was ask and he was dancing with us all night. It made me warm, watching them dance, watching her push his glasses back up his nose after he bought her a shot. 

We danced for a long, long time. My hands smelled like copper and tequila by the time Rooster pressed his face against mine, mustache tickling my ear as he pushed my hair from my face, and asked if I was ready to leave.  

It was well into the wee hours of the morning when Rooster and I made our rounds, kissing everyone’s cheeks, burying our noses in each other’s necks as we hugged. Everyone was moaning for us to stay, but my limbs were growing heavier and heavier by the minute. It was a sweet, melancholy goodbye. Silly, too, since we were all meeting for brunch the next morning. 

“Happy birthday,” I said to Phoenix, who was perhaps the drunkest out of everyone, “take some ibuprofen before you go to bed!”  

She smiled that dazzling smile, her thin, pretty lips wrapping around her pearly teeth. Her hair was falling around her flushed face like brunette curtains, her eyes glassy and slacked.  

“It is a happy birthday,” she said, slurring softly and holding a finger up at me for emphasis, “and I’m Phoenix, remember? Rises from the ashes and all shit.” 

And when Rooster and I were finally outside in the darkness of the night, it felt so quiet, so cool. I had to stop for a moment, dipping my head back, letting my face angle towards the stars, my eyes heavy. Rooster was beside me, fingers lazily entwined with mine, twirling the Bronco’s keys around his index finger. His ‘Tramp’ keychain thudded against his palm with a sweet, heavy thud.  

“S’so nice out here,” I told him, grinning, breathing in the salty air around me with a quiet desperation.  

For a long moment, I just drank in the night; lazily blinking at the black sky, counting the waves as they rolled in endlessly, cherishing each blinking star, pressing my heels down against the sand-sprinkled asphalt.  

“Waxing gibbous,” Rooster noted. 

It made my heart swell that he could note the phase of the moon--something he hadn’t been able to do before. It made my mouth fill with cotton and feathers and everything that was soft and sweet.   

I knew he was smiling without even looking at him--felt the stretch of his cheeks and the glimmer in his eyes. 

“What’d you just call me?” 

He didn’t respond but when I finally let my head fall forward, when I finally met his gaze, his face was more sober than it had been before. His hand had fallen out of mine so he could stand before me. He was just watching me, his eyes glazed, his mouth twitched into a funny sort of sad smile.  

“What?” I said softly.  

He shook his head slightly. From inside, there was still a great deal of noise. The jukebox was still spitting out tunes I’d queued before leaving, the squadron was still buying each other shots, boots were still stomping the floor, peanuts were still crunching, people were still yelling over the music, bodies were still dancing. But out there, between Rooster and I, it was quiet except for the world moving around us.  

“My parents would’ve really, really loved you,” he said quietly.  

He said that often.  

Of course, he’d told me our first month of knowing each other that he was disappointed, angry that I would never know his parents. But in the months we’d been in a relationship, in the months we’d been living and working together, it happened more often and more seriously.  

One time he said it while we were showering together on a Tuesday in October, when I was humming a Loggins and Messina song as I lathered my hair. Chinese food was en route, cherry wine was chilling in the fridge, and he’d gotten me a new Mazzy Star record that we were going to play. I was happy, that accidental kind of happy--the one that just oozes into the bloodstream and infects the rest of the body easily, completely. He had been watching me from under the stream, lips twitched, eyebrows sloped.  

Another time he’d told me when I’d picked him up from the bar after a night of drinking with Maverick and Hondo, when I was nestled into the driver’s seat of the Bronco in one of his t-shirts and a pair of slippers. He’d said it when we opened the door, drinking me in, his face somewhere between somber and sober as his eyes fell from my hair to my toes. He’d leaned there against the door for a long time, softly shaking his head, biting his lip.  

Again when I danced in the parking lot of a Whole Foods late on a Sunday night, paper bag brimming with chocolate chips and baking powder and brown sugar hugged against my chest, as Rooster crooned playfully. He’d started singing as we stepped out the door--Knock On Wood by Eddie Floyd--and I had started bobbing my head, which encouraged him to sing louder until his voice was booming in the lot and I was prancing around him. We were falling apart at the seams, laughing until our ribs were aching, our hair soft and our love even softer. And he’d pushed me up against the car, the paper bag crinkling between his broad chest and my own, and gazed at me beneath the street lamps with adoration swimming in his shining eyes.   

Almost every time I let him pull me onto his lap--at The Hard Deck, sitting on the piano bench in the middle of the evening rush or just at home on the sofa or at the kitchen table. Whenever he caught me as I would be walking past, circling his arms around my waist, pulling me out of whatever task I’d been attending and subduing me with solid thighs and shoulder kisses. He liked it when I submitted in those small ways--when I let him take care of me, hold me, cherish me.   

Always when I befriended waiters, bartenders, checkout staff, dressing room attendants, strangers. One time, after a barista and I clicked particularly well over our shared love for Neil Young and drip coffee, he’d silently led me to the sunlit sidewalk outside and just watched me there as the blush faded from my cheeks. And then he had brought my knuckles to his lips, whispering against them as the afternoon ticked forward around us. 

I always followed his sentence with the same phrase--it was the most honest thing I could utter, could admit.  

“And I would’ve really, really loved them.” 

But that time he didn’t melt into my arms. He didn’t step closer to me and wrap his arms around my waist and bury his nose in my hair. He just kept watching me, his eyes becoming glassy.  

“Take me home,” I said, whispering. 

And I don’t know why I said it--I don’t know why I felt like it was the right thing to say. I don’t know if it was what he wanted me to say. But looking into his glassy, amber-colored eyes I recognized that sweet sadness. It was how I’d felt--naively so--when I first thought of taking Rooster home for Christmas. I wanted to him to see, to understand every bit of what I’d lived--wanted him to hold it in his palms. And maybe that was what he wanted from me too, wanted me to hold it carefully, nurture it. Maybe he wanted me to digest his past as hungrily, as voraciously, as he’d digested mine. Maybe it was only fair, only time.  

He blinked, twirled the Bronco’s keys once more, gaze faltering and landing on my shoes. I knew he misunderstood what I’d said and I had to swallow hard to keep myself from calling out to him. He started for the car again, dejected, before I wrapped my fingers around his wrist and pulled his body back to mine. I cupped his cheek and he was soft under my palm.  

“I mean your home,” I said, trying to sound as sober as I suddenly felt, “take me to Virginia.” 

He was surprised, blinking a few times, eyebrows furrowing slightly. He was searching my eyes, maybe trying to gauge my sobriety, but I blinked back at him with a wide open face. I smiled, thumb ghosting over the white scar on his cheeks. 

“I mean it,” I told him, coming close and pressing my chest against his, “wanna see where you grew up. Wanna see your childhood home.” 

He was beginning to smile, the corners of his mouth tugging up.  

“I wanna see where you came from,” I continued, stroking his face softly, “you know, just to make sure you weren’t really made in that lab after all. I’m still not entirely convinced.”  

We laughed. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me flush against him, our bellies kissing. He turned his cheek to stealthily kiss my palm before shaking his head lightly, biting his lip as he held my gaze.  

“You sure?”  

I nodded easily, vehemently.  

“‘Course I’m sure. Never been more sure about anything.” 

“Faye,” he whispered, “it might not be easy.”  

We were both thinking about the Christmas before--how hopeful we’d both been about my family, how rejected I’d felt, how sobering the encounter was. But there was no room for that in that conversation; we were already wound tightly with a giddy sort of excitement. And beneath that excitement, I recognized a fear in him--a fear I understood, a fear I would wash away with water from my cupped hands, a fear I would soothe between my two lips. Besides, as morose as it was, his parents would not be able to reject us. Going to his home was the mirror version of mine. We would be in an empty house--and we were very good at being alone together. 

I nodded sharply. Of course I understood that.  

“I’ll make it easy for you,” I said and my voice was quiet and my smile was small and my hair was billowing in the wind and I really, really meant it, “I promise.” 

He tilted his head. Carefully, he brought a finger to my face and grazed the scar on my chin. It made me warm and cold simultaneously, made me shiver all over. Then he ran the finger over my lips, pressing softly where they parted.  

“You’re perfect,” he mumbled, chuckling dryly.  

Before I could respond, there was a face-splitting grin on his lips. And before I could raise an eyebrow, he had leaned over and thrown me over his shoulder in one swift movement. My hips were balancing haphazardly on his shoulder, his arms secured around my thighs, my shorts riding up in the salty breeze.  

I was laughing the way children do when they’re excited; with utter, complete abandon.  

“I’m gonna make an honest woman outta you one day,” he crooned.  

Now we were here, on Virginia soil, deep in Richmond and inhaling the muggy air. 

“Almost there,” he tells me, turning left onto Pond Pine Way, “almost to  the point of no return.”

I know he’s teasing me. I know he doesn’t want me to get my hopes up about the house. I know he doesn’t want me to be disappointed by its vast emptiness. I know he’s trying to preserve his feelings and mine. I know this. I know this very, very much.  

But I am ready. I am ready to step onto the sweet grass in the front lawn, ready to gaze at the estate, ready to drink it all in with him beside me. I am ready to digest this place where he came from, ready to give him a good birthday in this house where he was raised, the last home he ever knew before he found me and mine. 

“Bradley,” I say, my voice steady and careful, “do you want to turn around?”

He considers this. 

I know he hasn’t been to the house in years--hasn’t been in Virginia in years. I know little pieces like this. I know that the house is largely unchanged, almost the exact way his mother had left it before she died. I know he considered renting it out for a few years but never did. I know he has a cleaning service come once a month and pays them a pretty penny for, what I assume is, mainly dusting. I know the house is big. I know the address of it, too: 78 East Black Willow Lane. Simple things. But also I know Rooster dreams of the house, know that he still remembers the nooks and crannies, know that he can still recall all the sounds it makes. 

I know that it must hurt, too. I know that it must hurt to go there, to smell the smells, to hear the groaning and settling, to see everything through the eyes of a man--the man of an age his father never reached, never even got close to. But I know that the ache for it all, the one that hollows out the middle of his chest, must overpower all of that. 

“No,” he breathes, shaking his head, “I don’t want to turn around.”

I wish we were in the Bronco so I could be sitting beside him, nestled up close to his chest, resting my head on his shoulder, his arm slung over me. But the best I can do right now is bring his hand to my lips, to pepper sweet kisses there. 

“It’ll be good,” I whisper and I’m trying very hard to make my voice happy and soft, “promise.”

Black Willow Lane is enchanting, bewitching. It is a long stretch of red pavement, lined with lucious pitch pine trees on either side that stretch tall and wide to form a canopy over us. And dotted between the trees are spurts of sprawling, pink Joe Pye Weeds. The sharp scent of pine and the sweet scent of the wildflowers perfumes the air between us, somehow prevailing against the unmistakable scent of new-car. 

There are houses dotted along the road, each one set far back on ample land, their driveways long and winding. We pass a big, white house with horses--big, chestnut-colored ones--galloping inside a white fence. 

Rooster makes a noise I don’t think I’ve heard him make before--it is something between a gasp and a dry chuckle. 

When I look at him, his cheeks are pale, his mouth is ajar. He squeezes my leg. 

“That’s the Denver Farm. God, I can’t believe they still have horses. They’ve gotta be in their seventies by now.”

It’s making me fuzzy--listening to him talk about these little pieces of his past, things only he knows as the only living Bradshaw. I kiss his knuckles a few more times and his hands are heavy and warm in my grip. Good. He isn't tense. Not yet.  

He takes a deep breath--I’m watching him as pockets of the late morning sunshine peer through the trees and onto his pink cheeks, his white scars, his dark sunglasses. I hold his hand tighter when his Adam’s apple bobs, when the car begins to slow, when he flicks the blinker on. 

The radio is off now. The wind is not blowing. I lean forward to turn the merciless air conditioning down. For a moment--that is the only sound in the car. Just the steady plink-plink-plink of the blinker. 

Rooster looks over at me. 

I’m doing my best to look as giddy, as excited as I feel. I want him to look at my face--at my smile, at my flushed cheeks, at my crinkled eyes--and know that it will be okay. I want him to do this. I want him to come back to this place and feel like he’s home. I want him to walk into the house with his hand locked in mine and feel the weight of the day--the early morning flight, the nerves, the anxieties, the fast food, the long drive, the weight of everything--slip out of his hands and into mine. I want to hold it for him today, the day of his homecoming, the day of his thirty-sixth birthday. 

“Y’ready?” 

He asks me this to give himself another moment, just one more. 

“Yes, sir,” I whisper to him. 

It is beautiful. Even the gravel driveway that’s stretching in front of us is so, so beautiful. The pitch pines have thinned and made way for Eastern Redbuds, which are placed identically on either side of the drive, pink as my cheeks. And the lawn is cut and green, greener than any grass I’ve seen between Kansas and California. The driveway is long, too, at least a quarter of a mile. 

“Oh,” I whisper, sitting up straighter, angling myself towards the passenger window. 

He’s going very slow, the way he’s supposed to drive on gravel. He’s basically inching forward, the rocks crunching beneath the tires of the car perfectly, gorgeously. I’ve always loved the sound of crunching gravel.

Outside, there are birds calling. I can hear them--sweet and sorrowful, hopping from one pink-flowered branch to the next. 

“Jesus, I forgot how pretty it is,” he admits lowly, “especially in the summer.”

That is precisely when the house comes into view for the first time. It is so sudden, so breathtaking, that my mouth goes dry. I clamp my fingers over his and he readjusts in his seat, glancing over at me with a sly smile.

“You like it?”

My throat is caked with cotton. Oh, my God. I can’t speak. 

I nod rapidly, furrowing my brows.    

Maybe it is because the sun is shining so brightly. Maybe it is because it is Rooster’s birthday. Maybe it is because I am so in love. Maybe it is because I am looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses these days. But it is the most perfect house I have ever seen.

A tall and wide brick colonial, ivy climbing in tendrils of emerald up the front of the house, around the white trim and the navy shutters. Two proud chimneys gracefully descend from the right and left corners, and a big, navy-colored front door rests under a white-pillared canopy in the middle of the home. And to the left of the house, attached to the brick with white-painted metal and glass, is an enclosed greenhouse. The house is symmetrical and sturdy, but still comparable to a fairy-tale. It is dreamy. Yes, it is very dreamy. 

The gravel driveway thins into a circle driveway which wraps around a patch of what I can assume must’ve been a garden in its prime, but now houses a ring of green grass and a slew of withering plants over soft dirt. That is how most of the landscaping looks--like in its prime it is beautimous, coveted but is now sagging and empty--besides the trees that sit at the back of the property which are all a gift from mother nature. It seems full and wide-open at the same time--tall, study trees dotting the property but also giving way to rambling lawn. 

“Bradley,” I whisper and I sound like I’m in awe because I truly am, “this is…”

He’s looking at me, his eyes resting peacefully on my cheek. He squeezes my thigh again, one last time.  

“Beautiful,” he says. 

When we are engulfed in the Virginia air completely, when we inhale the mud and the flowered redbuds and the calling birds, when we move to stand together on the gravel side-by-side and his arm falls around my shoulders, I know we have made the right choice. He is as sturdy as he’s ever been beside me, sturdy and soft and warm, holding me close to him. 

I’m still taking it all in--counting the never-ending windows, wondering where his bedroom was, wondering where we will sleep, wondering if the fireplaces are made of brick or plaster, looking out to the side of the house where there’s at least a few acres of land--trying to keep my breathing steady. 

I glance up at him, unable to close the gap between my lips, and let his watery eyes fall to mine before I reach up and press a flat palm to his cheek. His eyes are soft, very warm, very kind. 

“Welcome home,” I whisper before smiling, “and happy birthday.”

He kisses my palm, fingers wrapped securely around my wrist. 

“Thank you,” he whispers into my skin, “now let’s get inside.”

Just like when we went to my parent’s house for Christmas, he carries the suitcases without me having to ask, tucking them beneath his arms. I’m holding the duffel that contains his presents, each of them wrapped meticulously and sweetly. 

I walk ahead of him and he follows closely. The sun beats down on us and it is indisputably hot--but it’s a heat I could stand in for hours, the kind of heat I would live inside of if I could. 

“That dress my birthday present?” He asks, coming up quickly to pinch the bottom of my left cheek, just hard enough to make me squeal, jumping slightly. 

“Maybe it’s one of them,” I say back, stepping onto the porch.

It is one of them--it is a dress I bought especially for today. 

It is a dress that I scoured for, one I had to try on twice before buying. It is floral, the cyan and blush and rust colored flowers overlapping and small, and drapes over my legs carefully before it splits over my left thigh. The sleeves are capped, the bodice is tight, and there is a small cutout in the middle of my back. 

It is the first dress of mine that has been bought for an occasion since Maggie passed--and it was harder than I thought it would be to come to a decision. I accidentally stayed in the boutique for half the afternoon, going back and forth between midi and maxi and floral and plaid.  

I bite my lip, grinning over my shoulder. His sunglasses are low on his nose, his shirt stretched seemingly to its limit over the broad expansion of his chest, a few straggling sandy chest hairs peering out the collar. He’s wearing jean shorts, his legs big and capable and tan. He looks like the perfect version of himself--the happiest, the healthiest. 

“Lord have mercy,” he whispers, dropping the luggage beside me, “I am a lucky, lucky man.” 

He kisses me and it’s a hungry kiss, our first one on the grounds of his childhood home, our first kiss on this porch that shields us from the sun in its ample shade. 

“Oh, I know,” I whisper against his lips, patting his shoulder, beaming, “now get me inside. Sugar melts, you know.”

He kisses me again, shaking his head, digging the keys out of his pockets. There is not a moment’s hesitation--he twists the lock with ease and opens the door, letting it fall wide open. Then he looks at me, picking the luggage up again, nodding for me to go first.

But he should go first--deserves to. This is his home. This is his homecoming. 

“No,” I whisper, furrowing my brows, “go on. I’m right behind you.”

He does step inside, a small smile eating his lips and a deep admiration for me pulsing in his gentle gaze. And I am telling the truth--I am there, right behind him, just like I always am. And I let the door close behind us, treasure the heavy-sounding click when the brass doorknob engages. 

The house is washed in white--all the walls evenly painted the color of an eggshell, the crown molding the identical shade, the ceiling lofted and bright but broken up with dark wooden beams. The entryway--which immediately offers a wooden staircase ahead of us to the left and a long, wide hallway to the right--is roomy, vast. It is brick that gives into beautiful wooden floors, the same dark color of the beams on the ceiling. 

There is furniture dotted around, old heirloom pieces, and photographs still hanging on the walls. There are vases and figurines and little tiny pieces of Bradley’s life--of his family’s life--before everybody left him. There is even a woman’s coat hanging by the door, a yellow one, right beside a pair of red rain boots. It is like playing a game of hide and seek, little clues that someone was here just before us, that their presence was tangible but fleeting. Yes, standing just here in the entryway with the sunlight streaming in from the big windows, it looks like they were only just here. That they only just stepped out the door for a moment and are due home anytime now. 

“Smells the same,” Bradley notes, wringing his hands together as his eyes fall over the home again, “like exactly the same.”

I breathe in deeply: it smells like polished wood, like sweetgrass, like something sharp and peppery, like something very sweet and soft like the petals of a daisy. Yes, it smells like all of these things. It is the scent of a home; the scent of skin.Skin but better.  

I bring my open palm to the middle of his back and let the duffel fall onto the brick. He leans into my touch, blinking at the coat by the door, at the boots waiting for feet. 

“I love it,” I tell him and I don’t have to try and sound sincere because I just am telling the truth wholly, “it’s perfect. Show me around.”

He glances back at me, his cheeks rosy. He looks happy, very happy. 

He shows me upstairs first. I am overwhelmed by how large the house is. The stairs, which are broken up by a sprawling landing that I would certainly utilize as a reading nook, are that same rich wood but are decorated with an ornate wool runner. There are seven bedrooms, all of them with hardwood floors and vaulted ceilings. The bedrooms form a perfect rectangle around the stairs, hallway lined with the hand-carved railing. Most of the bedrooms are entirely empty--empty of furniture, of decorations, of anything at all. 

“The house was in my mom’s family for a long time,” he tells me, “I can’t remember when it was built, but I know it’s old. My mom was an only child. This was her wedding gift when my parents got married.”

The house is so big, so empty, that his voice is echoing. 

I sigh, running my fingers along the solid-brass door handles, each one a different shape and design. I could study them the entire day and never grow bored, not once. Maggie would’ve loved this one--an oval with flowers engraved delicately over its entirety. 

“Some wedding present,” I whisper, smiling. 

“My parents wanted a billion kids,” he tells me, “they were gonna fill up all the bedrooms. Never got the chance to.” 

He’s standing against the railing, outside the sixth empty bedroom, his hands tucked into his pockets as he watches me explore the bedroom. When I catch his eyes, they are a sweet sort of sad. 

I step into the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. The sun is bright--I think the house must be at least half windows, all tall and wide, all letting in the late morning sun. I’m smiling very sweetly at him as my head rests against the wood. 

“Can’t imagine five more of you,” I tease. 

He’s smiling sweeter now, cheeks pink. 

“Try,” he whispers. 

I let my eyes slip shut and breathe deeply, making a show of raising my eyebrows and letting my shoulders fall, my chest expanding. 

The truth of the matter is that I can imagine five more of him, smaller versions, half of him and half of me. I can imagine them running amuck, their soft-soled shoes thudding the wooden floors heavily. I can imagine his laugh--his perfect, throaty laugh--ringing through the echoey halls five times over, each one louder than the one before. I can see five little heads of curly hair and amber eyes and tan limbs and little fingers. 

“I’m trying,” I whisper, a teasing lilt still in my voice, “but all I see is flames and destruction. A sign that says ‘end of times’. Is that what you’re seeing?”

He does it again, too swiftly for me to argue and too quick for me to catch. My hips are balancing on his shoulders, teetering uncertainly as I squeal and grasp for purchase, fisting his Hawaiian shirt as he hooks my legs in his arm, hand coming down on my ass one time. He starts down the hall towards the final bedroom--the one that overlook the front of the house, the circle drive. 

“It’s my birthday,” he protests, “you can’t be naughty.”

I hum, waiting for him to correct himself. Cheeky boy.  

“Well, wait a minute,” he follows closely, “that’s not what I--okay, maybe--!”

“Well,” I sigh dramatically and slap his back softly, “I suppose I’ll be on my best behavior, then.”

Another hit to my bottom. I bite my lip hard.

“Lady, I--!”

“--I don’t speak caveman, Bradley,” I interrupt, my voice echoing down the hall. 

We laugh. He kisses the bend of my hips carefully through the bunched fabric of my dress. It makes my thighs ache.

He carries me all the way to the end of the hall, stopping before closed French doors. He lets me down, leaning over and setting me on the floor with a thump. My dress falls back to its place in the middle of my calves, dangling an inch above my leather boots. He’s grinning at me, that boyish smile, the one that makes his mustache look full and even. 

“This was my parent’s room. Then it was just my mom’s room,” he tells me and his grin is still wide, untainted from the sudden brutal reality of us standing outside here, “it hasn’t changed very much at all.”

Instead of pushing him forward, pushing him inside, I stand out here with him. His hands fall to my hips as he gazes down at me, his lips pink as I swipe my thumb over them carefully. 

“We don’t have to go in,” I tell him and I mean it. 

I wonder if it is like Maggie’s bedroom at my parent’s house--a time capsule. Maybe it’s the last palace on earth where there is an inkling of a molecule of one of them left behind. A hair on a pillow case. A fleeting breath. A particle of skin. A dot saliva. Maybe even just the scent of their scalp or the scent of their lotion. Whatever it is or isn’t, I don’t expect him to go inside. Maybe he wants to be careful about his time in there. I understand, I really do. 

He nods, moves to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. 

“I know. But I want to.”

And with that, he disconnects himself from me, presses the doors open. 

I am overwhelmed with the scent of gardenia perfume and dust as the two doors waft the cool air of the bedroom towards us. Bradley doesn’t falter; I keep my hand on his shoulder as we step inside. 

This is the fullest bedroom in the house. And it is not white in here, not at all. The walls are covered from crown molding to baseboard in floral nouveau-style wallpaper, all pale pink and pale green and muted purple, all delicate line work and soft curves. And there’s a fireplace, big and made of brick, settled against the wall with the French doors. The room is very big, big enough for the California King that resides against the wall ahead of us and the tufted sofa and armoir that are situated before the fireplace. All the furniture is the same deep, rich wood, covered in a thin layer of dust. 

Bradley very softly elbows me, nudges me. Go ahead. Look around.  

I get the sense that he wants to let the room wash over him by himself for just a moment. So I step forward, the heels of my boots clacking until I step onto the ornate rug that stretches across a large portion of the floor. 

“Smells good,” I tell him with a smile, “smells like gardenia.”

He’s looking at me when I turn my cheek towards him. 

“That’s what that smell is? Gardenia?”

I nod softly. 

“I’ve been trying to figure out what that scent is, like, my entire life,” he tells me, smiling, “and you just waltzed right in and knew?”

My cheeks are the pale pink color of a rose. 

“Actually, I didn’t waltz right in and know,” I sigh, shrugging, “I knew as soon as the doors opened . Before I waltzed in.”

He’s shaking his head at me, the way he does when he’s amused, the way he does when he wants to pinch my hips and throw me over his shoulders, when he wants to press kisses against my face and nuzzle his mustache all over my skin until I’m bright red. This is what he looks like right before he tells me that his parents would’ve loved me. 

“That’s the closet,” he tells me, nodding his head towards the second set of French doors in the room, “not sure I’m ready to go in there yet. All her clothes are in there still. Didn’t know what to do with them.”

I want to tell him that I will do whatever he can’t. I want to tell him that I will go through his mother’s clothes and separate them and read their wash instructions and wash every piece of clothing the exact way they’re meant to be washed. Even if I have to wash every piece by hand--I will. I want to tell him that I will take whatever is slipping from his grip and hold it tight to my chest. 

Instead, I just nod, understanding. 

“Is that the bathroom?” I ask, pointing towards the last door in the room. 

It is the color of the floor, very solid, a pretty brass handle sitting high. 

“Yes,” he tells me, “you can go see it if you want.”

I step forward, cross the floor very politely and carefully, and open the door. The scent of gardenia perfumes the air heavier in here. I take measured breathes, squinting through the light of the windows. 

The bathroom is beautiful, too--black and white checkered tiles, twin basins sitting in a hunk of wood shaped like a cabinet, brass fixtures, a clawfoot tub sitting in the nook of the window that overlooks the top of the greenhouse. There’s a shower, too--encased in a rust-colored tile with the same brass fixtures--tucked into the space behind the door. 

“Spacious,” I call to Bradley. 

And as if the house is proving my point, my voice echoes. 

The downstairs is just as impressive, just as expansive and beautiful. Although it is mostly barren, furniture only dotted here and there, it is still beautiful. 

There is a dining room that sits just before the entrance of the greenhouse, directly below his parent’s old bedroom. It is a long, wide room--big enough to fit at least fifteen people. Definitely big enough to make a lone mother and son feel small. 

The kitchen is a separate entity, a broad and long room that makes up much of the back of the house, directly overlooking the acreage in the back. It is a classic kitchen--all neutral tones and dark wood, brass fixtures, antique pulls and handles. The appliances are antique too, all of them the same avocado color of my oven at home. 

The living room, though--it is the largest room in the house. It is big enough to fit thirty people--all wide-plank floors and vaulted ceilings and openness. There is a fireplace in here, too--the same brick from upstairs--and it is very large. It takes up most of the wall to our right, bricks shaped like an arch. The walls are white, that nice eggshell color, the windows seem endless in here. It is bright and perfect; feels like the sun is shining the brightest in this room. 

And in front of the fireplace is the piano. It is the piano Rooster had told me about here and there, the one he said his father pounded on religiously, the one where he’d sat when he missed his father unbearably. I can see him now, baby Bradley, tucked up on his father’s lap, grinning a toothy grin as his father jauntily sings. It’s sweet--it’s all so sweet. 

But now my belly is twisting itself inside out because Rooster is squinting at the piano and God, I really hope he notices. I really hope he meanders over there without any prompting from me and touches the keys and knows. Surely he notices the shine--the wood freshly dusted and polished, sheening in the sunshine. Yes, maybe its cleanliness will draw him in. 

His hand, which has been resting on the small of my back, falls away lazily. He’s doing it, walking towards the piano with his eyebrows pulled together. And I have to bite my lip as I watch him, try and stifle the excitement that’s burning my throat. 

He dusts his fingers over the smooth, shiny wood.

I can’t help it. I have to say something, can feel the words begging to rip out of my mouth. 

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him, “play me a song.”

His hair looks golden, golden and so curly and soft, as he rounds the piano to sit on the bench. His cheeks are hollow and rosy as he situates himself, as he looks down over the keys that I know are very clean. 

I step forward carefully, pinching my own palms.

“I would, baby, but it’s been years--s’probably out of tune.” 

Even as he’s saying this, his hands are coming up to ghost over the keys. Surely he notices how pristine they are--they are glowing in the sunlight. I rest my arm against the flat top, still smiling down at him. 

I won’t let myself say anything else. He is so close to playing, so close to bringing my surprise into fruition.

I wonder if he is scouring his mind, trying to remember if he had paid for the cleaning service to dust and polish the piano. Maybe he had once before, maybe they always did a polite dusting. But no chance they would clean it so dutifully--the piano looks brand new. 

He finally does it. He flexes his fingers and presses down on the keys. The sound that echoes in the empty living room is a beautiful one--the instrument having been professionally cleaned and tuned yesterday, arranged all the way from San Diego by me. 

He retracts almost immediately, surprised, bewildered. I still say nothing, but keep my eyes on his battering eyelashes, his rosy face, his bobbing Adam’s apple. 

“Well, that’s…”

He presses on the keys again, this time with more confidence. My skin gooses at the sound--it is a sound pure and deep, one that makes my soul squeeze. My elbow, the one sitting atop the piano, vibrates. 

I watch him think as he presses the keys, testing each one, chest rising and falling in rapid succession. And when he reaches the last key, when it plays flawlessly, that’s when he stares down at his hands for a moment. I can see the gears turning. I know he’s putting the pieces together. But I will not nudge him my way--I will let the surprise flood him organically. But dammit if my cheeks aren’t aching from beaming down at him. 

It clicks. He turns his face to me, his mouth agape, his eyes shining. 

“Surprise,” I whisper to him, punctuating it with one little shake of my open hand. 

Then his eyebrows pull together and he looks like he’s anguished almost--his eyes get glossy and his mouth, ever-parted, turns up in the corners into a strange little smile. His lips are pink and wet. 

“You did this?”

I nod. 

“I remember you telling me about the piano your dad used to play. Figured it was still here,” I start, rounding the piano slowly, “so I did some research. Called around, explained the story. It’s funny, the guy said he remembered your family. Said he used to tune the piano back in the day. Told me he would polish it, too--free of charge.”

It made me ache when the man told me this. It was so sweet, so abnormally kind. It made me feel like I was living in a different world entirely in San Diego--one where people don’t do things for each other like that, one where there is no such thing as free of charge. I’d forgotten that putting my roots down somewhere meant that they would grow and contort with other people--that it connects us, entwines us.

“Wilbur?”

I nod, tilting my head. 

“You remember!”

Rooster isn’t saying anything now, but opens his arms when I come to settle myself on his lap. I fiddle with the top button on his shirt, can’t help that face-splitting grin. 

“I think it sounds beautiful. Doesn’t it?” I question, turning to the keys, “I guess I wouldn’t know. I’ve never played before. But he said he remembered the Bradshaw’s and he had really good Yelp reviews. I figured…how many Bradshaw’s can there be on Black Willow Lane?”

 When I look back, he’s shaking his head lightly. His arms tighten around my waist. I comb my fingers through his hair, tilt my head, move to flutter my eyelashes against his cheek, still grinning. 

“You’re surprised?”

He nods sharply. 

“Faye, I don’t even know what to say, I--!”

I kiss his lips softly, cupping his chin, holding his jaw bone in my palm. His face is warm.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell him, “now, you can play to your heart’s content. I’m going to place a grocery order. And then I’m going to pick up the groceries and make you dinner. And then we’ll have cake and you can open your presents. And before you say anything, yes,I did bring party hats and yes,you do have to wear one when you blow out your candles.”

He’s looking up at me with a grin that’s devouring all his other features. I think his pupils might even be heart-shaped. I squeeze his cheek affectionately, my heart throbbing. 

“Happy birthday,” I tell him for the hundredth time today, “I love you so much.”

So that is exactly how his birthday goes. I place a grocery order, get enough food to last us a week, buy a couple bottles of prosecco and cherry wine and one bottle of tequila for good measure. I call a bakery, the one with the best reviews, and order a small white cake with raspberry jam and cream--one we could finish easily in one week. We bring our suitcases into the living room and Rooster pulls a mattress down from the attic to make a bed in the living room, layering linens and goose-down pillows over it once it is cleared of dust. I carefully unload the duffel of presents, placing them beside the bed, each of them wrapped in brown paper and tied with green twine. He’s answering phone calls sporadically, thanking this person for their call and thanking that person for the gift. 

He is all smiles, his eyes shining, his face rosy. It’s perfect--he’s so elated, so excited. And I almost want to hug his shoulders and shake him and tell him I told you I would make it easy! Have I ever lied to you? But I don’t. I just watch him, let his mood infect me, tell him happy birthday every chance I get.

I pick up the groceries and unload them in the golden light of the late afternoon. He is sitting on the piano bench, still adjusting himself to sit comfortably, still surveying the keys and pedals. 

We are a few rooms apart, but I can hear it when he finally starts playing. It takes a moment for me to recognize it, too--only a moment. But when I do, it makes me laugh as I  stuff a few blocks of cheese in the refrigerator. 

He’s playing Vienna by Billy Joel.

Everything feels warm. Everything is drenched in sunlight. Even in this house that feels like it’s still someone else’s, this house that feels like it was left for only a moment but also for decades, this house that feels like it’s lonesome here on all this land on Black Willow Lane--it does feel like a home. Yes, it does feel like a home whenever I am in the kitchen putting away groceries and Rooster is a few rooms over, playing on the piano his father used to play. It feels like we are supposed to be here.   

I am walking back into the living room when the song draws to a close. 

“Encore,” I call, clapping, leaning against the doorframe. 

Rooster is the striking image of his father right now--so much so that it almost knocks me off my feet; sitting at that pretty, shining piano, wearing his Hawaiian shirt and denim shorts with his sunglasses hooked in his sandy locks, his body long and lanky, his throat thick with laughter, his mouth wide open and grinning. He looks happy. So, so very happy. And I know that I always think that he looks like he belongs, but right now, it’s taking my breath away. He has never belong anywhere more than he belongs on that piano bench, in this near-empty living room, grinning at me as the sunlight washes over him.

“Smile,” I call not a moment after, angling my phone at him. 

It’s something I feel like I have to do--something I gladly do--these days. Who else will take pictures of him now that his parents are gone? It is my job now, one that was pressed into my palms, one that I have taken with a certain pride. 

He smiles pretty for the picture, his cheeks dusted with roses. 

After I tuck my phone in my pocket, he leans back and cracks his knuckles, raising a brow at me. 

“Does the little lady in the dress have a request?”

His voice is deep and throaty. It sends a chill down my spine. 

“Hmm…know any Jerry Lee Lewis?”

He’s grinning.

“This one goes out to my girl,” he says into a  nonexistent microphone, speaking to the invisible audience, “the first time I tried to woo her like this, she left the bar and cried under a palm tree.”

He’s smirking, I’m shaking my head, biting my lip. He isn’t entirely wrong.

It’s with a slight jolt that I imagine his parents here, smiling coyly, exchanging private glances, as they watch their only son perform for me in this living room. 

“It’s all for you, baby,” he croons before he starts the jaunty tune. 

I stay in my spot against the doorframe while he plays, pounding on the keys, filling the sort of noise I think it needs. Yes, this house must always be filled with sound--every single sound. Footfalls--running ones, walking ones, sleepy ones, cranky ones. Laughter--dry chuckles and big throaty laughter and everything in between. Music--records and piano and guitar and everything in between. I hope, suddenly, that he teaches our children to play piano right here in this living room, sitting on his lap on that bench. 

And when Great Balls of Fire finally ends, I clap, flushing. 

“Color me impressed,” I smile, smoothing my hands over cotton draped over my thighs, “thoroughly impressed. Now, you’re good to play while I cook? No record player. Think I might go crazy if I cook in silence.”

He nods, grinning brightly. 

“Anything for you,” he says sweetly, “baby.” 

I do make dinner by myself, smiling, slowly working my way around the kitchen. It is a quick dinner--one I’m comfortable making, one I’ve made for Rooster before. It is just searing steak and grilling asparagus and mashing potatoes and baking drop-biscuits. 

So when I call that dinner is ready, he files into the kitchen and rises plates off, pressing soft kisses to my temple as I dress the plates. 

I carry both plates to the living room, biting my lip. It’s when he sits on the floor, legs criss-crossed, that I serve the birthday boy and we eat across from each other on the swept floors. 

“Thank you,” he tells me. 

“Oh, it’s no big deal. I like making steak.”

But then he shakes his head at me. Sunlight kisses his curls, his cheeks. And it’s when he’s looking in my eyes, when we are both laying on our bellies eating nice food off nice plates on antique flooring, that I get it. Oh. Thank you for spending my birthday with me here. That’s what he means. 

I wonder how many birthday’s he spent alone before this, when his parents were gone, when Maverick may as well have been gone, too. And it makes my heart hurt, makes my throat squeeze. So I just lean forward and he does too and we kiss over our plates, his hand holding my face softly. 

“You’re everything,” I tell him, “did you know that?” 

It’s later, after dinner has come and gone, after we’ve sat on the living room floor and drank our cherry wine and talked about the plane ride and the car ride, when I scour the kitchen for matches. There’s a gas stove--I know they must be around here somewhere, but there are just so many drawers. 

The cake, the short little cake adorned with raspberries and confectioner sugar, is sitting limply on the counter with unlit 3 and 6 candles pressed into its spongy layers.

It’s darker now--only a little while until sunset. The house is glowing, glittering because of the electric tealights Rooster found in the attic with the mattress. They’re littered everywhere now--bright enough so having the curtains drawn and the overhead lights off works. It’s enough to set the tone, enough to get me from here to Rooster without tripping.  

“Y’get lost in there, baby?”

I can practically see him in the living room now, sitting criss-cross on the linen-clad mattress, exuding all the sex and strength of a Navyman but punctuated peculiarly with a cone-shaped party hat strapped under his tense jaw and nestled in his sandy locks. He’s being a good sport about it, lips twisted into a rueful little smile when I hooked his party hat on after mine. 

“Yes. No,” I call back, “stay there.”

He laughs. It is a beautiful sound. 

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, “don’t hurt yourself!”

The matches are in the last drawer I look, pesky things. But then the candles are lit and I’m carefully balancing the cake in my flat palms, starting my descent to the living room. And it is really striking; this house drenched in gold sunlight and yellow, flickering candlelight--even if it’s electric flames. 

“Happy birthday to you,” I start, my voice solitary in the house, “happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Bradley.”

I round the corner and there he is, just like I pictured. He’s sitting with his legs crossed on the mattress, a blip of warmth in the white sheets. And the sunset is so warm behind him, casting him in the most tawny of lights. He’s smiling coyly, his mouth closed and his cheeks red. 

“Happy birthday to you!”

I very carefully sink to my knees before him, angling the cake towards him. He’s not even looking at the cake, though--he’s looking at me, biting a grin. In the light of the true flame from his birthday candles, he looks positively pleased. His lips look wet and bitten from smiling so much, so hard. His eyes are wide and watery. 

“Make a wish, baby.”

I nod to the cake with a grin. 

Before he makes a wish, he carefully comes around the cake and brings his face close to mine. He presses his lips against my forehead and they’re soft and sweet. They stay there for a long, long moment. He even brings his hand to rest on the side of my head to hold me there. As if I would move. He breathes me in and I am so happy, I think I could burst. He disconnects himself, sinks so his lips ghost over mine a few times, hand holding my cheek. 

“I love you,” he murmurs. 

And then he blows out the candle. His face is shadowed now. His eyes find mine and my heart is pulsing, throbbing. It is throbbing, pulsing with this all-consuming love. I could drown it. I could positively die in this glow. 

“I know,” I whisper to him, “grab a fork.”

We eat the cake for a while, sitting with our knees together and the cake settled on the floor between us. It is sweet and moist, the cream melting on our tongues and the raspberries bursting between our teeth. 

It’s the best birthday cake I’ve ever had. He says it, too--before I can.

Then it’s quiet. It is a different kind of quiet than that quietness back home--even when the record player is off. This quiet feels louder, amplified by white walls and empty rooms. It is not oppressive, but it is obvious. And here, out in the country, the artificial sounds have dissipated. There’s no cars whirring by, no horns honking, no bass thumping, no tires squealing. But there’s crickets and cicadas singing, harmonious above the sound of the warm breeze. 

We sit in the quiet for a while. 

My phone is lying open between us--I’m sending all the pictures I’ve taken of Rooster to the Dagger Squad group message. The photos are perfect, a collection of our day.

Rooster very early this morning--too early this morning, so early that most would consider it still night--when we loaded our luggage into the car and started for the airport. His eyes are closed, his nose wrinkled, his mouth half-smiling. He’s holding up a pathetic thumbs-up, lit up by the flash of my camera. Rooster sleeping on the airplane, his fingers half-enveloped in a bag of peanuts, his mouth hanging open and his head lolled to the side. Rooster walking through the airport, the photo blurred with movement, his grin wide and his mouth open as he spoke to me behind the camera. Rooster in the golden light of his childhood home, sitting at his father’s piano, smiling very handsomely. Rooster in a candlelit room, sitting on the continent of white bedding, a party hat strapped to his head. He’s smiling smaller in this one, the candles blown out, a fork in his hand. 

Me: The chronicles of Bradley “Birthday Boy” Bradshaw :) 

Rooster chuckles, shaking his head, pink dusting his cheeks. 

Bob responds first--breaks the dam, brings the rest of the squadron flooding in. 

Bobby: Now everyone say, “thank you, Bradley, for being born!”

Fanboy: thx 4 being born, old man! put any thought into retirement homes yet??

Coyote: morelike chronicles of Bradley “Dad Bod” Bradshaw 

Phoenix: you guys having fun?? send more pics of the house!!!!

Payback: Faye, blink twice if he’s forcing you to listen to him sing

Hangy: 36 going on 63. 

We’re both grinning when I look up at him again, pushing my phone to the mattress as it continues to buzz with messages. That’s how the group chat always is--one message is followed up with seventy others, streaming in steadily over the course of the day. 

“Can we talk about something?”

He sounds different from before--not upset, but somber. Pensive.

 He still has his party hat on.

I quirk a brow, but nod and bite my lip.

“Anything,” I tell him, taking another bite, “everything.”

Now he takes another bite, chewing carefully before he finds my eyes again. 

“It might not be the most fun topic,” he tells me, “or the most birthday appropriate.” 

Maybe a part of me felt a conversation like this coming. We are sitting in his empty childhood home, on his thirty-sixth birthday, in a state that he used to consider his home state. We have walked around this mostly-empty home all day, smelling his mother’s perfume, sitting on his father’s piano bench. There is still that distinct feeling that something is missing--inexplicably, truly missing.

“You’re the birthday boy,” I smile. 

He takes a breath. I sometimes wish that I had the good sense to steel myself. I have entirely forgotten what it is to be hurt by the one that loves you, because he has never done it in an unforgiving, unrelenting way. He has never tried to hurt me. My guard is totally and completely down now. I am all in, all the time. 

“When you were in the control room the day of the mission,” he starts, his voice low, “what was it like when I got shot down? When you thought I was…gone?” 

Oh. My throat is dry, tight. He’s right--this isn’t the most fun topic.

He’s never asked me this before--he has specifically never asked me this before. After he came home, we were cast in the bright white light of life--too busy soaking each other in, too busy falling in love, too busy moving him into my house--and refused to be eclipsed by the mission. He didn’t offer and I didn’t insist. So we just did not talk about it.

I know that it touched him deeply, perhaps deeper than any of his other missions. He still jolts awake sometimes, hair matted against his hot scalp, breaths jagged and rapid. I know he still has bad dreams about it--about ejecting, about not ejecting. I know he still sometimes gets shaky when he knows he has to fly that day--even if it is a routine drill, even if it is very nearly a joyride. I know he still has to collect himself at work sometimes, ducking into my office in the middle of the morning or just before we are due home, sitting in the chair across my desk. I know he asks for comfort silently, doesn’t verbalize his anxiety, just reaches out for me and finds purchase on my skin. I am always solid for him, always ready to take the brunt of it. 

We’re looking at each other now. Our forks are drooping in our slacked grips. 

“How honest should I be?” I ask. 

I’m asking if he wants me to sugar-coat any of it. 

He blinks a few times, sniffing, shaking his head softly. 

“Painfully,” he decides. 

Sometimes when I think back to that day--of Cyclone dismissing me, of Hangman finding me in the hallway, of Hangman holding me as I came entirely undone, of the hideous sobs that wracked me--I get nauseous. I feel like I can’t breathe. I feel like one of my shoes is gone. I feel like the back of my shirt is ripped.

But it’s Bradley’s birthday. I can do this for him, can be entirely honest, can be entirely true. 

“If I look at my life,” I start softly, letting the fork fall to the floor so I can bring my hands to my lap and hold them there, “and break it up and stack it like-like a tower of blocks--and all the good parts are on the bottom and bad parts are at the top--those few hours would be at the tip. The very, very tippy-top.”

My fingers are cold again--cold like they were the day my sister died, cold like they were on the carrier when Hangman tried to rub some heat into them. 

Rooster is watching my face, a crinkle between his flighty furrowed brows, his eyes half-shut, the corners of his mouth pointed towards the earth. He looks acutely anguished. 

“What did you do?”

Humming, I can’t help but fidget and readjust. 

“Cyclone asked me to take a lap. I don’t really know why, I guess,” I tell him, “maybe he could see it on my face.”

“See what?” Bradley whispers. 

His fork is on the floor now, too. The cake has been forgotten. I swallow hard. 

“Um,” I whisper, smiling very sadly, “agony.”

The crickets seem especially loud when we let the silence of the house swallow us. He’s watching my face with his lip tucked between his teeth, brows pulled together as he tugs the skin around his thumb nail. 

“Don’t want you to feel like you have to be…” I sigh, “you know--sorry or anything like that. I’ve never wanted you to feel that way.”

He nods. I’m looking at the cake--the raspberries are starting to capsize as the cream deflates and melts. 

“You know that I am, though,” he says, rasping, “I am sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

He sucks in a breath. 

“I shouldn’t have…” he trails off. 

And I know that he feels stuck. He’s stuck because if he didn’t disobey direct orders, if he didn’t go back for Maverick like his father would’ve--then he would have another loss, he would be reeling still. But when he did that, when he turned back, he could’ve blinked out of my life and left me here. There is no answer here. I know he’s sorry about all of it. I know. 

“What did you do when you took a lap?” He follows finally. 

I sit back, move my knees away from him so I can pull into myself, pull my knees up to my chest. I wrap my arms around my legs, the air-conditioning kissing my exposed shins, and set my chin atop my knees. 

Should I tell him all about it? Should I tell him about Hangman finding me? Should I tell him that my opal necklace, the one I never take off, falls on the exact same spot on my chest where Jake let his hand rest? Should I tell him that I was so beside myself that I ripped a good cardigan and kicked a shoe off? Should I tell him about the way my knees buckled and the way Jake had to collect me like a boneless heap in his arms? Or would it be too much--entirely too much--if he were to know these things? 

Swallowing, I shake my head. 

“I took a really long bathroom break,” I say decidedly, my hollow laughter following closely. 

He’s not laughing--not even dryly. He moves his birthday cake beside us and spreads his long legs, essentially blocking me between them. He leans back on his palms and nods for me to keep talking. 

“If I’m being entirely honest,” I start softly, “I wasn’t alone in there.”

His eyes are soft--they flicker with recognition. 

Then his face hardens suddenly, hardens so his eyes look darker and his lips look thinner and whiter. I know that he isn’t angry with me--know it isn’t in his nature to be angry with me, even when he wants to be.

“Say it,” I whisper. 

 He sucks in a breath. 

“I’m trying to imagine how upset you must’ve been for Hangman of all people to comfort you,” he says, his tone anguished and bitter. 

My chest tightens. 

“He was good to me,” I whisper back, “I might’ve sobbed myself to death without him there.”

He groans softly, raking a hand over his face. He presses against his eyelids for a moment. 

I want to tell him that we should stop talking about this. I want to tell him that this conversation is weighing too heavily on him, especially today, especially here. It is a conversation that is fruitful and pointless simultaneously. 

But I don’t say anything. I just watch him process. 

“I’m glad he was there,” he admits, still not taking his hand away from his face, “it just nauseates me to think about it.”

My spine prickles.

“About what? Him and me?”

He shakes his head and lets his hand slip to his lap lazily. He looks at me with red-rimmed eyes, heaves a sigh. 

“You thinking I was gone. You thinking I’d left you behind.”

Oh. My ears are red. Of course. That makes sense.  

“You didn’t, though. You didn’t leave me behind,” I sigh, “you aren’t gone.”

He nods a few times. 

After the mission, the squadron got a four-week sabbatical. It was a happy one, a celebratory one. Rooster is happy--I remember him being very, very happy. We didn’t talk about him leaving, didn’t talk about his next posting. We just took it day by day, soaking each other up, dying in each other’s arms every night.  

Sure, I knew he was thinking about it all. I knew he was digesting what happened in his own way, which was largely private. I was silently rubbing knots out of his shoulders every morning, kissing his palms when they fell victim to his fingernails, loving him as thoroughly and sweetly as I knew how.  

And it was on the second-to-last day of the sabbatical that he held the kitchen door open with his bare foot, leaned against the doorframe, and watched me silently for a few minutes as I crocheted on the couch. It took me a few moments to notice him, to notice his gaze. And when I finally looked up, when I finally smiled at him, that’s when he said it.  

“I’m staying,” he told me soberly, “I’m staying here.” 

“Okay,” I whispered back to him, biting a smile, “good.” 

Of course in the days and weeks after, he’d told me about the position as an instructor, about his interest in teaching the next generation of Top Gun pilots. I knew he wasn’t telling me everything, but I never pried. I took what he gave me and thanked him. It was all I needed.

Now I think I can feel it coming--all that truth, all those words. They’re bubbling inside Rooster’s chest. I know this is when he gives me everything. 

This is him walking up the stairs with his arms overflowing with clean laundry. Before, I was trailing behind him and grabbing discarded socks and fallen t-shirts. But now--now I think he is going to transfer the load into my arms. I think the truth is going to be warm and heavy in my arms, that I’m going to have to strain to see over it, that it’s going to smell like soap and linen.

“I’m a good pilot,” he starts and it isn’t cocky at all--he’s just saying it because it’s the truth, “and I’m a good wingman. And I used to think that was the most important thing in my life. It was, actually--for a long time, it was. No house to come home to, no wife, no kids, no parents, no girlfriend. It was easy to go on whatever detachment they wanted me to go on because I was just…alone.”

It feels like there is a ball of twine coiled harshly inside my chest. My eyes are watery. 

“And then there was you.”

He’s smiling softly at me, eyes swimming in that gooey-sort of love. Sticky and viscous like honey. 

“You know, I was hooked from the moment I first saw you,” he laughs, “squinting at the sun, smiling something stupid, waiting for me before you even knew me, calling me names.”

I nudge him, cheeks burning. He grins wickedly. 

“Then there was something to lose,” I say softly. 

His face softens, sobers. He nods. Yes, there was something to lose. Everything to lose.

“I wasn’t scared of dying,” he says. 

And then that’s all he says for a long moment. Death didn’t scare him before he met me. Death didn’t scare him because it meant that he would be with his parents again. Death meant being released from this lonely world and being catapulted into the one after, where the people he lost live. But then there was me. 

I’m biting my lips so hard that I taste pennies. 

“It was your face I saw,” he says softly, nodding, his eyes trained on mine but distant, “your mouth. Your nose. Your eyes. All of it. And to think about leaving you behind--God, it fucking broke me.”

That must’ve been the moment that he apologized to me. That must have been when he told me he was sorry in that private way over the comms, when he knew that I was listening. That must’ve been it. I was there with him, pressed into the back of his eyes, an amalgamation of his grief. I was going to be the last thing he thought of before he died. 

I hold his ankle in my hand, stroking him softly, soothingly. Any part of him touching any part of me slows our hearts in tandem--beats that can be measured easily, slowly.

“I thought I’d want to keep going,” he says, “thought I’d wanna keep flying. But then we had that month together. And I really, really thought our time before the mission was perfect. Don’t get me wrong--it definitely was in its own way. But those four weeks. I mean…that was the happiest I’d been since I was a kid.”

They were perfect. Late night drives in the Bronco with the windows down and the radio up. Early mornings at the farmer’s market, showing Rooster which stand had the best heirloom tomatoes. Afternoons on the beach, spread out across faded beach towels, wading in the warm water. Dinner with the Dagger Squad almost every evening, either on my living room floor or at The Hard Deck or on the patio of a seaside cafe. The weeks were perfumed with lavender, sunscreen, tequila, maple. 

“They’d offered me the position--the instructor position--pretty much immediately. I told them no at first. Then I told them I’d think about it.”

I nodded and he continued, eyes washing over me. My dress is fanned out around me now that I’ve stretched my legs out before me, my socked feet resting on the inside of his left thigh. 

“What changed?”

“Well,” he starts, sucking in a breath, splaying his fingers over my ankle mindlessly, “I went on a run one day. And I came home and you were crocheting on the couch, right where I left you. I went into the laundry room to grab a towel and realized that you had thrown in a load of my laundry. Nobody has done my laundry in a long time. And you know I don’t need you to--or expect you to--do my laundry.”

“I wanted to,” I say. 

He nods, squeezing my ankle. 

“Right. You wanted to. I guess…I guess I just got a little overwhelmed with it all. Being in the same house as you. Waking up with you every morning. Homemade food. You--God, everything about you made me want to stay. I just want to be the one that’s there with you for everything--wanna be the one that sings to you in parking lots and fixes your air conditioner. And suddenly,” he whispers, “I wasn’t willing to risk it all anymore. So I didn’t. I won’t. I feel like I’ve finally had enough. I can just sit still now.”

My throat is clogged. I want to cry, but it is his birthday, so I won’t cry. I am still the one that holds it down. 

Instead, I smile, squeeze him. His fingers drift from my ankle to my toes. He squeezes my socked foot a few times, a small smile tugging at his lips. I’m sure he feels relieved--finally telling me everything, letting it spill from his chest to mine. 

“I meant it when I said that you belong here,” I whisper gently, “right here, with me.”

He takes hold of my ankles and swiftly tugs me towards him, my legs falling over his spread ones so our hips graze another, our chests pressed together. He wraps his arms around my frame and pulls me closer, impossibly closer. 

“You’re good to me,” he mumbles before pressing his open mouth over mine. 

He’s warm and solid beneath my lips. He tastes like raspberries.

“Can’t help myself,” I say, smiling against his lips, pecking him a few more times as his mustache tickles my nose, “now, are you ready to open some presents?”

The evening welcomes us slowly--one minute, we were backlit by the dying sky and now we are in a shimmering, empty house with battery-operated candles flickering all around us. The crickets are quieted, but still croon gently outside. The house settles, croaking and groaning, but still echoes with a vast hollowness. 

It is almost midnight now. 

The cake is back in the refrigerator, covered with saran-wrap, beside the half-drunk bottle of cherry wine. All the electronic tea lights are on the living room floor now, corralled from the dusty cardboard box from the attic and the ones that straggled in the kitchen. All the birthday presents--an original pressing of Great Balls of Fire I bought on Ebay, a new pair of brown aviator Ray Bans, another Hawaiian shirt in a print he somehow didn’t have before, a film camera, two more good bottles of cherry wine--have been opened and are now neatly stacked beside Rooster’s suitcase. I am still in my dress and he is still in his jean shorts, but his Hawaiian shirt has been unbuttoned almost entirely. Beside us, his phone plays music, just loud enough to dull the sharp edge of silence. 

The end of (They Long To Be) Close To You by The Carpenters is floating through the air now..  

I am lying on my back on the mattress. Rooster is lying on his stomach, hugging my hips tightly with his head resting on my belly. I’m softly combing my fingers through his hair, cherishing every breath that fills his lungs and puffs out of his nose. He’s holding me tight, holding me down. It makes me feel like I can let go--makes me feel safe here. 

My eyes are heavy. I know his are, too. But I know he’s awake because his breathing isn’t louder than the music, than the crickets. I know his legs must be aching like mine, his mouth dry. We have been up for nearly twenty-four hours. 

“Pajamas,” I suggest quietly. 

He grunts very softly. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, muffled from the bunching of my dress that’s no doubt wet with his saliva, “s’still my birthday.” 

I pull his hair very softly. I wish I could pretend to be annoyed with him, but I can’t. I would do anything for him, whenever, wherever. But more than that, I truly understand why he wants to soak in every single moment of his birthday. He’d been celebrating them alone for a very long time before now. He deserves to live, breathe every moment of his birthday in whatever Hawaiian shirt he wants. And I’ll keep my dress on just for him to press his cheek into.

“Only another minute,” I tell him, glancing at my phone, “how do you want to spend it?”

He nuzzles deeper into my belly--kisses my ribs through my dress. His breath is hot, his body is heavy over mine. Even now, even after all this time together, the strength he possesses is enough to make me woozy. He is the strongest person I’ve ever met, ever will meet. He could take my life in his hands and raise it up over his head with complete and utter ease. He sighs softly, open mouth pressed against my ribs.

He’s saying: Like this. Just like this. Don’t move, hold still.  

So I do. I comb his sandy locks with all the softness I can muster, fingers expanding over his scalp and tangling in his hair. He’s still peppering kisses all over my midsection, still moving slowly, lazily. With every sweet, warm kiss he’s coming closer to me. 

Honey starts dripping from my heart--my eyes water. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed with it all--with all this endless love. 

It’s midnight now. I sweetly tug on his locks.

“You’ve officially had your thirty-sixth birthday,” I whisper, “are you the reviews in yet?”

He chuckles. Finally, he sits up; his forearms are resting on either side of my body, his chest pressed against mine, his hair mussed and messy from my fingers. He’s smiling, his face swimming with love in the twinkling light of the room. 

“S’gonna be tough to top next year,” he rasps, tilting his head, “you sure you’re up for the challenge?”

My throat is pulsing. 

“I’m always up for the challenge,” I return. 

He softens. His right hand cups my left cheek; his thumb grazes the scar on my chin sweetly, softly. 

“You keep changing things,” he says. 

When I quirk my brow, he continues, clearing his throat. 

“You keep making me like things I didn’t care about before,” he all but whispers, his breath warm as it fans over my face, “cats. Prosecco. Good sheets. My birthday.”

I’m laughing. He’s still watching me, fondness pulsing in his grin. 

“I’m showing you the finer things in life,” I tease, bringing my hand to his hair again, tugging his locks as his eyes slip shut again.

Stand By Me by Ben E. King starts. 

His eyes open suddenly, but he does not move from my grip, does not move away from me. His amber eyes are swimming, open and calm, as he begins searching my face. Fuck, he’s so beautiful right now. His eyes fall from the crown of my hair down to the swell of my cheek, to the slope of my nose, to the curve of my mouth, to the quirk of my brow. 

“What?” I whisper and I sound as love-drunk and breathless as I feel. 

He shakes his head slightly and sucks in a breath.

“I thought I’d be able to wait,” he whispers and I barely catch it, hardly hear him over the crickets and the music, “but I don’t think I can.”

He moves carefully, leaning up. I’m reeling at the loss of contact for a moment, my hands falling still at my side. His face is flushed, his smile wide and his lips wet. He’s digging in his pocket, his jean pocket, and that’s when I sit up on my elbows. 

I can feel my pulse in my eyes--it quickens. My heart is beginning to hammer in my chest, heat flooding my cheeks and throat. I suddenly know what is going to happen, know what he is reaching for, know why he didn’t want to change into pajamas, know why he wanted to stay awake past midnight. My mouth is dry and wet simultaneously as I gape at him.

His eyes fall to mine when he retrieves it finally--the marmalade-colored velvet box. It is small enough to fit comfortably in the palm of his hand. It is not big enough to hold earrings.

We’re looking at each other and he’s grinning and I’m reeling. He’s proposing to me--he’s about to propose to me--and all I can do is let my mouth fall open and wide. He leans forward and kisses my cheek softly before he nods to the side of the mattress. 

“C’mon,” he encourages, “stand up so I can do this properly.”

I’m not sure how I do it, but I’m on my feet and his hands steady me for a moment, gripping my hips. My dress is wrinkled as it spreads out over my legs again, my feet still socked, my hair messy from lying on my back and oh, my God he’s kneeling now on the floor. His face is flushed and he looks happy, so unbelievably happy. 

So darlin’, darlin’ stand by me / Oh, stand by me / Oh, stand / Stand by me 

His face is angled towards me as he takes my left hand in his right, holding the ring box in the palm of his left hand, waiting. He swallows and he’s laughing, a beautiful sound, one that is hollow and overwhelming. 

“Faye,” he rasps, “you’re the best person I’ve ever met--you’re my favorite person in the world and it’s not even close. I don’t even really remember what I was doing before I met you. Sleep-walking, I think. You’re fucking perfect, baby.”

My cheeks are wet, my mouth is open. He’s holding tightly to my fingers and I’m gripping him just as securely, just as tightly. My belly is pulsing with want, with excitement. 

“I think I knew I was going to marry you that first night at The Hard Deck,” he says, chuckling, “and it had a little bit to do with that dress and a lot to do with how easily you clicked into place. I’m only sorry it’s taken me so long to ask.” 

He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses the skin there, his mustache tickling me. My hands are very warm in his grasp, my heart still racing, my chest pulsing. 

“I told you--almost a year ago now--that you had to give me a chance. You had to let me try and know you all the way. And you really did give me a chance. I know you, baby. I know you better and better everyday,” he is grinning warmly, thumb stroking my hand, “and I wanna know you better everyday for the rest of our lives.”

He flicks the box open with his thumb and I very nearly fall to the floor, very nearly let my knees buckle under me. My breath is trapped in my throat, a bubble of air that could burst into a gleeful laugh. Through my glassy eyes, all I can make out is gold and opal and diamond.

“I think I love you too much; it scares me sometimes. Couldn’t even wait to do this tomorrow, like I planned--had to do it right now. But you make it all so fuckin’ easy, Faye. You won’t be alone ever again, not if I have somethin’ to say about it,” he’s being so earnest, his eyes pouring into mine, “let me take care of you forever. I promise I’ll make you happy. Marry me, baby.”

For a moment, I am speechless. It’s just him gazing up at me, his eyes wide and wet and his mouth twitching into a grin. It’s just me gazing down at him with my messy hair and my wet cheeks and my flushed face. I’m holding tight to his hand, heart hammering, breath stuttering. Stand By Me is winding to a close, the crickets are crying quietly, and the house settles with a sigh. 

“As if you even had to ask,” I finally whisper, my voice thin and tearful. 

And then we’re both laughing and I’m still crying and he’s pressing kisses to my hand as he takes the ring from the box and carefully slips it onto my fourth finger. It glides up easily and rests decidedly, glimmering in the electric glow of the candles. 

He’s grinning up at me, still kneeling on the floor of his childhood home, when he cups my hand in his and presses a soft kiss over the ring. 

I am engaged. I am engaged.  

He stands and wraps me in his arms and we’re kissing and I’m crying and laughing and my heart is weeping and my eyes are heavy and his lips are warm and the living room is empty, empty, empty except for us. The ring is a new weight on my finger--just heavy enough for me to remember that it is there. He’s kissing my throat, pushing my hair away from my face, telling me he loves me.

And that’s when I almost say it.

I have to call my sister!  

It almost lurches from me like it’s completely normal, like she isn’t really gone at all. She is gone, though. She’s gone and she isn’t back in San Diego, waiting on my call. She didn’t go to the jewelry store and help Bradley pick out the stone or tell him what color of band I wanted or let the jeweler use her identical hand for a size reference. She’s not going to pop a bottle of champagne at The Hard Deck tonight and announce that her sister is engaged, isn’t going to insist that a round is on her. She isn’t going to plan my bachelorette party or get me ready the morning of my wedding. She isn’t going to get drunk and cry during her speech, the strap of her dress falling down her glowing shoulder. She isn’t here to do these things. No, she isn’t. 

Bradley pulls back, cupping my face, pressing his palms to my cheeks. He’s looking down at me so steadily, so sweetly that I’m swooning all over again. He thumbs the tears from under my eyes and smiles. 

“Are you happy?” 

He asks me this like he knows that I almost slipped up, that I almost grabbed my phone and dialed my sister’s number. 

“Yes,” I tell him, “so, so happy.”

I am happy. Yes, it is infecting me wholly. I have never felt more happy about anything in my life. It is my favorite thing that has ever happened to me. I am shaking because I am so happy, crying because I am so excited. This is good. This is perfect. This is what I want. Even if Maggie isn’t here--I will allow myself to be this happy. This stupid, blind sort of happy. 

We kiss a few more times, him still holding my cheeks, but then he grasps my wrist and brings it to rest on his shoulder. 

“It fits, right?” 

I nod, flushed. 

“Lucky guess?”

He shakes his head, smiling. 

“You sleep real hard when you drink tequila,” he tells me, laughing. 

My spine prickles. I have to rack my brain, but I’m sure--yes, I’m entirely sure that the last time I drank tequila was in late August, just before everyone departed. Yes, that was the last time I drank enough to fall asleep before Bradley, before even waiting for my moisturizer to absorb. 

“I’ve known for a long time,” he tells me, like he knows that I’ve just made the connection, “started working on it in September. Picked it up just before Christmas.”

I wish I could just sit on the floor and scream into a pillow--the excitement that’s bursting through me makes me want to resort to juvenile antics. 

“I knew you had a crush on me,” I bite back, as if I’m not still tearing at this moment. 

He hums, nodding, pressing another kiss to my nose. 

My hand looks so pretty resting on his shoulder; my fingernails trimmed and clean of polish, my fingers lanky and soft. And the ring looks perfect there--very delicate and feminine. 

I really look at the ring now.  It is a gold ring, the band thin and round. There is an opal stone set in the middle, the color of a moonbeam, a sweet circle. And set around the opal are dainty white diamonds. It looks like a flower, or what children draw when they make the sun. 

“The opal is antique. The diamonds and the band, though--they’re from my mother’s engagement ring. She liked bling, but I knew that wouldn’t be for you. So I had the gold melted down and reconstructed,” he tells me, watching my face carefully, “and what was leftover made this.”

His thumb lands on my opal pendant. I’m melting beneath his touch. 

It is his mother’s gold--the gold that sat on her finger, a gift from the man she married. A gift from the man she lost. A gift from the man--the only man--she ever loved. It has been sitting in the middle of my chest since October, right in the middle of my breathing, and I didn’t even know it. I have been so close to her in this way. 

He thumbs the few fresh tears that roll down my cheeks. 

“I had no idea,” I mutter. 

He flashes a pretty, pretty smile. A smile that I will get to see each morning and every night. 

“That’s the whole point of a surprise, baby.”

Be My Baby by The Ronettes begins, soft below my sniffling and his laughter. 

We look at each other. His eyes are the color of amber glass, his lips smiling, his skin flushed and sweet. He looks tired, but ecstatic. Deliriously happy. He is shaking his head softly, pressing his nose against mine, kissing my cheeks. 

“You can ask me to dance and I’ll say yes,” I whisper to him. 

He doesn’t ask--doesn’t have to. He just kisses my forehead, pulls my body flush against his. He encloses his arms around me and lets his hands splay at the base of my spine, fingers needling through the cut-out of my dress to press against my skin. 

I leave my left hand in its place on his shoulder. I twirl his curls around the fingers of my right hand, lean forward so his lips are pressed against my forehead. He’s humming softly and it vibrates against my skin, makes me want to cry. 

Oh, since the day I saw you / I have been waiting for you 

We don’t say anything while we twirls us around the room. I think both of our eyes are closed, I think we are breathing the same breaths. And I think our spines prickle when we think of stepping out of this moment--away from this home that was once his parents but is now just Bradley’s. But then I’m biting my lip because this dainty gold on my finger, the ring that fits so snuggly, is a guarantee that everything that was his will be mine. This home is ours.

“You’re my girl,” Bradley whispers and his voice is strained like he’s holding something back, holding something in. 

“Always was,” I return, “take me to bed now.” 

I press a very soft kiss to his throat, just over the scar there. 

☾ ☽

I wake up before Bradley. It is early, very early--the morning light is baby blue as it streams in from the windows all around us. Beside the mattress, beside Bradley’s naked form tangled in sheets and blankets, there are two empty glasses stained with cherry wine. Stacked beside the glasses are photo albums that we found in the attic, ones we flicked through after dinner last night. His phone is still playing music, which we had fallen asleep to. April She Will Come by Simon & Garfunkel is floating through the empty air. There are birds singing outside, flittering past the windows in a stream of brown and gray and white.

I’m lying on my side, facing Bradley, watching him sleep with his mouth wide open. His broad chest, flushed with sleep, is rising and falling very steadily. The dim morning light is just beginning to touch the sheets, just beginning to kiss his skin. My hand is resting on his belly, the ring glimmering in the sun.  

It is our last day here, in this house.  It has been good to us. So good to us that I almost don’t want to leave here, don’t want to leave Virginia. Most of all--I don’t want to leave the house sitting here by itself. The house must have been so lonesome before we came, sitting here with it’s white walls and sprawling bedrooms, settling on the green lawn. Before we came, nobody sat at the piano and played Your Song by Elton John as I set a tray of cookies on the counter to cool. Before we came, nobody used the red-tiled shower in the primary bathroom, nobody cherished the checkered floors. No one sat in the enclosed greenhouse, basking in its heat, imagining the herbs that could grow in the ample sunshine. No one walked the property, hand-in-hand, and pointed out all the old familiar places. Before us, the house was silent. No music to be played, no love to be made, no laughter to be had. 

Bradley mentioned the night before last, as he grazed the wallpaper in his mother’s room, that he was considering selling it. He said it solemnly, eyebrows drawn together and mouth clamped shut tightly. I did not press, never press him. But he continued on his own, sighing, telling me that he hated that it sat empty.

I’ve thought about it. I would be sad to sell my home back in California; my sister had been there so many times that I sometimes wondered if there were still little pieces of her there, particles and atoms. I would be sad to leave everyone in Fightertown, I think, but I would find a new job. I would miss the beach very much and the palm trees. The Hard Deck, the stench of jet fuel. Yes--I would miss it all very much.

But life would be sweet here in Virginia. 

We could fill up these bedrooms the way his parents intended. We could paint the walls and pick out new furniture to nestle in beside his mother’s things. We could plant a new garden in the eye of the circle drive. We could plant herbs and flowers in the greenhouse and plant fruits and vegetables outback. We could buy some chickens and always eat fresh eggs. We could buy some goats to graze the acres, a cow to milk. Stevie could find companionship with field kittens and stray tomcats. We could stay here, where there’s room for everything, and drown in quilts and sweetgrass and weathered wood. 

We could stay.

“Mornin’,” Bradley whispers, voice thick with sleep, not opening his eyes. 

“Morning,” I return, grazing his cheek. 

He hums at my touch. 

“S’too early,” he tells me, cracking an eye open to peer at the color of the sky, “c’mere.”

He pulls me so I’m resting on top of him. We are both naked, pressed up against each other in these sheets. My cheek is in the middle of his chest and I can hear it, can hear his heartbeat as it steadily thumps. He’s stroking my hair very gently, his touch still stuttering with exhaustion. 

“I was thinking,” I whisper. 

I can feel his tired smirk from above me, the one that precedes a jibe. 

“Lord help us all,” he muses. 

A beat passes. I kiss his skin. He is starting to smell like gardenia perfume.

“What if you didn’t sell the house?”

His hand halts and rests heavily on the top of my head. His thumb is still stroking, though, the way it always does. 

“It would keep on sitting here, then, I guess.”

Another beat. 

“Well, what if you didn’t sell the house because we moved in?”

Now he pauses completely, frozen beneath my cheek. His heart rate is still steady--I count the thumps. He’s digesting, waking up still. A few moments pass. We quietly sit in my suggestion. 

“That’s what you want?” 

I look up at him. His eyes are open wider now, his hand falling to the back of my neck. 

“Yes,” I whisper, “I think.”

He nods, his expression borderline unreadable. He watches my eyes, my mouth. Then the corners of his mouth begin to tug upwards softly. He resumes his gentle stroking of my unbrushed hair. 

“We could get married in California,” I suggest, lazily dragging my index finger over his tanned skin, “then make the big move after.”

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he says. 

I nod. 

“Yes,” I smile, “daydreaming.”

He grins at that. 

“There’d be a lot to do,” he says and he isn’t lecturing me, more musing to himself out loud, “we’d have to pack up, ship out. We’d have to sell the house. I’d have to apply for a transfer.”

I hum against him. He’s right--it would be a lot. 

“We could give ourselves a year,” I suggest, “get married, sell the house, make the move.”

He’s just gazing down at me now, his hair messy and his eyes glassy. He’s biting a grin. His cheeks are still flushed, lines from the pillows pressed into his skin. 

“Say that first one again,” he commands, his voice low. 

A warm tingle shimmies up the column of my spine. 

“Get married,” I say. 

It still makes me blush to say that . Get married. I’m getting married. We’re getting married. It’s all so much, so overwhelmingly perfect. I have to swallow all my giddiness, all my excitement. 

“Mmm,” he whispers, “music to my ears.”

Everyone knows now. 

Rooster had taken a photo of me early in the morning after the proposal. I’d woken up before him, slipped into his button-up shirt from the night before, and started on banana pancakes. He woke up the the sound of David Bowie, walked into the kitchen to me setting the table with a mug in my hand. And before I could even say anything, he had grabbed his phone and reached for my hand, snapping a photo of my messy, happy form. 

The responses were immediate. 

Bob FaceTimed me instantaneously, his face pressed up against Phoenix's. They had been all grins, maybe even a little tearful, as they congratulated us and asked to see the ring over and over. It was Phoenix who teased Rooster for proposing on our first night--which made him shrug, smug. I’m a man who knows what I want is what he’d told them. 

Coyote, Fanboy, and Payback had--of course--placed a bet on when it would happen. And they had no issue telling us about it in the group message, chastising Rooster for not holding off longer.

The last person to respond was Hangman.

 I was on the back porch, sitting on the steps with a glass of cherry wine, catching my breath. The crickets were chirping beneath the song of the cicadas, the trees billowing in the evening breeze. Somewhere distantly, there was a cow mewling, frogs crooning on the edge of a pond.

Rooster was in the kitchen, finishing up dinner, singing an REO Speedwagon song off-key as he waited for the salted water to boil. 

That was when Hangman called--like he knew I would be alone. 

“Cowboy,” I greeted with a soft smile, pressing my phone against my cheek as I burrowed deeper into my cardigan, “been waiting on your call.”

It was quiet on the other end for a moment. 

He must’ve been at home by then. Some small apartment with clean floors and not enough closet space. Some apartment that’s close enough to base but not close enough to any bars. A place where he was alone most of the time, lying between cheap sheets with some half-read Teddy Roosevelt biography on the bedside table.

“Hey, kid,” he greeted, exhaling, “just saw the news.”

I glanced down at my ring--the heaviness was still foreign on my finger. A good foreign, though--one I couldn’t wait to embrace, one I knew would be easy to fall into. The opal gleamed beneath the setting sun. 

“Aren’t you gonna say congratulations?”

A beat passed. 

“Congratulations,” he said flatly. 

 For a moment, I wasn’t sure what to say. 

He was always brazen about his crush on me--it wasn’t groundbreaking when he shot me those private winks, when he teased Bradley, when he asked me to dance with him. But we had become friends since the Uranium detachment--closer friends than I ever thought we would be. We had shared that private moment the day of the mission, one where I’d let him achingly close, one where he’d proved to be a necessary solidness beneath my fingertips. And after that, we’d been friends. Good friends--the kind of friends that should be happy for each other when they get engaged. 

“That’s all you got?” I asked gently. 

He sighed. 

“I’m happy for you,” he said, a little louder now, “really. I am.”

Then I let another beat pass--let him sit in silence. 

“Thanks,” I’d said, “I’m happy, too.”

“Stupid happy?” he teased. 

I bit a grin, craning my neck to look through the kitchen window. Bradley was bobbing his head to a song that wasn’t playing, chewing the song as it burst through his lips, stirring a saucepan of white-wine braised garlic. It made my heart throb. 

“Yeah,” I sighed, shaking my head, “stupid happy.” 

“What about February,” Bradley muses, still smiling, still raking his hands through my hair, “is that enough time?”

I nod, raising my eyebrows.  

“February would be good,” I tell him. 

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: I am......in love w these dumbasses. that's why there's a five-part epilogue series. gotta get all that fluff out. xoxo thank you all so much for reading :)

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[liviavanrouge]

Twst Next Gen

@anxious-twisted-vampire @yukii0nna @writing-heiress

The sound of laughter filled the air, students and parents saying their farewells or chatting with one another. "You girls got everything you need on you in your pouches?"Livia asks smiling at the two second year girls. Ramona nodded, a pouch necklace around her neck, filled with a few items. "Got everything, Mama!"Clover beamed flicking her tail around behind her. Jack nodded, and flicked his ears as his tail wagged behind him. "Don't worry Dad, everything will be fine"Ramona reassures. "Hey guys!" Vil waved, walking past with his husband and four kids. "Hey!"Livia beamed. Vil turned to his eldest daughter, smiling as he fixed her clothes. "Got everything? Allergy medicine, your jumper, stuffed animal?"Vil asks looking at his third year child. "Yes Father, I grabbed them"Anne smiled as Vil fixed the bag on her shoulder. "Did you grab your inhaler, Hunter?"Golden asks looking at the muttering second year boy. "Yep"Hunter mutters working on a gadget. "I'm not even surprised that he entered Ignihyde last year"Vil sighed chuckling.

"Daisy, you be good alright.."Vil adds Golden hoisting Miana up onto his shoulders behind them. "Yes Papa, I will"Daisy nodded. Hunter beamed, his robotic butterfly fluttering away. A reddish brown haired girl with lion ears batted her hands playfully at it beaming. "MITSURI!"Leona calls. "Oh, sorry dad!"Mitsuri giggled hurrying over. "Remember Liana, take care of your younger sister, siblings must depend on each other.."Leona reminds looking at the yawning third year girl. "Yes Father, I got it.."Liana says flicking her tail lazily behind her. "MINTY!!!"Mitsuri beamed tackling Rook's third year son down. "Mitsu! HEY!"Minty grinned lifting her up, looking amused. "How beaute! Our children get along wonderfully, Leona!"Rook smiled. "Because unlike you your son isn't a maniac stalker"Leona huffed as Liana nodded in greeting to Rook's boy. "THOSE TWO on the other hand!"Leona growled pointing to Rooks second and first year sons. Dutch and Hake waved, smiling cheekily at an irked Liana. "RACE YOU!!" Two kids laughed, running past, grins on their faces.

"Jackie! Rina! Come here girls!"Trey calls beckoning to his racing children. The two girls walked over, grins on their faces. "Rina, did you get your stuffed cake plush?"Briar asks brushing some hair back behind her ear. "Yes mother"Rina nods. "Dante, watch your sisters alright"Trey smiled patting the head of a boy near identical to him if it weren't for his yellow eyes. "Got it"Dante nods fixing his glasses. "You too Raven"Briar adds. "I will"Raven chuckles. Ace and Deuce laughed with one another, Allison making sure Hazel and Maddie had their things. "I got everything Mrs Spade"Maddie assures. "I watched her Mom, she grabbed everything she needed"Hazel signed to her mother, Maddie throwing her a warning glare. "I know sign language!"Maddie yells. "HEYY!" Floyd walked over, his daughters behind him. "Yanama, Coral"Hazel signs in greeting, hugging the two girls. "Hey~~"Coral giggled. "Nice to see you"Yanama smiled. Honey tackled Coral down, the two wrestling. "My, My, my daughter is like her uncle"Jade chuckled.

Epel leaped out of the way, his kids laughing at his startled expression. "Shut your pie holes!"Epel commands giving his two kids warning glares. "Sorry Dad!"Betty giggled her mother fixing her pigtails. "I'm not!"Dusk smirked looking smug. "And I raised you, this is how you repay me"Epel sighed shaking his head. Dusk barked out a laugh, then hugged his father. "Sorry old man"Dusk chuckled. "WATCH THE OLD MAN COMMENT!"Epel scolds. Sean walked with Tornado, fixing his deaf sons hair. "Be careful alright?"Sean signed to the boy. "I will"Tornado nodded. Jamil walked after his son, Scorch heading over to the Al-Asim's. "Jamil!"Kalim smiled Virva fixing their kids clothes. "Harry, Sky, Aladdin, be respectful and listen to the adults and dorm heads"Virva reminds. "Yes Mommy, we got it!"Sky nods. Shadow walked over with Thunder and Grey, smiling as his sons ran off with Jamil and Kalim's kids. "How's being a dad?"Jamil asks. "Stressful"Shadow huffed.

Idia hugged his twin daughters tight, Bella and Star chuckling quietly knowing he didn't want them to go even though it was already their third year. "Got your tablets, is my emergency contact number at the top?"Idia demands. "We got it Father"Bella giggled shaking her head. "Hey guys!" Zaiyu walked over with Flame. "Hey Flame!"Star beamed. Citro came over with his twins, Ophelia and Ash waving. "Hey Ash, how are you?"Bella signed to the mute and deaf boy. "Doing good, my fever has gone away"Ash signed back. Ruggie patted his girls on the head, before going through their bags. "Poppy, you forgot your allergy medicine, you're lucky I grabbed it"Ruggie scolds. "Dad, I don't even think they serve blueberries much around school"Poppy complained. "Better to be prepared"Holly quotes. "Like I always say"Ruggie smiled nodding to his eldest in approval. "Whatever"Poppy grumbled.

Riddle fixed his daughters bow, making sure it was tight but not too tight. "There, have you gotten your books and pens"Riddle says. "Yep, got all my books"Mary says. "Riddle!" Che'Nya landed holding his blind sons hand. "Chi-Chi, Che'Nya"Mary greets. Chi-Chi ran his fingers over Riddle's face, the man smiling. "Hi Uncle Riddle"Chi-Chi greets before running his fingers across a smiling Mary's face. "Mary"Chi-Chi smiled. Bandit chatted with Denzel, twitching his ears. "Dad, Tako pulled by braid!"Penny complained. "Bandit.."Denzel frowned. "My son didn't mean it.."Bandit frowned giving Tako a look. "There was a leaf in her hair!"Tako protests holding a leaf in his hand. "Still, that hurt!"Penny snorted. "YOU'RE SO SPOILED!"Tako frowned. Evonie led her husband forward, a bandanna around Azul's eyes. "Lily, do you have your octopus plush?"Azul asks. "D-DAD!! REALLY??! IN PUBLIC!"Lily cried embarrassed. Evonie giggled, flustering their daughter. "Y-Yes...I have It though.."Lily mutters.

Silver smiled slightly, hugging his daughters. "Be careful, stay vigilant and protect one another, no matter what"Silver says Jinlong fixing their elder twins hair. "Yes Father"Hina nodded. "We'll stick together!"Cedar beamed bumping her twins hip with hers. Hina sighed, her stoic look wavering for a moment as a smile tried to break though. "SETH! GET OVER HERE!!" Juniper tackled his younger brother down, the two wrestling. "BOYS!!"Cerulan gasped. Sebek grabbed his sons by the jacket collars, giving them a scolding glare. "Ruh-ro.."Juniper smiled knowing they were in trouble. "Oh my"Neige laughed watching Sebek scold his sons.  "Dad, I see Vil and Anne!"Apple beamed. "ANNE!"Apple waved. Anne beamed and ran over, throwing her arms around Neige's daughter, the two falling to the ground laughing. "Hey Neige"Vil greets. Jazzy walked past behind them with Dexter, Cole, Ellie and Hansel heading over to Merryweather. Rollo quietly chatted with Crewel, smiles on their faces.

"I remember the look on Ramona and Clover's faces when they were assigned their dorms, Clover whined about wanting to be with her twin"Rollo grinned. "Your goddaughters are quite the handful"Crewel chuckled. Rosaline silently read her book, Elliot laughing as he chatted with Sam, Alex and Lavender. "This years first years are gonna be trouble!"Lavender giggled. "I was with Vil and his family when Daisy's mirror package came and revealed that her soul matched Savannaclaw! Vil was so shocked, horrified yet proud!"Elliot laughed. "Imagine a Schoenheit in Savannaclaw, but Hunter is in Ignihyde so I ain't even surprised"Alex smiled. "Agreed, this years devils are quite interesting!"Sam chuckled. Faunick smiled as he watched the students and their parents, Flick watching beside him. "Too bad you don't have a wife"Flick says. Faunick looked sharply at him and grabbed his brothers hair. "YOU WANNA THROW DOWN JERK!!!"Faunick demands as Flick yells in surprise.

"Some of the students look strong down there already"Vargas comments Crewel looking unamused. "Well, I hope you can whip the weaker ones into shape Professor, or else your reputation is gonna be on the line"Rollo mocked. Crewel chuckled, liking Rollo. The gong went off, silence filling the courtyard as all eyes lifted to the balcony. "Welcome students to a new year at Diamond Nightsword Academy"Headmistress Gonnal calls beaming down at everyone. "Tomorrow and today will be an exploring day, the day you all can get used to the building and classrooms!"Headmaster Crowley announces. "Parents, you all are welcomed to stay for the rest of today before you say your farewells to your children!"Headmaster Ambrose chuckled. "After school art class has been added per request of a few of the dorm leaders!"Headmistress Gonnal adds. "Everyone enjoy this new school year!"

[ciaossu-imagines]

💕 or 📖 from the get to know me meme (for you)

Oh my…I’m super flattered and honestly a little amazed that I got questions for myself (I figured it would be mostly characters with maybe an ask thrown in here and there for my OC’s). So I’m really happy about that but at the same time, god, did you pick the two hardest questions for me ahaha! Like, these are super, duper tough for me to answer! I’ma try my best though!!

Your two top fave fictional characters?

Impossible to answer. Simply impossible. There are so many really great, nuanced, interesting characters out there in so many different forms of media. There are so many characters I really love and have developed deep bonds with over the years and to pick just two is impossible. It’s also really hard because, as I’ve admitted before, my favourites are always constantly changing. Even for just my fandoms on here, my favourite characters are constantly shifting and changing for the most part. Outside of the fandoms I write for on here, Watson from Sherlock Holmes, Ron Weasley from Harry Potter, Leo from the Heroes of Olympus series, and Frank from Hold Me Closer, Necromancer are some of my favourite literary characters. For video games, it’s Link and Princess Peach all the way for me, because I was raised on a babysitter’s Nintendo and first loves die hard. To try to give a better answer, I’ll also give my current favourite two characters from each of my fandoms, but remember that in like, two months, these will likely have changed:

For KHR, it’s currently Tsuna and Haru.

For K, it’s Fujishima and Shouhei, currently.

For Servamp, it’s Tsurugi and Yumi and Jun. Just all three of them.

For Iruma-kun, it’s Ifrit and Kalego.

For Bungou Stray Dogs, it’s Fukuchi and Fukuzawa.

For Nanbaka, it’s Hajime and Samon.

For Eyeshield 21, it’s Kid and Agon.

For The Vampire Dies in No Time!, it’s Ronaldo and Shot.

For JJK, it’s Panda and Bernard.

For Dogs, it’s Badou and Giovanni.

For Mashle, it’s Dot and Finn.

For A3!, it’s Tsuzuru and Sakyo.

For S8, it’s Shadow and Reki.

For YYH, it’s Kuwabara and Yusuke.

For Demon Slayer, it’s Zenitsu and Rengoku.

For Assassination Classroom, it’s Karma and Rio.

For Black Cat, it’s Sven and Charden.

For Bleach, it’s Renji and Akon.

For Blue Lock, it’s Ego and Bachira.

For Buddy Daddies, it’s Miri and Rei.

For BNHA, it’s Fat Gum and Mirio.

For Chainsaw Man, it’s Power and Hirofumi.

For Deadman Wonderland, it’s Senji and Karako.

For Fairy Tail, it’s Lucy and Rogue.

For Gangsta., it’s Nic and Hausen.

For GetBackers, it’s Emishi and Ginji.

For Gintama, it’s Gintoki and Kagura.

For Golden Kamuy, it’s Asirpa and Ogata.

For Haikyuu, it’s Daichi, Suga, and Asahi – all three are tied in a great big bow like a giant present and they’re where a vast majority of my love is going. And lust…some of that most definitely.

For Hunter x Hunter, it’s Ging and Chrollo.

For High Card, it’s Chris and Vijay.

For Hinomaru Sumo, it’s Hinomaru and Yuma.

For Joker Game, it’s Sakuma and Jitsui.

For Karneval, it’s Gareki and Yogi.

For Kuroko no Basuke, it’s Taiga and Midorima.

For Magi, it’s Jafar and Sinbad.

For Yowamushi Pedal, it’s Makishima and Sakamichi.

For Mob Psycho 100, it’s Shigeo and Dimple.

For Naruto, it’s Sasori and Deidara.

For One Punch Man, it’s Zombieman and King.

For One Piece, it’s Luffy and Smoker.

For Ronin Warriors, it’s Rowen and Kento.

For Ouran, it’s Honey and Haruhi.

For Saiyuki, it’s Gojyo and Goku.

For The Royal Tutor, it’s Heine and Bruno.

For Tokyo Revengers, it’s Mikey and Ken.

For Soul Eater, it’s Maka and Stein.

For Durarara, it’s Celty and Shinra.

For Kekkaishi, it’s Tokine and Shishio.

For 07-Ghost, it’s Frau and Hyuuga.

For Windbreaker, it’s Mitsuki and Tasuku.

For Beyblade, it’s Kenny and Madoka.

For Black Clover, it’s the whole of the Agrippa family because their designs are cool and Zora.

For Mystic Messenger, it’s V and Jumin.

For Ikemen Revolution, it’s Fenrir and Sirius.

For Class of the Titans, it’s Neil and Odie.

For Gravity Falls, it’s Stan and Wendy.

For Ultimate Spider-Man, it’s Danny and Peter.

For The Covenant, it’s Pogue and Tyler.

For The Mighty Ducks, it’s Averman and Fulton.

For The Outsiders, it’s Dally and Pony.

For Hold Me Closer, Necromancer, it’s Frank and Sean.

Fave book?

I have a lot of books that I dearly love. Much like with characters, it’s really impossible to just choose one. The list of them all that I think are fantastic would fill whole pages. I read a lot of different genres though, surprising because it’s a large part of what I write, pure romance remains the only thing I don’t enjoy reading at all. Mostly because I find them either very formulaic with cliched characters or I find the romances they portray to be vaguely (or in some cases, not so vaguely) toxic. There are a few exceptions to that rule as there are a few romances that I did enjoy, but largely because of other factors within the story. There’s a Harlequin series, of all things, underneath their paranormal romance series, called the Bloodrunners and I enjoyed those. I also enjoyed Dante and Aristotle Discover the Secrets of the Universe. I read a lot of biographies (mostly recently read Britney Spears biography), adore cozy mysteries (currently reading the Murder, She Wrote novel series) and not so cozy mysteries (excited to start the second book in the John Ceepak mysteries). I also read a lot of urban fantasy (big fan of the fantastical noir tropes, with Who Censored Roger Rabbit being a fantastic example and I do enjoy the Dresden Files). Horror though? That’s my jam. I’ve been a huge Stephen King fan since I was around eleven and I really love Grady Hendrix. I also am not someone who feels I need to keep myself to reading only adult novels. I love kids books. I recently revisited and read all the classic Goosebumps books for a wave of nostalgia and despite being written for kids, I love the Percy Jackson series and own a lot of both the Nancy Drew and the Hardy boys novels. Of course, the classics are always worth reading. I reread Alice in Wonderland and The Little Prince quite often, along with the Anne of Green Gables novels, Little Women/Little Men, and Frankenstein quite often. Basically, I just really love books and always appreciate any good recommendations for new ones.

[continent-of-wild-endeavor]

Thinking on names for this girl. She's called Teen Mom right now, but if she raises this second (intentional) litter as well as she did the first, she'll be staying a while, and should get a more respectful name.

All my does have flower names, one way or another, but naming rabbits is low stakes so it's not too strict.

J suggested Wildflower, and idk that I like that as a name, but perhaps a wild flower? Something that plants itself? Thought about the song Wildwood Flower; that name is too long, but it contains Myrtle, Rose, and sometimes Hyssop and Amanita (not a flower, but a fun possibility).

Dandelion? Violet? It fits, but I've got a niece named Violet, so if I go that way I'll have to name an animal after all the younglings. Anemone? Deadnettle & Henbit sound mean. Honeysuckle/Honey? I like that one, with her color. I haven't done a Clover, or a Buttercup.

The second picture amuses me, and reminds me of that Mitch Hedberg joke about Bigfoot actually being blurry. So I could call her Bigfoot or Sasquatch & break my naming convention.