#and i might split that with a picture of the cigarette to show how its also partially something he uses to cope

[grapecaseschoices]

Hello! Dropout anon back again! I was wondering if u had a pinterest board for Lloyd and Hayden? I would love to see their aesthetic. 👀👀

i doooooooooo. but i am very - as ive said - nitpicky because i like to organize it a certain away. BUT you lucked out! my indecisive ass flipped a coin and it said to share it.

it actually isn't BAD as is, so that's part of my motivation of sharing it.

the board is split into sections. so here are there aesthetic sections:

lloyd duarte.

Hayden Moise.

[starlessea]

𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Prologue 0. Closing Time

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 6286

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

The sky was empty — save for one bird.

Daryl watched it fly above him, so close to the ground that he could make out the beating of its wings and swore he saw individual feathers flutter in the breeze.

His fingers itched over his crossbow, as he contemplated shooting it down from the sky and plucking it clean. He'd have something to eat then, at least. Though, for some reason, Daryl Dixon couldn't bring himself to let loose his arrow, watching as the bird soared overhead — and disappeared beyond the trees.

The man sighed as he kicked up some loose stones with the toe of his boot. What a waste, he thought, before trudging through the field once again.

The sky remained cloudless for the rest of the day, existing as a pale, washed-out grey that made Daryl feel uncomfortable as he hunted. The game must have felt the same, since the deer he'd been tracking made itself scarce, and the string of squirrels hanging from his belt seemed no heavier than it had done when the sun rose that morning.

Still, he trekked onwards over the thick, winding grass and through damp forest overgrowth. He was nearly back at the quarry already, but he hardly had anything to show for it. A few measly rodents and a sprained ankle were barely worth his trip in the first place; they sure as hell wouldn't be enough for all of the mouths he now had to feed.

Daryl cursed at himself for hesitating to shoot that bird straight out of the sky, and clip its wings. It wasn't much, but maybe it would have lasted a day if he was lucky. Still, there was no use wondering now, since it had swooped so close to him that he almost felt the downward draft on his cheek — and then he let it fly away.

He thought that it had been a jaeger; it definitely looked like a seabird that had veered too far from the shore. It was a gull with a white breast and dark, blackish feathers — and a wingspan that made sure you couldn't miss it.

He remembered you pointing one out to him, at 3am, parked up on that deserted beach as the two of you stared out into the rocking ocean.

"Ya thinkin' 'bout 'er again, baby brother?"

Daryl could hear Merle's voice taunt, in the deepest, darkest corners of his thoughts.

"Tha' lil' birdie of yours?"

He quickly shook his head — even though it was the truth.

It had been Daryl's own mind that conjured up those words, after all. Merle wasn't actually here. He was probably back at the campsite, lazing about and leering after women far too good for a beaten-up redneck like him.

Though, funnily enough, Merle had said the exact same thing to Daryl when he noticed his gaze settling over the new bar server, who swiped away the froth spilling over from their draught beers. Merle had given him even more of an earful when he realised that his younger brother was waiting for her shift to end.

Daryl took a deep breath, before rolling his neck to try and relieve the tension that had built up there. Once his mind drifted into thoughts of you — even if only for a split second — it often sank to the point of no return.

You were all consuming; you had been from the first time he laid eyes on you in that old, country auto-repair shop.

He remembered the way your voice chirped like a bird's, despite the curses that often fell from your lips.

You even made those sound sweet.

And he could also recall the way you yelled over the rumble of his bike engine, and competed with the screeching that came from his tyres losing their grip on the worn-out tarmac.

You'd told him that it felt like you were flying — and that was probably the reason why Daryl Dixon couldn't shoot that jaeger.

Then, the man heard something louder than he had done since the world ended — and suddenly, the sky was no longer empty.

There was an explosion, and that dull greyness was set alight with brilliant hues of red and orange. It made fire start to rain down upon Daryl, who could only stand and watch below. Debris fell out of the sky like a meteor shower, landing beyond the trees in the distance — to a place that Daryl couldn't quite make out, no matter how much he squinted.

The air became full with the sounds of scraping metal and flickering flames that caught the leaves and made them burn up like the end of a cigarette. Daryl felt his heart race as the adrenaline pumped its way through his veins, and made him flinch each time something crashed heavily to the ground.

There was often a moment in a person's life where their brain got kick-started into gear — and they awoke from whatever auto-pilot they'd been functioning on until that point.

For most, it was probably a mundane milestone like marriage or parenthood.

For others, it might have been a life or death situation that made them re-evaluate their perspective.

For some, it had only happened when the world actually ended, and the apocalypse began.

And perhaps, if Daryl had been a smarter man, it would have been this instant — as he gazed up at the sky and watched it burn above him. Maybe this was his second life-changing realisation; maybe he was lucky enough to get two.

But, for Daryl, the first had just been a regular Tuesday.

The garage was sticky hot that day. It was the kind of heat that made you sweat no matter how many fans you had blowing — since Old man Dean was too cheap to install air conditioning. His boss was a bit of a stickler for paying his bills, and nit picky with his nickles, but he'd always been kind to Daryl.

That being said, working as a mechanic wasn't exactly where Daryl had pictured himself at his age; but then again, he couldn't really picture himself anywhere at all. He felt like that last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, which didn't quite fit in with the others — the one that you had to bend into shape just to make it work.

Sure, he enjoyed seeing the different bikes roll in and out of the shop — those models he would never be able to afford — and Daryl appreciated having a few extra dollars in his pocket for when Merle raided his savings to score some pot.

Besides, there wasn't much else to do in the boonies. Daryl's old man once told him that the only interesting thing to rear its ugly head out of Georgia's backyard in the last fifty years was Dean's Auto Shop. That's probably why Daryl started working there in the first place, as a summer job when he was teenager — and had never really left since.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, his old man had been right about one thing — despite the bastard never catching on to the role of father. He'd been right about the shop being the only interesting thing around.

Because it was the place where he met her.

And then she became the only thing in that small town even worth being interested in.

Daryl didn't hear a car pull up into the shop, but he heard the mumbling outside from where he sat in the breakroom — chewing on some of Dean's leftover pizza that was bordering on stale.

"Dixon, get your ass out here for a second, would you?" the old man yelled, banging on the thin wall that separated them with his fist.

Daryl cursed below his breath, throwing the rest of his food into the trash and dusting off his hands over his jeans. He stepped out into the shop, and was met by an unfamiliar face — looking over at him curiously.

He suddenly felt unexplainably nervous, and dropped his head down to his feet as though it were a reflex he didn't know he had.

"This is your guy," he heard Dean say, before letting out one of his usual chesty coughs.

The man smoked a pack a day too much — and that was coming from Daryl.

"Owner of that bike you've been eyeing, too," he went on.

That caught Daryl's attention, and he instantly glanced up at the woman in question. She was breath-taking, but she also looked very much out of breath. She seemed as though she had run here, despite the Georgia heat.

"You ride?" he asked, but his gruff voice made it sound like more of a demand.

He grimaced at his own tone, but the woman didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest.

She laughed, and it sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before. "I wish," she said, running her palm along the polished metal and tracing her finger over that shiny logo.

Usually, Daryl would bark at anyone who touched his bike, and Dean seemed as though he expected him to do just that — from the way he raised an eyebrow at the daring woman, too oblivious for her own good.

Except, Daryl stayed quiet.

"Was never allowed within a mile radius of one," she went on, before turning back around to grin at Daryl like it was easy. "My folks were scared I'd take off into the sunset, never to be seen again."

He could relate to that. After all, it was exactly what he and Merle had done as soon as they'd gotten the chance.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before glancing over at the car parked in the middle of the shop. "She's pretty."

It was a steel blue colour — would definitely benefit from a lick of paint, but still pretty nonetheless. The tread looked good on the tyres, and Daryl couldn't see any signs of the rusting those models were prone to. Someone had taken good care of it.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, and suddenly Daryl was reminded of just how bad he was with words.

He cleared his throat, and ran his hand over the hood.

"Yer car," he explained, "'69 Chevy Camaro?"

Daryl asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah, that," she replied, sending him an apologetic look. "It's my grandpa's, so we're going to have to be real discreet about this situation over here."

Daryl raised an eyebrow as she beckoned him to the other side of the car, crouching down near the wheel arch.

"Some bastard left a nail in the road, and I ran straight through the thing like it was a stop sign," she grumbled, pointing out the puncture.

Daryl almost laughed at that — but he was still much too jaded from being caught in the middle of his break.

The woman stood back up and toed the deflated tyre with her boot, scowling at the sight of it.

"I know you're closing soon, but I had to push it half a mile just to get here," she said, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

Suddenly, her appearance made sense. Since he'd first laid eyes on her, all she'd done was tug at the collar of her vest, and try to stand in front of one of those poor excuses for a fan. But even then, Daryl couldn't quite believe her story.

"Ain't no way ya pushed that thing 'ere by yerself." The words left his mouth before he could consider them twice.

And the look she shot Daryl in return made him want to take them straight back.

But then, she smiled.

"I'm stronger than I look," she protested, leaning against the hot car. "You can ask the dozen assholes who catcalled me on the way but never offered their help."

This time, Daryl did let out a chuckle.

"Damn lucky y'ain't pass out," he quipped back, "heat's no joke."

She grinned again, and Daryl wondered whether she had an endless supply — or if she'd saved them just for him.

"Tell me about it," the woman teased. "Never liked visiting Georgia because of it."

Then, it all made sense to Daryl — the reason why she intrigued him so much.

"Y'ain't from 'round here, are ya?" he asked, surprising himself.

Usually, he couldn't give a 'rat's ass', as Dean called it, about anyone who stumbled into their shop. Never did they get more than a half-hearted greeting from Daryl, or a grunt as he told them to mind their head on that low door frame (she didn't have that problem). Though today, he seemed oddly talkative.

"Haven't seen ya before," he added.

The woman folded her arms over her chest.

"Would you recognise me if you had?" she asked.

"E'erybody knows e'erybody in this place," he answered. "I'd remember if I saw ya cross the street."

It was partially the truth. Daryl knew most people — but he only bothered to remember a select few.

"Moved here last week," she caved, proving him right. "I'm keeping my grandparents company watching daytime cable and doing grocery runs."

Daryl smirked. "An' runnin' over nails with their car, apparently."

"That, too," she confessed.

It was silent for a few seconds, and Daryl realised that he should probably give her a quote for the job. Though, she interrupted him before he could.

"Listen, your new neighbour would be really grateful if you could cut her a break," she said, eyeing the Camaro like she was considering whether it was even worth the hassle. "The old man's going to kill me if I come home on foot tonight."

Daryl knew what she was asking. The notice in the shop window made it clear that they'd be closing in half an hour; Daryl had been all but ready to flip the sign himself. Before she'd arrived, he'd even dared to think that he could shut early — and possibly get to crack open a cold beer and enjoy the breeze of his porch.

He sighed.

"I'll see what I can do," Daryl mumbled, "but I ain't makin' no promises," he warned — as he caught the way her eyes lit up at his words.

But that was a lie. Daryl knew he wouldn't let himself go home until it was finished.

The woman was utterly gleeful. He watched her smile much too widely for her face, and for a moment Daryl thought that she might even jump at him. But she seemed to catch herself at the last second, and abruptly stopped.

She didn't falter long, though. "Thank you, thank you so much!" she said, excitedly, before pausing to tap at her jean pockets. "I don't have any cash on me for a deposit, but I'm heading to work now."

She looked sheepish as she explained herself.

"I'll come straight back and pay in full," she added, trying her best to convince him.

Daryl narrowed his eyes like he didn't quite understand. Then he did, and he laughed properly.

"Deposit?" he asked, shaking his head. "City girl, here we jus' keep yer vehicle if ya can't pay."

The woman's expression was priceless. She looked as though she couldn't figure out whether he was joking or not, and stared at Daryl with her mouth slightly agape as she debated which it was.

He couldn't watch any longer.

"Where ya workin'?" he asked.

Then, he cursed himself for doing so. Time was ticking on, and he already had to stay overtime because of his inability to say no. Well, usually he had no problem with the word; it just seemed like it was stuck in his throat today.

"Joe's bar," she replied. "It's a few blocks over and-"

"I know Joe's bar," Daryl interrupted.

Everybody knew Joe's. It was the only place around that sold a decent draught beer. He'd been going there since he was a teenager — younger than he should have been, but old enough to know better.

"Me an' my brother go there a lot, but I ain't seen you 'round."

She nodded.

"Only started a few days ago. Hopefully they don't fire me for being late."

Daryl glanced at the clock. It was approaching his closing time and her opening one.

"Ya better get runnin', Camaro," he noted, tapping at his watch that didn't even work. "Rush hour soon."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the nickname. Daryl didn't know her real one yet, and felt like it was too late to ask for it. He'd have to catch a glimpse of Dean's log book later to find out.

"Will do," she replied with a smile. "Thanks again, Dixon."

Though Daryl couldn't quite work out how she knew his name, either.

He watched her scurry about collecting her things, and walked her to the entrance. The sun was starting to set — leaving the sky a pinkish orange that only made him squint the more he looked at it. He held the door open for the woman, and heard Dean snort from the back of the shop. But the way she thanked him made it worth the teasing.

"Take care of that sixties Honda," she winked, "she's a real beauty."

Daryl was surprised that she knew the model of his bike, considering she'd never even ridden one.

"If only ya knew," he mumbled back as he saw her off. "Will take ya for a ride one time if yer willin'."

She stopped in place. Daryl didn't know why he said that. It had just slipped from his mouth like oil from a can.

The woman laughed and rolled her eyes like she didn't believe him.

"That's what they all say."

Then, she started to jog down the street — just like she said she would — and Daryl thought her crazy for even attempting it in this midsummer Georgia weather. That woman had entered the shop like a whirlwind, and when she left Daryl couldn't remember what he'd even been doing before.

Dean cleared his throat and threw a rag at him that he barely managed to catch.

"Keep it in your pants, boy."

Daryl scowled at the man; he knew him better than that. So, he didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply, and instead got started on setting the Camaro up on a jack.

"She's a beauty, I get it," Dean went on, despite his silence. "Her type don't belong in a place like this, that's for damn sure."

Daryl had to agree with him there. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the wing mirror of her car and grimaced. He had grease on his face, and part of him cursed Dean for not telling him before he'd left the breakroom.

"But you know Mike and Doreen?" the old man asked, and Daryl nodded. "That's their granddaughter."

Daryl furrowed his brow — not realising he'd done it until he caught himself in the glass once again. Mike was a hard man, the type to straighten out any kinks in a person with brute force and that baby boomer spite.

"She may be real pretty, kid, but that one's trouble," Dean noted, confirming his suspicions.

He ignored the way he called him 'kid'. The old man still hadn't grown out of the habit — despite Daryl being well beyond his teenage years now.

"Trouble?" he repeated, like he couldn't quite comprehend the word being associated with someone like that.

Dean chuckled — but it turned into one of those coughs that made Daryl wince.

"Maybe more so than you," he said. "Got kicked out of the military, I heard."

Daryl spat at the floor, and Dean laughed again. They both hated those military dogs who often paraded through their town, looking at them as though they were trash beneath their government-issued boots.

But, if she'd been kicked out then maybe they could find some common ground.

Old man Dean wagged his finger at him, recognising Daryl's no-good expression; he'd become familiar with it by now, from all the times he'd worn it throughout the years.

"So don't go losing your head over her, Dixon," he cautioned, pretending not to know how good Daryl was at throwing caution to the wind.

"And remember to close up before you leave."

But it was too late.

Daryl had already lost his head, and his heart — but he wouldn't know that the latter was missing for a very long time.

You ran the cloth along the oak bar surface, wiping away any sticky beer rings that had been left there.

This is why we have coasters, you sighed.

It had been a slow Tuesday night, but you'd somehow still been roped into working the close. You tried to tell your boss that you were having car troubles, and had plans to stop by the garage on your way home — but he seemed to prioritise his own date over yours.

Well, you wouldn't exactly call giving the local mechanic his cheque a date; usually, you didn't have to pay for those. But you couldn't deny how it had made you feel when he smiled that smile your way — so small that you'd almost missed it — before you took off running out the door.

It gave you whiplash.

Perhaps he was just being friendly. But, then again, he didn't seem like the naturally friendly type. You shook your head, throwing the beer-soaked rag into the sink. You didn't trust that man in the slightest.

That wasn't a new development, really; you didn't trust most men. And, you often found that the ones who made your heart race like that were the worst of them all. He was trouble, that one, and you'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

You untied the double knot of your apron, and folded it up neatly. There were a few whiskey stains on it — you'd caught a whiff of that top-shelf scent a few times now — but you were already too late to even consider putting it in the wash. Instead, you left it at the end of the bar, and swapped it out for the ring of keys lying there.

It was closing time, and you prepared yourself to run three blocks in the dark. You stepped out into the night, feeling the cool breeze on your cheek as opposed to the midday heat that had been there when your shift started. You flipped the latch and turned the key in the lock until you heard it click.

Then, you held them between your knuckles so that the jagged edge poked out.

"Ya done for the night?" a voice came from the shadows, and your heart dropped.

That brief second lasted a lifetime as the blood rushed to your ears like a strong current through running water, and your grip tightened over those keys. But then, you noticed the reflection in the glass panels of the door — and relaxed.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," you scolded the man, "thought you were a dejected patron tryna jump me or something."

Perhaps he was; you still didn't know any better.

Dixon was leaning against that dingy brick wall, opposite the back door of Joe's Bar. You didn't even know what that other building was — but some sketchy figures usually loomed about it, so you tried to stay clear.

Maybe he didn't get the memo, you thought.

"Tha' happen before?" the man asked back, casually.

Though, the dim street lights overhead illuminated his face, and you caught a glimpse of his serious expression before he let it drop. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers — almost smoked down to the butt already — and it made you wonder just how long he'd been waiting for you.

"Maybe once or twice," you laughed, but it didn't sound as natural as you had intended.

You noticed the man's eyes flicker down towards the keys held between your knuckles, and you quickly slipped them into your jean pocket — hoping that he wouldn't pry. Luckily, he didn't seem like the type to unnecessarily butt into other people's business.

The smoke trailed from his lips and caught the stark light of the street lamp. He almost looked cold — bathed in that bluish tint which made those cigarette fumes seem nearly luminescent.

"You here to make sure I don't run off with your paycheck?" you teased, fishing out the wad of bills from your back pocket.

You waved them at him, and considered how precarious the situation may seem to an onlooker if they happened to pass by. The man looked as though he felt the same, since he quickly glanced over his shoulder down the alleyway — checking to make sure you were alone.

"Don't worry, Dixon, I busted my ass tonight just so I could leave you a nice tip," you said with a smile, handing the money to him.

He took it, slowly, as though he had to remind himself what it was even for.

Then, he let that cigarette butt fall to the floor, and stamped it out with his boot — before dragging it along the concrete until it was nothing but embers.

The man shook his head at you. "'M here on behalf of the welcome committee."

You snorted as you processed his words, and followed him out of that narrow alleyway into the main street.

"Bullshit," you called, "as if-"

You rounded the corner after him, and stopped. He was there, leaning against that pristine sixties Honda bike — spare helmet in hand.

It was parked up on the sidewalk, polished metal glinting in all its glory under those neon lamps. Dixon was almost camouflaged against it — his black leather jacket also speckled with white light. He held out that helmet, as if it were an invitation he was waiting for you to accept.

But he seemed shy — as though acutely aware that it was only an invite, and nothing more. So, you took it, and shook your head as you realised that it wasn't his spare helmet he had offered you; it was his only helmet.

"Said I'd take ya," he murmured, fastening the strap gently under your chin.

It was too big, so the man compensated by tying it tighter until you felt like your jaw was wired shut. But, you just smiled.

"An' I ain't no liar," he said when he was done, and kicked his leg over the bike.

Then, you sped off into the night.

You yelled over the sound of the engine for him to go faster, and laughed as you had to spit out the stray hairs that had blown into your mouth. Your clothes whipped in the wind, too, and you clung to the man in front of you as though you were afraid they might catch the draft, and make you fly away. It was electrifying; your whole body felt like pure static as you rode past shop displays and windows that made your reflections look like hazed blurs.

That whole trip felt like a hazed blur, really, because suddenly you were there.

"Where are we?" you asked, unsure of where 'there' even was. "Why'd we stop?"

You pulled the helmet from your head and cocked your leg over the bike. The man let out a chuckle at the sight of your hair, sticking up from the static — as though lightning might strike at any moment.

"Smoke break," Dixon grumbled, before coaxing out the squashed cardboard packet from his jeans. "You want one?" he asked, offering it to you.

You shook your head; you didn't smoke.

He shrugged in response, cupping his hands to his face to get a flame from his lighter. You left him to it, and turned away from the bike to catch the view.

And what a view it was, indeed.

You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the lapping ocean waves before you saw them. The cliff overlooked the beach below, desolate, with a high tide that drew the shore into you. Your grandmother had told you about this place once, on the phone a few months back as she tried to sell rural Georgia to you.

It wasn't like you were given much of a choice, anyway.

But now that you'd been shipped out here — against your will, no doubt — you had to admit that she'd been partly right. It was breath-taking. Back in the city, a place like this would be littered with beer cans and tacky, disposable barbeques within a week of someone posting about it online. Here, however, it looked untouched.

It was as though the two of you were the first to ever set foot here, on this particular crag that overlooked the waves — leaving your footprints alongside tyre treads for the next pioneers to discover.

You glanced back at Dixon over your shoulder — who was busy trying to look as though he wasn't already looking at you — and smiled.

He was one hell of a welcome committee.

Daryl almost choked on the fumes of his cigarette — letting out a cough that reminded him of the way old man Dean spluttered in the mornings. He really needed to kick that habit, he thought, and snubbed out his cigarette on the ground.

Then, you scowled at him, so he picked the butt back up and stuffed it into his pocket, grimacing at the thought of having to clean it up later.

He had been lying about the smoke break, really, but then he needed to carry out his excuse. Initially, he'd only thought about picking you up from the bar and offering you a ride back to the shop. He hadn't the slightest clue of how that plan had become this.

Somewhere along the way, Daryl might have accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the most scenic place he would think of. Stupid damn street signs, he cursed, as though he hadn't driven those roads a hundred times before.

Camaro seemed to call him out on his bluff, too, since she turned to face him and immediately shook her head.

"You're lying," she said, as though she were certain, "but the view is extraordinary, so I'll forgive you just this once."

Daryl swallowed thickly, tasting the tobacco that had made his throat so dry. For someone who claimed himself not to be a liar, that was all he seemed to be doing today.

Then, he watched you make your way towards the edge of that cliff, like you couldn't even hear him warning you to be careful. It was like you weren't paying him the slightest attention. Daryl was used to that from women — but somehow, this was different.

You didn't look down on him, nor at him with any hint of prejudice for wearing jeans still coated in oil, and boots he'd had to tape the soles of just to keep them together. In fact, you weren't looking at him at all. You seemed far more concerned with the stars that flickered in the night sky above you, but at the same time grateful towards the man for having brought you to them.

"You treat all your customers like this, Dixon?" you asked him.

He watched you turn around and look at him like you'd only just remembered that he was there. But, then you beamed a smile at him so bright that it put the stars to shame — and made all of your other ones look dim in comparison.

"Y'ain't special," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Jus' given' ya a lift home 'cos Dean told me to."

Though, Dean had left the shop hours ago.

Daryl watched you laugh like you'd caught him out one more time.

"There you go again," you said, teasingly. "Do you ever tell the truth?"

No, he didn't. He always tried to, but oftentimes it never did him any good. The people of this town had already made the assumption that he was a natural born liar. You were the first person to ever make the distinction between his white lies and those other types.

All his life, Daryl had been pigeon-holed into the role of good for nothing redneck, and had only recently graduated to the slightly less stereotyped town mechanic. But that night it was as if someone, for the first time, tried to get a peek at whatever was underneath.

Old man Dean was right. You were trouble — but not for the reason he had said. You were trouble because you seemed entirely unaware of your place in the world, and it made Daryl start to question his own. You seemed nice — perhaps even lovely — but Daryl never trusted those types. He knew you were far too good to be wasting away the early hours of the morning with the likes of him — and it left him wondering what exactly you wanted.

You'd already paid for his services, after all.

"Thank you for letting me see the stars again," you breathed, stretching your neck which ached from staring at the sky. "It's been a while."

Back then, Daryl didn't quite understand what that meant. He'd thought perhaps that you'd been talking about city pollution.

On the way back, Daryl felt you cling onto him tightly as he drove through empty roads, and passed the old, flickering street lights that blinked like camera flashes. But, when his fingers accidentally brushed up against yours, as you both reached for the shop door, you pulled your hand away.

It had only been a random Tuesday — that had eventually rolled into a Wednesday by the time he'd gotten you back into your repaired Camaro — but that was the moment in his life where Daryl felt like he had finally woken up.

But even awake, he often found himself lost in daydreams of the woman who crash landed into his life, and disappeared from it just as quickly as she came.

Daryl followed the trail of debris that had fallen from the sky, as though he were tracking some giant, metal bird. He didn't want to stick around too long, given that the noise had probably attracted every damn walker in the area; he just hoped that he was still far enough away from camp that they wouldn't be drawn there.

He stepped over the hunks of hot wreckage, some of it still ablaze, until he eventually came across something soft and not made of metal.

It was that jaeger. It was dead.

It looked as though it had been struck straight out of the sky. Its feathers lay scattered around it — the white breast now red with blood — and its wing was bent at a crooked angle, broken.

Daryl scowled. If he'd known that it was going to have such a meaningless death, then he would have shot it himself. Though, he still didn't add the bird to his string of dead animals; he thought that it had suffered enough.

He continued onwards through the brush until he stumbled across what he'd been looking for. But even as he saw it with his own eyes, Daryl couldn't quite believe it. Before him was the husk of a downed helicopter, burning in the middle of the forest.

Immediately, he ran to it, tripping over the wreckage as it got thicker and harder to navigate.

Though, there was no pilot inside — only radios and machinery parts that Daryl didn't know the names of. They screeched high frequency sounds as they caught on fire, and it made his ears ring the longer he listened.

So, he turned back.

That was when he saw it — them — a few meters away. His stomach dropped. Guess that's the pilot, he thought, looking up at the body tangled in the trees.

He'd never seen a parachute in real life before — only ever in the movies. He'd also never understood how that flimsy material could stop someone from plummeting to their death.

Well, in this case it hadn't.

The pilot was dangling from one of the branches, all caught up in those wire cables like a fish on a line. The limbs were contorted awkwardly, and Daryl swallowed thickly at the sight of their arm which had definitely been broken — reminding him of that miserable jaeger's wing.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave. The smell of burning rubber and the white noise from those radios would probably keep him up for the next few nights, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave, but then the body spoke to him.

"Dixon?" he heard it gasp.

And Daryl wondered just how many impossible things he might encounter today.

The voice startled him, and he almost stumbled over his own foot in return. Walkers couldn't speak, and they surely wouldn't know his name, either. Then, he caught the slightest movement, and recognised a jacket much too familiar. It had been his, after all, before he'd given it to you.

The pilot groaned, and Daryl recognised that tone of voice, too. He quickly fumbled about for his pocket knife, not even stopping to consider how the hell he'd be able to cut you down.

He couldn't even comprehend how you were alive-

"How's it hanging?" the voice spluttered.

-and how you'd kept that same god awful sense of humour.

Let me know if you want to be added/removed from the tags!

Feedback is always welcomed; I love hearing what you all think - so feel free to comment, send in an ask, or just message me if you want to chat!

Also, here is my buy me a coffee! If you enjoy my writing, tips are always appreciated. Thank you for reading!

A/N I’ve tried so hard to post this, sorry for all the technical difficulties...

[roomeight]

Graham Coxon's Foreword to Narcissus & Goldmund

At seventeen I was wide-eyed and thirsty. I was a student studying General Art and Design. I was a sponge determined to absorb everything I could. All new experiences rang with significance - the pictures, the films, the books, the music, the photographs, they all filled my world with a sense-heightening mess of magic, I humbly held artists of any kind in very high esteem, marvelled at their work. I would walk the streets of Colchester dressed in overalls and tweed, smelling of turpentine and oil paint, much to the despair of my mother. I was a proud student, an honoured aesthete.

At this time, one teacher made a particular impression on me and the rest of my group, although to many it was a bad one. This teacher appeared from nowhere and seduced us into defining ourselves and, in doing so, unwittingly split our group into factions - or at least accelerated the process. What she did was simple and playful but left me feeling as though I had undergone an important personal and creative development. She stacked tables and chairs to the ceiling, climbed up and hung up a roll of tape with string. She then encouraged us to draw it as it swung around the room. The precious graphic design types rolled their eyes, silently mouthed curses, felt for their fine-nibbed pens and bemoaned the prospect of another two hours with a teacher that was so obviously a weirdo; but to others, those of a looser nature, myself included, this eccentrically dressed, enthusiastic, beaming woman immediately became a heroine, and we slashed at our huge sheets of paper with our sticks of charcoal. The already cynical graphic artists thought her teaching pointless and undignified, but the fine artists loved her and admired the unashamed energy and enthusiasm she displayed so unselfconsciously. You were for her or against her. She neither patronized us nor intellectualized, and so created an environment in which we began to the making of marks on paper as a highly personal, sensual, spiritual act.

Late one morning I was sitting drinking coffee and smoking one of those very, very first cigarettes, when she smiled over at me and came to join me at the table. "There's a book you should read, Graham, if you haven't already. I think you would love it. It's called Narcissus and Goldmund. The title alone made me imagine it might be heavy-going, so I found myself avoiding the book for quite a while. I don't know why I didn't at least give it a go. Maybe I wanted to preserve the feeling of excitement of knowing that something beautiful and hugely important was just around the corner but felt it so intimidating that I was loath to quit the comfort of loitering in an adjacent alley. Maybe I felt flattered that a woman I greatly admired thought me mature enough or intelligent enough to contemplate recommending such a book. I am sure she recognized that I was more an empty vessel than a full one and wanted to contribute a little to filling me up, so maybe I was afraid that I would leave the book unfinished or find it boring and in so doing fail my new teacher. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

In any case, time went by, and I left the college and moved on to take a degree in Fine Art at Goldsmiths' College, part of the University of London. The book had been itching away at me for around three years by the time I finally bought it, turned to the first page and, breathing in deeply, took the plunge. I need not have worried. I didn't find the book at all difficult to read, and I was quickly immersed in it totally.

Although I now find myself in the privileged position of writing a foreword to this deeply moving and powerful book, I don't feel in the least bit qualified to do so. I never studied philosophy and I don't consider myself a 'thinker' as such, but I am an asker, an asker of big questions, and always felt there was more to learn and more to  experience right from the beginnings of my impressionable adolescence right up to now and my impressionable late youth.

The clean simplicity of Hesse's writing offers a vast space in which to push your weightless mind, and, although you can see the universe between the lines, he never forces you to venture too deeply but, rather, leaves it entirely up to you as to how far in you might like to travel. This is not just a story. This book is a gentle arm around the shoulder. It gets us off the hook, treasures us that there is still time, that surrender is possible even it is a surrender to ourselves, that no matter how recklessly we bolt out into the unknown the journey home is a brief one. It lets us know that even when we become lost in the crazed volatility of what we think of as freedom, reaching the very edge of our own flat world, gazing petrified over the edge at the black expanse of our own demise, we are but a change of hardened heart away from the innocence of our beginnings, from peace.

We see that outward journeys are easy - essential if somewhat desperate assertions of our will and independence. After all, we have first to be filled with something for an inward journey to be possible. This book made me wonder just how far down the dangerous roads of our early adult lives does the pull of a simpler  life begin to tug at our sleeves. When does the overbearing din of hollow seduction suddenly fall on deaf ears? Does the balance need to be addressed? If so, then when, finally, does an existence free of clutter prove more desirable than one of chaos?

I think we can all see ourselves in Goldmund. His experiences can relate sharply to our own, they melt and shape themselves into the mould of our own lives. Life and the material world was designed to seduce, and we ourselves are designed to be seduced by it. We career, uncompromisingly, through our early lives, proud of our strength and youth but never treasuring it. Maybe that's how it should be, that we squander it if only to mourn it later when we don't feel so invincible and have to savour each day of our late adulthood. Perhaps this may be why as we get older, we like more what we see when we close our eyes. Could this be God's way of making the transition into the next life a smoother, less traumatic one?

This book has proven itself to be a template to me. It has a perfect and gentle tension and familiar dynamic shape. It's a book where you can plot your own progress and plan your own happy ending. It has been a source of great inspiration to me throughout the sixteen years its words have been rooted in my head. It is a book that you can never grow out of because you grow into it, and it softens around you like a good old pair of shoes. It is not without its tragedy and its blood and its guts but shows this aspect of life to be as much a valid part of the journey as happiness.

Narcissus and Goldmund is a well from which we can draw limitless emotional strength, and I am not ashamed to say that I am extremely jealous that you might just be reading it for the first time.

- Graham Coxon, musician

2006

[lillywillow]

Sinners ‘n Saints

Summary: When private detective Steve Rogers is hired to investigate the wife of a client who claims she is having an affair, he discovers some things are not quite adding up.

 Word Count: 2208

 Square Filled: 1940’s AU

 Pairings: Helmut Zemo x Female Reader/ Steve x Female Reader (later)

 Warnings: Infidelity, smoking, drinking, mild language, 40’s slang

Written for @star-spangled-bingo

New York City. The Big Apple. The city where dreams were made. For all her glitz and glamour, Lady New York held some dark secrets. Steve Rogers knew this well from his years of working as a private investigator, covering everything from missing persons to ransom cases.

 One quite afternoon, Steve was pounding away at the keys of his typewriter, taking some time to document some of his toughest cases when a man entered his office. The gentleman’s hair was nicely combed; he was well dressed in a finely tailored suit, expensive Italian shoes and obnoxiously overpowering cologne. He walked over to Steve’s desk and sat in the vacant chair. He lit a cigarette and took a drag before addressing the detective.

 “You are Detective Steve Rogers of ‘Rogers Private Eye Agency’, yes?” He spoke with an accent that Steve couldn’t quite place.

 “I am. How can I help you?” he asked, pouring the man a glass of bourbon from the decanter on his desk. He thanked him and took a sip before introducing himself.

 “My name is Helmut Zemo. I suspect my wife is having an affair...”

 “I see... and what brought on this suspicion?” Steve always hated this part of the job. When spouses came to him with accusations of being unfaithful.

 “It is just a hunch... for now. I would like you to find evidence soon.” Helmut placed an envelope full of cash on Steve’s desk. “Here is half of what I am willing to pay. You will receive the other half when you complete the job.”

 Steve took the envelope and was shocked to see how much was in there. Helmut finished the drink, cringing as the amber liquid burned his throat and stood up.

 “You may start this Friday. My wife will be singing at my club The Baron.” With that, he left.

 The name suddenly clicked in Steve’s head. Helmut Zemo was a wealthy socialite who owned many nightclubs and made it into the gossip rags. There was something that didn’t sit right with Steve about the man; however, he would take jobs where he could.

That Friday, Steve went to The Baron for his night of surveillance. He took a table somewhere in the middle; close enough to see the action for himself but far enough back not to be noticeable. Steve looked around the joint, taking notice of his surroundings.

 The place was classy. The furniture was polished with the highest sheen and drinks were served in the finest crystal. The large stage in front was obscured by a velvet red curtain which would no doubt be drawn when the entertainment would begin. As he scanned, he noticed a lot of high powered men who were rumoured to be part of a crime syndicate. Steve’s attention was broken when the announcer spoke.

 “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage our very own nightingale Ms Y/N!”

 As the curtain went up, the band began to play. Lying on top of the piano was the most stunning women Steve had ever seen. Her hair was done up in curls, pinned back with a diamond hairclip. Her lips were painted sinfully red and the second she opened her mouth, her honeyed, velvet voice poured out. Her black dress sparkled under the spotlight. As she sat up and crossed her legs, the split in her dress moved up, showing off her supple thigh. Men called and whistled at the sight.

 Y/N gracefully jumped off the piano, her dress smoothing down her sides, the bottom pooling at her feet. He could now see the way how nicely it framed her curves; curves that would put Mae West to shame. Y/N made her way into the audience, her hips swaying seductively as she walked. She would place her gloved hand on the shoulder of one of the patrons, fingers running over the length of it before moving onto the next person. As she moved a little closer, Steve could see more of her diamond and pearl jewellery and smell her expensive perfume. A dame like this would certainly have no trouble attracting any man she wanted. When the song ended, she made her way back to the stage and finished up. The crowd burst into raucous applause and gave a standing ovation.

 After the show, Y/N made her way over to the bar. Steve followed, placing himself far enough away not to be noticed. She ordered a drink and while waiting, a gentleman approached her.

 “Hey, doll. Can I buy you a drink?” he smirked.

 “No, sir,” she cooed, giving him a playful tap on the nose before taking her ready drink and heading backstage. The man was about to try further to coax her when his friend grabbed him.

 “Are you crazy?! That’s Zemo’s missus. You want to be found on the bottom of the Hudson with cement shoes?!” The man’s eyes widened and headed off.

 Steve pretended he didn’t hear the conversation and ordered a whisky neat.

 “What’s the deal with the singer?” he casually asked the bartender.

 “Oh, I wouldn’t waste your time with her. She’s only got eyes for her husband. A husband I might add with a mean jealous streak in him,” he said, pouring the drink and giving it to Steve.

 This information made him think. If this information was true, why would Zemo contact him to find evidence of infidelity? Was Y/N the type of woman who liked to play dangerous games? From what he saw on stage, he wouldn’t put it past her. However if this were the case, why would she turn down the gentleman’s offer? Perhaps some things would be clearer in the light of day.

...

 Throughout the week, Steve followed Y/N wherever she went at a distance. She filled her days with perfectly mundane tasks such as shopping, cleaning the house or the occasional trip to the salon. Every interaction she had with men was normal and innocent enough, all conversations at appropriate length. There were no signs of the captivating temptress Steve had observed at the club that night.

 Her evenings were just as ordinary. The most exciting thing to happen was when she hosted a card game with her lady friends. Y/N spent most of her nights alone and when her husband did finally come home, she was greeted by a cold kiss on the cheek. Steve found this rather odd.

 One night, Y/N was sitting at the table with dinner freshly made, patiently waiting for Helmut to come home. The phone rang and she happily ran to answer it. Her expression went from smiling to looking sad as she spoke to the person on the other end. When she hung up the phone, she returned to the table and held her face in her hands crying. Steve assumed that was her husband telling her he would not be home for dinner.

...

  The following Friday, Steve went to the club once more and watched Y/N’s performance with fresh eyes. Yes, she was just as enticing but she was also professional. Steve suspected that this was the act of a strong woman who was trying to keep her marriage from falling apart while doing her job as the sultry nightclub singer. After the show, he noticed someone heading backstage with a large bouquet of flowers, presumably for Y/N. He quickly intercepted them and went to deliver them himself. Steve knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter before going in. Y/N was dressed in a silky robe and taking her hair out of its style. There was a red haired woman helping her that Steve saw around the club.

 “Delivery for ma’am,” he said, holding out the flowers to her.

 “Oh, thank you,” she smiled, taking them from him. “They’re beautiful.”

 “Probably more guilt flowers,” Nat said bitterly.

 “Nat, please...”

 “Oh, wake up and smell the coffee, Y/N! Helmut is cheating on you!”

 “Enough! He gives me flowers because he loves me! I’m one of the luckiest gals in the whole city! My husband showers me with jewellery and imported perfumes and-and expensive clothing because he loves me! Helmut loves me Natasha...” her voice became reverent and Steve wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince her friend or herself. How could he be so wrong about her? This was not a woman having an affair. This was a woman who was trying so desperately to believe that her husband was still faithful to her.

 “Are you still here? Get out!” Nat barked at Steve, going to hug Y/N. He took this as his cue to leave. Maybe he should take a closer look at his employer.

...

 Sure enough, as soon as Steve began to follow Helmut around, the evidence was as plain as the nose on your face. He saw the man with multiple women who were not his wife. He took pictures of them kissing and/or locked in a passionate embrace. Steve felt bad for Y/N and decided to go to her with the photographs.

...

 Steve arrived on the Zemo’s doorstep, taking care to come over at a time he knew Helmut would not be home. Y/N was understandably surprised to see him but invited him in nonetheless.

 “Mrs Zemo, my name is Steve Rogers and I’m a private detective. I... I’m afraid I have some bad news about your husband,” he said, handing her the envelope with the pictures. As Y/N looked through them so many emotions flashed across her face.

 “Did Nat put you up to this?”

 “No... Your husband did.”

 “Wh-what?”

 “He hired me to investigate the infidelity on your end but...”

 “That bastard! First he disrespects the confines of our marriage bed and then he hurts me further by treating me like a common whore?!” Y/N threw a nearby vase against a wall in anger. Tears started flowing down her face

 “Why would he do such a thing?”

 “The fidelity clause... I come from a rich family and owning so many businesses, Helmut was rich too. Our lawyers though it was a good idea to protect our respective assets. If one of us was proven to be unfaithful, they would be able to take the other for everything.” Y/N dropped to her knees.

 “I knew for a long for a long time I just... I thought if I told myself it wasn’t true, wished it hard enough that it wouldn’t come to light...” Steve carefully hugged her. She allowed him to, leaning into his warm touch. “He never used to be like this. I know he loved me once but I don’t know what happened.” Steve gave it some thought.

 “I... I know someone in the paper. If you will allow me, I could give the story to him. He’d approach it tastefully...” Y/N was quiet for a few moments.

 “Do it. I want him to feel as humiliated as I do. I want his name dragged through the mud as he has done with our wedding vows...” Y/N softly removed herself from Steve’s embrace and stood up, wiping her eyes and sniffling.

 “I apologise for making a scene...”

 “It’s alright. I’m sorry for dropping this information on you. My job is to fund the truth not fabricate stories.” Y/N offered him a small smile.

 “Thank you. Steve was it?”

 “Yes, ma’am.”

 “You’ve got a kind heart. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a few arrangements to take care of.” Steve nodded and headed off, hoping that he would see her again one day.

...

 It was the biggest scandals of the year. In the months that followed, it was discovered that not only Helmut was cheating on Y/N but he was also involved in illegal activities; often involving crime syndicates. That was how he earned his fortune. As far as Steve knew, Y/N got everything in the divorce.

 One afternoon, Steve had a surprise visitor.

 “Detective Rogers?” Steve looked up to see Y/N knocking on his door, already having entered the room.

 “Y/N? What are you doing here?” As she crossed the room, he could see how much more confident she looked, like the woman she portrayed herself to be on stage.

 “Helmut owed you a debt and I intend to pay it,” she said, placing the envelope full of money on his desk.

 “I... I can’t accept this...”

 “Please. He hired you to find proof of unfaithfulness and as far as I’m concerned, you found it. You have done your job, sir.” Steve looked at the pay-packet on his desk.

 “I know this is a little forward but... may I take you out to dinner?”

 “I would like that very much. Pick me up at seven,” Y/N warmly smiled.

 Steve couldn’t wait until then. After all that she had been through, a lady like Y/N deserved to be out with a true gentleman.

[jaimehwatson]

I made another Snowpiercer playlist!

After posting my Wilford/Audrey playlist a while ago, I added some songs that didn’t quite make the cut to a different playlist, intending to put together another similar one. But rather than focusing on just one ship this time, I also ended up getting really interested in theorizing about what Wilford’s relationship with Melanie might have been like before the Freeze, and exploring the idea that maybe there was something going on there and some kind of love triangle with Audrey.

So here’s my new playlist, full of absolute jams that could apply to any combination of relationships involving Wilford, Audrey, and Melanie, and/or just general Snowpiercer vibes! Read on for more detail about the songs I selected, and as before, content warning for references to canon abuse & self-harm/suicide.

1. “The Tradition” by Halsey

Oh, the loneliеst girl in town Was bought for plenty a price Well, they dress her up in golden crowns His smile hides a lie

She smiles back, but it's a fact That her fear will eat her alive Well, she got the life that she wanted But now all she does is cry

Thanks @onetrainsnowpiercer​ for getting me into this excellent album! I thought it would be fitting to kick off the playlist with one that could suit the earlier days of Wilford’s relationship with Audrey, like my previous playlist was more focused on.

2. “cardigan” by Taylor Swift

'Cause I knew you Steppin' on the last train Marked me like a bloodstain, I

I knew you Tried to change the ending Peter losing Wendy, I

I knew you Leavin' like a father Running like water, I And when you are young, they assume you know nothing

Did you think I would make a Snowpiercer playlist without Taylor Swift on it? Not a chance. I picture this one being more from Melanie’s perspective, reflecting on possibly having had some kind of ill-fated romance with Wilford when she was young and naive.

3. “No Children” by The Mountain Goats

I hope I cut myself shaving tomorrow I hope it bleeds all day long Our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises We're pretty sure they're all wrong

I hope it stays dark forever I hope the worst isn't over And I hope you blink before I do And I hope I never get sober

The only reason this perennial favourite of mine wasn’t on the first playlist was that I had too many Mountain Goats songs already and wanted to keep things balanced. But this one got all the ones that didn’t make it to the first playlist plus some more I thought about later, so I’m kind of giving up on that balance by now. They just have a lot of great songs about terrible relationships, and I love them all so much.

4. “Gold Guns Girls” by Metric

I remember when we were gambling to win Everybody else said, "Better luck next time." I don't wanna bend like the bad girls bend I just wanna be your friend Is it ever gonna be enough?

This is another one that I can picture being about young Melanie, gradually growing more aware of everything that’s terribly wrong with Wilford and his approach to life, and of how little he cares to try to fix it.

5. “You’ve Haunted Me All My Life” by Death Cab for Cutie

And there's a flaw in my heart's design For I keep trying to make you mine

You've haunted me all my life You've haunted me all my life You are the mistress I can't make a wife And you've haunted me all my life

And this one I can see being Wilford thinking about either one of the women, and his unhealthy attachment to them and inability to keep them around for very long—maybe once he’s finally reunited with them both on some level in season 2, but still can’t fully persuade them both over to his side.

6. “Old College Try” by The Mountain Goats

From the cities to the swamplands From the highways to the hills Our love has never had a leg to stand on From the aspirins to the cross-tops to the Elavils

But I will walk down to the end with you If you will come all the way down with me

Another Mountain Goats classic. If you divorce it from its context of being from a concept album about a horrible marriage, I actually think this song is kind of sweet in the way it describes a couple still committing to try to make things work despite a whole host of problems. But never mind that now, because I’m putting it back in the new context of a whole collection of horrible romantic relationships!

7. “Risk” by Metric

So you're beaten up but you bounce back It’s all part of the pull And the story runs like a soundtrack We repeat 'til we're full Started slow, started late Started strong, then we lost faith Started slow, started to lose control The more we accelerate, the more we accelerate

Half of arranging any playlist I make is just trying to split up the Mountain Goats and Metric songs so that they aren’t always clumped together. Anyway, this one seems especially fitting to me in its imagery of a speeding vehicle of some kind (it’s a train, I’m always picturing a train) alongside its description of a relationship going badly.

8. “Big God” by Florence + The Machine

You know I still like you the most The best of the best and the worst of the worst Well, you can never know The places that I go I still like you the most You'll always be my favourite ghost

I think this one could be any one of the three of them contemplating their complex feelings about the past at some point around season 2.

9. “I Still Do” by The Cranberries

I don't want to leave you Even though I have to I don't want to love you Oh, I still do

There aren’t as many specifics that match the characters going on in the lyrics here, since it’s more of just a general break-up song, but I also really like the creepy way it sounds.

10. “Fault Lines” by The Mountain Goats

But none of the money we spend Seems to do us much good in the end I got a cracked engine block, both of us do

Yeah, the house and the jewels, the Italian racecar They don't make us feel better about who we are I got termites in the framework, so do you

This one feels really fitting for pre-Freeze Wilford, especially the engine imagery!

11. “I Don’t Care” by Fall Out Boy

Say my name and his in the same breath I dare you to say they taste the same Let the leaves fall off in the summer And let December glow in flames

Erase myself and let go Start it over again in Mexico These friends, they don't love you They just love the hotel suites

Another song that is simply a) an absolute jam, and b) generally fitting for my favourite obscenely rich asshole and his terrible relationships

12. “You asked for this” by Halsey

I want my cake on a silver platter I want a fistful in my hands I want a beautiful boy's despondent laughter I wanna ruin all my plans I want a fist around my throat I wanna cry so hard, I choke I want everything I asked for

This one I can picture as Audrey—or maybe Melanie too, but especially Audrey—beginning to regret getting involved with Wilford, but only once she’s in way too deep for leaving to be a safe or easy decision.

13. “my tears ricochet” by Taylor Swift

And if I'm dead to you, why are you at the wake? Cursing my name, wishing I stayed Look at how my tears ricochet

Much like several other Taylor Swift songs, I just know in my heart that it’s the type of music Wilford listens to in secret, while possibly drunk and definitely singing along very dramatically. This one he dedicates to Melanie once they’ve met up again in season 2.

14. “Speed the Collapse” by Metric

All the way from where we came Built a mansion in a day Distant lightning, thunder claps Watched our neighbor's house collapse Looked the other way

This one has a lot of good apocalyptic imagery that I can imagine scoring Wilford’s life in the last few years before the Freeze, as he makes his plans to save himself and let so many others die.

15. “Ox Baker Triumphant” by The Mountain Goats

I will thank my ride and crawl my way back inside To the guts of the building where my enemies Hide in the dark like roaches And I will signal the camera crew and everyone will do What he's been trained how to do Sweat dripping from my face as my moment approaches

Click your heels, count to three I bet you never expected me A little worse for wear Practically walking on air

I love this song a lot, and listening to it lately makes me imagine Wilford plotting his revenge while on his way to catch up with Snowpiercer before the end of season 1.

16. “Firewood” by Regina Spektor

The piano is not firewood yet But the cold does get cold So it soon might be that I'll take it apart, call up my friends And we'll warm up our hands by the fire

Don't look so shocked Don't judge so harsh You don't know You’re only spying Everyone knows it's going to hurt But at least we'll get hurt trying

This has to be one of my favourite songs of all time. It’s very beautiful, and I love the piano in it. I’ve always personally interpreted it to be at least partially about someone surviving a suicide attempt, and the overall imagery about burning a piano for warmth—and this bit about not judging someone for doing that—reads to me as more of a general statement about the difficult choices people struggling with mental illness and other similar issues have to make to survive. I listened to it recently and I could picture Audrey singing it in the nightcar. I think it suits her well.

17. “Cry for Judas” by The Mountain Goats

But I am just a broken machine And I do things that I don't really mean Long, black night Morning frost I'm still here But all is lost

I think the imagery of this song suits the show a lot in general, but I can also particularly imagine it being Wilford in a rare moment of self-awareness about how much damage he’s caused to the world and the people around him.

18. “Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide” by David Bowie

Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth You pull on your finger, then another finger, then your cigarette The wall-to-wall is calling, it lingers, then you forget Oh oh, oh, oh, you're a rock 'n' roll suicide

I love Wilford a lot. I don’t want anything bad to happen to him ever. I hope he kills more people, and I hope he gets his train back, and I hope he wins. But if he does eventually die in the show, I hope he’s found in the bathtub with there being some ambiguity about whether he really killed himself or whether one of his victims turned the tables on him, and I hope the climax of this song swells as the camera pans over his dead body. That’s the only Wilford death I will accept, thanks for coming to my TED talk.

19. “Source Decay” by The Mountain Goats

I park in an alley And I read through the postcards you continue to send Where as indirectly as you can, you ask what I remember I like these torture devices from my old best friend Well, I'll tell you what I know, like I swore I always would I don't think it's gonna do you any good I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok Down toward the water

Okay, I promise this is the last Mountain Goats song on the playlist. It’s just—it’s perfect. It has a train in it. And on the podcast “I Only Listen To The Mountain Goats,” John Darnielle commented that there’s barely anywhere you can go south of Bangkok before you hit the water, it’s a train going nowhere, it’s so good. It’s also one of the songs I’ve previously ripped a line off for my fanfiction titles!

20. “Sellers of Flowers” by Regina Spektor

The sellers of flowers Buy up old roses They pull off dead petals Like old heads of lettuce And sell ’em as new ones For cheaper and fairer But they die by the morning So who is the winner? Not the roses Not the buyers Not the sellers Maybe winter

And Regina Spektor closes out the playlist again! This song is another one I picked more on imagery and vibes than anything else. But since it’s about a young child in a world that seems to be moving inexorably toward an all-consuming winter, if it suits any of the characters, maybe it’s an appearance of Alex here at the end!

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy the playlist!

[ijustwant2write]

Sweet Boy-Bonnie Gold x Reader x Finn Shelby

(GIF credit to @aintthatakick)

Summary: Since Finn and (Y/N) split, she has been desperate to leave the Shelby business, it's awkward seeing his face everyday; however, there is one face she doesn't mind seeing. Though Finn starts to feel an intense jealousy.

Characters: Bonnie Gold x Reader, Finn Shelby x Reader

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Swearing, guns, threatening, arguing

(A/N: I wouldn't mind making another part or turning this into a series)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

'Honestly, I don't understand how you can be in the same room as him' my friends would say. 'How are you not ripping that girl's hands off him?' and 'Don't let it get to you, he misses you just as much as you miss him'.

Bullshit, utter and complete bullshit.

Never trust a Shelby. I had been warned, even by my own family, but I didn't listen. Finn and I had a connection, something had pulled him and I closer. Both of us just as innocent as each other, people had said we were the cutest pair, young lovers who had no idea of the cruel world around them. Well, that beautiful image was smashed as we grew older.

They say that when you find your soul mate, you'll just know. That's what I thought I felt when I laid eyes on the youngest Shelby. Perhaps I was just naive, maybe even bored, or I was jealous of the fact that most of my friends were in sturdy relationships and I wasn't. Nevertheless, he was the one to chat me up, and I was the one who flirted back. Never did I think we would break up, it just hadn't seemed possible, especially after being in a relationship for just over a year. It almost felt like I was locked in, not in a bad way, but I had gone through a lot with Finn and his family; breaking up with him made me realise how much I had left behind for Finn, and it angered me.

"(Y/N) there's no point going in there." Michael sighed, not even looking at me as he spoke, too focused on the papers in front of him.

"Tommy must understand! Why would he still keep me around if I'm no longer dating his brother? It was a favour from Finn for me to work here, and that's only because my parents kicked me out!"

"Because you're a good employee and he won't bother running around for new ones."

I groaned, flopping back into the chair adjacent to him."It's so awkward!"

"It's been over two months since you split right? You're almost twenty one. I'm sure you can survive seeing your ex."

"Everyday for practically the rest of my life?"

He finally lifted his eyes from the paper, dropping the pen and leaning back in his chair. But as he opened his mouth to speak, I heard Tommy's voice outside the door. Springing to my feet, I walked as I quick as I could in my heels to catch up with him.

"Mr Shelby!" I grabbed his attention before he opened his office door.

Slowly turning around, his general non-expressive face looking at me."Yes (Y/N)?"

"May we speak in your office?"

"No."

I refrained from scoffing."It's more of a personal matter that I need-"

"You can schedule an appointment if you wish, but I'm a very busy man. So speak now or wait another two weeks."

I couldn't help the huff that escaped my nostrils."I wanted to speak to you about resigning."

He started to show a little interest."Resigning? Why?"

"You know why."

"(Y/N), what you and Finn had was in the past. Everyone has moved on and forgotten. And it's not like its effecting your work."

"I know sir but-"

"And I can't afford to lose another member of staff at the moment."

"Why?"

"Cause Lottie has only gone and got herself knocked up. Got in a terrible state about it. So I need you here."

"Yes Mr Shelby."

He was about to enter his office when he froze, speaking over his shoulder."Actually, I need you to do something for me this afternoon."

"Yes sir?"

"There will be important documents delivered here this afternoon. I need to you collect them and bring them to the Garrison."

"Shouldn't you be getting one of the lads to get them?"

He raised an eyebrow at me, a warning sign.

"Yes sir, I can do that."

"Good."

Tommy never asked me to leave the shop. I was always the one to stay behind; whether that meant he trusted me or just wanted to make sure I was out of the way, I had always accepted it. No special treatment for Finn's girlfriend. But if there were files needed at the Garrison, that definitely meant something more than drinking was going to be happening. Why didn't he want one of the lads going out to get it? Or just to wait for it himself? I hadn't quite learned that you couldn't question Thomas Shelby, he looked at the world in his own way, and we all had to follow suit.

For some unknown reason, I could feel an uneasy sensation deep in my stomach, as if my instincts were warning me of something. I put it down to being upset that I was still having to see Finn everyday, though I willed myself to forget about him. There would be times where I thought I was over him, but something would remind me of a special moment; we were each others firsts for practically everything, that meant a lot to me. Time ticked by ever so quickly, so fast that I found one of the junior peakys handing over the mentioned documents already.

"Take it straight to Tommy, yeah?" he had mumbled.

I nodded, grabbing my coat and handbag to head out. Of course, every ounce of me wanted to see what these documents entailed. Were they the plans to one of Tommy's great schemes? Perhaps secrets he had collected to blackmail someone with? Most likely they were a jumble of numbers that made little to no sense to me, and it was part of a business move of Tommy's. There might have been a poor businessman sat with Tommy, discussing some sort of proposition that Tommy would throw completely out the window for his own benefit. Once at the doors, I knocked out if politeness, letting myself in when no one replied.

In the middle of the room was a table, sat at it was Tommy, Arthur and their guest opposite them, their back to me. Men surrounded them, obviously there to keep guard. I saw our lot, Finn, Isaiah and Bonnie, amongst others. There was no  one else in the pub, making my footsteps louder than what they should have been. Silently I walked over, handing the files to Tommy.

"You didn't mention anyone else joining, let alone a woman." the man grumbled, ignoring the way I glared at him.

"We didn't establish who would be present at the beginning. She was merely delivering these files for me. They're essential to this meeting."

I stayed still, not sure whether to stay or go, or to wait for some sort of instruction.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" the man snapped at me."You can go now."

Tommy put out the cigarette he had been using, eyebrows furrowed."Don't speak to my employees like that. She does what I say."

"Then you tell her to leave."

"(Y/N), you will stay until these documents are signed, understand?" his head slowly tilted upwards, watching as I nodded.

"This is bullshit, I'm not signing anything!"

"Yes you will." Arthur smirked.

"These documents state that you will give us sixty percent of what your company earns, as a debt to us. Oh, and so that we don't release those pictures we spoke of." Tommy calmly stated, reaching into his blazer to get a pen, though the opposition misinterpreted that as a threat.

Guns were pulled out on either side, Bonnie quickly grabbed me, pulling me behind him; my hands gripped onto his arm holding me back. My eyes were wide with terror, anyone could open fire, and I had little to no defence. Tommy and the man intensely stared at each other. He groaned before raising his hand, signalling to stand down. They lowered their guns, our men slowly doing the same. I hadn't let go of Bonnie still to frightened. As the documents were signed, Bonnie held me closer, still keeping me behind him.

"There, it's signed. Are we finished here?"

"Steady your horses mate, we're not done with you yet." Arthur leaned back in his chair.

"Bonnie, take (Y/N) back to the shop. These are to be put away somewhere safe." Tommy instructed, handing me the documents back in their envelope.

"Yes sir." I said, allowing Bonnie to lead me out of the Garrison.

We walked in silence for a few minutes, waiting to get further away from the pub. Bonnie gently put his arm on my back as I hugged the papers to my chest.

"You alright?" he asked.

"Yeah." I squeaked out."Just haven't been around guns in a while."

He said nothing back, still walking with me to the shop. As we arrived, he pulled out a chair for me.

"Here, let me take those from you, before you give yourself a nasty papercut."

Bonnie prised the documents from my hands, laying them on the desk beside us. He knelt down next to me, that lovely smile still on his face.

"I'll be fine, honestly."

I felt him looking at me, causing me to blush under his stare. Polly quickly broke the trance.

"What happened?"

I waved my hand dissmissively."No one is hurt. Just boys playing with their toys."

"Of course they pulled their guns out. You alright?"

"Yeah, just scared me a little."

"That's cause our Finn didn't expose you to those things, just like I taught him to." Polly casually stated as she took the documents.

I had tensed up at her comment, Bonnie noticed this."Someome as lovely as you shouldn't be exposed to that anyway."

Unable to hide a smile, I thanked him for escorting me. With a cheeky grin, he bowed his head in respect, the peaky cap staying firmly on. He looked less like a gypsy boy now, the only way you could tell was one was from his carefree personality. He was different from the other lads, he didn't want to grow up so fast, he didn't want to be part of some big business plan; he wanted to box. That was it.

"Shame Tommy has a grasp on him, eh?" Lizzie suddenly spoke.

Looking over my shoulder, I saw her approaching me. She sighed as she sat in the chair next to mine.

"He would have been such a lovely boy."

"Since when do lovely boys box for a living?"

"You can't deny it. He's the sweetest of them all."

"Yeah, now he is."

"Now? Oh, you're referring to the baby of the family."

"Finn's changed. Always knew he would be like his brothers, just wished I was wrong for once."

Lizzie chuckled."You're better out of it darling."

"I'm not exactly out of the life though am I?"

"No, suppose not. But us girls have to stick together, right? Men aren't the important things in life."

"Well I know that now."

The rest of the day seemed to continue as normal, no one batted an eyelid over whatever illegal (or maybe they were legal) plans Tommy had just completed; a usual day in the office. When I began packing up my things, coat in hand ready to walk out, we heard the men coming back, their loud shouts and laughter being heard from the end of the street. A few minutes later, they disturbed the quiet, and I saw Lizzie and Polly roll their eyes, making me giggle.

"How you feeling?" Bonnie suddenly appeared beside me as I put on my coat.

"Oh, uh, fine thank you." I simply replied.

"Good, good." he tucked his hands into his trouser pockets.

A silence hung in the air, I wasn't sure whether to leave or stay."So....how did the rest of the meeting go?"

"Fine. The man practically pissed himself."

"Wouldn't expect any less from the Peaky Blinders."

"Still strange to think that I'm actually a blinder myself."

"Yeah, it is actually. Seems like only yesterday you walked in here, the cock of the walk, telling us all about your boxing dreams."

"Well those dreams are a reality now. Actually, I was going to ask you something-"

"Bonnie!" Finn called out, his tone harsh."Come on, let's get going."

"Where we going?"

"Out."

"Where-"

"Stop asking fucking questions, let's go."

Bonnie turned his head back to me."We're not on duty anymore, we're probably going drinking."

"Not to be rude, but I don't really want to hang around with my ex."

"Oh, course not."

"Bon!"

"Maybe just us two sometime, yeah?"

Taken back by his question, I could only nod, looking like a fool. With that lovely smile, he sauntered back to the boys, though I didn't miss the glare on Finn's face, directed towards Bonnie before landing on me. Giving him a blank face back, I watched them walk out, giving it a few minutes before leaving myself.

Bonnie's P. O. V

Finn was pissed, though he had no reason to be. (Y/N) was his ex, he was the one who lost her, he was the one that claimed he didn't need to be tied down to any women at the moment, he liked his whores too much. (Y/N) didn't deserve that, she was a smart, beautiful woman, Finn was too dumb to see what he had lost.

"What the fuck was that about?" Finn snapped as we walked through the streets, Isaiah stood in between us.

"What?"

"You know what."

"I'm allowed to speak to (Y/N), and she's allowed to speak to other men."

"That wasn't speaking, that was flirting."

"So? I'm a natural flirt."

"You did that on purpose!"

Finn was getting more and more worked up, his pale skin turning red. But he didn't scare me, he was a scrawny lad, one punch and he was a goner.

"And what the fuck are you going to do about it?" I stopped walking.

"Come on guys, enough." Isaiah tried to stop what was about to be a nasty argument.

"The fuck you talking about?" Finn was quieter.

"Well, tell me what you'll do then. What's going to happen to me in your jealous rage?"

He advanced towards me."I'm not jealous!"

"Then why are you so upset? I was just talking to her, you two broke up."

"It's only been two months."

"She doesn't seem bothered."

I knew that would get under his skin, and I felt bad as soon as the words slipped out.

"I know she doesn't! That's the fucking problem."

"Finn mate, if you don't want me going with her then-"

"Why would you do that anyway?! You're supposed to be my mate, you don't date your friend's ex."

"Yeah, it is a little low." Isaiah added.

"Well," I thought carefully about my next words,"what if I told you both that I really liked her? She isn't someone I want to mess around with."

"I'd still saying fucking no! How awkward would that be, seeing my best mate with my ex?"

"Don't you think it's awkward for her too? Having to work for your brother, technically work for you too?"

Finn scoffed, turning away from me. Isaiah sighed, stepping between us.

"Look, why don't we just go get some drinks, eh? Forget about this whole thing?"

"No Is, we can't just forget this."

I groaned at Finn."Come on! You left her! You didn't love her!"

"I do!"

"Do?"

"I mean did. I did love her."

"Right. I'll see you lads tomorrow." I spun on my heel, heading in the opposite direction.

"You're headed to her house!"

"I don't even know where she lives!" I lied.

"Bonnie, don't you dare ask her out!"

"Fuck off Finn."

It felt stupid to fight over a girl, even though that girl was (Y/N). I didn't want to fall out with Finn, he had become a good mate of mine. But this was ridiculous. It was obvious that he still had feelings for her, though I couldn't be sure if they had resurfaced because of me or whether he truly still loved her. However, I wasn't one to be told what to do (unless my father or Tommy instructed me), especially from someone younger and more immature than me. If I wanted to do this, then I was going to.

I saw her blue coat, her hair tied up in a bun, her usual handbag swinging on her elbow. She was about to enter her block of flats, a dirty, old place she moved to after the split. She hated it, but never expressed it, she was too stubborn to let Finn know she was sad.

"(Y/N)!" I shouted, causing her to flinch.

"Bonnie?"

"Sorry," I breathed out as I caught up to her,"didn't meant to scare you."

"That's alright. What you doing in my part of the town?" she smiled, and I almost forgot what I was going to say.

"About us going for some drinks."

"Oh, I really don't want to go if Finn's there-"

"No, he won't be."

"So who will be there?"

"Just us two."

[fortheloveoffanfic]

After Party

Keanu Reeves x Reader. Request (A/n- have some smutty, bass player Keanu on this Friday night. Edit: I can’t believe I used the wrong ‘bass’ the first time *cries in dumb*)

Warnings- SMUT/NSFW, casual sex

Keanu’s navy blue t-shirt was soaked through with exertion, clinging to his skin. The crowd roared excitedly and the air felt electric. Like his band mates, Keanu was lost in the feeling, high on both the music and their audience’s exuberance. He had never been a fan of the limelight, but that, that was different; playing the bass, his fingers working the instrument expertly and the wide grin splitting his lips was enough to tell anyone how much he loved it.

There were people around her, too much maybe, but Y/n didn’t care. Like most of the other concert goers, her hands were in the air as her body moved in time with the music and she’d probably had way too much to drink by then, her inhibitions slowly withering away. “Aren’t you glad we paid extra for the VIP tickets?” Her best friend, Haley yelled, her voice combating the music.

“Definitely!” Y/n returned loudly. Originally when they’d made plans to see Dogstar during her birthday trip to Las Vegas, Y/n and Haley had planned to snag themselves a couple of general admission tickets and spend the rest of their money on an extra hotel room, but somehow, Haley had convinced her that being in the front row and getting into the backstage meet and greet would be way better than sleeping in separate rooms, and by extension, separate beds. And, as it turns out, she was right. Seeing one of her favorite Indie-Rock bands like that wasn’t something she was going to forget very soon, even if she was already drunk. “I can’t believe it’s almost over!” Y/n whined after the front man announced that they were on their last set for the night.

“Are you kidding me?” Haley laughed loudly, “The night’s just getting started! We have the meet and greet and trust me, its just gonna take one look at your outfit to get you an invite to a private concert,” Haley wiggled her brows, her words slightly slurred.

“Yeah, okay,” Y/n rolled her eyes, “Because hot celebrities wanna fuck a part-time nanny,” she huffed, finishing off the drink from her red plastic cup.  

“You never know,” Haley winked, teasing as she clumsily brushed some hair out of her face.

After the concert was through, fans had started clearing the huge hall on the ground floor of the hotel, some leaving while others with VIP passes, and even those who’d managed to dupe the security, headed backstage for the meet and greet. Things were signed and pictures were taken, but at some point, fans had started to leave there too. All except for a small crowd of women who managed to grab the men’s attention. By some odd miracle, Y/n and Haley had found themselves in that crowd, engaging in giggly conversation and tipsy, flirty jokes. 

They were all seated in what seemed to be a small lounge area in a corner of the room, surrounded by instruments and other stage equipment. There; short, black, velvet upholstered sofas were arranged close together around a matching, low, round table, littered with drinks, plastic cups and beer bottles. There was even a rogue cigarette pack or two mixed into the clutter. Haley was on the end of the chair in front of the table, while Y/n was wedged between her friend and another girl who’s name she didn’t even know. Music played loudly and the aroma of liquor hung in the air, adding a certain ambiance to their low lit, makeshift party.

“Look at that,” Haley nudged Y/n’s arm, nodding her head towards the other side of the glass coffee table, where the band was sprawled out, drinks in hand. 

“What?” Y/n chortled, trying to see what Haley was seeing, no longer interested in whatever was going on around her.

“Look at him,” Haley nodded subtly to a man, maybe five years older that Y/n, dressed simply in t-shirt and jeans, his hair hidden by a beanie, “He’s totally checking you out,” sure enough, his dark gaze was fixed her, half of his lower lip caught between his teeth, skewing his halfhearted smirk. 

“That’s Keanu Reeves,” Y/n giggled quietly, “There’s no way he’s checking me out, he’s probably just looking at someone else. Or, you know, he’s drunk out of his mind.”

“Only one way to find out right?” Haley wiggled her brows, a bad idea clearly in the making. By most definitions, both Y/n and Haley were adrenaline seeking risk-takers. They liked the rush, excitement and partying till dawn if the opportunity arose. But even then, Y/n always thought that there was a line, even if it wasn't defined or out-rightly related to their situation, it was always there, and somehow, Haley almost always managed to cross it. Before Y/n could even protest, Haley was leaning forward, trying to get Keanu’s attention, “Hey,” she snapped and when he looked at her, she smiled, bright and mischievous, “Hi, I was wondering; are you checking out my friend?”

For a minute, Keanu seemed stunned, and Y/n internally cringed at Haley’s boldness. All she wanted was to be swallowed whole by a spontaneous fissure in the floor, or at the very least, to never cross paths with Keanu again. That might have been more likely. Though, when his initial bewilderment morphed into a confident smile, Y/n felt heat rise to her cheeks, “Well that depends,” he planted his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands together, leaning over the table in Y/n’s direction.

Y/n huffed, tilting her head and letting her hair sweep carelessly over her shoulders, “On what exactly?”

Keanu moistened his lips, “On if you’re interested or not,” he scooted rather gracefully to the edge of his seat, and Y/n did the same. No one seemed to be paying them any mind, though, if they were, Y/n didn’t notice, “If you are, then maybe we could get out of here.”

Briefly, Y/n silently checked with Haley, who just gestured for Y/n go. “Okay,” she bit back a smile, only standing to follow Keanu’s lead. Watching him go, his band mates, Brett and Robert whooped and offered him a couple other noises of approval, though Y/n could tell that Keanu was largely ignoring them, snaking his arm around her waist and offering her a swing from a bottle of hard liquor that he had swiped.

“Where are we going?” They spilled out into the hotel’s lobby, squinting at the brightness, a stark contrast to the smoky dimness of the small room backstage. Because Vegas never really slept, the lobby still buzzed with life, guests moving in and out and the casino opposing the auditorium showed no signs of closing soon, even if it was well past midnight. 

“Well,” Keanu looked around, “We could play poker,” he gestured to the tables peeking through the grand doorway, “Or I could take you up to my room.”

Y/n huffed, a small smile still tugging at her lips. In another instance, she might have pushed him away, disgusted by his arrogance in thinking that she'd willingly go to his room. But she was drunk past caring and she’d be lying if Y/n said the thought hadn’t crossed her mind. Snatching the bottle, she stole a few more mouthfuls, the tequila burning her throat as it went down, creating a warmth in her stomach that seemed to spread through her veins. Turing in his arm, Y/n cocked an eyebrow, “Lead the way hotshot.”    

Scoffing a chuckle, Keanu led her to the elevator, which turned out to be surprisingly empty on the way up. His hand around her slid to Y/n’s back, settling on the curve of her ass, just as she turned to kiss him, heated and hungry. “You know,” he mumbled against her lips, walking until he had Y/n pressed up against on side of the elevator, the reflective metal of the wall cool against her bare thighs and exposed arms, Keanu’s large calloused hands now on her waist, underneath her lace blouse, “I’ve been watching you all night, dancing with your friend. Anyone ever tell you that you look fucking sexy when you dance?”

Y/n’s pupils were blown with lust and she could feel Keanu’s hard on dig into her stomach, restrained by his jeans. As he spoke, his hands skimmed her body, passing over her mini skirt only to dip under the hem, going cup and squeeze her ass, “No,” Y/n moaned, arching into Keanu’s chest when  he lowered his lips to her neck, trailing kisses from her jaw, going downwards, his stubble rough on her skin.

“Well, you do,” he breathed, his lips warm and wet on her soft, silky skin as he sucked the sensitive spot behind her ear, “You kept distracting me, like a little vixen,” he growled, curling his palms under her thighs, hosting her up into his arms, Y/n’s legs, “And I don’t even know your name.”

“Y/n,” she offered breathily, “Nice to meet you,” she giggled.

“Keanu,” he returned, though, Y/n didn’t need an introduction to know who he was, “Nice to meet you too.” Less than a beat later, Keanu resumed his onslaught on her neck, eventually scooting her up some more so he could bury his face in the valley of her breasts. Y/n’s head lolled back, one hand travelling to shove off his beanie and grip a fistful of Keanu’s short hair, pressing his face closer to her chest.

Neither of them even realized that the elevator doors had slid open, too busy to hair the little, automated ‘ding’. What they did hear though was someone loudly clearing their throat. Y/n’s cheeks burned, taking on a rosy hue while Keanu smiled sheepishly, setting her down. “Come on,” he eventually snapped out of it, taking her hand and brushing past the hotel guests waiting to get into the elevator. 

Between giggles, sloppy kisses and teasing gropes, Y/n and Keanu, hand in hand, staggered towards his room, all the way at the end of the hall. When they got there, he clumsily unlocked it with his key card, barely having a moment to turn on the lights before he was crushing his lips to Y/n’s again. Their limbs tangled as they simultaneously tried to undress each other; he went for her blouse first, while Y/n pawed at the buckle of his belt. Eventually, articles of clothing were being tossed aside and by the time Y/n and Keanu stumbled through the open doors leading to the bedroom, they were left only in their underwear. 

Keanu maintained a grip on her curve of Y/n’s waist while she cupped his cheeks, walking backwards to the made queen sized bed. The lights in there were off and in the process of trying to make the way, they bumped into the dresser and even managed to knock over some things. When they were standing on the edge, Keanu hastily picked Y/n up again, only to deposit her length-ways on the bright white sheets. She fell with a quiet yelp, giggling breathily when Keanu yanked her panties off before getting out of his own underwear. 

With the aid of the city lights filtering through the closed curtains, Y/n could make out a few defining features, a well toned torso, a very impressive package and a devilish smirk. Likewise, as Keanu got onto the bed, pulling Y/n’s legs apart and getting situated between them, he could easily make out her breasts and her sensuous curves, along with her hair, fanned out around her, like a silky halo. If he weren’t in so much of a hurry for things to escalate, he might have taken more time to admire her, but what he could see made Keanu’s cock throb appreciatively and instead, he gave her legs a tug, pulling her body closer. 

He lowered his lips to ravish her chest, taking her hardened right nipple in his mouth, his tongue swirling around, his teeth gently grazing her skin when he eventually pulled away to favor the other one. Y/n moaned softly, eagerly pressing Keanu’s face chest. His stocky fingers trailed along her inner thigh, brushing her warm, wet folds, wasting no time before he was rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves, Y/n’s back arched to meet his touch.  Keanu worked her clit encouragingly in slow, circular motions, at times alternating between that and rubbing it with the ‘v’ of his middle and pointer fingers.

“Keanu,” she pleaded breathlessly, “More.” One of Y/n’s delicate hands run up his front, barely grazing the vertical scar on his stomach and up his firm chest before settling to settle on his shoulder, her other one circling his girthy shaft, pumping slowly, her thumb occasionally brushing over his head. 

As her ministrations grew faster, Keanu’s bucked into her touch, his fingers, now sticky with her arousal slipping into her entrance, curving to hit her G-spot, “You’re so fucking tight,” he praised between nipping and sucking her breasts, “Gonna feel good around my cock.”

The feeling of his fingers moving and out of her was good, but Y/n was growing frustrated with the burning desire for more. “Fuck,” she hissed when his thumb added pressure to her nub as Keanu continued, “Keanu,” she groaned, “God, just fuck me already.”

Smirking, he trailed hot, wet kisses kisses up Y/n’s neck, spending a few extra moments sucking on her pulse point before continuing his journey upwards. Keanu’s free hand skimmed Y/n’s side, his calloused touch sending shivers up her spine. “I want you to cum like this first,” his hot breath fanned her ear, and Y/n shuddered with pleasure when his tongue flicked the warm skin behind her earlobe erotically. 

Soon enough, Y/n’s walls were clenching around Keanu’s fingers, her orgasm sending her vision white as she shut her eyes. Waves of pleasure coursed through her body, her legs weak and shaking, eliciting a loud, sinful moan from her parted lips. Her hand enclosed around Keanu’s erection went limp, though he was too enamored to notice, from what he could see, she looked absolutely spectacular like that; with her head tossed the side, hair falling over her face, lips ajar and eyes shut tight. 

Keanu was about to push into her, when he caught himself, hastily reaching to feel around blindly on the nightstand. There should have been one right…….there. Feeling the cool, foil packaging, Keanu gabbed it up, effortlessly ripping the top before pulling out the condom and rolling it onto his shaft. 

Finally, Keanu sheathed himself inside of her drenched cunt, groaning lowly at how Y/n felt cocooning him. “God,” his voice was gravely and his jaw clenched, “You feel so fucking good.” Y/n’s only response was a needy whimper, already longing for more. For another moment, Keanu lingered inside, giving Y/n a much-needed minute to adjust to his size, before striking up a steady controlled pace, exiting fully before driving himself back in. 

Y/n’s arms went around Keanu’s middle as her legs tangled behind his thighs, eventually wordlessly urging him to flip them over. Now on top, her palms traveled up his chest, her nails sinking into the top of his shoulders to steady herself as she rode him. Keanu’s hands ran the length of her torso, eager to fondle her boobs, loving Y/n’s mewls of pleasure as his thumbs brushed her sensitive nipples, the remnants of her first orgasm being smeared on her chest. 

Rolling her hips, Y/n felt Keanu’s balls hit her core each time she came down, and his throbbing veins rough, the feelings adding to her ecstasy. Her broken sentences were already garbled and the makings of her second climax in the works.

The slight curve of his member easily hit her deepest points of pleasure, and eventually, one of Keanu’s hands abandoned her swollen breast, two of his fingers reaching between their joined bodies to eagerly rub her over-stimulated clit, his thumb pressed firmly to her mound. Y/n raked her nails along his chest, eventually settling on his pecs. 

Through his bleary vision, Keanu admired the way Y/n’s messy hair fell over her face, how, when his other hand slid to her waist, her breasts bounced with each movement, her sounds contained in her throat. “I’m close,” she admitted, her pace growing sloppy.

“Me too,” his hips bucked to meet hers, a couple digits still rubbing her clit as the other moved again, that time to knead her ass, “Come on baby,” he encouraged, “Milk my cock.” Keanu’s dirty requests were enough to push Y/n over the edge. Without further warning, Y/n shuddered around him, her pussy squeezing Keanu tighter, her legs mimicking bonelessness. 

Keanu hissed as he cock pulsed, buried deep inside Y/n, twitching as he shot ropes of creamy release against her walls, the only minor hamper being the latex barrier. The feeling was euphoric; he could feel the tingling down to his toes and his vision went stark white for a second, blind spots dancing on his eyes even as it faded. 

Breathing heavily, Y/n winced as she eventually pulled herself off of Keanu, collapsing onto the bed next to him. Their chests heaved and beads of exertion coated their bodies; Keanu had only just realized that the A/c wasn’t even on. Y/n’s eyes were heavy, and out of the corner, to her left, she could see that Keanu was still staring at the darkened ceiling, faint smile still quirking his lips. “It was very nice to meet you, Keanu,” she teased, giggling softly. 

“Likewise,” he chuckled, finally turning his head towards her. Again, the lapsed into silence, but it was only for a short while. “So,” he began, “Do you have to get back to your friend anytime soon?”

Knowing Haley, she’d probably left with one of Keanu’s band mates, or some other guy, intent on spending the night the same way Y/n was spending hers. They probably wouldn’t have seen each other until midday. “No,” she furrowed her brows, intrigued by where that was going. 

Leaning up on his crooked elbow, Keanu brushed stray locks away from Y/n’s neck and face, shrugging nonchalantly, “Good,” he chortled, swinging one leg over her, his lips connecting with hers and his already hardening cock against her thigh giving Y/n enough of an explanation. 

*******

Tagging- @harrisongslimited​

[xlady-saya]

i’ve had a love of my own [ch 1]

Relationships: andrew/neil

Summary: Despite everything Neil could’ve imagined for his life, he never thought he’d be here, finally giving the world the interview they’ve always wanted.

It’s been decades, but even with his numerous accolades and sports wins, he finds that they’re the least important thing about his life.

Neil can’t help but laugh. Andrew would be so annoyed if he were here.

Of course, Neil only wants to talk about him, and the life they spent together.

Tags: interviews, post canon, major character death but not how u think I swear lol, neil is an old man retelling his memories about andrew, cheesy romance, post retirement, see more tags on ao3

Read on ao3!

Neil pricks himself on the old Palmetto pin as he fixes it to his collar, jabbing the same spot on his thumb he hit just a week before.

He hardly winces at the feeling these days, and for a long time, Matt joked about how he really couldn't go a day without attracting some form of violence. Neil smiles at the thought, because it's far from the truth. He stands by the claim he never asked for fights, simply had no problem finishing them.

"You mean letting me finish them," Andrew would quip, and they'd go back and forth all over again in a never-ending argument. It's so never-ending, Neil goes through the motions of it even now, however many decades later.

This pin tends to start it, since it's the only remotely dangerous thing he owns now. The orange is still bright and obnoxious, with criss crossing Exy racquets in a bright white. He's memorized the raised edges, tilted from old age. The once silver backing has rust spots, but no one ever sees that part. It has its reputation intact, and Neil smiles sardonically.

It's not the only thing that's been worn down, but he likes to think he doesn't look as bad as he could too. Laughing at his own joke, he taps the pin lightly. It's apparently vintage now, according to Allison, since the new Palmetto merch has drifted into neon territory.

Neil is glad he kept his own. It's especially important today, he thinks, that he shows as much fondness for the past as possible. Though, it's not for his sake. His room is nothing but littered with the tokens of the past.

Sighing, he stares fondly out across the living room, the walls haphazardly decorated with old, signed jerseys his friends used to wear. He has one from each of their old teams, but picked his favorites to go up on the wall. The rest sit in storage, ready to be auctioned off whenever he decides living is too much of a chore. Above the mantle, Andrew's racquet from his last team hangs in a shadow box. Then below it, framed pictures which Neil tries to rotate as best he can, some of them shitty ones converted from his phone camera. Mostly, they're of his Foxes at various points in their lives. The only two photos which stay the same are the one he took with Andrew and Kevin at the Olympics, and the snapshot of him and Andrew at the airport in his first year at Palmetto.

If he had to catalog the room, that would barely scratch the surface. He's pages away from mentioning Nicky's terribly made mugs, Betsy's first editions, and cookie tins filled with postcards Katelyn and Aaron sent twenty years ago.

Most of the time, the untidy collection of junk surrounding him is a comfort. It makes the small apartment feel like home, or as close as he can get when he's by himself. He swears some of the items still carry the unique scents of grass stains and floor polish, or Allison's perfume and the glitter glue from Dan and Matt's kids.

When that fails him, the candle he has in every room does the trick to fill in the blanks. Andrew used the same scent for over half their life together: breakfast pancakes. It's sickly sweet and stains the furniture, and Neil loves nothing more than to bury his face in the cushions after a day of having them lit.

These are the things that ground him, that keep him in place, but today he feels fidgety for the first time in years. He shouldn't be, he thinks, laughing to himself. He planned this after all, it's just...

Well, he's never been the best at talking to people.

There's a knock at his door, and the cuckoo clock on the wall (shockingly, that one is his fault) tells him it's right on schedule. Neil sighs, slipping his feet into the white slippers beneath him. "Come in, Sydney."

The nurse on his floor opens the door to his apartment with a smile, too fresh faced and early for this time of day. She’s young, and she's always been a bit cheery for his taste, but she reminds him of Katelyn and he allows it. In the last few years, when Andrew's migraines prevented him from reading, she'd bring him audiobook gift cards.

She smiles bright, and he gives her that look for her to cut it out. At this point, she's less put off by it and more amused. He only tells her to save the smiles because if she doesn't she'll have wrinkles like him years from now. He hates how much he sounds like Allison.

Neil hardly looks in the mirror anymore, but this morning he put in some effort. He looks as perpetually tired as he always looked back in the day, except now his eye bags are accompanied by wrinkles that form their own topographical map on his face.

At least he didn't lose all his hair.

The only thing is his blue eyes are as piercing as ever, so coupled with the grandpa look, he's quite intimidating. Not that he needs to be, but it's nice to feel a little capable when he can barely walk by himself anymore.

"Morning, Mr. Josten," Sydney greets, untucking the wheelchair from behind the door and pushing it over to him. He makes sure to grab Andrew's favorite crochet blanket. He hates messing with it, but he thinks the smell of nicotine it carries will help him today. Refresh his memory.

Neil grumbles, but lets her help him into the chair. He has on his good lounge pants, without holes, and his old Palmetto sweater. "I told you years ago I hate being called that."

"Because it makes you feel old," she jabs, teasing lightly. Even still, she's gentle when she places the blanket over his lap and hands him his glasses. "I have to keep you in line somehow."

"Ha-ha."

As she wheels him out of his room, he starts fidgeting again. He's used to exploring the luxury nursing home on his own time, not because he has somewhere to be. He hasn't had somewhere to be since...well, he hates thinking about that, lest he run into a memory that hurts more than helps.

Today isn't the day for that.

Some other, more able-bodied residents pass by him on foot, waving amicably and knowing better than to expect a wave back. Shockingly, he's well liked here, probably because he doesn't have rowdy grandkids who break the peace. Plus, he's pretty sure some of them are old fans.

Sydney leans down as they pass through the common area and into one of the meeting rooms, the spotless linoleum floor throwing him off as usual. He never would've picked a place so expensive and fancy for himself, but Andrew was always someone with classy tastes. "Ready for today?"

At the reminder, Neil wrings his fingers together. Not advised by his doctor, but fuck that guy. "As ready as I'll ever be," he says, glaring at the glass doors ahead. Sydney laughs, placing him at the end of a large table. The meeting room creeps him out, since it's mostly used for family meetings or will planning appointments. Sound proof, silent.

"Oh hush, you're a famous athlete, I'm sure you've faced worse," she chides, pouring him a glass of water without any ice. Because he's a fiend. Neil rolls his eyes; she has no idea. He's threatened countless reporters before for stepping even a toe out of line, but some recent college grads from an indie publication are making him sweat more than an Exy game. Sydney makes a show of whispering behind her hand. "Besides, I heard from Gabe at the front desk they look terrified, so go easy on them, yes? Can't have another cafeteria incident."

Ugh, not that again.

"You have no witnesses," he waves off, leaning back in his seat while Sydney sets the break in place. Only then is he hit with a wave of calm, fondness even. His quivering hands curl as best they can in the blanket, the ghost of a grip, and he smiles out across the room. Ah, he can't be doing this already, but it's hard to help. He itches for the smell of a cigarette, a press on the back of his neck. Closing his eyes, he tries his best to feel it. "Besides, once they know why they're really here they won't be nearly so stressed. Hell, they might even be disappointed."

He tries not to grimace at that, but for the time he's giving them and the paperwork he made them sign, they're going to sit and listen to his old man ravings all day or so help him--

He feels a hand brush against his, and when he looks Sydney is there. She squeezes his fingers in hers, smile fond and weighed down with a sadness so foreign, he nearly regrets telling her to cut it out. But no, he understands. He's the one who understands the most. She grazes the fabric of the blanket as she pulls away, breathing in the same smoke he can for just a moment. "No, I don't think that's possible."

She doesn't give Neil time to doubt himself, not that he could. He can never doubt anything when it comes to Andrew, no matter how much the blond secretly doubted about himself. Neil always teased him for that, and his living oxymoron ways.

Neil's biggest goal of the day is to piss off Andrew's ghost as much as humanly possible, and his grin is nearly splitting at the thought. Fine, mission active.

"Good luck!" Sydney calls as she leaves the meeting room, and he watches her gesture to his guests once they arrive through the glass doors.

Oh shit, they really do look terrified.

The two interviewers see him through the door and Neil can only assume they shit a brick. They're young, can't be more than a few years out of university, dressed way too professionally for someone as uncaring as Neil. They could've shown up in clown costumes for all he cared, at least he would've gotten a good laugh.

The young man fumbles with the door and his companion rushes forward a little too fast before correcting herself. Jeez.

Neil does his best to hide his laugh, not that he's ever been polite. It's more...

Their terror is Neil's fault. He started declining interviews soon after he retired, letting his name and lifestyle fade into mystery and speculation with the public. Kevin had not been happy about it, since to this day he and Thea are in the public eye, commentating on Exy games, doing talk shows, helping curate museums, blah, blah, blah...

Neil didn't have time for that.

He never thought he'd be okay with slipping back into unknown status after so many years of being seen, being cheered for, but when the time came it was an easy choice. Andrew made it so. Neil had his time to be free, to do whatever he wanted and play the sport he loved. But ultimately, when he no longer could, fucking off to do whatever he wanted with Andrew sounded way better than dealing with reporters and overzealous fans.

Just because he became an unknown though, doesn't mean he faded into obscurity. According to Allison, his life has been quite a hot button issue in the community for over a decade. People want to know where he's been, what he did during those years, how he looks back on the past, everything. It's been obnoxious.

Popular sports magazines and large publications have practically been clawing for a piece of him for years, and he's never given in no matter how many fruit bouquets they sent or how many checks they tried to write him. Though, one almost got him purely because they kept sending gourmet chocolates, and if Andrew was a glutton before, old age only made it worse.

So, Neil Josten is back to being a subject of interest for some reason, someone people want to know everything about. For him to randomly call up a dying indie magazine and offer them full rights to an interview under his specific terms surely threw the sports world into a fucking whirl.

Whatever.

He's going to share what he wants to share. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Mr. Jo--" The first reporter clears his throat, passing his notepad and phone over to his other hand before outstretching one to Neil. "Mr. Josten. It's such an honor to meet you, um, wow. I'm Blake, and this is Rayah. We're so grateful for being granted the opportunity to interview you. You're a legend!"

Neil stares at the outstretched hand like he doesn't know what to do with it, and as much as he does know what's expected of him, part of his hesitation is equal parts his disinterest and the fact he doesn't talk to anyone but his remaining family these days. Well, and Sydney.

Blake swallows and drops his hand, surely admonishing himself for his own stupidity.

Rayah saves him. "Um, we really are appreciative, sir," she says, laying out some notepads and setting up her recorder. Old school, Neil appreciates it. It's better than cameras and microphones. "We're still in shock honestly. We were theorizing on why you picked us the entire drive up here!"

"Neil is fine, and don't bother with small talk I know it's not why you're here," he says then, smiling at her words. They both flinch, taken aback. He's not sure why they'd be expecting a Kevin Day type. He has a record for being too blunt and argumentative for his own good. He's right though; they're here for answers, not discussions on how he's doing or what he does for fun in his not so humble nursing home. In much the same vein, he promised honesty, so he'll give it from the start. "I picked you precisely because you're unknown and failing."

They freeze, but they're clearly not Foxes. If they were, they'd immediately get indignant and glare, hold themselves back from punching a helpless old man. Oh, those were the good ol' days.

When Rayah fumbles for a response, a logic, Neil simply shrugs. "I like the underdogs."

He doesn't intend it to be, but it's a tension breaker. The stiffness in the reporters' shoulders deflate with a laugh, and they finally get back to organizing themselves without looking like they want to run for the hills and beg ESPN to take over.

"As your history suggests," Blake jokes, and Neil rewards him with a grin, tapping his Foxes pin.

He doesn't mention the fact Andrew would've never spoken to him had he gone to some trashy magazine, and that Andrew was always a bit of a rebel himself, though he hated to admit to any kind of urge that didn't involve Neil, sweets, or fancy cars.

Neil takes the free moment to wrap his blanket around his shoulders, letting the ingrained smell of ash permeate around him. Much better, he can think so much clearer like this.

As they finish setting up and take their seats across from him, Blake taps his pencil against the rim of his notepad. It looks like he almost wants to launch back into small talk, but thinks better of it when he remembers Neil's words. Considerate, a good listener. Just what Neil needs today.

Blake clears his throat, cutting through the bullshit. "Now, we know you have specific terms for how you want to lead this interview, which we're completely fine with. Wherever you want to start, we'll follow."

And with that, they sit back, unsure but ready to catch whatever morsel of information might fall from Neil's lips. Again, he finds himself fighting a smirk.

Of course, he led these people astray a bit, but he doesn't see the problem with having a little fun before revealing his true intentions.

He nods, pushing down the giddy feeling that always comes with talking about Andrew. Not yet, but soon.

"Hm, I assume you prepared some questions just in case," Neil asks, taking a sip of his water.

Rayah blinks, exchanging a look with Blake. She rifles through her notepad to a page in the middle, scribbled and stained with ink. There are so many questions on it, some of them curve over the others in a painful word twister. "Uh yes but, we didn't think you'd want to answer them," she guesses.

She's correct.

Neil loathes interview questions, because they're predictable. But in this case, he'll let the first one lead him down the road.

Neil relents, leaning back in his wheelchair. "Well you're mostly right, but why don't you ask me your first one?" He offers, and they look positively ecstatic. "That'll get me started."

And once he starts, he doubts he'll be able to stop.

"Sure." Blake clears his throat, making sure his recorder is functioning properly. When he's satisfied, he leans back, mirroring Neil's posture, though the rigidity is still there. If he doesn't lighten up, he's going to have back pains for days. "Now, there have been a lot of milestones in your career as a pro athlete. No one would dream of disputing your skill in the sport, or how you earned any of your countless awards--"

"Flattery," Neil warns, raising a single finger. That's not what he's here for either. In fact, as much as this is his interview, it's not about him at all.

"Right," Blake says with a huff of a laugh. "But surely one of your brightest moments was your historic win at the Olympics. It was talked about for months within the community. Of course, any true Exy fan knows the details of the game, it was only covered by every major publication. So, I guess our question is, what do you most remember about that moment? Was it as monumental for you as it was for Exy fans?"

Ah, a predictable question, but also not a bad place to begin. Neil doesn't fight the edge of the smirk that appears, though he does raise his thumb to swipe at it. It's been a while since he's felt so mischievous, it's so difficult to be, well, difficult when you're being wheeled around all day.

It was a monumental moment for him, though maybe not for the reasons everyone else would think.

"You certainly did your research," he comments, humming as he sits back in thought. He already knows his answer, but he's weak, and the feelings the memory evokes barely need to push him to send him careening off balance. Swept up. "Not sure what I was expecting from people so young, but my apologies for making assumptions."

He's glad they didn't ask the question in the stereotypical format, fishing for ways to brag and make it all about him. When he thinks of that time, as proud as he was, it's not his own praise that comes to mind.

With that in mind, Neil sighs.

"I don't think it was an exaggeration to say that was one of the best days of my life," he admits, and it's the truth. He's not here to lie. Come to think of it, he hasn't lied once since Andrew ran on ahead of him. Smiling, Neil lets the words flow.

"It was important to me, but not all because of the Olympics themselves..."

--

Neil rarely has time to pay attention in Exy games, as horrible and inefficient as that sounds.

His feet move on their own accord like a well-oiled machine, cogs and steam rushing through him to propel him across the court at record speeds. And they are record speeds.

That's why he's here isn't it? To run, to score.

It had been overwhelming when he first arrived, the sheer size of the Exy court at the Olympics. It's surrounded by flags from all over the world, bright neon signs and sponsorships. The lights at the entrance had been so vibrant, he made the mistake of looking up at them.

Blinding.

All aspects about it are, because as much as Neil knows this is his life, it can't possibly be reality.

The crowd makes the one at the Ravens' stadium seem minuscule, out of its league with seats and aisles that almost climb up to the heavens. The crowd roars and Neil feels every cheer and stomp echo against his bones.

He never thought he'd be here, but despite the gravity of it, he no longer has the time nor want to dwell on it. All that matters is his team, and getting them the gold.

Being with Andrew afterwards...getting to see Wymack smile proudly at Kevin.

Letting Kevin be proud of himself.

And Neil is an Olympic-qualified player, so with all that in mind, he delivers the second best game of his life. Even in the final seconds of the second half, even when he's been body checked so many times the nuts and bolts he imagines inside him must surely be worn and off-kilter, he doesn't stop moving. Everything is instinct, from the force of his steps to the last minute shifts he needs to intercept the ball.

It's not Kevin's perfect strategy, it's not a map or an out of body experience where he can see where every player on the court is.

He has no idea what's going on outside of what's in front of him, no awareness of anything but the immediate threats and a certain beacon, standing in the goal.

And that's the hardest part of it all, not being able to look over at Andrew for even a moment after he scores, because the game is fast and ruthless, and he has twice the energy of anyone on this court.

It's a stupid way to play, if he's really supposed to be Kevin's double. But they all long since established he is far from it. He has his own passion, his own drive, and Kevin trusts Neil with his life on the court.

Probably through anything.

So when he sees the perfect opportunity for a final interception, a chance to get them the last winning goal of the game, he's surprised that it's the one moment where it all comes to a stop. He's never had the experience before; normally his body snaps into action. He's not used to comprehending things until they're said and done.

He thinks his body is still following through though, turning in just the right way, making sure he's lined up.

But Neil is aware of so much more, his eyes train like a predator's on the goal, and he understands. He has a choice.

Choices are a weird luxury now, but he's gotten so used to having the freedom of them, he's forgotten the sheer magnitude they can carry.

His eyes snap to the goal, and then to Kevin. Kevin, who is so much closer, and already looking right at Neil.

And Neil never describes himself as fond towards most people, but he can say it proudly in that moment. This is the Kevin Day he likes to see.

Green eyes stare back, blown wide with a fire that can't be matched by anyone, probably not even his own mother, maybe not even Neil. A true, unadulterated love for this violent, freeing sport. Kevin catches Neil's eyes through his face guard, forehead drenched in sweat but his entire being rings with energy, ready and unwilling to quit until the buzzer sounds.

A Fox, at heart. Neil knows Andrew can see from where he's standing in goal, and Neil knows he's just as satisfied, deep down. It might give him some peace of mind too, to know Kevin kept his spine.

Neil puts all of those emotions into his last movement of the game.

He inclines his head just so, and that's it.

Kevin moves.

As Neil's racquet intercepts the ball from the other team's striker, he can't help but be a bit smug as he takes a powerful step forward. He can hear the painful slide of his shoes against the court floor, the heat of being too close, too exposed.

His legs will surely be shot after this, but no matter.

Kevin Day was always meant to be the greatest player in the history of Exy, the reigning queen, despite the arrogance they'll surely have to hear non-stop about. Fine. It's only fair that Neil help him achieve that goal here, at the biggest stadium in the world.

(By no means the best one, but still).

The clock gets down to five seconds, the beats resounding off the walls of his skull. Neil swings his racquet with such force the strings whistle, and the ball moves in a straight line directly into Kevin's. The other striker has zero time to react, the force of Neil's brutal cut off sending him stumbling. The ball hits Kevin's strings hard, Kevin's grip tightening around his racquet to keep it close to him.

Kevin doesn't hesitate longer than that.

He shoots at the goal in one fluid arch, and scores.

As confident as Neil is in Kevin's aim and skill, he'll admit his stomach swoops. It's a feeling that never truly goes away, much like the instincts that keep him moving. He wouldn't trade it for anything, that millisecond exhilaration before it comes together.

Because well, at one point nothing ever fell into place for him.

In the flash where the ball hits the net, Neil feels the ghost of a key in his palm, reminding him when that changed. The buzzer of the countdown blares, and all that anticipation meets a well-deserved end.

The stadium erupts until not even the buzzer can be heard. There's a swish of plexiglass doors, the sounds of their coach yelling in triumph, but Neil's body is too spent to react.

Neil's heart constricts in his chest as he tries to get air in, but it's impossible. Satisfied doesn't even begin to cover it, though he's sure he looks just as breathless as Kevin does, staring at the goal as it lights up. The world moves around him, respecting his moment of privacy when they should be hoisting him up and not allowing him a minute of disbelief. Neil's glad they don't; Kevin deserves to look surprised once in a while.

His teammates pile on each other, clapping him as they pass. A lot of them are still in shock, a few fall to their knees right away, but Neil feels nothing but fulfilled.

He made the right call.

His body sags, stinging, and he feels Andrew's gaze pinning him upright from across the court. It's the only thing that gets him walking, but he wills himself not to look in his boyfriend's direction.

If he does well...nothing else will matter, and there's one thing he has to do.

In a haze, he goes over to Kevin, who turns, sensing him. Neil shakes his head at Kevin's arrogance to this day, because even though Kevin is the one who made this possible for him, who came to him first...

Well, he still lets Neil do all the work. Neil laughs and hugs Kevin fiercely, barely keeping himself upright, and they trade the trembling in their bodies. Kevin drops his racquet, their height difference making them look all the more pathetic. He can hear Andrew's voice already, telling them they're too emotional about a damn sport.

Somehow, that makes Neil even happier, and he leans back as Kevin pries his helmet off, eyes wild and smiling.

Yes, the right choice. Absolutely.

"We did it," Kevin says, but not in disbelief. He had to have known they'd always make it here. "We did it."

Neil squeezes his friend's shoulder and grins, uncaring of what camera catches it. He's too damn happy to care. "Guess we did."

The crowd cheers so loud Neil can't hear more than a faint buzz in his ears, and the sticky scent of gatorade and sweat is an unfortunate addition. The cameras flash and shine obnoxiously through the double plexiglass to bathe them in light and attention.

Yet, with his legs feeling like jelly and his muscles stretched to the limits, there's only one thing he really wants. What he always wants.

Warmth, safety, something to lean on and keep him sheltered from the world before facing it alongside him. Neil hates that before, the only thing he yearned for was to play Exy. He thought that was bad.

This is so much worse.

Biting his lip, Neil turns to where Andrew is standing in the goal, already looking at him from across the court. And Andrew, with all his control, keeps himself planted there. Neil's breathing hiccups loudly, and Kevin's probably the only one who hears it over the cacophony.

Neil doesn't think he can cry anymore, but his eyes tighten up, he has to blink the pain away.

Neil wonders if Andrew's gripping his racquet hard enough to damage it, if he's digging his heels into the ground like Neil is.

Neil swallows down the lump in his throat. Suddenly, he hates the cameras more than usual; he's torn between wanting them to vanish completely, or wishing they paid as much attention to Andrew, because god, he's earned it.

Neil digs his heels in harder.

I want to be with you.

It's such a simple string of thought; it has crossed his mind so many times before, but never has the urge hurt so much. It has nothing to do with all he's worked for, with the fame and recognition this win will bring him. It's just Andrew.

He hasn't had a knife to his skin in years, but this reminds him of the piercing of flesh, lighting his nerves on end and sending him towards the source of his relief, his contentment.

Andrew played so well, so well, not just here. He worked his way through the pros until he got to Neil, worked his ass off for his reputation. He qualified with the rest of them to be here.

And tonight, he blocked almost every shot at his goal.

Neil closes his eyes, willing himself to calm down but he can't. This is one of the best moments of his life. If he can't share it with Andrew to the fullest, what was the point of everything in his past?

They're not out. That's the problem, he knows, as much as he doesn't give a single fuck. No one outside their family and management knows anything about them, apart from some tabloid rumors about their intense dislike of one another. If that doesn't prove how clueless the media is, Neil doesn't know what does.

And as much as they value privacy, as much as their peaceful bubble is enough, it's moments like these where Neil wants to take and show no matter the consequences.

He looks to Kevin, unsure. It's always been him, the one who warned them about the backlash they'd face despite his acceptance of their relationship years ago.

Neil expects the same thing here: the subtle shake of Kevin's head, the concern in his eyes for their careers and future. It used to piss Neil off to no end, but Kevin communicates all emotion through Exy, even concern. Neil's learned to read between those infuriating lines. The importance of career translates to 'without your career, there is no you.' Sometimes he forgets he's not entirely free.

And if he weren't around, then Andrew...

'You can't leave him.'

And so, knowing Kevin's language, Neil stayed in line, and he expects that same advice today. To his surprise though, it never comes. Kevin is looking at him, tired smile firmly in place as he nudges a shoulder in Andrew's direction. Neil's mouth falls open, and yes, he's convinced now. It's a dream, it's all one big dream. Except--

Kevin shakes his head. It's not resigned, or worried. He's just happy for them both. He pushes Neil away, straightening his back in preparation for his fans. Royal snob. "Go on already. You guys are gross."

And despite the laugh that falls from his mouth, Neil's breathing stutters, and he hadn't realized how wound up he truly was until it happens. His lungs fill with air and he throws his racquet to the ground. His self-control is poor, they all know that. Encouragement is all he needs to break him and send him where he belongs.

He takes off in a full sprint towards Andrew as the rest of his teammates crowd Kevin, looking after Neil in confusion.

Huh, so his muscles still work after all. The tendons are on fire, but it's the least of his concerns. He runs like his life depends on it again, faster than he ran during that whole game.

And to Neil's absolute delight, Andrew's body language screams 'finally.'

The blond takes a step forward, throwing his racquet to the side like it's worthless. Oh. Andrew's bracing to catch him, and Neil laughs at the realization as he throws off his helmet. One day he'll actually make Andrew fall over, but for now he enjoys the strength.

He jumps into Andrew's arms effortlessly, feels calloused hands wrap around his waist as Neil reaches for the clips of Andrew's helmet. Despite knowing the barrier is there as he fumbles with it, he leans forward, lips grazing the metal guard. Andrew huffs, and Neil claws until the helmet clatters to the floor. He throws it a bit far, and it hits the goal post with a clang, but he doesn't care in the moment. If all eyes are on them now, he can't feel them. They're in a vacuum, a side effect of being so taken with Andrew at times. Unaware, vulnerable. The rush of sound from before goes dead around them. His fingertips can feel overheated skin, can trace the barely-there freckles on Andrew's face.

Andrew isn't in the mood to let Neil admire today.

Neil barely gets to see the color in Andrew's eyes before the goalie's hand grips in between Neil's shoulder blades, pulling him down.

It reminds him of their first kiss; Neil catches Andrew's lips and, as if not believing they're real, that something could feel so wonderful, he pulls back. His eyes widen, the first hit of a drug. He breaks the kiss only to dive right back in, uncoordinated but so sure of himself. And he doesn't get how, but Andrew smells the same as back then. Less like cigarettes, but the same smell of leather and earthiness. Neil doesn't read nearly as much as Andrew does to have the capability of describing it, but it's refreshing, like soil after the rain. Through the sweat and exhaustion, Neil would know him anywhere.

Andrew opens his mouth for him first, breath hot but movements predictable. Neil will tease him later for that. You're getting old. Because the dance is so familiar, the way Andrew pushes Neil's tongue back first. 'Come and get me.'

Neil obliges every single time, because he can't back down from a challenge, and maybe he's getting old too.

Neil knows the kiss can't last forever, especially not here, but he allows himself to pretend it's not the case. Andrew hums into him, and Neil's hands feel all the vibrations from where his hand slips down to Andrew's throat. It's bared completely for him, and Neil gives a little squeeze.

He sighs into Andrew's mouth when his boyfriend's eyes open to glare at him, pulling back before kissing Neil again, and then one more time, and maybe just once...

One more, Neil thinks, brushing his lips against Andrew's so lightly they stick for a moment, and he licks his own slowly when he pulls back for the final time. His heart beats in his ribcage, or maybe that's the pounding of the reporters' feet as they rush through the stadium, he's not sure.

Again, it's always best for him to not look at Andrew if he's supposed to be doing something else, because in that moment, the blond has all Neil's attention.

They're already pressed chest to chest, but Andrew squeezes tighter, almost painful, keeping Neil there through the flashing of cameras and shocked cheers.

And while Andrew's expression gives nothing away for the public, it speaks volumes to Neil.

--

Neil didn't know what old meant back then, now that his legs give out after a good walk or his spine aches under the weight of nothing.

But they were predictable, that much was true.

Neil isn't looking at the reporters anymore, too focused on trying to weave the fraying threads of the blanket back into place. From their silence, he can guess they're as shocked as he expected them to be.

Unaffected, Neil reaches over for his water, taking a sip as he confronts their slack jaws and wide eyes.

Now, that might have been a bit unfair of him as well, to jump into such a blatant romantic recollection about Andrew. Again, Neil never took interviews, rarely took questions, but the subject of his relationship with Andrew was especially off limits for decades. What they had was theirs, and only theirs, even after outing themselves that day.

People naturally tried to pry, tried to dig up their past in hopes of justifying what they saw as a nonsensical relationship or gossip fuel.

Neil made them fear for their lives after that.

He eviscerated publications, reporters, top sports officials, talk shows hosts, pretty much whoever he needed to. Anything to keep Andrew's name out of their mouths. A lot of them sealed their place in the land of irrelevancy, media outlets were slammed by a combination of their fans, and Kevin's too, once he stood up in support.

Andrew always hated it, Neil's desperate need to protect him from words that no longer phased him, but Neil didn't care. It was one of the only things they fought about in their adult years.

It worked though; soon, all the major outlets aside from the tabloids stopped talking about it, knowing mentioning it in any way that wasn't positive or neutral would land them in a ton of hot water.

Even those online sources who refused to let up eventually fizzed out from lack of material; they tried their best to be nosy, but pretty much got nothing but some rare paparazzi photos a few times a year of them kissing in the park or on a date.

In short, it's a bit of an unspoken rule that you don't talk to Neil Josten about Andrew Minyard unless you have nothing but good things to say, and a lot of people are too chicken shit to take the risk and potentially insult him. That's the only disappointing thing, none of them have a shred of courage. Neil really would talk all day about Andrew if people just approached it correctly.

Not that Andrew would've allowed it when he was alive.

Take that.

Despite all the fear Neil instilled in the media, it never stopped the other famous Foxes from talking about how gooey and devoted he and Andrew were, but Neil let that slide.

The things he does for family.

So it makes sense that these reporters seemed to have forgotten Andrew's importance at all, another offense. Not just because he was the best goalie in Exy history, but because Neil was first and foremost, Andrew's.

Blake's mouth opens and closes, pen dangling precariously from his hand. "Are...are we allowed to ask about Andrew?"

Blake even flinches after he asks it, afraid that perhaps it's only okay for Neil to bring up.

If you only knew.

Neil laughs, too relaxed to hold back anymore. The reporters stare, exchanging nervous glances with excitement tingling below the surface.

Yes, he supposes details about his relationship with Andrew are more secretive and sought after than even Neil's opinions. The reporters weren't even going to try.

But now, there's morsels of information dangling in front of them, and Neil need only give them permission. It's their lucky day.

Neil's smile fades into something gentler, wistful. It's the closest he gets now, to how he looked at Andrew. But it's still different, because that expression...

Well, Andrew is gone. What more is there to say?

Neil leans back, wringing his hands softly. "I guess it's only fair that I tell you the real reason I accepted this interview."

The reporters lean forward, holding their breath, but Neil doesn't feel like making them wait. It's all about Andrew now, like he wanted it to be. "I want to talk about Andrew, plain and simple."

Except when it's not.

Their relationship was anything but simple but Neil cherished each memory, and he wants to speak them aloud so no one forgets. He wants everyone to know how important this person was to him, so when he's gone and can't defend them, people can't speculate or taint it with their unasked for opinions.

"I've never had the opportunity to really reminisce about Andrew, not even with my family," Neil admits. He and Aaron and Katelyn would sit around the fireplace at their home sometimes, telling stories, or Kevin would send him old pictures or clips of Andrew playing. But never the intimate details, never the raw, and at times complicated feelings. "It never felt right, even after he was gone. I wanted to keep it close still, so I wouldn't betray Andrew's trust."

Neil takes a deep breath, and it shakes his small frame, a cough escaping his lungs. His voice is rough, but no less sure when he continues. "But I know now what he'd say to that. That I couldn't, even if my dumb Exy brain tried really hard."

But he'd never.

He smiles, wiping his eyes when they aren't even wet. That's another thing he misunderstood back then. Neil thought he couldn't cry, but he's sure today he'll prove his younger self wrong.

Rayah and Blake stay silent through all of Neil's pauses, and the respect means more than he can say. Andrew would approve, he'd be okay with Neil's choice. That's what matters most, he thinks.

"For once I just want everyone to know how I felt, I want to tell you everything as I saw and felt it, so you can tell everyone else," Neil says, and hopes they can read between the lines for the rest. Ultimately, when he's dead he'll be nothing but bones in the dirt, his legacy won't mean much in the long run. But...if nothing else, he wants this to remain, for as long as it can.

He never cared before about it, but he guesses age really can put a new perspective on things. Neil sighs, and taps the table with his finger for lack of anything better to do. When he looks back up, he has their undivided attention, Rayah's brown eyes shining with unshed emotion. None of that, not yet. "Anyways, now that you know I misled you, I hope you're still alright with listening to me ramble for the next few hours."

If not, they can kindly fuck off, but Neil has his suspicions at this point that they'll stick around. As much as Neil prides himself on reading people's intentions well, he's quite horrible at reading people's feelings. But maybe he's improved in that arena too.

A price for everything, he thinks ruefully, reminding himself there's a break in between this session for him to take his pain pills.

Eventually, it's Rayah who stutters a response. "Of course it's alright! We're so honored! And not just in the...bullshit way."

She closes her mouth immediately after at the unprofessionalism of it, but it only makes Neil feel more at ease. He smirks, satisfied. "Noted."

"Mr. Jo--Neil, we really are happy to write about you and Andrew but I have to admit," Blake says, flipping through his notepad with a tight look on his face. "The questions we did prepare as backup don't exactly lend themselves to anything about your life with Andrew."

It's precisely why Neil stated he'd mostly be doing the talking initially, but their first test question actually did end up helping move him along, so...

Neil shrugs, gesturing to the notebook with fierce determination.

These people are about to learn...

He can make anything about Andrew.

When he smiles at the two of them again, they must feel it deep down. They return it tenfold, and then Rayah clicks her pen.

And with the pleasantries out of the way, Neil opens up to everything he's been keeping locked away.

"Try me."

[liquor-and-intellect]

Clouded- Part 1

In which Jules might or might not have feelings for her best friend, Harry, who is getting engaged to another girl and everything just becomes... more complicated. 

or

friends to lovers to enemies to lovers- it’s complicated

“Where are you even at right now, Harry? I don't see you,” I laughed into the phone, scanning the train station for the familiar broad shoulders and soft brown hair.

“Uh... I'm by a big sign...”

I plugged my other ear from the excess chatter around me. “Yeah, because that narrows it down,” I scolded and rolled my eyes.

Maneuvering my way through the crowd I felt a hand grab my wrist, spinning me around to the wide smile I grew up loving.

“There you are,” he laughed into my hair, pulling me into his chest for a tight hug.

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I breathed in the smell of his favorite cologne.

It had been one long month since I had last seen Harry. One long month of hardcore English papers, late night studying sessions and the occasional all-nighter for an early exam. Even though we both lived in London, it felt like we never saw one another anymore. Between my new semester at uni and Harry's rising fame with his solo career, it was hard to sit down with the familiarity of a childhood face even for one moment.

I had been in the middle of closing my apartment door and wrestling the keys out of the lock when I answered Harry's call last week. He had been in the states working with the band on the new album and had just received the news that he had a week off.

“And I felt that we have a lot of catching up to do,” he had chuckled through the phone and my heart had ached with longing for our hour long conversations. It had been too long since I had sat down with my best friend.

“We do,” I had sighed into the phone.

Harry and I had grown up next to each, our birthdays only being months apart. Every memory I had was branded with a piece of him in it. First day of year one, first stitches, first prom... All of it lived with him by my side. I didn't know a life without him until I moved away for uni and he became famous, spending months away from me in different countries. The invisible cord that kept us connected was pulled so taut it hurt.

But the aching was subsiding as I leaned into his chest right now in the train station, the cord snapping us back together as I hugged him like I did when I was younger.

“When did you get so buff?” I laughed, squeezing his bicep. “it hasn't been that long, has it?”

He pulled away to examine his arm with thoughtful eyes. With a humble shrug he gave a simple, “Eh.”

I rolled my eyes. He was still the same Harry I had always known, the one that rarely thought of himself and refused to believe he was nothing but the lanky, over-looked teenager he had once been.

He gave me a gentle nudge. “Let's go before people realize I'm here. I'd rather pictures of me not get out before I’ve had the chance to see my mum”

He put his hand at the bottom of my spine, guiding me out of the crowd toward the waiting taxi. A warm London breeze slipped its way between us, blowing my dark hair out of it's braid and around my face.

“How does an ever-waiting Buffy the Vampire marathon sound?” I asked, settling in the seat beside him and taking note of the new stubble contagiously making its way around his jawline.

An eyebrow raised and a boyish smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, he replied, “I assume that implies pizza rolls?”

“When have you ever been over to my apartment and not been graced with pizza rolls?” It was somewhat of a tradition of ours to eat pizza rolls together. Neither one of us being graced with the ability to cook well— and a tendency to always overcook things when we did try—our parents gave up and started buying us the only thing that couldn't be ruined with an oven timer. The late nights in my basement watching Friday the 13th—or any scary movie we could get our hands on from my dad's secret collection— and the smell of pizza rolls dancing through the air had been our favorite thing to do.

The taxi wove its way across the busy street towards the corner by the university where my apartment was located. A tiny brick complex with ivy running up the side and a rack of bikes chained out front. It was small and my neighbors were ultimately quiet—although their cigarette smell would sometimes drift up to my tiny balcony— I was content. It was the quietest part of London that I could find.

Harry followed me up the metal stairs to my door, his tall figure looking strange against my lame potted plants and worn out “welcome” mat in the entrance. Turning the key into the lock, I pushed it open, the familiar melody of creaking hinges inviting us in.

“Remind me to fix that for you,” he hummed, running his hand across the dry bolts that held it to the frame.

I rolled my eyes at his worry, closing the door behind us.

My place was small and cozy. A one-bedroom brick walled apartment with dark wooded floor and a simply tiled I'm-not-a-chef kitchen. Harry waltzed straight into my living room, kicking his boots off and tossing himself onto my brown leather couch.

“How's Elaine?” I asked while walking into the kitchen to dig out the pizza rolls, thinking of the pictures of Harry and his girlfriend of two years that he had posted lately. She was a big- time traveling dancer, hitting the Hollywood spotlight with him all the time. Although I had met her on plenty of occasions, we never really clicked besides the one mutual subject of Harry. I wasn't sure if she liked me or not or just finally accepted my occurring appearance in Harry's life, but she was pretty quiet when Harry and I wanted to hang out- no longer the original reaction when she was completely jealous.

“She's good,” he called back from my couch, the noise of the television surrounding his voice. “she's actually in New York right now for Justin Timberlake's tour that just started. I saw her last week.”

I nodded, slipping the tray into the oven. Sliding Harry's legs out of the way, I joined him on the couch where he had started a sitcom. He laid his feet back into my lap without skipping a beat, keeping his eyes glued to the TV.

“You never told me if you went on a second date with that Will bloke,” he said.

I grimaced. Will had been a guy I had met at the student center a couple of weeks back. He was… okay, a Nike wearing, gel-haired and ready-to-party kind of guy. With nothing to do for a Friday night, I had agreed to let him take me to a restaurant down the street. He had been pretty nice, opening the door for me and laughing at my lame jokes. We had even had a pretty heavy make-out session back at his place, a well-deserved orgasm and a cordial “see you around” when I made a hasty exit.

“Because I didn't,” I mumbled, playing with the hem of Harry's pants by his ankles.

“Why don't you ever date, Jules?” he asked with pure curiosity. “I see the way guys look at you, you know you're gorgeous, right?”

I rolled my eyes, ignoring his last statement. “We didn't really hit it off, he wasn't that great. After I left his place… I just wasn’t feeling excited to see him again, y’know?”

“Left his place?” he inquired. “You went to his place.”

Shame settled in my eyes as I glanced down. While Harry was my best friend, I didn’t really disclose my sex life with him. I knew he had one and I’m sure he assumed I did as well. It just wasn’t something I ever felt was needed to be shared. I sighed, “Like I said… he wasn’t that great.”

His eyes glared into the side of my head until he used his foot to push my eyes to his, giving me a stare that was hard to place.

Swatting his foot away, I gave him an annoyed look.

He cleared his throat. “You say that about every guy,” he accused.

Trying to lighten the conversation, I poked him in the side. “I don't say that about you,” I added playfully.

He rolled his eyes and gave into our comfortable banter. “You're a mess.”

“You don't know how to true that is.”

 ….

“This was my favorite episode,” Harry said, nodding toward the TV and grabbing another steaming pizza roll off of the plate in front of us.

I watched as Buffy staked yet another vampire, not a hair out of place. “Mine too,” I agreed. “American television is just better in general.”

We had pushed my glass coffee table to the side of the room, dragging the comforter off my bed along with every one of the blankets I had in my closet onto the hardwood floor in front of the TV. Harry and I had huddled up with our backs against the couch, his long legs stretched in front of him and my ankles folded beneath me. I had a plate heaping with hot pizza rolls for us, Harry pushing one after another into his mouth.

“Do you remember in Grade 10 when you wore that hideous plaid skirt that went to your knees and no one talked to you for the rest of the day?” he asked, smirking at me over a pizza roll that had paused in front of his lips.

“Do you remember when you used to straighten your hair and would sing opera for every school talent show?” I rose an eyebrow at him.

He squinted his eyes at me, furrowing his brow.

I laughed, playfully hitting him in the arm. “It's okay because we were both losers together.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “We are quite the pair.”

He went to sink his teeth into the pizza roll, when it split in half and flung sauce across his face. His chin and cheeks tainted with the reddish sauce.

I laughed at the dumfounded look he gave me, my eyes watering and my side cramping. Harry's tongue flicked out to reach the sauce at the corner of his mouth, his eyes crinkling with concentration.

“Did I get it?” he asked, looking at me innocently.

I giggled and shook my head, scooting closer to him. “No, Harry... it's all over your face, bub.” I looked down as my laughter bubbled up again.

Crinkles around his eyes formed as he smiled at my laughing. “Well?” he asked. “Are you going to get it off of me?”

I licked my thumb and rubbed at the corner of his jaw. I knew Harry's face like the back of my hand, but looking this close at him within this moment he seemed different. I guess I never realized just how much he had actually matured. His jaw was structured, the valley of it dipping down to his chin and holding two full, pink lips. Lips that were slightly naturally pouted right now, parted and surrounded by pizza sauce. And the stubble he had let grow out below his nose and scattering itself back around his chin was something else entirely different— Harry wasn't that little boy anymore.

I knew he wasn’t a boy. There would be times he’d release new pictures from magazines, hair slicked back, shirtless, tattoos on display… but I tried not to linger too long on them. It was Harry. My Harry.

It made me think of the countless times we had gone places where people had mistaken us as a couple and our quiet denying, “No, no, we're just friends.” And I never questioned it. I never even thought differently until this moment.

Thoughtlessly, I ran my thumb across the valley of his bottom lip even though no pizza sauce resided there. His light green eyes watched me intently, but didn’t make any move to stop me.

This— this fluttery feeling erupted in my the pit of my stomach taking flight into my ribcage where my heart did this strange thing that didn't exactly feel like beating, but skipping or dancing or maybe even spinning.

With my thumb resting in the middle of his bottom lip, his mouth closed around me, framing my finger with a small kiss and it did strange things to my heart.

But he was my best friend and even though we technically weren't doing anything it was wrong to feel this way about Harry. He had Elaine and I... this wasn't supposed to be happening.

I removed my thumb from between his lips, brushing hurriedly on his chin for the rest of the remaining sauce.

“Um-” I stuttered, feeling shaky and almost way too light. “I- uh- I.” I cleared my throat and looked down as red rose to my cheeks- I have never blushed in front of Harry before.

He released a long breath that he must have been holding, not letting his eyes leave my face.

Wiping my hands on my leggings, I shakily said, “I think I got it all off.”

“Jules, I-”

“I'm sorry, I just... you know. Spaced out for a second... there.” I nodded with myself.

He sat up straighter, holding his chin an inch higher. “Jules, I need to tell you something,” he stated, his voice rough.

I put my hands between my knees to prohibit them from doing anything else without my knowledge and nodded for him to continue, he looked so distressed.

“I um-” he cleared his throat. “The reason I wanted to see you this week was...” His eyes flicked away from mine to anything else in the room.

I narrowed my eyes at him, confused by what he was about to say. Usually I could read him so well but after what just happened... I didn't know.

“I'm going to propose to Elaine,” he said, looking at his hands resting in his lap.

My heart chipped at the edges, but I wasn't sure why. He was my best friend... shouldn't I be happy for him?

“Harry-” my voice cracked, but I couldn't let it. I couldn't let whatever I was feeling get in the way for Harry to have everything he had ever wanted out of life. And nothing even happened, it wasn't like we kissed or anything. It was just a stupid thing that I got carried away with because I didn't realize how incredibly attractive he was. That was it, that's all.

I pushed a pained smile onto my face, refusing to let it crack any piece of me. “Harry... That's... Great- lovely. I'm so happy for you.”

I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him close to me, letting his arms slip around my waist and his warm breath to brush my neck.

“I'm glad, Jules... Because if you wouldn't be okay with it, I don't know what I would have done,” he murmured, his prickly cheek brushing against mine.

“Why wouldn't I be okay with it, Harry?” I asked, trying to push the aching away into a far corner of my mind where it would never be invited over again. “You're my best friend. I want you to be happy… no matter what.” Even if my confused feelings suffered.

“I don't know... I didn't want you to think that if I married Elaine she would be the only woman in my life,” he said. “I wanted you to understand that you could still be there, you know. Even if we couldn't hang out all the time.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing out my next words. “Harry. You're like my brother, there's no way I can be pushed completely out of the picture.”

I wasn't sure if I felt him pull me tighter or if I wanted him too.

 …

I laid with my back to Harry on my living room floor, a warm blanket tucked tightly around me and my ears heightened to hear his soft snores. We had both talked a little while longer about me wanting to be a psychologist and him wondering if fame had completely altered his personality. And after a few pizza rolls later, I agreed with him that I was tired and rolled over when I saw his eyes were officially closed. I wasn't tired though, rather awake and alert and buzzing with electricity. Here was my best friend who was in love with his soon to be fiance' and here I was hoping silently that maybe he would chang his mind. Maybe he realized that... I don't know- I don't know what I wanted.

I wanted him to be happy, I was one hundred percent certain with every cell in my body that I wanted Harry Styles to receive all of the love he himself gave into the world. I wanted Elaine— or any girl— to wake up next to him every morning thinking of different ways to love him that day. He deserved all the goodness you could find in the earth's heart multiplied by ten. He needed someone to assure him when he doubted himself- because he usually did- someone to rub his muscled shoulder and tell him he didn't need to worry about things out of his control.

I sighed, hoping and praying to God that Elaine realized this. That she realized he wore his heart on his sleeve and was perfectly fine with it being torn into shreds.

Harry stirred in his sleep, turning onto his side facing me and mumbling something incoherent. I rolled over, taking in his peaceful sleeping face and wondering if this was the last time we could ever sleep next to each other without Elaine getting in the way.

Harry moved closer to me, resting his chin on the top of my head, my ear pressed to his chest where the melody of a steady beat rang through. And that's where I fell asleep, listening to the only thumping of anyone's blood I cared to hear.

***

“Want eggs? I know how to make those now,” I asked Harry who was just starting to open his eyes from sleep, stretching his large arms out around him.

I had woken up with my head on his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around me. Quickly, without waking him, I had slid out and went to my room to sit on my bed and think of the cold absence from where I had been folded around him. I had been awake thinking for a while now when he finally started opening his eyes.

He nodded. “Yeah,” he mumbled, his voice nicely groggy from sleep, a silky melodious sound that I lived for. “yeah that sounds nice.”

I gave him a smile, loving the messiness of his hair and the droop of his eyes.

Harry shoveled plenty of my poor eggs into his mouth, he had always had an appetite and being a man didn't lessen that one bit. We lightly talked over coffee, Harry saying he wanted to look at some of the jewelry stores in town and wanted my input on rings for Elaine. I politely agreed and gave him a smile, even though it physically pained me.

Later, I tossed my hair up into a high ponytail, pulling my feet into a pair of chunky sneakers and a warm gray oversized sweater. The temperature had dropped in London and small drizzle was falling over the sidewalks.

I followed Harry down my apartment steps to the waiting taxi on the side of the street. He said he knew of a jewelry store on the edge of town where no paparazzi would bother us.

The small rain was still falling when we got out and I glanced through the glass windows to sparkling rings sitting on velvet cushions. Harry's eyes brightened as I walked in behind him into the immediate blast of the warm heater from the store.

“I don't know what kind of a ring to get her... There's so many,” he sighed, eyes passing over the diamonds in the cases.

As much as I didn't want to give my honest input, I knew he needed my help. I rubbed his arm thoughtfully, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow to glance over his shoulder. The butterflies erupted again in my stomach, but I pushed them away. “What does she like?” I asked. “Does she want something flashy...? Thoughtful...?” I dusted my eyes over the yellow diamonds. “Unique?”

Harry looked nervous, eyes skipping from one ring to the next and before eventually shrugging.

“Looking for a wedding ring, loves?” said a balding man in a blazer walking from behind the counter. Leaning on the case in front of us, he looked between Harry and I with expectant eyes.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry told him, giving a slight chuckle. “and already failing.”

I sighed. “You're overthinking it. Don't worry too much,” I said, giving him an encouraging smile.

The man gazed over at us, a soft grin on his face. “Well, let's start with what you like, love,” he said, looking at me.

I stared at him for a second, slightly confused. Then, when it registered, I detached myself from Harry, shaking my head. “No, no, no, we aren't... together,” I said through a shaky laugh.

“She's my friend,” Harry told him, wringing his hands together.

The man nodded. “Yes, lad, so sorry. You lot just seem as if you were already married.” Gesturing to the two of us before moving on to a selection of rings. “If you see we have...”

I didn't hear what he said after that, because the thought of Harry here for me made my heartbeat impossibly fast.

It was a strange thing. Having a single moment that changed the way you looked at a person. Here I was, walking down the street with someone I've known my entire life—and here I was hoping that I would walk too close and our arms would brush just a little, just so I could feel him for a small moment.

I didn't want to feel this way. Even as his fingertips brushed mine, I knew it was wrong, but  why did everything feel so natural?

Harry led us to a cafe behind a few business buildings where the rain had finally died down. He had been quiet since we had left the store empty handed. I told him if nothing immediately reminded him of her, just to sleep a night and go back tomorrow, eventually he nodded and let me drag him out for lunch.

We sat at a table outside, the slick wind slipping up and around us, raising goosebumps across my arms.

“Why didn't you wear a coat?” Harry asked, looking away from the dreary sky to my awaiting eyes.

“I didn't realize hell was freezing over,” I mumbled, crossing my arms.

He sighed and slid off his coat. “And yet, this isn't the first time I've scolded you for not bringing a coat,” he said, giving me a little smile that warmed my heart after his previous sad attitude. “Here.” He nodded toward his leather jacket.

I've lost too many arguments on this subject before, so I greedily took it and wrapped it tightly around my shoulders, breathing in his cologne.

The waiter brought out our food and I didn't hesitate to hungrily pour sauce across my fries, listening to my stomach growl in response.

A loose piece of hair glided across my face from the gentle breeze, sliding across my plate and succeeding in smearing sauce across my cheek.

I gasped. “How did that even happen?” I mumbled under my breath, grimacing as I attempted to clean my hair of the food.

Harry chuckled, taking in my disheveled appearance before leaning across the table and removing the hair from my eyes and tucking it gently away. The tips of his fingers lingered behind my ear for a second too long before he removed it to wipe away the ketchup at the corner of my mouth. His thumb gliding across my cheek.

His eyes met mine and this strange unsaid feeling drifted in the space between us like someone I've never met. The pad of his thumb resting below the corner of my lips.

He swallowed. “Why do we keep ending up in these kind of situations,” he murmured, his voice low and unlike the Harry I was used to interacting with.

I grabbed his hand, turning slightly to lay a kiss into his palm and watched for his reaction. His eyes stayed on me and flickered with something that I've never seen in him before. “I don't know,” I replied back, my voice as soft as the inside of his hand.

He sighed. “Jules, I don't know what you're doing to me.”

I furrowed my brow. “I'm not doing anything.” I didn't know what was happening between us either these past few days, but if it caused Harry to look at me like that then the confusion was worth it.

He chuckled softly. “You're so clueless,” he murmured, but then dropped his hand to continue eating, leaving me feeling electrified and wanting to know what he meant.

The day went on like that. We would talk for a bit—never about the engagement— then we would brush hands or Harry would lean into me, everything taunting me and pulling this thought out of the far corner of my mind.

We had been walking down the sidewalk towards my apartment, our boots splashing in the puddles and my hands in the pockets of Harry's coat when he looked up suddenly, nodding towards the sky.

“Look, it's a rainbow,” he smiled.

I stopped and turned towards it, the colors skyrocketing from behind a building.

“Aren't they the strangest thing?” I asked him, not taking my eyes off of it. “They are just so beautiful.”

He didn't answer and I glanced back over my shoulder to see if he was still standing beside me. He was. His eyes glued to my face as if I held every answer in the world.

“Harry, why are you staring at me?” I whispered, pink painting my cheeks.

A bright smile immediately hit his lips. “Did I just make you, Julia Rebecca Lovewick, blush?” He looked back up, a smile of pure pride beaming on his face.

“You were staring at me like there was something on my face,” I replied. “and I was just embarrassed because the waiter was really cute and I couldn’t have that.” I gave him a smirk to hide the fading blush.

Crinkles appeared onto his forehead. “You're such a quick thinker.” He shook his head, beginning to walk again.

“You think I'm lying.”

“I know you're lying,” he said.

“Besides the fact that our waiter was totally checking me out,” I replied, his eyes rolling. “Why were you even staring at me?”

It was his turn for the tips of his ears to turn rosy.

“Oh my goodness!” I yelled, covering my mouth with my hand. “Did I just make Harry Edward Styles blush?” I shrieked, mocking him and stopping to stare at his annoyed expression.

He rolled his eyes yet again and continued to walk, trying to ignore me.

“You were looking at me because I'm beautiful, weren't you?” I said, jogging to catch up with him and giving him a wink.

“I thought we established I was looking at you because you have something on your face.” He still refused to make eye contact with me.

I grabbed his arm and spun him around to face me. “Just admit it, Harry. You've been caught,” I said, giving him a smirk. “You think I'm pretty.”

“I think you're a lot of things, Jules.” He popped an eyebrow, crossing his arms.

I tilted my head, silently asking him to go on.

He threw his arms into the air. “You act like you don't know you're absolutely gorgeous!”

I smiled. “I do know,” I told him, starting to walk again. “It's just always nice to hear it.”

We climbed the steps and stopped in front of my door. Turning around to face him, I said, “You know, you are pretty fit yourself.” I gave him an eye-up sarcastically, sliding my keys into the lock to hear him fall into a fit of laughter.

We walked into my apartment, both still laughing, where I immediately pulled the ponytail from my hair and shook out my dark waves. “That feels fantastic,” I laughed throwing the rubber band across the room.

Harry walked up behind me, taking me by surprise by running his hand through the ends of my hair, the laughter still visible around his eyes. “You should really wear it down more often, I like it better this way,” he murmured, looking up to meet my eyes.

I wasn't sure, but I think Harry was flirting with me.

“And I like it when you don't shave for a couple of days,” I told him, running the back of my fingers across the line of his jaw.

He wrinkled his nose. “Really? I like it but Elaine hates it,” he said and I dropped my hand, shamefully thinking of his girlfriend.

Harry and I were just friends, that was it. So why was I walking such a thin line?

My heart was pounding as I walked into my bedroom, the ringing in my ears increasing. I could feel it. Plain as day and cutting my heart into two, I had a crush on Harry. Maybe it was because he was about to be officially taken or because of the way his hair parted gracefully down the middle. This feeling that has been passing between us today couldn't have been one sided. If I knew Harry, I knew that he was acting completely different around me as well.

I didn't want Harry to leave me. I didn't want him to marry someone and absolutely disappear out of my life. What would I do without him? I had friends that I casually talked to or caught coffee with but Harry was the only one who I shared my thoughts. The only one who cared enough to know if I disliked the smell of cinnamon or the artificial taste of bananas in candy.

My heart was sounding in my ears and an unusual discomfort eating its way through my chest. I couldn't breathe, my lungs weren't collecting air.

He couldn't marry someone, not when I've just developed this crush on him. Not when I've realized that falling in love with your best friend could be the most natural thing in the entire world.

I felt like the world was closing in on me. The walls shrinking in and molding themselves around my neck and chest cutting my oxygen off.

I heard a voice, muddled and underwater, lift to my ears. I couldn't make out the words or syllables, but he was here. I could feel it.

There was something I was clutching, a corner of a desk or maybe a bed frame... I didn't know. Everything was blurry and running together like colors on a canvas. My hand gripped into the fabric in front of my heart, almost as if to catch it if it decided to jump out.

There were hands on me, clutching and pulling me up. Pulling me through the surface of suffocation and closing walls to the fresh air of my bedroom. Back to the present.

All I could hear were the repeating words, “I've got you. You're okay. You are right here, Jules. Do you feel this? That's me. I'm real and I've got you.”

I was closed in Harry's arms, the opposite of claustrophobia taking place and the choking fear subsiding in my throat. The warm skin of his forearms pressing me to his chest where his heartbeat was pulsing.

“Listen to my voice, Jules,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through my hair. “Match your breathing to mine. Just like that.”

And I did, I focused on his words and exhaled with him before taking a deep breath. We did that for a couple of minutes, standing there in the middle of my floor wrapped tightly in his arms both of us rising and falling together.

“Are you okay?” he mumbled, his thumb brushing underneath my eyes where I felt the moisture of uninvited tears.

I nodded, shaking from the incident and because I was slightly embarrassed. “I- I don't know what happened.”

His large hand brushed up and down my back, combing his fingers through the hair near my spine. “I think you had a panic attack,” he said and let out a long breath. “Jules, you scared me to death... I didn't know what to do.”

“Whatever you did worked,” I muttered, working around the shakiness of my voice. I closed my eyes tight into his chest. “it brought me back.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around me, pressing his lips to the top of my head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head quickly, I didn't want to feel that way again.

“Okay...” He held my cheeks gently, pulling me back to look me over. His thumbs brushed the edges of my face, his fingers following suit and caressing across the length of my cheekbone. He used his other hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.

I leaned into his open palm, taking note of the warm feeling of home it left me with.

“Jules, I...” He didn't finish what he was about to say because I was looking into his eyes and suddenly realized he was leaning towards me.

His lips pressing flush against mine, my heart fluttering towards the sky. Parting my mouth with his and fireworks taking place behind my closed eyes. Harry kissed me softly, his hands cradling my face and the strangest feeling being built inside of me.

My heart was beating too fast and I pulled gently back to catch my breath. Eyelashes fluttering open, I made contact with the dark eyes that were staring down at me, waiting for a reaction.

“Harry...” I didn't know what to say. I had just been shaking over the idea that this feeling was one-sided, that I was alone. Then he goes and does something like this...

“Don't, it's okay. I didn't mean—” he broke off and let go of my face, his hands falling limply at his side. “I was just too caught up in the moment and still shaken up over what just happened.” He took a step away from me.

I couldn't stop myself. “So you kissed me?” I didn't mean for it to sound so ungrateful, because I was still floating from the memory of his lips on mine.

He wrung his hands out, a nervous gesture he tended to do. “I'm so sorry...”

“Harry-” my voice cracked. “don't be sorry-”

“I'm going to go,” he said, and rushed out of my room.

No. I wasn't going to let him walk away thinking that I thought it was a mistake. I quickly followed him down the hallway where he was pushing his boots onto his feet in the living room.

“Let's just forget about it, okay?” he said, his back to me as he laced the strings.

“No-”

“It was a mistake, I just wasn't thinking-”

“Harry!” I yelled loud enough for him to turn around and see my angered expression. “Shut the fuck up!”

He stood across from me, the distance maybe ten feet or so but the electricity buzzing quickly through as if we were pressed together. His clouded eyes stayed on me, waiting for some kind of answer that I could provide that could solve the way we were feeling, something that could ease his pain from being with Elaine but still being able to look at me the way he is now.

But I didn't have an answer like he thought I always did, because I was new here too. So, I stood there like an idiot- just staring at him, thumping my brain for some form of words.

He sighed and gave a single nod, before grabbing his coat and turning towards the door.

It was then that everything happened in slow motion.

His hand, resting on the doorknob. My feet, walking quickly across the floor to him. Because I had realized then that I had no words to say— none at all.

I grabbed his face in my hands, turning him around to look at me. Not giving him a split second before I pushed my lips against his.

I wrote this on Wattpad when I was FIFTEEN YEARS OLD! I’m 21 now and thought this story deserved a fair chance. I tried my best to edit some, but it’s still a bit rough. Let me know what you think and if I should post the second part- HINT, the second part is already written, I just have to upload it ;)

[8osbabe]

HOW TO DISAPPEAR COMPLETELY AND NEVER BE FOUND

unedited : warnings in the tags

THERE was no escape without the key in the left pocket of dallas winston’s tattered blue jeans. it was a lesson your handcuffed wrist, scratched red and raw, knew quite well.

you wanted to retch at the suffocating poison he spewed out with every breath of the cigarette that made its home between his fingers. but your surroundings were poetic in their justice.

you and him, you were this room ; paint chipped sheetrock walls that looked tough and impenetrable, although a determined hand could punch through to the hollow inside. a motel room as neglected on the inside as the building was on the outside. a kind of room that could have been anywhere, but remained damaged and uncared for and crumbling. your chests as tight as the cigarette butts and forgotten bags of weed pressed between the mattress’s headboard and the wall.

an ironic sign sits on the nightstand closest to dallas ; “No Smoking.” a rule they weren’t keen enough on enforcing, as they seemingly hadn’t bothered to install any kind of alarm or detector in the room. a rule meant for faking, for breaking.

you can’t hear any of the ambient sounds you’d expect in tulsa. there was no soundtrack to the middle of nowhere, save for the couple who had checked into a room a few doors down, who were either fighting or rampantly fucking.

nothing absorbs the noise other than your own mind, which was happy to muffle everything except for the words that kept ringing through your brain since he’d said them as he tightened a cuff on your wrist and then on a low hanging ventilation pipe ; “there. just like daddy did to mommy.”

the words wanted to gnaw at your treacherous heart, and you bit the inside of your cheek until the familiar taste of warm copper flooded your mouth to remind your heart exactly who was the boss. dallas didn’t deserve pity, not for what had been done to him, not after all he’d done. you knew it. you wanted to know it.

his smoking addiction was already bad— ‘likely to be dead by his fortieth birthday’ bad. but it flared up like this when he was thinking— deciding — only taking breaks from drags of his cigarette to sneak glances at you, teeth worrying his lips.

he had to know that the sight and the smell of tobacco was torturing you, that you couldn’t stand it. ‘did i ever tell him why?’ you were stupid and naive and in love, so you probably had, along with spilling your guts about all of your feelings, your memories, opening yourself up to being crushed— an opportunity dallas never missed. you push away the picture of your skin bubbling and seething as your uncle set his cigarette into your skin when you were six, and the one of his breath, smelling of jack daniels and tobacco as he spit in your face when you were fourteen.

his sharp inhale pulled you from the memories, as he flicked a still-lit cigarette onto a place on the floor where the sheets of the unmade bed touched the floor, setting alight a small flame.

ice crawls up your spine as you become acutely aware of the heat, a few feet away from where you sit, handcuffed to this room. you subconsciously shuffle away from it, backing into the wall. he notices you move. he chokes the flames under his shoe and the fire dies, leaving only charred cotton as evidence it had once lived. the flickering lamp is once again the only thing lighting up the room, with the bruising horizon offering no help.

your gaze locks with his now, and you wonder who will break the stare first. you should know better, that the two of you could sit like this for centuries, refusing to surrender to one another.

there’s a question sitting on his lips. you wonder if it’s the same as yours.

who are we?

what have we done to each other?

• • • • • •

“WERE you aware of dallas winston’s suicidal tendencies?”

yes.

“he wasn’t,” you answer, bored and disinterested, at least as far as the tulsa county police department was concerned.

even in the assaulting white light of— whatever room you were in— you can see the sheriff’s cheeks flush and his eyes narrow. most of your answers thus far had consisted of non-commital shrugs and vague stares, so he detects that something about dallas’s suicide must have gotten a rise out of you.

nodding at you, he leans down toward the floor near his chair, pulling a file out of a banker’s box that looked like it was full and close to bursting.

you stifle a smile. dallas’s police record. surely there must be more boxes around here somewhere, in a room specifically for dallas’s files. you imagine that the cops occasionally mess around with them, covering the boxes graffiti, ‘banker’s bastard’s box.’

the sound of the manila file sliding across the polished metal table separating you and officer friedman pulls you from your thoughts. your eyes dart up to meet his, which motion you to open it yourself. your cold hand reaches to flip it open, and you become acutely aware of the burning smell of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol as you see what’s inside.

you hiss, looking away instantly and scolding yourself for giving him a reaction.

he takes the file again, now grabbing the photograph it had contained and holding it out to you.

“this scar was fresh on his body when we first got a look at him. angle and location suggest self infliction, and the entry matches that switchblade he carried.” the picture is sharp and focused, not at all like any photograph there was of dallas winston. this one looks posed, medical as though he hadn’t been moving when it was taken.

he never would have just let them take that picture, not of that scar on his arm, not so easily. he hadn’t been conscious, hadn’t been— alive?

“he wasn’t,” you bark through grit teeth. your nails dig into your palms now, your hands curling into white-knuckled fists.

“he wouldn’t have died like that— not shot to death by pigs he hated, not bleeding out on the asphalt in front of his family.” you think of darry curtis and the gang. of ponyboy. you shudder.

friedman sits back in his chair, glancing through the one way mirror and smiling, as though he was in on a joke with the unseen person behind the glass.

“—and he didn’t. he died of his wounds a few hours later, in a jail cell waiting for transfer. his death certificate was filed two days ago. he bled out nice ‘n slow, “tuff” like he wanted.”

your chair emits an ear-splitting shriek as you stand, and the officer follows suit, instinctively patting his holstered gun in silent warning.

you want to scream, to claw his eyes out, to show him “nice and slow.”

instead you speak through labored breaths. “i’m leaving now. i came here as a favor to a friend, to try to help. this clearly isn’t going anywhere.”

you power towards the door, but his hand is on the doorknob before you can reach it.

“—and why help? to what does this department owe the pleasure of hearing your supposed omniscient knowledge of this case?”

you take a step closer to him and snarl. “good people don’t just suddenly wake up and decide they should kill themselves.”

officer friedman backs away, satisfied. he tugs a key from his belt and reveals the door you were headed for had been locked anyhow. he opens the thick metal door and gestures for you to exit.

“maybe dallas winston wasn’t a good person.”

______________

NOBODY stops you as you head for the door, the small lobby of the station quickly becoming blurry through your glassy eyes.

you don’t want to think that they got what they wanted, that they expected this outcome. the ‘meddling little girlfriend’ scared off from looking any further, threatened by the truth of what she might find. you don’t want to think that they got what they wanted.

you push the front double doors a little too hard, maybe hoping that the sound of the slam might muffle the sound of cops talking about autopsy and bury.

getting onto the sidewalk, you see two-bit leaning on his car— waiting, just as you’d left him.

he was fiddling with his switchblade, something he often did when he was idle, looking up as you approached him with his usual, goofy grin. it fades as quickly as it came, though, when he sees your expression, your labored breathing.

you and two could talk like that, without saying a word. he knows the score, and he’s more like family to you than your real one had ever been.

he’s ready to catch you when you collapse against him, finally allowing yourself a broken sob.

“i knew. i knew! i killed him!”

he pulls you into an embrace, allowing you to dampen his muscle shirt with your cries, all while not letting anyone see.

his eyes dart quickly around the perimeter of the station, making sure nobody was with earshot, before gently ushering you into the car.

you’re already embarrassed by the time he’s shut the driver’s side door and started the car.

“dallas is out there, he can’t be dead. i thought you knew that,” two-bit says matter-of-factly, betrayal thick in his voice.

you press your forehead against the window, not able to keep from wondering if you and two had been lying to yourselves, to each other, this whole time. that the house of cards that manifested from your shared grief was one that was quickly crumbling.

neither of you wanted to feel the pain of dallas winston’s absence, not so soon after johnny’s. your mere implication that it may be time to mourn dallas is not one two-bit takes lightly.

“those crooked cops? they think they’ve got you figured— another dim-witted greasy girl that ain’t worth half the air socs breathe— don’t make them right. you’re supposed to be smarter than that,” he huffs, not caring to let you weigh in on the subject.

not that you would, anyway. greasers never get to cry, and sometimes outbursts like these were the only real ways to grieve. you’d let him have this.

“so don’t give me any of that “he’s dead and it’s my fault” shit, because he ain’t dead, and you’re not to blame.”

it’s silent for a few minutes after that, and his expression softens as he focuses himself back on the road. he only speaks again when you turn to him as he drops you off at buck’s.

“it wouldn’t be your fault,” he says, gently resting a hand on your shoulder. “i mean, even if he was.”

you bite your lip, doubting him for a moment, before you nod, letting him squeeze you shoulder before you get out of the car and go home.

if you could call it that.

kicking your shoes off near the entrance, you take in the familiar aspects of the place. torn carpet under your bare feet, the rough feel of the scratched up balls on the pool table, the red lights reflecting off of liquor bottles on the makeshift bar, buck merill crashing on the couch, and— a lifetime ago— dally snoring in his bed upstairs until at least 2 p.m.

that one had been your favorite.

now, though, you only creep toward buck to take the still-lit joint in his sleeping hand. that kind of smoke didn’t bother you half as much as that of actual cigarettes, and even though you tried to keep your lungs as clean as possible, you’d hate to let good tree go to waste. so you pluck it from buck’s fingertips, nestle it in between your lips, and fumble up the stairs.

it doesn’t hurt to be in here, in his room. lying in his bed and still feeling his scent on the sheets, it’s easier to pretend that he’s still around somewhere, that this is still his room, that he’ll come back to it.

crawling into his bed, you wrap yourself into the sheets, feeling your skin buzz in the kind of comfort that can only be felt when you’re high.

the room begins to dim as the sun goes out, and you let yourself drift off, and relive the memory you see every time you close your eyes.

• • • • •

the boys have never looked more beautiful.

even you managed to clean up a bit, too, borrowing one of sylvia’s longer dresses.

you’re a few paces behind the curtis’s, as ponyboy sobs into darry’s dress shirt, and darry let’s him. he’s stifling tears of his own, ever the strong brother since they got the news.

how could this be possible? darry had been filling out college applications two days ago.

and now he was his brothers’ makeshift parent.

nobody had mentioned the fact that dallas hadn’t made an appearance. you didn’t even think anybody noticed. some sort of dread pools in your stomach at his absence. you couldn’t help worrying about him, even if he hated it.

the sick feeling in your core doesn’t extinguish when you see him, a few yards to the side, away from anyone’s line of sight.

the feeling doesn’t fade because when his eyes, red and raw from— crying? —flit to the coffins, and his fingernails dig deep enough to the skin of his palm to bleed, you know he’s about to do something stupid.

you shadow him, far away enough not to provoke his wrath by letting him see you.

he walks for less than fifteen minutes, and you stop following him as he hesitates in the middle of the bridge next to the highway.

something seems to have newly occupied his mind, and the churning of your stomach quickly turns into gasoline, setting alight as he jumps onto the concrete railing.

you will yourself to move forward, taking slow steps and breathing carefully so as to not startle him.

“dallas?” your voice sounds small when you say it.

he chances a glance at you, but his eyes look empty and his face blanched. he’s drunk, maybe, but he wasn’t carrying any kind of alcohol you could see.

he was grieving. he’d been closer with the curtis parents than anyone had known, you later find out.

“dallas,” you say now, more assertively, while trying to stifle the panicked shouts in your mind.

you only hear yourself shriek when he’s set both feet off the bridge, too late to stop his from plunging into the arkansas river.

you were more matched for dallas than either of you knew, you think as you stand in the same spot seconds later, and jump.

the fall feels more like the gravity is pulling you to dallas, until your body breaks into the surface of the ice cold water, seeping through your dress and into your skin.

beneath the surface, you see him drifting, eyes shut in near unconsciousness. he looks almost at peace, you think as you swim further to reach him.

he’s lighter than you expect when you’re wrapping your arms around his chest, feet kicking gently to propel you toward the surface.

it takes bringing him back up to open air to wake him, his shallow gasp for air his first signs of life. he shakes water out of his hair, his eyes before he can really look at you, his stare fascinated and probing.

you remember feeling shy and embarrassed, like he was seeing you for the first time. he could make you forget what had just happened.

“did you jump?”

“yeah,” your voice comes out rushedly, you hadn’t realized how short of breath you’d been. “yeah i jumped. are you okay?”

in the midst of everything that had just happened, his lips curl into a smile, and he laughs. “you’re fucking crazy!”

you nod, starting to laugh, too, the sound coated in nervous relief.

he leans in closer, his hands holding you steady at the nape of your neck as he touches his forehead to yours.

“i’m so tired,” he breathes.

you only get the chance to hum in response as his head tilts to capture your lips with his. his free hand travels up your thigh, guiding it around his hips before resting his hand on your lower back.

you wind your lips with his like you want to siphon his pain away, to be a vacuum for his pain and hurt. your fingers find a tighter grip on his hair, your slight tug eliciting a low, throaty sound from his lips. your head can’t be still as he teases your lower lip with soft bites.

the moment exists in a universe of its own, one where you aren’t greasers without a red cent to spend, one where his lips taste like fresh water forever.

it doesn’t last long, before you both need to break for air.

you thought this was it. that things could be better now. the world had given you permission to be better now.

you never talked about the incident again, or told anyone about the first time you’d kissed, or how you’d started going together.

but dallas had nearly died. you couldn’t save him forever.

you were both so naive.

you were sixteen.

• • • • •

YOU FIND that your best mornings are not the ones where two-bit wakes you up with a pillow to the face.

“eat,” he says, rather aggressively, throwing a paper bag next to your spot on the bed. “we’ve got a long day.”

sitting up and digging your palms into your eyes, you try your best to look mean and angry, but the breakfast he got you smells really good.

you open the bag to find a sandwich, a bag of chips, and a can of pepsi, the latter of which reminded you of the youngest curtiss

“what’s this,” you gesture to the soda can. “did you jump ponyboy to get this for me?” you giggle at the thought.

two-bit only half smiles. “no, he just picked it out for you. he’s been picking up shifts at the dx every now and again.”

you look sheepishly up at two bit, your mouth already stuffed with half a grilled cheese.

“have you...talked to him? to any of them? i mean, for more than a few minutes.” you’re not really sure why you ask. you already know the answer.

keith inhales sharply. “no. they still don’t take kindly to our “dallas isn’t dead” tirade. i don’t blame them for wanting to move on but..”

you let him keep talking, but you stop listening. you know this story, about how the boys hadn’t really felt up to speaking to you or two-bit lately. if you were being honest, you were mad at them, too. they’d left you alone in your grief.

instead, you pay more attention to the way two speaks. he speaks more carefully, with less slang and hood-talk than he might’ve a few years back. you chalked it up to his new job valeting at an upscale restaurant on the soc side of town. they tipped him far more when he’d learned to shut up if he wasn’t spoken to, and to talk classy when he was.

“—don’t pay it any mind. the car’s running outside, be down in five, ‘you hear?”

he doesn’t wait for you to answer before slipping out of the room as quickly as he came, his footsteps on the stairs echoing through the hallway until he’s out of earshot.

he’s in a rush, and you don’t even know what for. but you try to move through the room as quickly as possible, splashing your face with cold water, then scrambling to find your pants somewhere on the floor, and finally taking one of dallas’s jackets from a hanger as you pick a few stray remnants of ash out of your hair.

when you fall into the passenger seat next to two-bit, you catch sight of yourself in the rear view mirror, and try not to think about how dead you look.

he’s already speeding on the highway when you ask him where you’re going.

“to find dally.” he leaves it at that, and you don’t pry, even if the certainty in his voice is enough to send chills down your spine.

the wind starts to whip your hair in all directions when it pushes in through the open window, and you feel like a bird.

the thought is only pleasant for a moment.

you quickly feel yourself become a vulture, feeling more hunter than hummingbird.

you sink your claws into cold bodies hoping to find some way to keep living inside something that is long dead.

[ecthelions]

Hey everyone! It’s been a long time, but I finally want to share with you all a project I’ve been working on for the past couple of weeks. 

I know there aren’t many of us left, but it’s isolation times, and I lost my job, so I figured it was as good a time as any to rewrite my old tattoo artist/florist AU! (Eden)

Looking back, there were a lot of things wrong with it, and a lot of things I wished I had done differently, so I just went ahead and scrapped it all to rewrite it from the very beginning.

Anyway, I’ve written 20k so far, and officially deleted the original fic from ao3. 

Here’s a little excerpt if anyone would like to read it - this part is from chapter 4 and Bard and Thranduil have known each other for a little over a week by this point. Let me know what you think! I plan on writing the whole thing before publishing to make sure it’s perfect, but I’m happy to keep people updated if they’re interested, whether it’s on tumblr, twitter, or the barduil discord ♡  

   The rain from that morning seemed to be threatening a savage return and Thranduil tugged at the collar of his shirt to stay the cold wind. Bard was already waiting for him at the café.

   “How long do you have for lunch?” he asked, opening the door.

   “I’ll go back when I’m needed, but I’ve got time,” Thranduil said.

   He did not miss Bard’s small smile as they entered.

   It was crowded, as usual, but only with passers-by on their usual coffee runs. Bard and Thranduil made an order and then sidled into chairs at one of the many empty tables by the window.

   “Do you know if you can come to the art show on Saturday?” Bard queried, grabbing a salt shaker to fiddle with as he spoke.

   “Oh, yeah, I can. What time is it again?” Thranduil had left the flyer on the fridge at home.

   “Seven-thirty. I’ll pick you up and we can go together,” Bard said.

   Outside, the rain arrived. It was warm in the coffee shop, and Bard’s leg stuck out comfortably under the table. Thranduil brushed it with his foot every time he shifted in his chair, but Bard did not move. He was watching the droplets of rain chasing each other down the window, and Thranduil took the moment to observe the little tattoo that was inked just above his right eyebrow. It said ‘hopeless.’

   Bard’s eyes flicked to Thranduil suddenly and Thranduil didn’t have time to look away. He hadn’t really been subtle.

   “Sorry,” he muttered.

   “Is it this one?” Bard said, touching his eyebrow, as if trying to feel the tattoo. “It’s the only one I actually regret.”

   Their coffees arrived. Mithrellas set them on the table with a clink and lingered just a bit longer than was really necessary.

   “You do have… a lot,” Thranduil continued when she was gone. To have only one tattoo to regret was quite an achievement considering Bard was practically more ink than skin.

   “Yeah. Can’t say I get used to people staring at me,” Bard said, emptying a sugar packet into his mug. “But that’s okay. I do it for me.”

   “What do your kids think?” Thranduil asked.

   Bard took a drink before answering. “I don’t think they really see me any other way. Even Sigrid. She’s the oldest, but not by enough to remember me before I had tattoos. My ex-wife doesn’t like it, though. She thinks I look like a criminal.”

   Thranduil frowned. He didn’t get that impression from Bard at all, not even when he’d first walked into the flower shop. He was so good-natured and easy-going from the moment you set eyes on him. Thranduil barely even knew Bard, but he thought that judgement was a bit unfair, especially coming from someone who did know him.

   “She’s an idiot,” Thranduil finally said.

   Bard barked a laugh. “She’s not all bad.”

   “Have you been separated long?” Thranduil hoped it was too impertinent a question.

   “Nearly two years,” Bard said. His leg bumped against Thranduil’s under the little table. “We did everything young. People weren’t even surprised when we split.”

   “How young were you?”

   “We were seventeen when Sigrid was born. Got married right out of high school; all that fun stuff. But we called it quits about a year after Tilda was born. It just became too... empty.”

   “I’m sorry,” said Thranduil.

   Bard shrugged. “It’s no one’s fault. She’s already found someone new, anyway.”

   “And you?”

   Bard blinked at Thranduil, his brown eyes wandering over him before catching his gaze.

   “Not yet.”

   A swell of heat rushed to Thranduil’s throat and he picked up his drink to hide his face. He couldn’t tell if Bard was being direct or evasive, and didn’t know which way he would rather have it. Thranduil hadn’t taken a liking to anyone since he was a teenager, and it occurred to him in that moment just how out of practice he was when it came to flirting and picking up other people’s hints.

   He decided perhaps he was reading into it too much. There was no need to get his hopes up.

   “Can I ask you a personal question?” Bard said, breaking the silence before it became too heavy between them. The coffee shop had mostly emptied now, with only half a dozen other people enjoying lunch around them.

   “You can try,” Thranduil said lightly, put back on his guard. He always did keep his cards close to his chest, but he thought he might make an exception for Bard.

   “Do you find it hard being a single parent?”

   It was a fair enough question, Thranduil thought. He had honestly been expecting something more intrusive, so he appreciated it for what it was.

   “I do,” he said, wrapping his hands around his coffee cup. “But it’s not the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

   “Okay. I’m glad it’s not just me, then,” Bard said.

   Outside, the rain came down in sheets, lashing down the road as people ducked into shops for cover. Thranduil checked his phone, but there was thankfully no message from Haldir.

   “So, um, what kind of art do you do?” Thranduil scrambled to keep the conversation going, afraid for Bard to lose interest.

   He seemed to perk up at the change of subject. “I mostly do black work at the shop, but I’ve been experimenting with watercolour for the art show. Wanna see?”

   Thranduil nodded eagerly and Bard pulled out his phone. They leaned closer to one another across the table so Bard could pick and choose what pictures to show Thranduil, which was unfortunate because Thranduil could hardly concentrate on what he was looking at due to such proximity. Bard’s shoulder was nearly touching his own, and he could smell the remnants of the cigarette underneath his body spray. Thranduil had to force himself to pay attention to the photos.

   “I like that one,” he managed, pointing to a colourful portrait of Bard’s eldest daughter.

   “I tried to get her to sit still for that one, but I ended up copying from a photo,” Bard said.

   He turned to face Thranduil as he spoke, and their noses almost touched. Thranduil felt Bard’s warm exhale on his mouth and drew back quickly. Perhaps too quickly. Bard looked down sheepishly and straightened himself in his chair.

   “I put that one in the art show,” he finished lamely.

   “Is there some kind of competition?” Thranduil asked, the back of his neck still hot.

   “No, but nearly everything will be for sale.”

   “Maybe I’ll buy something,” Thranduil teased lightly.

   A hint of colour flushed Bard’s cheeks. “Please don’t. It’s all way overpriced.”

   “Taking this town for all it’s worth, then?”

   “I hope so,” Bard said with a smirk. “They owe me.”

   “Just try telling them that,” Thranduil said, glancing around the café at the other patrons. He didn’t recognise anyone, but Mithrellas was still behind the counter making coffee, and she was worth ten witnesses on her own.

   “Here, I’ll give you a sample and maybe you can commission me later,” Bard said.

   He took a napkin from the cup of cutlery on the table and slid a pen out of the pocket of his flannel. He bent low over the table and started to draw, making long, steady strokes with the pen so as not to snare the napkin. When he was done, he handed it to Thranduil.

   It was a drawing of a fox, curled up asleep with little flowers forming a border around it. Underneath its tail was a banner that said ‘fox this town.’

   Thranduil grinned at it, his heart skipping a beat at the gesture. It was by no means a perfect drawing, but it was a shame it was on a napkin, because he wanted to frame it and keep it forever.

   He thought he might do that anyway.

[slayfics]

Just this.

Murdoc shows up drunk unexpected at your place. 

An Uber pulled up and parked by the curb of an apartment building, a drunk green bass player sat in the back seat staring out the window at the apartment taking it in. The building was seven stories tall. The fire escape that ran down the side was rusted and seemed it could collapse at any moment. The building was made of old dingy bricks some chipped, others completely missing. He looked from window to window observing the ones that had their lights on, watching the shapes in them, thinking that any of those shapes could be her. The shapes were hard to keep up with though. They seemed to blur into each other and make new shapes of their own. It wasn’t till this moment that Murdoc thought maybe he was too intoxicated to do this. He had been trying the past six months to find the right amount of intoxicated to come to her, but not too much where he might make a fool of himself. He was sure he had the right concoction tonight though, but then again maybe not. 

“Is this not the right place?” The Uber driver asked since Murdoc had not moved.

“This is it mate….” He said without moving, instead he continued to stare out the car window at the apartment. 

“You gonna get out or just admire it?”

“Right!” Murdoc said coming out of his trance “Well thanks for the hospitality.” He said sarcastically, and threw some bills in the front seat as he opened the door. He stumbled out of the car, onto the curb, and over to the wall of the building. He placed his hand too forcefully on the wall to catch his balance surly scraping his palm. Whatever he’d deal with that later. To procrastinate from messaging her he fumbled for his cigarettes in his leather jacket finding the small box quicker than he thought he would. He stuck the cigarette in between his lips then went back to his pocket to search for the lighter. Again he found it faster than what he intended to. 

Fuck. He knew the next step was to get his phone out, but he felt butterflies in his stomach, or maybe they were moths. He grabbed his phone from his pocket ignoring the anxious feeling festering in his stomach. The screen of his phone lit up with his finger print and he instantly felt like he was swimming in the bright light. He managed to get to his messenger app, but it would be a miracle to type anything coherent. He tried his best to type but the letters kept bouncing back and forth on the screen and he had to focus hard to keep up with them. He pressed send before he was able to second guess himself or proof read the message. He turned around to put his back against the wall and lean his head back. He wondered what he was he doing, what was he thinking? She wouldn’t want to see him. Why had he been hyping himself up to come here all these months?

You were sleeping soundly when your phone buzzed with a loud text tone, the screen illuminated the dark room. Pissed that you forgot to turn your phone on do not disturb you rolled over to ignore it. Shutting your eyes trying to quickly fall back to sleep you realized that that was the text tone you had set for Murdoc. You picked up your phone in disbelief and thought your eyes were messing with you. The text message read: “Hegy sweethemart, wht ru doinhg rizght now?” You quickly realized Murdoc must be drunk texting you. You stared at you phone debating if you wanted to respond or not. Before you could decide your ringtone went off, and the old contact picture you set of Murdoc cutting an onion lit up on your phone. You hesitated but answered. 

“Hello?”

“Heyyyyy honey what are you *hiccup* what are you doing?” He asked slurring his words and hiccuping in between.

“Well its 2am on a Thursday so I’m sleeping.” You were a little annoyed that he chose to call you now of all times when he should know you have to be up early for work. 

“Thats dreadfully boring isn’t it?” Murdoc said with a smile on his face. He closed his eyes in an attempt to stop the world from spinning, but it didn’t work. He felt as though he was doing backflips but his head was resting solidly on the brick wall. 

“Well what are you up to that’s so interesting Murdoc?” You asked as you swung your legs off the bed and stood up to go grab a glass of water from the kitchen.

“Oh you know how it goes lovely. I just can’t sleep well at night, so I’m here and there.” He mumbled turning to his side so his shoulder was resting against the wall now. He was trying to regain control of his body but even this simple movement made his stomach turn. He dared to open his eyes and saw the street split in two, it blurred together then split back again.

Walking to the kitchen you could smell the faint hint of a cigarette coming from your opened window. This caught your attention and caused you to walk over to the window. You peered out side and down toward the street. There was a man leaning against the wall, holding a cigarette, and talking on a phone. He was wearing a leather jacket and what appeared to be cuban heel boots. 

“Where are you Murdoc?” You asked.

“Oh just outside a pub. I was thinking about you and wanted to check up on you.” He said bringing the cigarette back up to his lips. 

“A pub?”

“Yeah yeah, but it’s not too far from your place if well.. you know, if you wanted some company.” He said. You saw the man slip from the wall and stumble quickly to catch his balance again. You were sure now that this must be Murdoc. He was calling you from outside your apartment. It’s been awhile since you saw him. You wondered if you were just on a list of girls he called when he got drunk and he finally got around back to you. 

“You know I work tomorrow.” You said.

“Oh fuck that’s right tomorrow is your early day isn’t it?” You saw him put his face in his hand. “Hey look.. would you mind if I came over anyway I ju- *hiccup*” It was then you realized he must be in a bad headspace. If he really was outside just to fuck he’d be discouraged by your lack of enthusiasm, which he could surly get from some other girl. 

“WHY DON’T YOU COME UP THEN!” You yelled out the window. Murdoc jumped startled by your yell. He looked up to see you in the window and a grin quickly spread across his face. “You can walk up the stairs can’t you drunk old man?” You asked in the phone.

“For you, of course I can.” He smiled up at you from the ground floor.

“It’s apartment D22.” 

“Yeah I remember.” He said as he stumbled to the entrance of the building and hung up the phone. He got up the stairs and knocked on the door quicker than you thought he would be able to given the state he was in. You opened the door and the smell of cigarettes instantly hit your nose. He was swaying a bit with a foolish smile on his face.

“Hi.” He simply said as you moved aside to let him walk in. 

“Hello.” You said with a hint of confusion in your voice. You expected him to come in and explain his behavior, or at the very least apologize for waking you up. He didn’t offer any explanations though he just stood there with that smile on his face. A moment passed before you realized he wasn’t going to say anything so you had to carry on the conversation. “You look like you could use some water.” You said and walked to the kitchen. Usually he would protest anyone who tried to give him water but he followed you into the kitchen dragging his hand across the wall for support. You reached in the cupboard, grabbed a glass, and poured him some water from the fridge door. You turned to him to discover him standing a bit too close and eyeing you intently. 

“Oh yeah you definitely need this.” You said handing him the glass. You inched away from him and sat up on the kitchen table across from him. He leaned against the fridge and sipped at the water. His eyes instantly lit up and he looked at the water as if you had handed him the secretes to the universe. “So you were at a pub?” You asked in attempts to start some type of conversation with him.

“I was, and you were sleeping. You work tomorrow?” He asked fixating on you now instead of the water in the glass.

“Yes I do. I have to be up at 5am.” You said. You expected him to say more, or hopefully explain why he came, but he just stared at you with that same smile. “You’re really drunk aren’t you Murdoc?” You laughed.

“I’m always drunk.” He said and gave you a wink. You laughed a little in hopes of diffusing the awkwardness you felt. You weren’t really sure how to navigate this situation, but you did have to get back to bed. Figuring Murdoc was past having a conversation in his state you decided maybe sleep would be best for both of you.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” You asked. Murdoc giggled like a little school boy.

“I have to work in a couple hours so too clarify I meant sleep NEXT to me you dirty old man.”

“Either way the answer is yes lovely.” He smiled. You hopped off of the kitchen table and began to walk in the direction of your room. “Hey.” He said grabbing your attention. You turned around to look at him. He had a different expression on his face now. His smile was replaced by a pained expression. His posture was different as well, his shoulders were slouched and no longer back with confidence. He walked over to you and stood a few inches in front of you swaying back and forth for a second before he abruptly wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a hug. You knew for sure now that he was not ok, he must be going through something. You wrapped your arms around him and he rested his cheek on the top of your head. Being close to his chest you could hear his heart beating abnormally fast. As quickly as he hugged you he pulled away. “I think some sleep would be nice.” He said and smiled at you.

“Come on.” You said and lead him to your room.

Your bed was to the left of the door against the corner. It wasn’t very big, barley big enough for the both of you. He sat at the end of the bed and knelt down to take off his shoes, then his leather jacket and dropped them to floor. You laid back down under the covers where you were sleeping peacefully before on the right side of the bed. Murdoc laid down on top of the covers next to you. His head resting on the pillow he smiled at you with that same grin returning to his face. 

“You don’t want to come under the covers?” You asked.

“Hm should I?” He asked.

“Stop being weird.” You said as you pulled at the covers under him and he adjusted to come under them. He laid back down and continued to smile at you. 

“Hey are you ok Murdoc?” You asked, but he didn’t answer. He looked off in the distance then back at you as if he was thinking of what to say. You knew the answer though, he wasn’t ok. Wether he was going to tell you was another question though. You ran your hands through his hair in attempts to relax whatever thoughts must be racing through his head. You moved around the bangs that were stuck to his forehead from sweat which made you wonder what was he really doing before he came here. What he had been doing since the last time he saw you? More importantly was he taking care of himself? After you had given up on him ever acknowledging your question he finally answered.

“I am now.” He said. You pulled your hand back from his hair to rest it on the pillow beside you. “No love, don’t stop doing that.” He said. You laughed a little and began running your hand through his hair again. You can tell there was a lot he wasn’t saying, and most likely too much on his mind for him to even make sense of it. Or maybe he didn’t know the words to accurately describe what he was going through. 

“I’m glad you came.” You whispered, adjusting your voice volume so that maybe he would be lulled to sleep. 

“Of course you are.” He winked again and let out his signature laugh. You know him well enough to understand that humor has always been one of his defense mechanisms. A way he could dismiss whatever pain he was actually going through.

“I mean it Murdoc. I missed you, you know i’m always here for you. Even if it is just to wake me up in the middle of the night to sleep next to me.” You said and leaned over to kiss his nose then position back to your pillow. Murdoc didn’t say anything and the darkness in the room made it hard to tell his expression but you could vaguely see tears form in his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?” You asked gently. A tear finally escaped and ran down his cheek.

“No.” He managed to say in a voice that didn’t sound like his at all. It was no longer full of cocky confidence but riddled with pain. “Can I just hold you?” he asked.

“Anytime you want.” You said. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in close to him. From this position you could hear that his heartbeat was beginning to slow down. “I don’t know what you need right now Murdoc but i’m here.”

“Just this.” He said.

[whiskehorange]

Manhunt

Summary: Elliot just can’t stop until Peter Douglass is caught, but when does it become too much?

“Elliot, go home.” 

Olivia was the only other detective left in the station besides her partner. It was getting close to one in the morning and Captain had already gone home which was a clear sign that it was getting pretty late. Elliot was at his desk, flipping through the same photos, hoping for something new to come to light the more he looked. 

When was the last time Elliot had seen his own bed and not the ones in the crib at the precinct? Olivia kept track; 3 days.

“Liv, that guy is still out on the street someone doing God knows what, maybe even planning another kidnapping and you expect me to just go home and sleep while this guy’s not rotting behind bars?”

Elliot was never one to let things go down unfinished, especially when that meant staying and doing his work as a cop until the suspect was charged and sent to trial. No matter how many years they’ve been partners, Olivia knows how hard headed Elliot really is. There’s no getting to him, not even with a family at home.

Olivia grabbed her jacket, patting Elliot on the back, “Lets go get some food, that’s the least you can let me do for you.”

~~

“That guy was right in front of me, why didn’t I run? All I had to do was grab him. A few steps and I would have grabbed him.”

“Elliot it was chaos, there was nothing you could have done to get him. You saved Harper and that’s all that matters right now-”

“Please don’t try to help me out right now. Why would he risk getting ID'd? We know what he looks like for Christ’s sake, yet we can’t do a damn thing to find him because he’s left to fingerprints, no paper trail, and no DNA!”

The 9-1-1 call was assigned to the two detectives only because Captain Cragen knew that they would be on it until it was closed.

Harper, an 11 year old girl from downtown Manhattan was reported missing after missing the bus after school. The investigation had multiple witnesses to a man who stood outside of Harper’s daycare and apartment building as well as seen carrying around a disposable camera every time he had been sighted.

The case itself took a month or so to be considered closed; when Harper was actually found. The bastard was smart to not keep her in his own apartment building, or house. So far no leads gave the department access to where he lived let alone his whereabouts. 

“His name is Peter Douglass. A thirty four year old man who lived in the Manhattan area. About 5’7, average build, red rimmed glasses-”

“Elliot, for God’s sake will you just eat.”

Olivia had almost finished her coffee and eggs before Elliot had even touched his plate. All she had ordered for him was eggs and toast with strawberry jam, what he would normally get any other time they ate breakfast before stepping into the chaos they call the NYPD.  Beside Elliot was the manila folder that held just about anything and everything that was Peter Douglass. A slim folder, really. If you just glanced over it you’d think there was nothing in it until you’d go to pick it up and black and white photos of him and paperwork would fall out.

When Elliot says he’s milked everything he’s got from those photos, he means it. All down to what he was wearing and what direction he’s looking. Yet he still thinks there is something that he’s missing from all of it. Don was on the same page as Olivia regarding Elliot’s new obsession with Douglass, which is why he ordered him to work on it in his own time. There were going to be far more important cases openly being investigated that he needed the crew’s attention on than a “official” closed case.

“Elliot, I want to catch this guy just as much as you do, you can hold me to that. But with the DA officially closing it with Harper found, you know I can’t let the Department look into it anymore.”

“Captain-”

“That’s enough.” Don wasn’t going to take no for an answer, even though he knew how

invested Elliot was in this case, but it was either risk the jobs of the entire SVU unit, or close it. 

“Look, you still have all of your vacation days. Why you haven’t used them to spend time

with your family for the past seven years  is beyond me, but you can either use them and figure this out yourself, or leave it be. There’s nothing else to it. It’s your choice, detective.”

That’s the choice that left Elliot staying in a hotel, using his neglected vacation days. Of course he loved his family, but he wasn’t going to go home and be invested in this case. If he did that, it’d be like he wasn’t even home. Being locked in his study and being on the job was the same thing in his mind.

“Elliot?” Olivia was finished with her plate. It was getting close to two am and Elliot hadn’t had a drop to drink or an ounce of sleep. She could see it on his face. His blue eyes seemed empty but concentrated. His brows furrowed, surely stuck in that position if you didn’t know any better. Being this engulfed in a case never looked good on Elliot.

“I think I’m gonna go back to the motel. Goodnight Liv.”

And with that, Elliot left the diner.

~~

While Olivia, as well as the rest of the department was asleep in their own homes, in their own bed and under their own blankets, Elliot could only look up at the ceiling of the dainty little motel room he had rented for the week. His hands folded across his chest, shoes still on, his mind raced. 

A hotel. Small, cliche, perfect for tucking someone away. No, his name would have come up in the system of the places he’s checked. Hotels? Inns? Apartment. Most likely. Abandoned: possible. 

His legs now hung off the side of the bed as his hand reached for the manila folder. But he paused

(Is this really what I’ve become?)

but only for a split second before he grabbed it. The indents of his fingers riddles across the tab and top of the folder. Any Medical Examiner would be able to get at least fifty good pairs of his prints if they dusted it.

The muscles in his arms and hands routinely spayed out the photos across the bedspread. His eyes adjusting to the yellow light from the table lamp beside him. His brain immediately remembers every little note he’s made about each picture. His eyes scanning each and every picture just like he did the numerous times he’s done in the station. Elliot would look at these pictures for hours until his neck would cry out for a different position. Until his back aches for a soft bed. Until his fingers begged for a time out.

But this time, his eyes halted at one picture. 

Peter, standing at the corner where Harper gets off the bus. The time stamp puts him right at the bus stop only three minutes before Harper is let off, along with several other kids.  Although he isn’t looking at the bus station itself, but at the trashcan next to him. His hand placed slightly above his pocket as if he was putting it back in. The picture before showed Peter with a disposable camera, the one after showed him with no camera, hand out of pocket.

Before he could even finish laying out the plot in his head Elliot was out the door with his jacket and in his car. There would be no time to stop by and pick up Olivia, so he’d have to call her for now.

“Elliot? Is everything alright?” It was 5:26 and Olivia wasn’t planning on waking up for another 2 hours. Her voice was gravely and tired.

“I’ve got a lead, I’ll be at the intersection where Harper’s bus stop was right outside her house. If they haven’t dumped the trash yet one of his cameras might still be in there.”

Click.

“Elliot? Elliot!” He had already hung up.

Olivia bounced her head back onto her pillow, letting out a long sigh. Why couldn’t he just leave this alone.

(The trash gets collected in about thirty minutes)

“Elliot you better get there fast.”

Olivia went back to sleep.

Elliot could see the orange paper label of the camera beneath the cigarette butts, food wrappers and what was hopefully coffee. The breaking and beeper of the garbage truck about a block away wasn’t making the situation any better, but with a rolled up sleeve and closed eyes, he plunged his hand into the trash and grabbed the camera, yanking his hand out and letting out a deep breath. That was definitely not coffee.

Elliot had the camera developed, that's how he found the two pictures of Harper on them. The station's Technical Assistance Responder, Ruben, was the first to take a look at the camera roll before anyone else.

“Why would he throw it away? It’s got Harper on it, why not use that?”

“Well, by looking at the tape,” Ruben had opened the camera and layed the parts out on the table before him and Elliot, “the capture button, here, wasn’t wired right to the film, here. See this little wire? It’s supposed to go here so that the camera can snap the photo and transfer it to the film, which produces your picture. That’s why these few that he did take come out a bit on the under-developed side.”

Ruben led Elliot over to a seperate table, with two intact cameras.

“Take this camera. It’s wired correctly, so when you move the dial and click,” the camera wizzed and clicked, “you can hear the click and the dial move back to its original place, and now it’s ready to take another. Now, if you look at this camera, one that I’ve personally rewired like the perp’s, I move the dial… and click..” 

But the camera made two small clink sounds, like the dial was struggling to turn back.

“That’s the camera making a flash, but taking no picture.” “If I heard it, then the perp heard it too,” Elliot rubbed cheek, sorting it out in his mind.

“Exactly, and what do you do with something that doesn’t work?” “You throw it out.”

“The perp most likely didn’t even know the film was even able to make out anything. You’re lucky you found this before the color even faded completely. Maybe give it to Warner and see if she can dust for prints.”

(“Well, while the sides of the camera were covered it… well trash, I wasn’t able to get a good print from there, but the push button at the top did have a solid index print on it. Along with the receipt you have me, I can match that with what was found on the camera. The thumb on the back was a major plus. This was Peter Douglass’s camera.”)

“Already covered. Thank you.” Elliot took the film and headed down to the corner store where the camera was purchased. Thankfully for Warner, the second set of thumb prints on the opposite end of the receipt belonged to a Walter Brightman, the owner of Brightman’s Liquor. That made his job much easier.

“Idiot threw away the receipt with it. I have the film with Harper on it and where he got it. Brightman ID’d Peter and gave me his address, apparently he’s a regular and enjoys Grey Goose. I have this much Casey, just get me a warrant.”

Elliot was begging and bugging Casey for about fifteen minutes with evidence in hopes of getting a search warrant for his apartment. While there was a lot of evidence, she wasn’t sure just how well it would add up to the judge she’d get the warrant from.

“Stabler, even you know any judge will deny a warrant with this. The evidence is there-” “Then that's enough for a warrant of his apartment, car-”

“Elliot, that isn’t what I’m talking about. The case is closed, just about any judge I request from will deny it. There isn’t anything that they can legally do.”

There was silence on both ends. At this rate, Casey was prepared for more prying, but almost wanted to check to see if he was still there that's how quiet he was being.

“Listen, the judge that handled the Harper case might be a good bet to settle with. She seemed invested in the case as well as catching Douglass, but I’m not making any promises, Stabler. It’ll have to wait though, I’m not trying to hassle Donnelly out of bed this early in the morning for this. I’ll have your answer no later than nine pm, alright?”

“Fine.”

~~

Elliot knew that bugging Casey with confirmation calls wasn’t going to make it any better, but it was 9:06; Six minutes too long for Casey to not call him back. 

A voice followed a knock on his car window just about made him spill his coffee all over the dashboard. At least he was awake now.

“God damnit Casey,” Elliot huffed, rolling down his window and setting his coffee in the holder where it wouldn’t go flying out of his hand.

“Sorry I’m late, figured I’d deliver this personally,” the sly smile on her face gave her spiel away completely. Or the fact that she flopped the little blue pamphlet down onto his windowsill as she bent down, but either way, Elliot got what he had needed.

“So that’s why you’re late.”

“Listen, it took a lot of time to get this out of Donnelly. Thankfully for you, she owes me a bit of a favor. But anyways, in that warrant-”

“I know how a warrant works Casey.”

“Elliot, zip it. What I was going to say, in that warrant, it only covers the apartment. That was the best I could get out of her, so don’t try anything funny.” “Did you mention anything about-”

“-How this isn’t an official case assigned to you personally by Williams and put both of our asses on the line? Of course not. Now get out of here before I change my mind and tell her.”

He could only shake his head and crack a small smile. Donnelly really would have both of their jobs on the line if she knew this wasn’t a case for the entire department. He also knew Don would be on him too if they figured out that he gave his okay for Elliot to not only go through with his own personal investigation, but that he would have to face the city on his own time and explain. Then the entire department would be on the line,

(what have you gotten yourself into, Elliot?)

as well as anyone who helped him. Warner, Ruben, Casey… People that didn’t need to lose their job just because Elliot was too hot headed to just let Douglass get away with what he did. Too focused on getting sweet little Harper Andrews the justice she deserved, even if she wasn’t quite old enough to really understand just what that meant. Her father and older sister would know how it feels, but-

“I wish you the best of luck, Elliot. I really do.”

His seatbelt was left to his side as Elliot zipped out and onto the main road and downtown to Peters apartment. Hands gripped to the steering wheel like it was going to fly right out of the window, knuckles as white as a ghost. 

Peter Douglass had no idea what kind of storm was going to break down his front door.

~~

It was almost shameful how close Peter’s apartment was to the station. By foot it would take, give or take, ten minutes at max. By car, no more than four with regular traffic. Elliot, however, made it there in two. Any tickets he’d handle later.

If you were to take a look into Elliot’s mind, it would be filled to the brim with different scenarios. How he would kick down his door, how he’d tell the Andrews that they don’t have to worry about going outside anymore, how he’d look presenting to the press that Douglass is off of the streets. How he’d finally be able to sleep in his own bed once this was all over…

As he scaled past the front desk, he did a one-eighty as he flashed his badge as well as the warrant to the desk clerk, asking for Peter Douglass.

“Uhm, 319, on the 3rd floor but-”

But Elliot was off in a heartbeat. Up the staircase as fast as his legs could take him and down the corridor in a flash,

315… 316… 317… 318… turn the corner-

319.

Barricaded and protected by caution tape. Suits and ME’s swarming in and out like angry bees.

“Sir, this is a restricted area-”

“Yeah yeah, uhm, Stabler,” a flash of the badge once again, “with the SVU. What’s going on here, where’s Peter?”

“Oh, Elliot,” it was the head of the FBI, Jackson Marson. Someone who Elliot had known for a long time now, you could even say made it a bit further with his career that Smith himself, “I was sure Williams told you that he surrendered this case to Federal crimes. This has nothing to do with the SV Unit anymore.”

Eyebrows furrowed, mouth gaped, and eyes searching for answers, Elliot was completely halted.

“You know I can’t give you any details, Elliot, but this just isn’t your case anymore. He’s in Federal hands now.”

~~

The steering wheel was the best option to take out the frustration out on. Passersby were welcomed to give him looks, but Elliot was beyond outraged. Knuckled white and on the verge of bloody. Busted open, but not quite yet bleeding, give it a few seconds.

(You were too late, Elliot.)

(You shouldn’t have taken that nap.)

(Why in the hell didn’t you figure it out sooner?)

~~

Going back to the precinct wasn’t an option for Elliot, but he needed to return the files. After scooping up his failed attempts to provide justice for little Harper, he bitterly returned back to the station. It took him a few deep breaths and moments to suppress the rage within him to get out of the car

(There go your vacation days.)

and make it up to the doors and to his desk.

“Elliot? My office, now,” Don called, standing in his doorway with his hands in his pockets. His jacket was off, which was a good sign that Elliot wasn’t in trouble, hopefully. 

“Captain-”

“Elliot, I’m not here to berate you and yell, but it was only just now that I got the news of the Federal Government taking Douglass’s case. You know damn well that I would have been the first to call you and tell you. The Chief had just left my office and we both would have been in some deep trouble if I called to tell you to back off of a case that you weren’t supposed to be on in the first place,”

“Captain..” He wasn’t on the verge of tears, but he could have just sat, defeated.

 “You did good Elliot,” Don nodded, “You beat yourself up over this case, we both know that, but there really isn’t anything you could have done with the Feds on this case. I know you would have gotten him if they didn’t stand in your way. You’re a good man, detective.”

“Harper doesn’t get any closure. Her family doesn’t get any closure.”

“Douglass is off of the streets. They should be more than accepting that he’s not going to be able to have the chance to snatch a child anymore, Elliot.”

He rubbed his face with both hands. He could really use a coffee, and a shave, come to think about it.  As he started to the door, Don called out once more,

“Elliot. Call your wife. Talk to the kids. Go home and get some rest. You’ve got off for the next 2 days, don’t even think of coming in until I call you, got it?”

Elliot nodded. 

[beyondconfessor]

The Infernal Contract

[2/16] Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Lilith/Zelda Spellman

Summary: "Was that–“ she asked, feeling her voice rise with anger, "a failed attempt at a Caligari spell, Faustus?"

N.B.: Also posted on AO3

Zelda entered the suite and set her shopping bags down, onto the counter, while keeping a hold of the bassinet in her right hand.

"Ah, Lady Blackwood," Faustus said, from the dining table, where he seemed to have finished a late dinner. "I see you've been enjoying the Night Markets."

"Just a few essentials," she promised, looking over at him. "I'll go and change Judas and then I can show you." Though she doubted he would be all that interested. She'd purchased a new dress, a few brooches, an enchanted day planner for when she returned to the Academy, as well as a few rare plants for Hilda's garden.

The Night Markets were an excellent place to pick up ingredients or spell casting objects for your traditional charms, but some of the vendors sold some more boutique enchantments. It was a bit of roulette, however. Sometimes you would get a dress that never tore, and other times you may pick up a necklace and find that it'd been cursed and the vendor was trying to pass it on.

Zelda adored the Night Markets and especially took pleasure in haggling with witches until she made the vendor throw their hands up in frustration and submit to her offer.  

Taking the bassinet into the bedroom, she bathed Judas and changed into his sleepwear before setting him down into his crib. But it was as she turned to grab her bag for a cigarette that she noticed something sitting on her bedside table.

It was a reasonably large box shape, wrapped in a smooth, brown paper.

Zelda felt a rush of excitement as she walked over and lifted the present up with two hands and examined it from all angles. There was a card, attached to a ribbon on the top. Written in sharp penmanship was her name as Lady Zelda Blackwood.

Zelda felt her heart sink with disappointment, realising it was not from Lilith.

She had not seen the demoness since the week before. Nonetheless, she had found herself lately taking evening walks in the hopes that Lilith would melt out of the shadows with a smirk, and take advantage of her somewhere inappropriate.

She carried the present to the dining area of the suite, where Faustus was enjoying a cup of coffee. "Ah, I see you found it," he said while setting his cup down on its saucer. "I saw it in the window of a shop and couldn't help myself. It's a DaVinci original, you can see his design if you open the top."

"That's very sweet," she smiled. Reaching up, she tugged the ribbon undone and gently peeled back the brown wrapping paper. It revealed an antique musical jewellery box, made of redwood. Lovely, but relatively young for her. She shuffled through the drawers, finding them all empty but one which held a photo of her.

"Take a look at the dancer," Faustus said, standing up. "She reminds me of you."

Zelda raised an eyebrow, before lifting up the lid of the musical box. She watched as a tiny dancer, with red hair and an emerald-coloured dress, spun around to a music box tune.

She knew that tune...

Its porcelain hands were high in the air, her skirts twirling round and round and round as Faustus stepped close and placed a hand on her waist as he whispered something lovely into her ear. His voice was warm in her ear, coaxing something wrong her.

Zelda could feel herself fading away, her vision blurring as she watched the girl spin round and round.

What was he saying? It sounded like...like Latin?

Her head spun, it was as if the world was fading away and she was becoming small inside of her self, unable to draw her own breaths or reach out.

Zelda recoiled as electricity shot through her right hand. She snapped away, turning around to face Faustus as the hypnotism washed from the expanded magic, leaving her with a splitting headache. "Was that–" she asked, feeling her voice rise with anger, "a failed attempt at a Caligari spell, Faustus?"

Faustus cleared his throat, stepping back. "Of course not, Zelda. You know I would never dream of doing-"

She snapped the lid of the music box down and glared at him. Her head pounded, feeling like the pressure would burst through her skull pierce through her eyes. The magic felt oily against her own, bubbling like a residue against her psyche.

In all of her life, she'd never had a man dream of placing such a spell on her. As her rage narrowed her vision, she noticed the silver knife within reach.

No. It was too dangerous given his stance as interim anti-Pope. She'd have to be smart about this.

Turning away, she drew a deep breath and pushed the outrage down in her chest. First, she needed to worry about her family, then she could kill him.

"What in Heaven made you decide to do this?" she asked, rifling through the drawers of the box to pull the picture of herself. Once in grip, she smashed it against the table. "Did I not promise to submit to you, to serve you as Lilith serves the Dark Lord in our very vows not two weeks ago, Faustus?"

Faustus was beginning to look more and more awkward as he shrunk backwards. "Yes, of course. It's just that..." he trailed off, clearing his throat. "You were..."

"I was what?"

"Arrogant in a way a wife shouldn't be." He stood still then, lifting his chin up to hold against her.

Zelda laughed despite herself. "Arrogant? Oh, that's rich. No, I don't think that was the problem Faustus, I think you're just a little bitch, but if this is how you want to play, you won't win." She stalked forward and grabbed his wrist, hissing a hex against him. Her nails dug into his wrists, piercing through to seal her curse to his blood.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice panicked as he tried to break free of her grip and failed.

Zelda smiled before she let go of his wrist, feeling the expended magic drain from her. She'd pay for that price later. For now, she wanted him to suffer.

"A jilted-bride hex," she said, before stepping back and adjusting the sleeves of her shirt as she gave him a tight smile. "I have no idea what you planned with your curse, but if you thought you would ever have me or any other woman again after what you just tried, you're sorely mistaken."

"Zelda, honestly, this is absurd," he said, walking over to grab her by her arm.

"Careful, Faustus. A wedlock curse isn't easily broken. I'd hate for your manhood to become diseased next."

Faustus stepped away, his face caught between anger and horror. The threat hung there between them, a dark reminder that he wasn't the first man to disappear after breaking her heart and if he wasn't careful, she would personally ensure he was the last.

He turned away, wiping his hands over his mouth, looking for some way to have the final word.

Zelda watched him, feeling the magic flex in core as she prepared herself against whatever he might try and throw at her.

Faustus turned sharply on his heel, raising his hand to point at her. For a moment, he looked like he was going to curse her back before he closed his mouth and shook his head, his shoulders sagging. "I can't even look at you," he said with as much vehemence as he could muster.

It wasn't much, and as he walked away into the bedroom, Zelda felt a tightness in her chest unwind. Had Faustus not been up for Anti-Pope, she was sure he would have tried to retaliate. But a missing wife so soon on the honeymoon would have raised eyebrows. Zelda may not be loved and adored by the coven, but they would certainly wonder about her absence.

Zelda exhaled and felt herself sink against the kitchen counter. He would plot and scheme and find some way to wield power over her again if she didn't somehow smooth the situation over. No matter her growing bitterness to that man, she would not waiver on her wants when they were within sight. Sacrifices had to be made in the pursuit of power, she could concede where necessary to ensure the endgame remained in place.

Still, she wondered how it went wrong so fast. His misogyny may have tripled since their wedding, but a Caligari spell went against the Satanic Bible. Free will was gifted by the Dark Lord after the False God so chose to forbid it. It was with his persuasion that humans and witch kind alike were blessed with the ability to determine their own fates.

Taking the music box, she walked over to the trash and dropped it there, taking pleasure in knowing that Faustus would have spent a pretty coin on it. Then, she washed her hands with salt to cleanse any magic residue, before pouring herself a drink.

The headache still throbbed as she sat down on the settee. It would eventually go away, but it would likely be a few hours. Zelda had enough spells blow-up in her face over her centuries to know that the headache was the result of a cast spell backfiring against its target. Which meant for all intents and purposes, the Caligari spell should have worked, but hadn't.

Zelda looked at her hand to where Lilith's ring sat.

She played with it, twisting it on her finger before dropping the hand away into her lap. Whatever reason Lilith had for granting her the gift, she was thankful for it. Zelda had no idea what nefarious plot Faustus had for her with that spell, but it made her all the more sincere to the notion that Ambrose was innocent.

Which meant that Sabrina was right, and if she was right about that, then there was every possibility that Faustus had murdered Edward and Diana.

No, she couldn't stomach that thought.  

She took a sip of her whisky and considered her options. How long would Faustus wait before his rage over-boiled the pot? She thought it over, at every angle, and decided that it was easier to catch flies with honey.

After an hour had passed, she walked into the bedroom. Faustus sat on the end of the bed, his head in his hands, his jacket removed and shirt undone - no doubt from having tried and failed to get an erection to see if her curse had landed true (it had).

"I've decided," she began and watched as his head tilted towards her. "That you had some rather important business here to attend to given that you are the interim anti-pope. As such, you have sent me to return Greendale with Judas and prepare for your return in a week."

Faustus swallowed and looked directly at her. There was a rage in his eyes, but he had enough sense to push it back.

"No one needs to know of our dirty laundry, Faustus. In time, you will learn that I can be very discreet, but make no mistake, if you try something like that again, I promise you that not only will your very precious manhood become incurably diseased, but it will be publicly removed by my hand."

"Understood," he said, though his eyes still stared at her with rage.

"I'm glad we can come to an agreement. I expect I will see you in a few days."

--------------------------------

Zelda arrived in Greendale mid-afternoon feeling all the more at ease to be on home soil. She walked up the front steps of her home and pushed the door open, just as it seemed Ambrose was opening it.

"Ambrose?" she questioned with a sharp look as if to say: shouldn't you be in the dungeon at the Academy?

"Auntie. Good to see you," he said, though his eyes were darting around behind her.

"It's just myself and Judas, but if you're hiding here, leaving through the front door is not the way to do it," she said, pushing him back inside and shutting the front door behind her.

"I...had thought you were Sabrina."

She quirked an eyebrow at him as she carried Judas and set him down on the kitchen countertop. He'd begun to fuss, soft mewls turning to hiccups that would like turn to screaming soon. It was likely time for his afternoon feed. "And what has Sabrina gotten up to now?"

"You haven't heard?"

"Clearly not," Zelda said as she went to the fridge, pulling out the goat's milk. When she turned around, Ambrose had his face in his hands, a look of horror on his face. "Well, spit it out, Ambrose, I haven't all day."

"She..." he fumbled, trying to find the words. And then the whole story came tumbling out, about the witch hunters, Sabrina's alleged death and resurrection, her forceful burning of the angels and her healing properties which no one knew she had a talent for –- something that would have manifested in her early years at the very least.

And now, it seemed, her dear niece could apparently control the weather.

Zelda paused, drinking in the story. With everything that happened in the last six months, it wasn't entirely far-fetched. Sabrina's powers had been growing at an unprecedented rate. Still, weather control, resurrection, healing? Sabrina could do many things, but she'd always been awful at things that required patience and attention to detail.

"Auntie?" Ambrose prompted. "I'm worried. I know he's your husband, but Father Blackwood despised her before. He will see this power as a threat. Please, you can't-"

Zelda raised her hand, silencing him. "I know," she said. "Believe me."

Her nephew sighed, great relief falling from his shoulders before he looked up at with sweet, kind eyes. "I take it that Rome didn't go well?"

Zelda rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "He tried to use a Caligari spell. On me," she scoffed as she took out a saucepan and filled it with water. "In all my centuries, I've never had a man even consider such a violation against free will."

"Did he...?"

"Does it look like he succeeded?" she asked, before turning back to the stove pot and placing the bottle into it. "No, he immediately failed, like the washed-up warlock he is." Zelda stared at the bottle, feeling the anger rise and then sink away deep into the pit of her belly. Anger made for magical accidents, and she couldn't afford that at the moment. "I'm fine, Ambrose. Truly."

"Yes, but your neck is..." he trailed off and then a red began to tinge across Ambrose's cheeks as he realised what the marks were. "Oh."

Zelda brushed her hair back over her neck, adjusting her blouse collar as she quietly cursed Lilith. "They're not from him," she said, before taking the bottle out the bottle from the water, testing it against the temperature against her wrist.

"So, the Dark Lord, then?"

Zelda looked up, feeling heat rush across her face at the very memory of not just that first night, but re-visitation. Lilith's touch left an imprint on her, both literally and metaphorically. "I would have thought that they would have faded now, but apparently not."

"Yes, well, infernal marks tend to leave an impression," Ambrose said, looking them over before he darted his eyes away. "I had thought that the, um, well that it was a legend told to terrify brides before their wedding."

"Evidently not," Zelda said as she held the bottle for Judas and turned the stove off. A silence carried over the room as Ambrose rocked on his heels, looking as though he was holding back a hundred and one questions. Sooner or later, they would come tumbling out, and Zelda had no desire to feed any more half-truths towards him or any other inquisitive mind.

"Where did you say Sabrina was?"

"Oh, she went to speak to her school teacher. The one that-"

"Wardwell," Zelda seethed. The woman got under her skin more than any of Sabrina's other teachers, with her snide remarks about how she knew best and was far more worldly given her excommunicated state because of how dearly trusted by Edward she was –- bullshit.

And her ability to procure spells to magnificent degrees, the likes of that haven't been seen in centuries? No, there was something up with this woman, and she didn't buy the fact that she loved Edward one bit. The way she spoke of him was cold and distant, not some jilted lover holding onto the pieces of her heart.

Sure, Edward kept his secrets, and he was undoubtedly paranoid enough to seek outside help, but that woman did not know her brother better than she did.

"And Hilda?" she asked, instead of pressing the issue.

"At the Academy, I believe. Where is Father Blackwood, if I may ask?"

Zelda's heart sunk. "He's in Rome. He's been made the Anti-Pope, in the interim until the Cardinals can arrange a meeting."

"The Anti-Pope?" Ambrose said weakly. Zelda could see hope shredding in his eyes as he exhaled out a short, deep breath and stumbled against the kitchen counter. "Satan save me, I'll be executed within the hour of his arrival."

"Ambrose, we will find a way out of this. Even if it means placing you in hiding."

"Hiding," he whispered, nodding. "They'll have all of witch kind after me if I left. There'll be a bounty against me."

Zelda had no words of comfort to offer. She reached out and squeezed at his hands, hoping that was enough. There would be some way out of this, she was sure of it. It was just a matter of finding out what. (If only murdering Faustus wouldn't fix the issue.)

"Does Sabrina have any ideas?" she asked.

"One, I think, but she wanted to meet with Wardwell first."

Zelda nodded. "Then I suppose we trust her. After all, it's not over until a banshee sings."

Ambrose smiled weakly and nodded.

"Now, why don't you upstairs and keep out of sight. When Sabrina arrives, you can run off and do whatever needs to be done."

"Thank you, Auntie."

"And Ambrose, I meant what I said. We will find a way out of this. We're Spellmans, we survive."

Ambrose nodded t her, but the movement was morose. As he turned away, Zelda could see him slump forward, footsteps heavy as he made his way up the staircase, towards the attic.

Zelda burped Judas, before moving him upstairs where she bathed him and changed him into new clothes before placing him back into his bassinet to sleep in what had meant to become Leticia's nursery, now refurbished as a joining spare room to what had been her own room.

Not that it was really her room since she married.

Zelda stepped through the door and looked over the contents of her old room. Everything had been packed, ready for the move to the Blackwood Manor on the outcrops of the Academy. Her dresser contained a few items, in case she needed to stay for any reason, and the bed which had a throw she'd procured from Morocco forty years prior, remained in place.

Everything else was gone, likely waiting at her new residence for her to unpack. She couldn't even think about doing that.

What was she going to do now, she wondered. Stay in a marriage where they both held a knife behind their backs, or divorce after a few weeks, ruin their chances at power?

Satan forgive her, the fallout from the church would be catastrophic for decades. Not only would it weaken his position as the Anti-Pope (which she didn't care for) but it would also undermine her own search for power. Faustus would likely turn his anger back on her, and then where would she be?

Powerless and at war with an adept warlock.

She could handle losing the coven. Her faith was more than church walls and a priest. Satan knew Sabrina had brought her fair share of humiliation to the church. But her leaving Faustus wouldn't just affect the two of them or her family. There were others involved.

She sat down at the end of the bed and clutched at the bedding as if it could steady her –– what of Judas, she wondered, of Prudence and Leticia? Who would look after them if she fled back to her family? Prudence was just a girl, no matter how bold she acted, and Faustus would swallow her whole to keep her from stealing his son's legacy.

No. She would stay.

She would build iron walls against him, but she would stay, for herself, for her family and for the family she'd married into. And if she had to quietly murder Faustus and bury him in the forest, then so be it.

Her eyes fluttered shut, and she found herself suddenly praying to Lilith for strength, whispering the old prayer into the dim light of the room. It'd been a long time since she'd made such a prayer, Sabrina had been just a babe in her arms, newly an orphan with nowhere else (worthy) to call home.  

Zelda opened her eyes to the dark, feeling a shiver run down her spine. The path was long and wretched before her, but she was a Spellman by blood and Spellmans survive.

[obaewankenope]

loved the absconding with harry update!!!! hc question: in CoS we saw harry *almost* get hurt by the basilisk and gets saved at the last minute - how would crowley and aziraphale respond if harry did get seriously hurt by something - on the one hand they can heal him without much trouble, but on the other hand that's gotta be terrifying, especially w how fragile humans are

Oh thank you nonnie! I'm glad you liked it!

That's actually a really good question! As I mentioned earlier in the series, some of their miracles might not work on Harry because of his magic. As a growing child with unharnessed magical ability (even as a student learning to harness it), the effect a miracle used to make Harry not notice them arguing could backfire in any number of ways if Harry's own magic dislikes the miracle. Although their miracles affect reality, magic is an aspect that isn't like the base plane that non-magicals live on. So whilst a regular person wouldn't really think much on it if they were miracled to not notice Aziraphale and Crowley bellowing in the street at each other, a magical person would know something isn't right and not be sure as to what.

Harry is magical so he definitely would know but wouldn't know how to handle it. Which is where the unharnessed magical ability comes in and could see him lashing out or something else.

Now considering that Crowley and Aziraphale don't much give any fucks for any of the adults in the magical world since they're all fucking moronic, they use miracles left and right on people like Fudge and Dumbledore etc. They're also in control of their magic so there's very little risk involved in miracling them to a rock in the middle of the Irish Sea (funny as fuck though) and Dumbledore ending up in space instead (oh but I wish). There's always a risk, of course, but since the miracles Aziraphale and Crowley use are close enough to magic proper... It doesn't really ping as a big enough risk for either of them to avoid miracles.

They perform miracles on the other kids too but those miracles are also very clear and direct. We don't see the way they envision the miracles, only the result, but like Crowley in second year when he wishes wrong for a split second, they use their imagination and can imagine the outcome if they so wish.

Because Harry is a trauma kid, he's much more prone to reacting to even the most slight miracle if his magic perceives it as a threat. But with Crowley and Aziraphale, he trusts them, so again the risk is less than if he didn't trust them.

And all of this affects how Harry would handle being injured by the basilisk and Crowley and Aziraphale treating him. Now, because Crowley was Raphael and a healer before he Fell, his miracles are... Not more suited to healing, but certainly it's easier for him to perform healing miracles without as many side effects as, say, Aziraphale.

So. Consider:

Harry gets, shall we say, bitten by the basilisk? It's not quite so severe a bite in terms of where it is, just the arm. But there's the venom and the anti-coagulation factor of the venom means he's bleeding fast and the venom is quickly affecting him.

Crowley is busy with the basilisk, absolutely fucking slamming it into the ground for daring to attack His Son! That leaves Aziraphale to handle Harry and that's not exactly... Ideal.

Now, Aziraphale isn't Weak by anyone's standards except Gabriel's, but Gabriel is a dick so we ignore him. But Aziraphale isn't a healer. That wasn't his speciality, it wasn't why he was made. He's got a nice flaming sword and no, that's not a euphemism, and can kill demons if so requested. But healing? Well. Takes a bit more nuance and skill with imagination than Aziraphale has, though it's still far more than almost any other angel and demon except Crowley. Obviously.

So Harry has Aziraphale to help him. Aziraphale who has very little idea of how healing is supposed to work but knows without a shadow-of-a-doubt that Harry needs to be healed Now. Or else there won't be anymore Harry. Can't have that now, can we?

The noise of Crowley beating the absolute shit out of a rather crazy basilisk is, naturally, distracting, but not so much as to really take Aziraphale away from the Important Healing Thing Right Here.

"Yo-you should get the o-others out," Harry gasps, looking at Aziraphale with wide, frightened eyes that do nothing to persuade Aziraphale to do that at all. "G-get them safe."

"And leave you here? Heavens no, never!" Aziraphale says and he's firm about it because, no, he's not leaving Harry behind. Not even if the basilisk was bearing down on them and Aziraphale was powerless. He won't leave this child, his child.

Magic and miracles are intertwined, obviously a decision by Her that Aziraphale greatly appreciates at the moment when he reaches out with his essence and probes the wound on Harry's arm.

It's... Not great.

It's rather awful, actually.

"T-that bad?" Harry laughs breathlessly and Aziraphale schools his face to an expression of determined control that few have seem him portray. Harry is the sixth human to see it and by far the most important.

"It—I won't lie, Harry," Aziraphale says, "I'm not the best at healing but you are not going to die here. I promise."

"Believe you," Harry says weakly, head lolling to the side as he grows weaker from the bloodloss and venom killing him. Aziraphale's heart swells at the trust Harry has in him, the faith, and it bolsters the angel's miracle as he presses his hands to the wound and wills the poisonous venom from it.

It resists, the venom, determined to do its nature to the fullest extent but, to Aziraphale, nature is optional, not necessary. Power wrestles with power but they're in different leagues entirely and Aziraphale refuses, refuses to let a bloody snake venom do what it's meant to do to Harry James Potter, the boy who lives in his bookshop. The boy who smiles in unguarded delight when Aziraphale shows him a new book. The child who hugs Aziraphale with honest affection when the angel praises him.

No.

Nothing in this world will take that child from him.

Nothing in heaven, either, he thinks privately, and perhaps it's that thought that finally, finally, pushes the venom into compliance. Maybe.

Harry shakes violently as the venom streams out of the wound on his arm, dispelling into the air with the sort of sickly smell something particularly disgusting has. Like tar from a cigarette. Or fifty of them.

The moment the venom is out of Harry's body, Aziraphale immediately focuses on healing the wound but this is where he encounters problems. The venom was interfering with Harry's magic, making it possible for Aziraphale to perform a miracle with no absolute picture of the end result beyond Venom Be Gone. Now it's out of his system, Aziraphale finds Harry's magic is reacting to his attempts to heal him.

A sharp sting of electricity runs through Aziraphale's body at such an intensity it would probably kill a mortal. As it is, it makes the angel hiss out a pained sound before he chooses to ignore it.

"You're gonna hurt yourself more, angel."

Aziraphale doesn't shriek in surprise at Crowley's voice right next to him but only because he's focused on Harry. He does look up at the demon with a wide-eyed look of surprise that Crowley takes in with burning gold eyes, nods, and pulls Aziraphale's hands away from Harry's arm before replacing them with his own.

"Check the others, I'll fix this, angel," Crowley says and Aziraphale believes him.

He believes Crowley would turn the sun off if it would save Harry no matter how impossible that ought to be either.

Faith is a strong tool indeed but so too is trust.

The strongest of them all is, of course, love, but what demon would ever admit he runs on love to an angel born of it?

Not for a good decade or so at least.

[helaintoloki]

apocalypse {f.h.}

pairing: number five x reader

warnings: death, some angst, lots of language

notes: trying to fight my writer’s block and finish pieces I’ve forgotten aha im posting this at midnight rn

/inspired by the song apocalypse by cigarettes after sex/

you’ve been locked in here forever and you just can’t say goodbye

your scraped knees and twisted ankle were the only things you could feel as you limped along the abandoned roads. they used to be a freeway, you think, but it’s hard to tell considering everything looks the same in the new post apocalyptic world: destroyed and desolate. death wasn’t a very good decorator, but it probably had other things on its mind.

today marked one week since the apocalypse had swept away any and all life from the earth, besides you, of course. somehow, you’d been (un)lucky enough to survive. who knew hiding in the dryer during a game of hide and seek with friends would pay off in the long run. and now, here you were, injured and alone-

“shit.”

or so you thought.

“hello?” you called out desperately, and the voice you had heard seemed to vanish in thin air. “i-i need help. my ankle’s twisted and i just need a place to rest.” nothing.

with a sigh, you sat yourself down amongst the rubble and pulled out your water jug from your flask. yet as you held it over your mouth you were met with nothing but air. only a few drops landed on your tongue, escaping the jug once you tapped the bottom with your palm. at this rate, you’d be dead in a few days. it’s almost impossible to survive the apocalypse on your own... unless you’re number five.

with a gun suddenly pointed at your face, a voice on the other end of the barrel demands, “who are you?”

“y/n,” you reply calmly, a sense of tiredness in your voice. he notices, but maintains his death grip on the weapon and his finger on the trigger.

“are you alone?”

“i was, then you showed up.” the boy, as you can tell by now, narrows his green eyes at you. “listen, if you’re gonna kill me, all i ask is that you do it quick. put me out of my misery.”

he’s quiet, his brows furrowed as he contemplates his next move. then, with the gun lowered, “i’m not going to kill you.”

“that’s too bad,” you reply calmly, setting your jug aside before letting your back rest against the piece of debris behind you. “guess i’ll let Mother Nature do it herself.”

“are you always this depressing?” he asks slightly annoyed.

“not usually, but when the world you once knew goes to shit... well,” you shrug, “people change.”

“self-pity isn’t a good change.”

“yeah, well neither is violence.”

“trust me, that’s the one thing that’s stayed the same,” he murmurs, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. his posture has relaxed significantly and the gun is on safety. “i’m Five.”

“well, Five, looks like it’s just you and me.”

~~~

it had been three years ago since you had first stumbled upon five, and since then you two had been inseparable. you were the apocalyptic duo (plus delores), and nothing could get in your way. in fact, it was safe to say you were in love with him, and unbeknownst to you, the feeling was somewhat mutual.

today had been like any other day. you’d woken up next to each other, eaten breakfast, gotten ready for the day, then continued your trek to god knows where. you sat in the wagon with Delores while five pulled, admiring the post apocalyptic beauty of everything around you. it was kind of poetic, really. how things seemed prettier when destroyed. or maybe you were just a big masochist. you wouldn’t be surprised after all the time you had spent with five.

“i’m hungry,” you stated aloud to no one in particular. “you hungry, Delores?”

“...”

“five, we’re hungry,” you chimed, causing him to roll his eyes in slight annoyance at your whining. honestly, he sometimes thought of you as a big baby he had to take care of. a small being who needed constant care and attention otherwise they’d die. but for some reason, five always took care of you. always. if he wasn’t such a tough guy, he’d consider it to be love. but to five, it was a silent agreement the two of you had come to; he’d take care of you and you’d make things less lonely. to five, this was enough. there was no place for love in the apocalypse.

“what do you want?” he grumbled, continuing to pull the weight of you and Delores as well as your few belongings within the wagon.

“hmm... spaghetti!”

“why do you two insist on making things so difficult?” five huffed, stopping for a moment to scan his surroundings. “i think there used to be a super market a few blocks from where we’re standing. they might have something there.”

the super market, once known as john’s grocery, was nothing but rubble and broken building, but a good survivor always knew not to judge a book by its cover, which is why you and five managed to find some pretty good shit. it wasn’t spaghetti, of course, but a can of Pringle’s and beef jerky sandwiches was like heaven to your rumbling tummies.

while Five was busy evenly splitting the sandwich Delores had so graciously offered to the two of you, you rummaged through your bag and pulled out your find: a Polaroid only slightly damaged from the blast. it only took a minute for you to insert the film and a few seconds to snap a photo of an unsuspecting five concentrating on the precision of slicing the sandwich.

“what the hell was that?” he asked, looking up at you and scowling slightly at the sight of the camera. he hated pictures.

“i found it,” you grinned, snapping another photo.

“Jesus, enough with that,” five scolded, blinded temporarily by the glare. “you’re going to get us killed.”

“no one’s out here, you’re being paranoid,” you said dismissively, smiling at the developed film. “besides, look at how adorable you look!”

five merely rolled his eyes and took a bite of his jerky sandwich. you were too trusting of the world, too naive. believing that no one could touch you, that nothing could go wrong. it’s what had gotten you killed.

it all seemed to happen in slow motion, really. one minute you’re smiling, the next there’s a bullet in your chest and you’re struggling to breathe. the blood is oozing freely from the wound, dribbling down from your mouth as you fall back with wide eyes and a terrified face.

“y/n!” five yells, not recognizing his own voice as he quickly scoops you into his arms and desperately clutches you to his chest. “shit, shit, shit.”

“five?” you gurgle, and his eyes begin to well with tears.

“you’re going to be okay, you’re going to be fine,” five repeats over and over into your hair, and he’s not sure if this mantra is for him or for you.

he feels the warm liquid spreading in between your bodies, staining his jacket and seeping through your clothing. it’s so warm, it scares him, scares him as if it’s the first time he’s seen blood in his life.

he’ll never forget the strangled cry that left his mouth as he felt you slump against him, the sudden chill he got from the cold of your body. it was what kept him awake for several nights, what kept him going, what caused him to go rouge when he had learned of the commission’s true power, their true crimes. the blood on their hands, your blood on their hands. they’d pay.

~~~

“shit.”

after explaining what was basic science to his now much older siblings and coming up empty handed in his search for caffeine, five hardgreeves decided to take a drive. a scrawny thirteen year old driving a car would have been comical if not for the situation and stakes at hand.

griddy’s is the only place he can think of to go for a decent cup of coffee, and he hopes it’s still there. and it is. it’s comforting to know that some things have remained the same since his departure into the future with you..

it’s almost empty when he walks in, except for a truck driver at the front and a girl at the very back in her own booth. books are scattered around her, a clear sign of procrastination. she reminds him a lot of-

“Y/N?” five asks bewildered. you peek up at the sound of your name, eyebrows furrowing in confusion at the sight of a stranger asking for you.

“do i know you?” you ask and shrink back against the booth as he approaches quickly. this boy you’ve never met before may be cute, but he’s approaching like a mad man.

“y-you’re here, you’re alive!”

“last i checked,” you say with an uneasy laugh. “h-how do i know you?”

“it’s a long story, i’ll explain it as we go home,” he rushes, grabbing hold of your wrist that you quickly pull back.

“go back?? i-i don’t know you!” you sputter. he sighs annoyed, impatient. he knows it’s not your fault that you have no idea who he is, but he doesn’t have a lot of time to waste.

the bells over the door chime, and five is on alert immediately. he thought he’d have more time before they found him.

“listen, i know you don’t know me, but i need you to get under the table right now, okay? you’ll be safe.”

you didn’t have time to protest as he was shoving you under. but as you watched the next scene unfold in front of you, you were suddenly very grateful you had chosen the corner booth that night.