#god i hate living in the woods i miss being able to see for miles and knowing where the horizon line is

[depresseddepot]

y'know i used to joke about having bad luck but it's not funny when it gets more and more common

[plus-size-reader]

Devastated

Ivar the Boneless x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 2794 words

Warnings: Reader cannot have children. It is covered in very little detail but content may be triggering to some. Read with caution darlings. 

Summary: The reader finds out that she will never bear children, and knows that she must tell her husband, eventually. 

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You were devastated.

In your entire life, you were sure that you’d never been given such bad news.

When you went to visit the Seer, the last thing you expected him to tell you about your future was that you would never be able to have children, and yet, that was just what had happened.

You begged the mighty one to reconsider, to tell you something different, but there was nothing to be done.

The reality was that you would never bear children of your own, not in all your life.

You couldn’t believe it.

Child rearing was incredibly important to you, and your people in general. You should have been able to bear strong, strapping sons to carry on their father’s name and daughters who could hold their own against any warrior.

It was your birthright as a woman, and a Princess of Kattegat, but the seer was very clear. There were no young ones in your future, at least, not any that you would carry on your own as your mother had with you.

It wasn’t going to happen.

By all accounts, you were heartbroken.

Since you were a young child, you had dreamed of becoming a mother to brave children who could bring just as much glory to Kattegat as you and all the others before you had. You owed it to the Gods, but evidently, they had a different plan.

You weren’t to be a mother.

You considered this, and everything else the seer had said as you walked down the path toward the great hall, your feet heavy beneath you. Perhaps, if you made enough offerings to Freya, something would change.

Though, you knew it would never work.

The seer had never been wrong, in all the years you’d lived. If he was ever going to be wrong, you doubted it would be over this in any case.

You couldn’t rightly ignore the facts.

Your body wasn’t fit to carry children, and if your womb couldn't support life, there was nothing you could have ever hoped to do to change that. The most you could do was accept what you knew to be true.

Which was much easier in theory than in practice.

Not only did you have to come to terms with this new reality, but you also had to share the unfortunate news with your husband, who would certainly not take it well.

Every man wanted sons, men whom they could be proud to leave their name to when they were finally called to Valhalla. The idea that you were taking that away from Ivar made you rethink everything.

Would he want to be married to you anymore when he found out? Your marriage was relatively new, and you couldn't blame him if this was something that he simply couldn’t overlook and even worse, what if he was angry?

Ivar wasn’t exactly a joy to be around when he was angry, and you fear what he may do if he blamed you for something like this.

Was it your fault?

Gods, maybe it was.

You weren’t aware that you couldn’t have children before this morning so it wasn’t as if you could have been expected to warn him before your marriage, but now that you knew, was it possible you had done something wrong.

It was really starting to feel as though you were being punished for something, but for what, you were unsure.

Surely you’d done something wrong. Why else would the Gods see fit to take your children away from you before you’d even had a chance to consider having them?

It felt like a cruel joke, one that you could never escape.

The more you thought about it, the more distracted you’d become, and before long, you found yourself entering the mouth of the great hall, where Ivar was already waiting for you.

Of course he was.

Your husband was kind to you, most of the time, when his temper didn’t have a handle on his emotions. You had never found yourself worried about speaking to him, or telling him anything before, but today was different.

Today, you found yourself more willing to go into the woods to fight a bear as Bjorn had done, rather than tell Ivar of the news you’d gotten from the seer on your visit this morning.

It was simply too much to put on one person.

“Well hello my wife, how are you?” Ivar hummed, letting his eyes fall on you in the doorway once he’d decided he was bored of watching Ubbe and Hvitserk try to best one another in an arm wrestle.

They had been going at it for the last hour or so, and it had gotten tedious shortly after that.

Hearing about what you had gotten into today seemed to interest him that much more, especially because you had taken it upon yourself to get out of bed and leave before he’d even opened his eyes.

You didn’t speak at first, instead opting to admire the man you loved in a silent contemplation of how he was feeling today.

If he was already in a sour mood, you weren’t going to dare bring something like this up.

Still, compared to how Ivar acted on his worst days, he seemed rather content today. If nothing else, he was bored, which you couldn’t really fault him for. His mother had more or less kept him here his entire life.

He didn’t voyage away from Kattegat and he never was one for frivolous activities to pass the time.

In any case, if there was ever going to be a good opportunity to have such a sensitive conversation with him, it was now. At least, you had a better chance of him staying calm, rather than getting angry.

“I’m just fine, Ivar, how are you?” you hummed, sitting down beside him as gingerly as you could without disturbing him, though you were more in your head than you’d ever been.

You knew that you should pay attention as he told you about what he’d gotten up to today, not missing the subtle comments he made about you leaving him to wake up on his own, but you couldn’t focus on anything more than the sinking in your gut.

Deep down, you knew that he would blame you.

That it was bad enough that you weren’t as fair or petite as his brother’s wives, and that his father had arranged your marriage, but now, you wouldn't even be able to bear his children for him.

You had been rather fortunate to avoid Ivar’s wrath before now, though you’d seen it pretty frequently, and you could feel that luck running out. You knew that this would upset him, that he would be angry.

You just weren’t sure what you could do about that.

It would be foolish to believe that you could keep this from him forever.

Eventually, he was bound to put the pieces together when you couldn’t get pregnant, and even if he didn’t, the seer was sure to mention it to him at some point.

You could only keep this from him for so long, and if he found out you knew this long before he did, he would punish you for sure.

So, as much as it made your stomach turn, you knew that you only really had one choice.

“What did you do today that was so important?” he questioned, all but snapping in your face to get your attention once he’d finished speaking, only to find you as far away as ever.

Clearly, your head was a million miles away, and while that normally would have frustrated Ivar, he found himself strangely concerned for your wellbeing. Usually, when he spoke, you hung on every word.

Today, it was as if he wasn’t even here.

“I went to visit the seer, about the strange way I’ve been feeling” you shrugged, hoping that wouldn’t bring on any other questions from him.

This was your chance.

All you had to do was tell him.

Though, when you raised your eyes to meet his, you found that same knot in your belly twisted up even more. There was no way that you could tell him, he would never understand.

Still, you knew that at some point, he was sure to pull it out of you. He always did, no matter what it was you tried to keep away.

“Well, what did he tell you?” came his second question, the one you’d been anticipating, and trying to avoid, this entire time.

You did your best not to let the heavy sigh building in your chest escape as you tried to figure out how to word what you had to say, your eyes falling on both Hvitserk and Ubbe across the room.

It was bad enough that you were about to tell Ivar the worst news you’d ever gotten, but now, you had to do it with them within earshot? It was perfect. The entire Ragnarsson clan could hate you at once.

Not that them being here was a completely bad thing.

At least with his brothers in the room, there was less of a chance that Ivar could get so angry with you.

Perhaps they would be a good buffer for you.

In any case, you knew that you had reached the end of your very minimal stalling. If you waited any longer, the more you were sure that Ivar’s peaceful mood and ticking patience would fade.

The longer you waited, the harder it would be.

“There is nothing outrightly wrong” you allowed, doing your best to make him feel better about that, at the very least. It wasn’t a lie, just as much as it wasn’t exactly the truth. You weren’t dying, or seriously ill.

You just weren’t as you thought you were this morning.

“Then why were you away for so long? Surely the seer was able to tell you something” he groaned, bothered that you had been away for so many hours without so much as a warning to him.

After all, you had been missing from his side since before he opened his eyes, something he had never really taken kindly to.

You nodded, sorry that your clear absence had upset him so much before you finally let that sigh fall from your lips.

“Yes, he did, but the news is rather difficult to accept,” you warned, forcing some words out when you found the truth unable to leave your tongue. With every second that passed, you could just feel his patience leaving him.

However, even with all the blatant stalling you were doing, Ivar remained as calm as he could.

It was clear to him that no matter what you said, there was something you were keeping from him. The only question Ivar really had was why?

In all the time that you had been married, he was always kind to you. He took care of you as any husband should and though his temper was a bit harsh at times, he was always careful to be fair and gentle when he spoke to you.

All in all, Ivar thought himself to be a good husband but perhaps he was wrong.

He couldn’t imagine anything that could be so bad that you were so timid to tell him.

“Y/N, what did the seer tell you?” he prompted, shocking you a bit with the use of your name. Ivar never used your name, not if he could help it, always instead opting for ‘wife’ or ‘darling’ if he really wanted something.

It was never Y/N with him.

“I cannot have children, Ivar. Not ever” you finally broke, desperately wishing that you hadn’t said anything to begin with.

You should have been able to do this, and you both knew it.

Still, once you’d finally built up the courage to look, the upset that you expected from Ivar wasn’t anywhere to be seen on his face.

Instead, he wore an expression that was almost confused.

That was what you were so afraid to tell him?

You had come in here after a day of absence, as closed off and cagey as he’d ever seen you in all the time that you’d known him and that was what it was about? He just couldn’t believe that was the thing that you hesitated to share.

Of all the things it could have been, he would have thought that among the first that you could talk with him about if need be.

Not that you could read all of that from his silence and pensive expression.

From where you were sitting, you were even further convinced that he was about to tell you that he couldn’t be married to someone that couldn’t give him children, and that you would be on your own once again.

News that you couldn’t have been more unwilling to hear.

While your marriage to Ivar had been his mother’s idea in the beginning, you had begun to really care for him in the time you’d been married. Separating from him was sure to break your heart.

No matter the circumstances.

“And you’re upset by that?” he hummed, after a few seconds of silence between the two of you, a casual question that seemed so out of place in such a serious, tense conversation.

It was so strange.

He truly seemed as if he didn’t understand what the big deal was.

Though, you were talking to a man who had never truly been sure children were in his future to begin with. Not to mention the fact that even if he knew he was physically able, Ivar didn’t know how he felt about fathering offspring.

After all, if they had to live life anything like he did, he wasn’t sure it was worth it.

So, the idea that you couldn’t bear his children didn’t bother Ivar as much as you’d been expecting. Something that would have made you feel better, had you not been heartbroken over it.

You wanted to have children, all your life, so now knowing that you couldn’t, it felt as if something you’d never even had, had been stolen from you.

“Of course I’m upset, Ivar. Are you not?” you sighed, shocked at how this conversation had so drastically changed from what you’d been expecting. All this time, you thought your husband would be the most affected by this.

All the while, he remained almost entirely unphased by the news that you were barren.

It was almost insulting.

“Did you really expect to have children when we married, anyway?” he asked, his question giving you pause for a moment.

You supposed you’d never really thought about it before.

He had a point.

There was never any real guarantee that you were going to be a mother with him in any case, a fact that hadn’t even been important enough to cross your mind when you were getting married.

“I never thought much about it” you allowed, your eyes once again sinking to the floor as you thought about everything that had somehow changed, in the matter of a few hours.

It was hard not to feel as if your body had betrayed your trust, taking away something you had always thought to be promised.

You were upset, and rightfully so.

Ivar may not have ever considered himself a father, in any capacity, but that didn’t mean that your upset was any less real. He’d had his entire life to come to terms with this, whereas you’d only known for a day.

Of course it bothered you, and even if he didn’t really get why you were allowing something like this to get to you so much, he could recognize that you were hurting.

...and what kind of husband would he be if he left his grieving wife to her own devices.

“I understand that you are distressed by the seer’s news, but I promise you, it changes nothing between us” Ivar assured, his fingers brushing over the top of your hand as he held it between you.

It wasn’t the most comforting gesture outside of this moment, a simple hand holding as it were, but coming from Ivar, it made all the difference in the world.

As desperate as you were to change the state of your body, and as much as you wished it wasn’t the way it was, you knew that nothing could be done.

All you could do now was move on as best you could, and perhaps, sometime down the line, the gods may gift you with a child that you could care for. 

Even if such a child wasn’t of Ivar’s and your own.

At least, until then, you had Ivar by your side.

[haadeswrites]

Elysium

god this fic took forever i’m so sorry!! but hey, first fic on the new blog! <33 also y’all should really thank @iwaasfairy who listened to me complain about this fic for a solid month, she’s the reason it got finished

Cult leader Oikawa Tooru x female reader

tw: indoctrination, extremely dubious consent, blood, yandere themes, religious themes, minor character death, implied abuse & drug use, mild smut, nsfw

The island itself is breathtaking

Pristine beaches with gleaming white sand, vast swathes of lush, green rainforest and waterfalls that cascade into shimmering pools of crystal clear water. Untouched, undisturbed; a paradise. At least, that’s how Ryuji had described it. 

Paradise, but only in the sense that a gingerbread cottage in the middle of the woods is paradise to a lost and hungry child. 

He hadn’t been wrong. Bare feet sink into soft, white sand as you climb from the boat - the warmth just toeing the line between pleasant and burning. Gentle waves ebb and flow behind you, and there’s a light breeze that kisses your skin, the taste of seasalt carrying in the wind. Home, it seems to sing.

A laugh sounds somewhere in the distance, yet the only other figure on the beach is a man walking steadily towards you. He smiles when he sees you’ve noticed him; friendly, non-threatening. It’s a far cry from the swarming welcoming committee you’d been dreading, and you wonder if that’s somehow intentional as well. 

As the boat pushes back out to sea he comes to a stop before you, “I’m Makki,” he says, pushing the fringe of his hair back and giving you a not-so-subtle once over. Whatever he sees must meet approval, because his grin only widens, “Welcome to the Commune.”

Ryuji wasn’t wrong; the island is a beautiful, deadly thing.

—

You’d never heard of the Commune before the phone call. 

And maybe that shouldn’t be so surprising. You’ll be the first to admit you’re hardly an expert, but from what you do know, groups like the Commune – cults – don’t spring up out of thin air and start broadcasting their mistreatment and systematic abuse. 

They’re not the kind of people that have sweet old ladies clutching their pearls and mothers shepherding their children away – at least, not in the beginning. Not entirely. They’re not out to recruit extremists to further their cause, they choose to prey on the vulnerable, the lost and the disillusioned. Those easily manipulated. You suspect that’s why when you google the Commune, all you find is a website for what essentially looks like a long term luxury wellness retreat.

‘The Commune is about healing and harmony, about returning to nature, supporting one another to forge a brighter, more holistic future together… a self-sufficient community living apart from technology and other evils of modern society.’ 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you scroll through. There’s a whisper of philosophical teachings woven throughout, a page dedicated to their founder, Oikawa Tooru – smiling handsomely in every single picture, because what would a burgeoning cult be without a charismatic leader – but there’s not enough.

So here you are, on an island hundreds of miles away from home living amongst strangers; because Ryuji wouldn’t have sounded so terrified if this was just some alternate, free-loving bunch of hippies.

And even with all that he’d told you, everything you thought you’d be prepared for, the Commune is like nothing you could’ve imagined. 

Makki introduces you to Asuka, a woman only a few years older than yourself, dark haired and stunningly beautiful, and winks as he tells her to take you under her wing. She smiles brightly, eyes twinkling, and pulls you into a heartfelt hug – as if you’ve known each other your whole lives.

“We’re so glad you’re here!” she beams.

You’d like to hate her. 

It feels like you're supposed to, sometimes; when she gets that dreamy look in her eyes and starts talking about Oikawa and the Commune and how lucky everyone here on the island is. Yet there’s something about her – the genuine warmth she emanates maybe, or the kindness in her eyes – that makes it difficult for you not to like her.

“You should come to the gathering tomorrow,” she hums idly one afternoon, maybe a week or so after your arrival. The two of you are sitting on the edge of the pier, legs dangling down into the water, tangled fishing nets to be repaired strewn between you.

“I always go,” you reply.

She laughs, fixing you with a knowing look, “And sit right at the very back, all but running off the moment we finish?” 

And your traitorous heart skips a beat. 

“It’s okay to take things slowly,” she says. “We understand that being a part of the Commune is a big change from the life you knew, and that not everybody is able to see what we see and embrace those changes.” 

Asuka sets down the knot she’s working through and reaches for your hand, a gentle smile on her face, “But you shouldn’t be afraid. You’re meant to be here, I can feel it. You just need to stop fighting against it; surrender yourself to us, to the island, and everything’ll make sense, I promise.”

It’s dangerous territory. One wrong word could set off alarm bells, yet you can’t help pressing just a little.

“Do you ever miss it, then? Life outside the Commune?” 

Your family. Friends. The life you left behind before you came here to be brainwashed like all of the others.

“Why would I?” she answers without missing a beat, and it’s hard to ignore the bitter flicker of disappointment you feel at her answer. “The island provides for us, we don’t have to spend our days selling off tiny pieces of ourselves just to make ends meet. It’s paradise here, and we have Oikawa to thank for that. Why would I ever want to go back?”

Silence falls between you as you struggle to think of something to say to salvage the situation. Yet Asuka isn’t even looking at you, instead staring out at the water with a strangely pensive expression. 

“Did you know I was married once?” The words seemingly out of the blue, you can only shake your head. For a moment, she doesn’t reply, watching as the waves rise and crash offshore. And then;

“I was young, eighteen or so, fresh out of high school and he was a small town cop.” Her eyes flicker to yours, and your heart clenches at the sadness and pain echoing there. “I thought he was a good man, once upon a time.”

A chord strikes deep, your chest tightening involuntarily at her words. It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same, and yet… 

No. You stop the errant thought in its tracks. Groups like the Commune prey on the vulnerable, you know this. People like Ryuji, like Asuka, like–

Her fingers squeeze around yours, pulling you back to the present. “Come to the gathering tomorrow. Listen to Oikawa, it’ll help.”

—

She doesn’t give you a choice in the matter – dragging you by the hand to sit right at the front of the gathered crowd that very night.

Oikawa’s handsomer up close; tall and dark haired with pretty eyes and long, sweeping lashes that frame delicate cheekbones, it’s not hard for you to see how a man like him has amassed such an impassioned following. 

Once he starts actually speaking, however, you realise that his good looks and charming smile are just the tip of the iceberg. Oikawa’s utterly captivating as he preaches about the cycle of life and death and the paradise that awaits his faithful. Passionate and engaging, he speaks like he truly believes every word of the lies he’s spreading. 

And Asuka, her friends, the others gathered, they eat up every word like it’s gospel truth, resounding cheers and thunderous applause deafening around you. In the midst of the rapturous din, Oikawa’s eyes flit to yours.

Slowly, he smiles – a dazzling grin that makes your stomach flip – and everything; Asuka, the noise, the others swarming around you, it all fades away.

For one electrifying heartbeat, you’re frozen in place. Just you and Oikawa, trapped in the pull of each other’s gaze.

—

You can’t forget the reason you came.

But it’s… difficult, in a way you struggle to understand. You only have one purpose for being here, one goal; find Ryuji and bring him home. 

And yet, some days it’s like there’s a fog in your mind, and you have to focus to remember why you’re here at all. You catch yourself laughing with Asuka and her friends, the days passing by in a blur of endless, easy distractions. 

It barely feels like work when you’re sitting under the shade of the trees, eating the fruits you’ve picked by hand – ripe and sweet, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted – diving off waterfalls into the crystalline water and meandering down the shore collecting seashells. Even when you are working, mending clothes or cooking with the others, it fills you with a sense of contentment you can’t quite explain. 

Like you’re a part of something bigger. Like you’re doing something that matters.

Ryuji becomes a distant thought. A whisper in the back of your head, a niggling in your gut, easily brushed aside and ignored until there’s a moment of quiet. In the dead of night, the balmy summer night’s breeze kissing your bare skin, you lie awake, lost in memories of the last time you’d seen him. 

Fists angrily pounding at your door, the yelling that gave way to sobs and the hoarse, desperate pleas that followed. Ryuji’s face; pupils blown wide and eyes rimmed in red, darting restlessly around as he held you too tight and begged–

Rolling over in bed, you gaze out your window at the star flecked sky, the shadows of the forest that lie at your doorstep, and wonder what it is that scares you more; that you’ve lost track of the days you’ve been here, and saving Ryuji is starting to feel like an afterthought, or that you could so easily forget all of it, find a place here in the Commune and be happy.

‘The island, it–it fucks with your head.’

Ryuji’d told you that, and you’d brushed it off as paranoia. You need to find him. Find him and get the hell outta dodge.

You can deal with the fallout later.

—

Kiyoshi. 

He’d mentioned the name a few times amidst his rambling – a friend of his on the island. You’re annoyed with yourself for not thinking of it sooner, however much like Ryuji himself, trying to focus and remember the name is like wading through thick mud.

Once you do, though, finding him amongst the hundred and fifty or so inhabitants is the easy part. 

There’s no strict division between genders within the Commune, however Kyoshi, despite his somewhat lean stature, is among the builders of the island and his path doesn’t often cross with yours. 

From Asuka you find out that he’s been a part of the Commune for years now, before even she joined, and that he mostly sticks to himself, though you’ve seen him chatting quietly to a few of the other men, a perpetually angry looking blonde in particular.

It’s the last part that piques her interest, “Why’re you so curious, anyway?” she asks, her face lighting up as a sudden thought occurs. “Do you want me to introduce you two? To be honest, I didn’t think he’d be your type, if you’re interested, though…”

Cheeks aflame, you’re quick to shut her down. “No, no, nothing like that. I’ve just… seen him around and we’ve never really spoken, I guess.”

A lame excuse, though mercifully she lets the subject drop without too much prodding.

Therein, of course, lies the problem. Walking up to Kyoshi and casually trying to drop Ryuji into the conversation without raising red flags is risky, but what other options do you have? You’ve already spent too much time on this island.

Although, maybe Asuka has the right idea. 

While you hadn’t been lying when you said you weren’t interested in Kyoshi in that way, nobody else knew that. Who would really look twice at the shy newbie striking up a conversation with the quiet, easygoing man? He wasn’t unattractive per se, and from the brief interactions you’d seen of him, he seemed kind enough.

You have enough patience (barely) to wait for dusk the following night. There’s a celebration, something about the full moon and a blessing on the island and the Commune– you hadn’t really been paying attention when Oikawa had spoken about it. Still, it’s too good an opportunity to pass up. With the fire pits crackling, and the dancing and music and the sweet honey wine flowing freely, nobody will be paying too much attention to what you’ll be doing. Hopefully, the alcohol will also serve to lower Kiyoshi’s guard, and perhaps if you’re really, really lucky, loosen his tongue as well. 

Of course, you’re not banking on him telling you exactly where Ryu is or what happened to him– and that’s assuming he actually knows – but at this point you’ll take anything over the nothing you currently have. A tiny slip up, that’s all you’re asking for. 

As the sun descends beyond the horizon, you play your role well, laughing and chatting amongst friends, sipping carefully at the cup of wine in your hand as you wait for an opening. And perhaps it’s your nerves working against you, but you find that it’s not just Kiyoshi your attention is drawn to. 

Up on the shore, away from the rabble, Oikawa lounges back with a cup of the same honeyed wine you’re pretending to drink. For the most part he seems deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, his right hand, but every once in a while he glances up, letting his gaze roam over the crowd of his followers.

Every inch a king and his general.

And it would seem benevolent, if not for the strange smile he wears – the one that widens when his eyes catch yours.

Swallowing tightly, you force yourself not to dwell on it, to ignore the odd sensation curling in your gut and the way your skin prickles under his attention. Now is not the time to lose focus.

Pushing all thoughts of Oikawa aside, you subtly scan the beach once more, only to find that Kiyoshi’s moved, sitting now on a piece of old driftwood near the bonfire. Alone for the first time tonight. 

Your legs are moving before the thought even fully registers. 

“Do you mind if I sit?” you ask, gesturing to the empty space on the log beside him. 

Kiyoshi smiles, the laugh lines at corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly, and shakes his head, “Not at all.”

“Thanks.”

Taking another sip of your wine, you will your shoulders to relax, your racing pulse to slow. This has to seem natural, and so you force yourself to hold your tongue, let your head loll back and breathe deep, soaking it all in. You can hear the others in the distance, the music and the dancing, the happy laughter and shouts that beckon – you want to go join them. Even your blood seems to hum, a call of something other pulsing through your veins.

But you pay it no mind. There are more important things to worry about tonight. 

Indeed, steel blue eyes have been appraising you curiously for a while now. “This is your first Lunar blessing, isn’t it?” Kiyoshi asks after a moment.

You nod, humming in agreement. Less than a month; you’ve been here less than a month. Is that a good thing?

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

A harmless enough question, and again you nod your head. “Yeah, it’s…” you pause, searching for words that won’t sound hollow. “It’s paradise. I feel like I need to pinch myself just to make sure it’s real.”

He smiles gently. “But?” he probes.

Grimly, you wonder whether Kiyoshi’s usually this perceptive, or if you’re just a really terrible actor. In a way, you suppose it really doesn’t make a difference; you’ve come too far to turn back now – at least not without raising suspicion. 

So you lie with a truth, and pray that it works.

“I had a friend I was supposed to meet here,” you confess quietly, gazing not at him but the crackling flames of the bonfire, the burning embers carried off into the night. “He was the one who said I should come, but now I’m here and he’s not and every time I catch myself enjoying this–”

“You feel guilty,” he surmises, cutting you off. “Because he’s not here to enjoy it with you.”

Wordlessly, you nod – and maybe it isn’t so much of an act when your eyes begin to glisten, your smile wavering. 

Kiyoshi’s silent for a moment, and you take another sip of the honey wine to hide your nerves. “You shouldn’t, you know,” he says eventually. “Feel guilty, I mean. You belong here, with the Commune. You’re happy here. Paradise… isn’t for everybody.”

He doesn’t say it to be cruel, more like he’s simply stating a fact, and somehow that makes it all the more unnerving. And it’s nothing you haven’t listened to Oikawa preach about time and time again. The Commune is for the devoted, the faithful – the lucky few – and you’ve never thought too hard about what he’d meant by that.

The Commune’s small, maybe a hundred and fifty or so people on the island. There’d been no initiation, no test of faith or trial period you’d had to pass when you arrived – at least, none that you’d been aware of. You simply stepped off the boat and they’d welcomed you with open arms. 

An uneasy sensation settles into your gut, goosebumps prickling at your skin despite the heat of the midsummer night. 

That… doesn’t make sense. It can’t. Absolute control’s too important in groups like this, they couldn’t just let anyone–

Kiyoshi speaks again, his calm voice pulling you from your thoughts. “What was his name?” 

You blink at him slowly – stupidly. “Sorry?”

“Your friend,” he clarifies. “What was his name?”

“Oh, um- Ryuji.”

Kiyoshi’s brow furrows in thought for a moment, but he merely shakes his head, “Doesn’t ring a bell, but like I said, not everyone who arrives stays with us for long.”

He looks you right in the eye as he says it.

You don’t understand the cold, foreboding that seeps through your veins, because he’s lying. He has to be. 

Ryuji was here. They were friends, Ryu’d told you that–

Why did you think this stupid plan would work anyway? That he’d tell you anything, much less the truth when this whole fucked up island is full of liars and those too indoctrinated to know the difference?

“You alright?” he asks when abruptly, you shoot to your feet beside him.

And it takes every ounce of willpower you have left to force an easy smile to your lips, raising your cup just a fraction, “Yeah, just gonna go get a refill. Thanks for the talk, Kiyoshi.”

Whether he notices that your wine’s barely touched or not, you don’t care – not as you turn on your heel without another word and head back up the beach. 

Your head is pounding, your body trembling – you don’t hear the call of your name until a hand reaches out and grasps at your wrist, spinning you around.

Asuka greets you with a wide grin, Makki and a tall, broad shouldered man you think is called Mattsun standing either side of her – the former’s arm slung casually over her shoulder. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you,” she says. “Come on, we’re gonna go swimming, it’s so pretty out there!”

You glance out towards the ocean. Moonlight bathes the inky blue water, light shimmering off the rippling tide; some of the others are already out there, splashing amongst the waves. 

“Clothing optional, of course,” Makki laughs, and Asuka tugs on your wrist once more. 

“C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

But you shake your head, slowly pulling your hand from her grip, “I’m not feeling great, I think I’m gonna head back.”

Asuka frowns, concern marring her pretty features. “Are you okay? Do you need us to call Mizo–”

“No,” you say, cutting her off. Healer Mizoguchi is the last person you need to see right now. “I just– I just need to go lie down for a bit. You guys go have fun – enjoy the blessing, I’ll be fine.”

Makki and Asuka share a fleeting look, but it’s Mattsun who interjects before either one of them can speak, “I’ll walk you back, then.”

Your stomach churns. It doesn’t sound like a suggestion.

And the smart thing to do would be to accept his help; the walk from the beach to your villa isn’t far, and while you’re not as familiar with Mattsun as you are with Makki or Asuka, it’s not like he’s going to hurt you or anything, but–

“Really– you don’t need to, it’s fine,” you smile weakly, shuffling back as he reaches to offer you his arm. “Go swim, I’ll see you guys in the morning.”

Mattsun shrugs easily enough, falling back into line with the other two – yet there’s something in the way he grins and holds your gaze for a beat longer. A glimmer of amusement, as if there’s some joke you're not a part of. “I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

The heat that floods your cheeks clashes uncomfortably with the cloying heaviness in your stomach, but somehow you manage to stutter out one last goodbye before turning back to scamper off in the direction of your room.

–But not to lie down.

There’s not a cloud in the sky, and the full moon’s bright. No need for a torch, not unless you decide to venture into the heart of the forest.

You’ve been a fool. Kiyoshi, Asuka, Makki, Mattsun; you can’t trust any of them to help you, even unwittingly. Ryuji’s here on the island – somewhere – and every second that slips away, every second that you allow yourself to forget puts him in further danger.

And so you cling to your discomfort, ground yourself in it. The prickling sensation at the back of your neck, the tightness in your chest as you slip past your villa, keeping low and quiet – they’re a reminder that there is something insidious here on the island, that you have to get out.

You and Ryuji.

He’s here. Away from the others, kept under lock and key as punishment, or maybe being forced to undergo whatever kind of glorified brainwashing they’ve got going on, but here. You need to be smart about this, because while you don’t intend to stop until you find him, tonight will be your best shot – while everyone’s distracted down on the beach. 

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you have a clear head. 

Creeping through the underbrush, you steer clear of the well trod pathways that lead towards habitation. You’ve been there, and to the docks, and the river. 

If they’re still keeping him here (and they are, you refuse to entertain the possibility that it could be otherwise) then it’s not somewhere out in the open. A bird cries out in the distance shattering the calm of the night, and you flinch – but it only serves as another reminder that your time tonight is limited; you cannot afford to delay. You wrack your brain, trying to dredge up memories of the last few weeks, surely you must have seen something–

“Lost?”

The single word, spoken in a deep, gruff voice has your blood running cold.

Slowly, you turn. 

Iwa stands behind you in the thicket, his face utterly impassive. Briefly, you contemplate whether it’s worth trying to bluff your way out of this, but Iwa’s eyes narrow, flashing in the dim light and you think better of it.

A sigh escapes you, your shoulders deflating. “Where is he– Ryuji?” you ask; a whisper rather than a demand.

Iwa’s expression gives nothing away. Did he know, or have you handed him the smoking gun of a crime that’d fallen through the cracks? Does it even matter anymore? You’re just–

You’re tired. 

Exhausted. In the space of a few moments all of that shining determination and resolve; it fled, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. This has to end, you can’t keep fighting against them forever. You can’t keep drowning in this guilt, feeling torn every second that you spend here on this stupid island. You just want to find Ryuji and go home.

… Right?

A tense beat passes as Iwa appraises you, and then; “Come with me.”

The hand he places on your shoulder doesn’t give you much choice. His grip isn’t what you’d describe as gentle, yet he’s careful enough to make sure you don’t trip or stumble as he marches you north. 

In the thick of the forest away from the beach, it’s eerily quiet. Every twig that snaps underfoot, every ragged breath you draw; it feels too loud. Out of place amongst the stillness of the midsummer night. 

And isn’t it ironic, that for the first time since you set foot in this paradise, you feel like you’re trespassing?

A bead of sweat trickles down from your temple and your mind unwittingly drifts back to Mattsun and Makki. Are they still swimming with Asuka? Probably, you reason. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since you left them on the beach, but surely no more than an hour.

And strangely, like water drawn from the depths of a well, an image comes to mind; the four of you standing in the waves, you perched atop Mattsun’s shoulders, screaming and giggling in delight as Asuka tries to knock you down again, two sets of eyes watching from the shore… 

You should have stayed on the beach.

“Can I ask you something?” 

“You can ask,” he replies drily – humouring you, you suppose.

Your lips quirk upwards for the briefest of moments. “What happens on the Lunar blessing? Asuka, the others– no one told me what it was.” 

Iwaizumi doesn’t answer you immediately, but you feel his fingers reflexively tighten on your shoulder. Likely it wasn’t the question he was expecting; surely there were others that you could have asked – but you don’t really want the answers to those.

If you’re being led like a lamb to proverbial slaughter, what good would it do you to know it? 

And yet as the seconds pass and no answer seems forthcoming from your captor, you resign yourself to the fact that your curiosity will remain unsated. You don’t even know what prompted you to ask in the first place; knowing Oikawa it’s probably some grand, meaningless spectacle. Pretty, hollow words spoken only to–

A heavy sigh draws you from your thoughts, and you falter in your step, almost tripping over your own feet in the process. Iwa’s quick to right you, urging you forward with a less than gentle nudge. “Walk straight,” he grunts, yet it lacks any true heat. Anticipation flutters through your veins, and he mutters a soft curse behind you. “Fine. It… it’s an exchange.” 

An exchange? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Your eyebrows draw together, mouth opening to press the matter, but Iwa beats you to the punch.

“You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, now shut up.”

You have no response to that, so you do.

—

The two of you walk in silence for what feels like hours. Eventually, the terrain becomes steeper, the worn path you’re treading twisting and winding, and you realise you must be close to the mountains at the heart of the island. 

As your breath comes in heavy pants, your legs beginning to ache, you can’t help but be lost in the beauty of it all.

The flora’s different here, unlike any you’ve seen before. Flowers bursting from the bark of towering trees, blooms of vibrant hues; reds and purples and soft, baby pinks. Even the vines at your feet curl amongst pretty white buds that gleam invitingly under the moonlight. Your jaw falls open as you gaze around in wonderment. 

You forget why you’re walking, where it is that you’re heading. Iwa’s grip relaxes as a quiet gasp escapes you, and he doesn’t stop you when you stray from the path to take a closer look. You can’t resist reaching out to touch the silken petals, leaning in to smell their perfume. Soft and light and sweet, your eyes flutter shut, a smile creeping across your visage. 

It reminds you of home. Not your actual home – the rundown, tiny shoebox apartment you gave up before you came here – but something deeper.

Home, like the long summer days spent playing in your parents’ backyard. Home, like afternoons curled up by the window, watching the rain come down in sheets outside. 

Home, like the comfort of arms wrapped around you; two hearts beating in sync.

“C’mon,” Iwa interrupts after a minute or so, his voice a touch less gruff. “We’re almost there.”

Dazed, you find yourself nodding, allowing him to guide you back to the path. This time, he doesn’t grab you by the shoulder, seemingly content enough to walk by your side. 

True to his word, it’s only another few minutes before you see it; a wooden villa, four times the size of your own and far, far grander, set amongst a clearing of trees on the mountainside. Confused, your eyes flicker from the villa to Iwa and back again. Gossamer curtains billow lightly in the breeze, a warm, inviting glow spilling from the open windows. Surely this cannot be where he meant to lead you… and yet he merely stands at your side, arms folded across his broad chest, watching you expectantly. 

“You gonna make me carry you up there?” he asks, not unkindly.

Swallowing tightly, you shake your head. 

Another glance, and you catch a shadow lingering by the window. Your heart skips a beat, apprehension curling in your gut as you begin to walk, every step feels less steady than the last. You’re almost glad when Iwa takes you by the arm; if only so that you have something to focus on other than the growing tightness in your chest. The villa, with its pretty flowers and airy, elegant grandeur is far from the isolated cell you’d been afraid of, yet the uncertainty of what you’re walking into eats at you all the same.

Is this where they’ve been keeping Ryu, or has he brought you here for another reason?

Nothing, however, can prepare you for what you find inside. Warm light emanates from lanterns that bathe the room, and your eyes widen as you stare around you.

Strange, gold carvings inlaid with mother of pearl decorate the thick, woodens support beams, a pot of incense burns on a table overflowing with fresh fruit. There’s a jug of the same honeyed wine you’d drank earlier in the night and two cups set on an ornate stand nearby – just within arms reach of one of the chaise lounges.

Iwa affords you little time to gape, drawing you further in. Silken tapestries hang from the walls – you’re pulled along too quickly to truly take note, but the brief glimpses you get hint at a story; a divine being cast from his home, lost and wandering.

It tugs at something buried within you, and uncomfortable, you tear your eyes away.

The two of you reach a closed door at the end of the hall, and Iwa pulls you to a stop, knocking once.

“Come,” a familiar voice calls.

You stiffen, though perhaps you should have foreseen this outcome. Who else would Iwa bring you to but to him? Distantly, you register his grip relaxing, the sound of the door sweeping open and his voice at your ear.

“Go on.”

And it’s funny, you think, how two halves of yourself can be so at odds with each other. Because while your stomach twists itself into knots, goosebumps prickling at your skin, your legs stumble forward of their own accord.

Two steps forward, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a bedroom, that much you can deduce from the decor, but that’s not what captures your attention. Nor is it Oikawa, leaning against the bureau with a genial smile – at least not at first. 

No. In place of a back wall, there’s open space, not so much as a panel of glass obstructing the view before you. And what a view it is; from this height you can see the sprawling forest below, the coastline dotted with bonfires and the moonlit ocean shimmering beyond. Where the floorboards end, there are steps, you realise as you unwittingly inch closer, leading to a cascading spring – likely fed from the waterfall you can hear rushing nearby.

How easy it would be to brush aside your worries, you think, to shed your clothes, slip into the cool, calm water and lose yourself entirely. Even amongst all you’ve seen and experienced on the island so far, this is incomparable. 

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Oikawa murmurs, coming up behind you.

His voice startles you, yet when you turn, you find him not gazing out at the scenery but rather at you, that same strange, knowing smile curling at his lips.

“Some days, I admit, it’s hard to tear myself away,” he continues, unbothered by your stunned silence. “But even I can’t neglect my duties for too long.”

You swallow, tongue darting out to wet your lips. Confusion twists through you at the conversational tone, surely he hasn’t brought you here just to chat about the impressive views, yet there’s no hint of disapproval on his face, no indication that he’s anything less than pleased with you.

It’s unnerving to say the least, but you’ll play along with his game if that’s what Oikawa wants.

“Beautiful,” you say, though the words feel woefully inadequate even as you speak them.

He hums in agreement, something akin to pride flickers in his eyes at your assessment, “A labour of love, I suppose. But… everything you see here, everything I’ve built, it comes with a price. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I-I’m sorry?” you stutter.

“Paradise,” he elaborates, his smile widening. “There’s no give without take. Those people down there,” he nods down at the beach, the tiny, ant-like figures still milling about, “the lost, the beaten, the abused – I gave them what they so desperately sought; a sanctuary. A life without struggle, without suffering.” He pauses for a moment, reaching forward to take your hand. You almost flinch, almost skitter across the room to put as much distance between you as you can, but you don’t–

His palm is warm as it envelops yours, a pleasant heat that seems to spread through your veins, easing your tense muscles. There’s nothing to fear from him, you’re safe with Oikawa.

“Aren’t you happy here?”

Yes.

“What about the price?” you ask instead, though it takes more concentration than it should to force the words out. 

Oikawa’s thumb sweeps along the back of your hand. “I never said it was your price to pay,” he soothes. 

There’s something wrong with that sentence, but another sharp knock at the door draws your attention before you can think too hard about it. You turn out of instinct, barely aware of the way his hand tightens fractionally around your own.  

A single finger at your jaw coaxes your attention back to him. “If you built a paradise, wouldn’t you give whatever necessary to ensure it flourished?”

Oikawa stares at you expectantly, deep brown eyes searching your face as he waits for an answer. Agreement would be the logical choice – the one he seems to want from you – but even as your lips part, the only sound that escapes is a breathless, confused noise. 

When you were a kid, maybe six or seven, your parents took you to the beach one day and you waded too far out into the water. The waves were bigger than you expected; all it took was one mistimed jump and you were dragged under.

It wasn’t for long, probably only seconds, and ultimately you were fine – but you remember those few seconds so vividly. The feeling of helplessly tumbling through the water, fighting to break the surface but not knowing which way was up. Your lungs crying out for oxygen, the disorientation and dizziness, the panic.

It feels like that now – like the floor’s dropped out from beneath you and you’re just hurtling through empty air, desperately trying to slow yourself down with nothing to grab onto.

None of this makes any sense. Your emotions are shot to pieces, too many parts of yourself being pulled in different directions and you’re not sure which ones you can trust anymore. How can you be? Oikawa’s still holding your hand, smiling at you, and you just want everything to stop for a second so you can right yourself and breathe–

The door opens.

Iwaizumi appears in your field of vision, dragging a bound, hooded figure behind him. And because this is all some big, cosmic joke, you get your wish. Both of them, actually. 

Time slows. 

Even with a burlap sack pulled over his head, you recognise the man Iwa shoves to the floor and sneers at. 

Hundreds of miles, weeks of uselessly traipsing around this fucking island, and finally– 

Finally, you’ve found Ryu.

There should be relief. Fear, considering his current state, yes, but Ryuji’s here and he’s alive and as the hood is ripped off his head Oikawa squeezes your hand and the only thing you feel is… anger.

Not a heated flash that surges through your blood. It’s slow and seething, insipid. You look at him, locked in place as empty, pleading eyes meet yours and all you can think is that all of this – everything – is his fault.

“Asuka told you why she came to me, didn’t she?” Oikawa asks.

Your brow furrows, why–why is he asking you that now, how did he even–

He slips closer behind you, letting your hand go in favour of your shoulder, his spare dragging lightly along the bare skin of your arm. “She was lost, in so much pain. The physical wounds, they heal after a while,” his voice is right in your ear, a low murmur that sends a shiver rippling down your spine.

It isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“But the scars inside, well… sometimes those fester.”

Gagged and bound, kneeling at your feet, Ryu doesn’t even try to make a sound. 

He’s thinner than you remember. Face gaunt and bruised; there’s a half healed, mottled yellow one painted across the left side of his jaw, one eye purple and swollen. You glance at Iwa, standing stoically behind him, muscular arms folded across his chest. His work, you wonder, or others as well? You notice the tear tracks running down his face, catching the light of the lanterns, but it’s as if you’re seeing it all through a thick pane of glass. None of it reaches you, there’s nothing but that simmering, ugly feeling in your gut.

Oikawa hums, “I told you that Paradise wasn’t for everyone. It’s a haven, yes, but there are those who simply… don’t belong.”

His body’s so warm, pressed up against yours. Fingertips graze along your side, and this time you don’t bother biting back that tiny, breathless moan. Iwa briefly smirks at it, but there’s no embarrassment. Why should there be? Your eyes flit back to Ryu, bowed on the wooden floor.

Another memory resurfaces; A sharp crack and a ringing in your ears, Ryuji, eyes bloodshot and glazed, falling to his knees, clutching frantically at the leg of your pants as endless apologies spill from his lips. 

It wasn’t him. It was never him. 

“He hurt you,” Oikawa purrs. “He kept hurting you, I saw it.”

The words wash over you like waves breaking on the shore, but you find yourself nodding anyway. It was the truth, wasn’t it? A thousand tiny hurts, piled up on one another until you finally broke.

And you’d still come when he’d called.

Listened to him when he’d begged you not to hang up the phone.

“Iwa.” 

The brunet moves towards a grand chest of drawers pushed up against the western wall. An ornate dagger sits atop, strange and beautiful; the blade isn’t steel or any metal you’ve seen before, but some kind of black stone, the handle intricately carved ivory. You hadn’t even noticed it before, Oikawa’s room filled to the brim with odd trinkets and treasures, but now that you have, it’s hard to tear your eyes away.

Iwa takes it and carries it over towards the two of you, holding it with the utmost care. 

“Obsidian,” Oikawa informs you as he accepts the blade from his friend, bringing it in front of you both to show it off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” And while you can’t see his face, you can hear the smile in his tone.

He isn’t wrong though. 

Ever so carefully you reach out, the soft pads of your fingertips running along the obsidian surface, surprisingly cool to the touch. The razor sharp edges – wavy and asymmetrical, leading to a tapered point – you’re careful to avoid, almost positive you’d draw blood with the slightest touch. 

“Take it,” he urges, his breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. 

Obediently, you turn your hand over, your fingers wrapping around the hilt when he presses it against your palm. And as long fingers curl around yours, you idly wonder how old the dagger is – there’s not so much as a scratch on it, yet there’s something about the weapon in your hand that feels ancient. It thrums under your combined touch.

Oikawa jerks his chin at Iwa, and with a short nod and one last, lingering glance cast your way, the latter exits once again. 

Leaving you and Oikawa alone with Ryuji.

“It’s almost time,” he remarks – though time for what, you’re not entirely sure. His lips press against your hair, his arm dropping from your shoulder to your waist, drawing you flush against him. “I know why you came to me, the lies that led you here.”

Both of you turn your attention back to Ryuji at that, the bound man now shaking with the force of his muffled sobs, snot dripping from his nose. That bitter resentment rears its ugly head again, soothed only by Oikawa’s pacifying hum, his thumb now rubbing slow circles at your side. “Shh, I’m not angry – none of that matters now. You’ve found a home here, no? You want to stay on the island with me.”

You swallow, nodding your head rapidly. The thought of having to leave now, of being forced out after everything you’ve seen and felt and experienced here, you– you can’t fathom it. You don’t want to. 

Ryuji’d wrought so much damage, but even before he’d swept through your life… had you ever been happy? Were you ever truly accepted – or loved, for that matter?

You can’t go back to that life. You won’t; he’ll have to drag you kicking and screaming from the shore. The Commune is your home, this is where you belong. Here, with Oikawa.

“Good girl,” he croons, another kiss pressed to the crown of your head. You beam at the praise and Ryuji crumples a little further. “Death begets life, you understand now, don’t you?”

You glance at the obsidian dagger in your hand and then at Ryu, beaten and bruised, bowed in forced supplication before you, and nod.

His fingers tighten around yours, “Then do it.”

Leaning forward, you reach for Ryu, fingers lightly trailing down his ruined cheek, curling at his chin to coax his head upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut, pain and regret etched over every inch of his face, but he doesn’t fight you. 

Baring his throat to your dagger, Ryuji’s pleas take the shape of your name.

Muffled, thanks to the gag, but unmistakable. And for one single moment, you falter. 

This… this is wrong; for all his faults, and god knows there were plenty, Ryu didn’t des–

A wave of calm washes over you, allaying your fears, your doubts. Your breath leaves you in a heavy gust, taking with it the tension in your shoulders, and Oikawa’s voice, smooth and honeyed, reaches your ears once more, “Nothing comes without a price, doesn’t he deserve to be the one to pay it?”

With your hand still tucked inside of his, your arm moves with a will of its own; slashing with inhuman grace.

The dagger cuts deep, Ryuji’s eyes snapping open in shock as a spray of warm blood hits you both. He chokes – a horrid, wet, gurgling sound – wide, pleading eyes frantically shifting between you and Oikawa. Every beat of his failing heart sends fresh blood spurting from the gaping wound. It drenches his front, splatters across your dress, your face, crimson pooling at the wooden floorboards at his knees. His mouth falls open and shut, trying and failing to form coherent sounds and you just stand there and watch, the dagger hanging limply at your side.

It doesn’t take long; seconds at the most. 

Ryuji’s slumps to the floor, his body finally growing still as the light fades from his eyes. There’s a beat of absolute silence, and then–

Oikawa shudders behind you, a strangled, drawn out moan leaving his lips. You try to turn, but his arms lock around you, every muscle tensing, his back arching. The dagger in your hand grows hot, burning the soft skin of your palm, but with his fingers still tightly entwined with yours you can only whimper and endure it.

With a hoarse, guttural roar, a pulse of pure energy surges through the room like a shockwave. Every cell in your body lights up, electrified, buzzing; a dizzying euphoria unlike any you’ve felt before coursing through your blood. 

Across the island, voices cry out in delight, a symphony of life. The trees tremble and shake, invigorated and renewed, fresh buds bursting from the forest floor, blooming under the light of the full moon.

The harvests flourish, even the river swells in response to the call.

Death begets life, just as he promised.

And with every inch of your body alight and singing with pleasure, you can barely think much less protest (and why would you want to?) as Oikawa roughly yanks you around, hungry lips crashing against your own as his fingers pull and tear at your bloodstained dress. He wastes no time with foreplay, and you suspect only begrudgingly takes a moment to hoist you up against him and carry you to his bed.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he hauls your hips to his, sheathing his cock inside of your warm, tight cunt with one savage thrust, but you don’t care.

Not as you cling to him, fingernails raking along his shoulders as he presses your thighs further apart so he can fuck you deeper. It’s hard and rough and brutal, yet you moan for him all the same, his name a prayer swallowed up by feverish, claiming kisses.

Tonight, bathed in blood and the soft glow of moonlight, you offer your god everything.

—

“Look, look!” 

A small hand tugs at your skirt, and you glance down to find a little girl with pretty, dark curls holding up a crown of woven flowers.

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

Carefully, you take it from her, bringing it closer to examine. She watches you intently as you study it, lifting it this way and that to appraise her work, humming thoughtfully for good measure. “I think it’s beautiful work,” you tell her after a long enough pause, and you can’t help but smile at the way she lights up, preening under your praise. “Why don’t you go show your mama? I’m sure she’ll be very impressed.”

The girl nods rapidly, thanking you before skipping off in the direction of her parents. The sun’s hanging low in the sky, the fires already being readied for the night ahead. You’re not unaware of the watchful gaze that carefully monitors your every move, and the moves of anyone who ventures too close by. Soon enough, you’ll return home to the heart of the island – anticipation fluttering in your belly at the thought of what awaits you – but for now, you let your feet sink further into the sand, closing your eyes as you bask in the lingering warmth of the setting sun.

At least until the sound of your name being called draws you back to the present. Yet it’s not Iwaizumi approaching, but rather Makki, two strangers trailing along behind him. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he grins, throwing a casual arm over your shoulders. “This is Kaneo,” he gestures to the man, “and his wife Manaka. They arrived this morning, I’ve been showing ‘em round.”

You turn to the couple, smiling sweetly as you extend a hand, “Welcome to the Commune.”

[whump-a-la-mode]

Hero and villain falling into a river together. Villain is unconscious or hurt or something so hero gets them both outta the water. They then have to figure out how to heal villain and survive in the woods.

This has the tiniest bit of angst but is mostly some fluff! This is a super interesting prompt, I hope I did it justice.

Also I’ve never seen Lost in my life.

CW//Car accidents, very unsafe driving, driving off a bridge, blood, broken legs

Nobody liked backseat drivers.

As removed from the life of a normal civilian as they were, Hero still knew that fact quite well. Powers or not, they had had plenty of experience with know-it-all acquaintances and overbearing relatives who had decided that their driving abilities could use improvement in one way or another.

Yes, backseat driving was bothersome. But that was all it was. It wasn’t dangerous.

Having two front seat drivers at once, however? Yeah, that was dangerous.

“Let go!” Villain cried out, wrenching the steering wheel to the right, threatening to throw the vehicle into a tailspin. Their position was as awkward as it was uncomfortable, kneeling in the passenger’s seat, stretched out over the center console, shoulders forcing Hero against the driver’s side door.

“You’re gonna make us crash, you daft idiot!” The hero protested, quite literally butting heads with their adversary. They, by all accounts, had the right to the steering wheel, considering the fact that they were quite literally sitting in the driver’s seat. Yet, their arms were locked in a furious tangle with Villain’s, struggling with white-hued knuckles to simply grip the damn wheel.

“You’re going to make us crash!”

“No, you are!”

“Let go of the damn wheel!”

“No!”

The two jerked the steering back and forth, back and forth, sending the car lurching back and forth like a bucking bronco.

Hero’s panicked gaze flickered in between their nemesis and the world outside the windshield. Alarms howled and metal crunched as traffic veered out of the way of the oncoming vehicle, shuddering as it was as its tires were jerked from ninety degree angle to ninety degree angle, back and forth and back and forth.

“You’re gonna kill someone!” Villain’s mouth was close enough to the hero’s face that they could feel their hot breath on their cheek.

“You do that all the time!”

“Do not!”

Despite the less-than-ideal technique with which it was being driven, the car was moving, and moving quickly. It screeched down the city’s central highway, striking traffic cones and trash cans and curbs, all in equal measure, in its rampage.

“Left!”

“Right!”

The car continued straight as both ‘drivers’ exerted as much force as they could manage onto its wheel. A pedestrian dove out of the way of the oncoming, trundling brick of metal and rubber, narrowly missing a terrible fate beneath its wheels.

For a split second, the vehicle was rendered airborne as it struck a particularly large bump in the asphalt.

“You’re going to get us both killed!” Villain snapped.

“No, you are!”

“You don’t even know-”

“What don’t I know?!”

“What street the fucking drawbridge is on, dumbass!”

Within Hero’s chest, fury was replaced by freezing, liquid cold.

“If you would have just turned left-”

“We needed to go right!”

And, yet, the car continued forwards.

It seemed as though local traffic had gotten the memo regarding the occurrence, as the street before them seemed almost suspiciously clear of vehicles.

“Come on.” Hero insisted. “There’s no way its gonna open now, right? What are the chances?”

“What are the chances that you’re an idiot who can’t see bright flashing warning lights?!”

Now that they thought about it... They had assumed the flashes to simply be from another vehicle, but-

“Shit.”

“You did this!”

“If you would’ve just let me drive-”

The duo of nemeses had their petty argument abruptly cut off by something far, far more important. To be more specific, their argument was interrupted by being in a vehicle, speeding down a road-- a road that had decided, at that very moment, to split in two. At the drawbridge’s side, a massive ferry boat honked its disapproval.

“We have to turn around, shit!” Villain hissed.

Before them, the solid, grey asphalt cracked to reveal the dark, murky depths below.

“We can’t turn around, dumbass! There’s no time!”

The villain jerked the wheel to the side, but was quickly countered. Regardless of the struggles of either side, the vehicle was staying on its path.

“Stop the car!” Villain’s foot lurched out, but missed the brake on account of its awkward position. Hero gritted their teeth-- their nemesis was practically laying on top of them!

“There’s no time!”

“Of course there’s time! What are you talking about!”

The gap was growing wider.

“We’re going too fast, we’ll never make it. We need to jump!”

“You’re insane!”

“You’re insane!”

“Slow down!”

“Speed up!”

“Stop it!”

“Keep going!”

The car stayed at the exact same speed as the knot of limbs fought amongst itself. The accelerator was struck, then the brakes, then the gas, then the pedal.

And neither driver got their way.

With a pair of screaming fools inside, the car jumped the gap, and plunged into the river below.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Its easy to see cars as unstoppable, unbeatable things. Able to crush and destroy with a driver’s slight wrong twitch. Hunks of contorted, twisted metal, more than willing to maim.

And, on land, perhaps those things were true. But underwater?

The car screeched as its hood slammed into the riverbed, crumpling to a tin can with the impact alone. Contorted into a far smaller form, the river’s current swept the metal brick alone with far greater ease.

Above, the world rushed by at a million miles an hour.

Below the river’s surface, it crept along in slow motion, because Villain was not moving.

Oh, god, they weren’t moving.

Hero couldn’t care less about the alarms, the screeching lights that surrounded them. Every safety precaution had been long forgotten, they were far, far past the point of precaution.

Their nemesis was thrown around the passenger’s seat, no seatbelt or consciousness to aid in keeping them in place. The hero struggled to move closer to them, but found themself just as much beholden to the vehicle’s whims.

The car slammed once more into something, a spiderwebbing crack launching across the windshield. Water began to hiss through the fissures.

They couldn’t stay in here. The car would do more to harm them than protect them. The red, sticky fluid staining the back of Villain’s head made that fact more than apparent.

Hero sucked in an anxious breath.

They spent every day of their existence saving lives, but this was different. This was Villain.

But, letting harm come to them was out of the question.

Their nemesis was surprisingly light-- though that could have been just the adrenaline talking. With one arm, they drug the unconscious villain to their lap, holding them firmly to their chest, trying to ignore the red trickling down their neck, and the way their leg didn’t seem to quite be moving right.’

Another breath, this one deep and shuddering.

Their life as a hero would do nothing for them, here. Desperately, they struggled for civilian knowledge. An old PSA came to mind. As a kid watching it on TV it had always seemed ridiculous, but-

Wait till the car is completely submerged. That was already well taken care of.

Aid unconscious passengers. Check.

Undo or cut all seatbelts. They had been too stupid to wear any.

Then... Then open the door, and swim to the surface.

Open the door.

Open the door.

Just do it! Okay, on three.

1...

2...

3.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Villain was soaking wet.

It was the first thing they managed to notice as they struggled to jolt upright, only to find that they were already positioned in such a way.

Before their eyes were even fully open, a new instinct wracked them: The intense desire to cough. It was not an urge they could resist, and, soon, their chest was wracked as they struggled to...

Water. Water, coughing from their lungs.

They blinked, managing to open their eyes on the second attempt. Though, almost immediately, they closed them once more. They stung terribly, stinging with...

Smoke?

It was confusion that allowed them to try a thrice time, squinting to protect their eyes.

Yes, it was smoke! Grey and heavy, twisting through the air. The fire presented itself just as quickly-- small and contained, to their good fortune. An equally fortunate wind turned the singing smoke from their face, allowing them to fully see the world around them.

Trees and dirt-- a thick wood, all tangled in on its own biomass, hardly allowing them to see the dark, heavy sky hanging above.

Oh, and Hero was there.

Villain blinked, then, once their mind remembered what surprise was, yelped.

“Um...”

“Morning.” Hero lifted a hand, waving from where they sat, on the ground, behind the campfire.

“I didn’t realize you were a boy scout.”

“I’m not.”

“Then...”

“I just watched a lot of Lost.”

The hero’s gaze drifted downwards, to Villain’s legs, outstretched before them. Their own gaze followed.

A stick. On the side of their leg, secured with taut vines, was a big ass stick.

“You...”

“They did it on Lost!”

“Where are... Where are we?”

“No clue.” Hero shook their head. “But, you’re in no condition to go anywhere with that leg.”

“Then... why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your legs are fine.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’re hurt.”

“You hate me.”

“Really?” Hero raised a brow. “No one told me.”

[keltonwrites]

I bought a house in the middle of nowhere

“Yeah, I loved it, but she’d never move there.” It was something akin to that, at least. He didn’t mean any mischief, no deceit or planning. It was an honest take on what, at the time, was true. I saw the road into town on Google Maps, noted that it was closed during the winter, acknowledged the reality that a person can own a snowmobile, and I said, “we are not moving there.” But, all good truths are just dares in the making.

And here I am, living in the “there” I said I would not. Two years ago, I left my job at Headspace for a life reset. It was pre-pandemic, and Ben and I were planning a big road trip. Our perfect paradise in Topanga, CA, had crystallized itself as many people’s perfect paradise, and those “many people” all had more money than us. Our options to buy a home were nil, and home-buying was essentially all we wanted. Ben’s a builder and I’m a world builder, and we wanted somewhere to invest that didn’t belong to someone else. We packed the car with the tent and the bikes and the dog and all the things that come with tents and bikes and dogs, and off we went on our own Tour de l’Ouest, looking for a place to call home. We knew what we wanted, knew our odds of finding it, and hit the road anyway. Here was the dream list — concocted by two pie-in-the-sky dummies who married each other:

Not rainy or consistently windy

Notable access to the arts

Remote and challenging to get to/close neighbors

Wild West influenced architecture

Progressive community

Exceptional trail access out the front door

High-speed internet

In our budget

And my personal favorite: had to “feel right” Good luck to us with a list like that, but thus began our hunt. We camped in the snow, tried every dirty chai in the Rockies, and explored every town we could. Whatever a good time it was, it felt useless. Every town Ben was OK with, I hated. Every town I was OK with, Ben despised. And the few places we both loved required money we just didn’t have. We came home with our sails down, limping into the harbor of our rental. But as is the way with romantics, our dreams began to slowly eclipse our reality. Books fell victim to Zillow and Trulia. TV was replaced by the MLS. All writing time was dedicated to Realtor.com. Hours were spent pouring over maps, county records, and updating spreadsheets that tracked price per square foot compared to beds and baths. Over time, all that internetting led to one singular town of 180 people at 10,000 feet in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado with a road that said “Closed Winters” on Google Maps. Look, I don’t know what happened. Ben found this town on a map, I said don’t be ridiculous, and after a year or so of him telling people I'd never move here, here I am, being ridiculous. Was it reverse psychology? Maybe. Was it the charming “town plan” that mandated all houses be rustic cabins and forbade AirBnB? Could be. Was it the fact that when I looked at Strava’s Heatmap, it showed what seemed like thousands of miles of trails just out the front door? I mean, yes. All these things played a part, but all I know for certain is that one day I woke up and said, “we’re going to move there.” Ben doubted this conviction (and the realities behind it) thus cementing it into place in my head. In a town of 180 people there’s only ~60 houses, which means maybe 2 or 3 get listed per year — but my spreadsheet had the proof: we hadn’t missed our chance yet in this tiny town. The data showed a strong likelihood there would be at least two houses listed within the calendar year. This, however, was also our last chance. The spreadsheet also showed that if we didn’t find a house this year, we wouldn’t be able to afford one the next. We called a realtor, made our case, and harangued her until she believed us that we were truly the kind of yahoos who would move to an avalanche field and stay there. And then it happened. A pocket listing. It was a darling home built in 1890. It had the beds, the baths, and the views. We were the first and only to know. We put in an offer, they agreed, and we would come to see the house in a few weeks. But in those few weeks, the circumstances changed. The sellers lost their own sweet deal, and they couldn’t sell yet. Their agent promised we had right of first refusal, it was only a matter of time. Ben lamented, I preached patience, and we went to see the house that was no longer for sale anyway.

It was a quiet winter morning in Covid when we drove across the packed snow to meet our realtor outside the house. The sun was out and the 13 degrees Fahrenheit felt warm. I unzipped my jacket, mask on my face. I took long videos and talked about where I would set up my office and where we’d put the bikes. As we closed up and I settled into a future where this house would eventually be mine, our realtor told us there were comps in the area — other residents quietly interested in potentially closing out. Would we like to see them? Sure, let’s.

One home came with an incredible commercial kitchen. The whole house was a whopping 3500 sq ft if my memory serves me correct, which falls under the category of “houses too big to find your cat in."

Another home had an open-air-to-the-kitchen bathroom.

The third was dark and overpriced with cracked windows and open beer cans scattered about.

And then, plans changed.  “Hey guys, there’s actually one more house we can see.” The last house we saw was a log cabin, nestled in the hillside by itself, with massive A-frame windows looking out onto the peaks beyond. Inside was a labyrinth of a life lived long and large. The cabin was built and loved by a man we’ll call Jack. Jack was 82, and as we walked toward the front door on that sunny winter morning, he exited with two beers in his pockets, headed to the mountain to ski. Jack was an attorney — in his life he’d been both criminal and defender — and from the stories, somewhat interchangeably. There were artifacts from running in the same scenes as Hunter S. Thompson and Willie Nelson; there were stuffed birds, bad books, sheet-covered couches, smoked spliffs, and piles and piles of mouse shit. Every inch of the house was lived in, and not just by people. You think millennials like plants? No. This man likes plants. The biggest monstera deliciosa I’ve ever seen, spanning some 10 feet wide and 15 feet tall. Draping cactuses, spider plants, massive aloes, and an ambitious hoya carnosa clawing its way to the top of the massive fireplace. But there were problems. I’m trying to be diplomatic saying the house was lived in. The wood by the door handles was dyed black from years of hand grease rubbing against it. The carpet in the upstairs was soiled almost everywhere with bat scat. Newspaper was stuffed between the massive logs to keep the wind out. There was cardboard taped over almost every window, blankets nailed over the others. Half the doors wouldn’t open. It was unnerving to touch the crusted light switches. It was early enough in the season of Covid-fear that touching anything felt like gambling. On our way back to our rental in the bigger neighboring town, we shared our awe and our no-ways, lamenting how long we’d have to wait for the little 1890s fixer upper. That night, I sent the video I took of the cabin to my parents. “Can you believe this?” I asked. And do you know what my dad said? “Great log construction.” After that, the cabin was all we could talk about. “Could you believe those plants?” “Did you see how big those logs were?” “I just googled Jack, look at this.” “Do you know what the insulating factor of logs is?” “How much did he say he was asking?” It came down to the plants. Amidst all the chaos in that house, the tender care of those decades-old plants sung the clearest. This wasn’t just a place Jack lived in, it was a place that wanted to be lived in. We made an offer the next day.

Jack had six months to clear out his 30 odd years of collecting, and the town had six months to speculate about the worrisome Californians moving to their high-altitude, high-risk town. The town itself is an old mining town. It rests in a high valley, surrounded by peaks over 13,000ft, and is over six hours from the nearest major airport. Five people died around this town in avalanches this past year. The dirt road into town is littered with avalanche fields, warning visitors to not stop when driving in. The other way out is a pass road, only drivable in the warm months, but you could skin out if it was dire. Most August days, the high is in the mid-60s. The valley is blanketed in wildflowers, and the aspens littering the mountainsides suggest a promising fall display. The town had a heyday, a low day, and now it’s a community of preppers, adventurers, appreciators, and “get all these idiots away from me”ers. We don’t know these people yet, but the ones we’ve met have the same like to live hard attitude we do. Heli-ski guides, ex-CIA agents, woodworkers, bakers, teachers, just a general can-do group of people. The kind of people that see a California license plate and peer with skepticism between the thin gap over their sunglasses and under their caps.

You might say I’m romanticizing the place, but the residents are worse. Like all good old-timers, they’re full of threats: “wait’ll you see the snow drifts,” “let’s see how you do outrunning an avalanche,” “good luck with the winds,” “the last Californians didn’t last a year.” God, what does that remind me of?

“Yeah, I loved it, but she’d never move there.”

With every taunt, my teeth ground more enamel, fingers rolling into a clench. And maybe Jack recognized this intensity, because on the day of closing, he hosted a gathering for us in the town's open space. He had us introduce ourselves to the skeptical locals, and I made my case in court, eyes narrowed and lips curled. “I’m the daughter of a smokejumper and wildlife biologist. I grew up watching the wind and the door. I’ve lived in big cities, small boats, and more than one cabin. I always take the stairs, I never use air-conditioning, and I’m a very good shot.” I’m just a girl, standing in front of a town, asking them to give her a fucking chance. Jack stepped forward to speak. “You know, I had my doubts about a couple Californians coming to look at my house. But these people? These are the nicest people you’re ever gonna meet.” And then I helped Jack set up his cot so he could spend his last night under the stars in the town that kept him young. Cooper ran circles with the other dogs. People brought homemade cocktails and bowls of dip and we felt welcomed. Even the mayor, a fellow writer, came and she struck up a conversation. “I hear you’ve got a little bit of a following on social media!” She teased. “I guess, nothing wild.” “Well I just wanted to let you know if you ever geotag this town, I’ll drag you out of it.” She grinned. This was a special place. And every visitor who couldn’t handle the realities of being here threatened the very wellbeing of the people who lived here. This town survives on a delicate balance. They source their own water, manage their own roads, and fervently protect the land and the people around them. Their stories about racing avalanches, snowmobiling in the dark of night to the doctor’s house, hunkering down in each other’s homes as the storms pass — these stories were bylaws. You can join when you’ve proven you’re ready to join. By their own projection, they are hardy and steadfast people, and when they see a Californian, they see something fleeting. Many years ago, I worked in the British Virgin Islands. The people born and raised there were called Belongers. At the customs office, the placards above the lines literally read, “If you belong, stand here” and “If you do not belong, stand here.” Whether or not we belong isn't up to the town council, and it's not up to these residents. It's up to years spent drifting my old Mustang in the snow on the way to school, up to Ben's months and months spent in the backcountry, up to my years of reading fire reports and assisting with evacuations, up to Ben's ability to read the landscape and the weather, up to my doggedness, his diligence, and our pathological love to do difficult things well. It’s up to us, to these old logs, and to this valley. Doesn't mean we'll belong, but it does mean we'll try. And for the record, the road is open in the winter. But do these sound like the kind of people who’d tell Google that? Next week, a tour of the house that we get to call ours — stuffed with newspaper, run by plants, and filled with mice. P.S. Here's where we get our mail.

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[chokemeanakin]

First Kiss - Anakin Skywalker x gn Reader

Summary: Anakin treats you to your first kiss ;)

masterlist

Read it on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22469749

It happened on Tatooine. Anakin didn’t want to come back, but you had begged him to show you where he grew up.

“I grew up with Obi-Wan, travelling the galaxy,” Anakin corrected, a scowl clouding his face. “Not on Tatooine. I was just a slave there.”

“But it’s got your history,” you argued. “It’s where Qui-Gon found you. It’s where you build C-3PO. It’s where your--”

“It’s where my mother died,” he bit, jaw tense and eyes shadowed. “I know.”

“Maybe we could visit her.”

Anakin closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He did that a lot, ever since he came back from the dark side, to calm the anger inside of him. His hands clenched over the controls of the pod, then suddenly relaxed. When he opened his eyes, he was considerably less tense.

“Okay,” he agreed. “I think she’d like that.”

*********************

“I hate sand,” Anakin muttered as he hopped down from the ship. His boots landed on the ground, sending dust to cloud up around him. He swatted it away from his face.

“Oh, quit pouting,” you take his flesh hand, then raise it over your head with both of yours. “You’re home!”

“This is not my home,” he tried to sound angry, but his face softened when he looked at the smile on your face. He could see you were excited-- for what, he still didn’t understand. You would have to stay in the remote parts of the planet because Anakin would never be welcomed back after what he did to the sand people. You wouldn’t even be able to see the market or Jabba the Hut’s pub, or the place he used to live. Not that Anakin ever wanted to go back to any of those places, anyways. They came for one reason-- to see his mother.

Anakin led the way to the grave. It was just a plank of wood sticking up from the sand, so you weren’t sure how he even knew this was hers. But it was the only thing out here for hundreds of miles, and the somber look on his face was proof enough. This was his mother.

You sat on the sand in front of the wooden plank, drawing shapes in the course minerals. You didn’t say anything, and neither did Anakin as he sat down beside you. The silence was comforting, and just being there was enough. Anakin closed his eyes and his face was peaceful.

You watched him, his face unmoving, as you thought about Anakin and his past. This was where his life began, as a slave, working in a junk shop while his mother struggled to get by. He built his own pod and would race because he was good at it. He built his mother a robot so she wouldn’t have to work so hard. He could still speak the language, as sometimes he would mutter what you were pretty sure were swears under his breath in the foreign tongue.

This was where the sweet, unsuspecting, hopeful little kid who loved flying and wanted to be a Jedi grew up with his mother. He had left her to do just that, and that was the beginning of the end. He never got to see his mother again before she died in his arms. The Jedi Council consistently underestimated his power and belittled him. They alienated him from the one thing he was destined to be. No wonder he turned to Darth Sidious, who was the only person who seemed to trust him in those harrowing times. He had fallen, like Icarus from the sun, like an angel from heaven, and fell and crashed and burned.

But now he was back. He was here again, that same sweet, hopeful boy who just wanted to be a Jedi. And he was sitting before you, with his mother-- a family again.

You were there for hours, until the suns began to lower in the sky. A gust of wind blew sand in your direction, and Anakin cracked an eye open.

“We should get to higher ground,” he said, standing and holding his mechanical arm out for you to take. He helped lift you up, and then brought you in close so he could share his cloak with you, shielding you from the sand. “The wind should let up as the suns go down. For now, we can watch them set from the pod.”

The two of you climbed on top of the ship and sat with your legs dangling off the edge, watching the double-suns inch toward the horizon. The sky seemed to bleed when the lower sun crashed into the sandy mountains, but then melted into a melon-orange glow as the higher sun followed in its wake. Soon, the whipping sand clouds calmed and the sky turned to a deep purple, then black, dotted with thousands of stars. You wondered how many times Anakin had watched this sunset as a kid, and if it’s changed at all since then.

“You’ve come a long way,” you told him, breaking the silence. He lowered his head and looked at his hands.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”

“But you always come back,” you said. He lifted his head and his eyes connected with yours, but they were far away. He was deep in thought, and there was something warring behind them. Guilt.

“I left you,” he said, and it’s barely above a whisper. “We were friends, but as soon as Padme came along, I left you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“You were happy with her.”

“I was happy with you, too.”

The confession caused an eruption of warmth to blossom in your chest. You smiled at him, a genuine, delighted smile, and knocked his shoulder playfully with yours.

“You have me now.”

At this, Anakin lifted his arm and wrapped it around your shoulder. He pulled you close for a moment, then relaxed with his arm still around you. For once in your life, you didn’t move away.

Anakin was warm. You basked in the weight of his arm around your shoulders, the feeling of his torso pressed against your side. Your thighs were touching and you realized that this is what you needed, this is what was missing all along, this warmth. Suddenly, you felt complete.

“Why haven’t you ever been with anyone?” Anakin asked suddenly. You tried to fight back the blush from your face at both the question and the fact that his fingers seemed to be absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm. Suddenly he paused. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” you told him, and he resumed the patterns. “I just… have a hard time connecting with people.”

“Because of your mother?”

“Because of my mother,” you confirmed, and he coaxed every bit of information out of you on how your mother was strict and mean and cold and judgmental, and your father watched as she stripped your humanity away. He listened attentively as you told him of the suitors you’ve failed with in the past, and his arm tightened around you.

“I just get nervous,” you frowned, twisting your fingers in your lap. “Like the closer someone gets to me, the more they’re going to realize I actually suck.”

“I don’t think you suck,” Anakin said, his voice that sweet, comforting timbre with a gentle rasp that you loved so much. He always sounded like that when he’s spitting off orders to R2 when piloting, or late at night when he’s half asleep and doesn’t know what he’s saying. He also had that stupidly soft look in his eyes, and that half smile you’ve only ever seen directed at Padme.

God, he’s so pretty, you groaned inwardly, unintentionally tensing up when you realized just how close you were sitting. And he was looking at you so deeply, and man, his eyes can be so intense sometimes-- your face burned and you ducked your head so he couldn’t see.

He caught your chin with his gloved mechanical hand, cradling your chin between his index finger and thumb. He turned your face to look at him straight on, right in the eyes, and all you could see was Anakin. He was so close, and he was getting closer. Your eyes shifted to his lips, the same ones you had fantasized about for years, and hoped he couldn’t notice what you were thinking.

“Have you ever been kissed?” you could feel his breath on your lips, your heart pounding against your ribcage. You blinked madly, breathing erratic, palms sweating. Every single atom in your body was buzzing with energy-- excitement, nervousness, fear. You wanted to pull him in and kiss the living daylights out of him. You wanted to push him away and run as fast as you could until you got to a cliff high enough you could jump off and never wake up. You wanted to explode.

“You’re trembling,” Anakin’s eyes shifted across your figure for a split second. “Do you want me to let go?”

“No,” you begged him, your hands shooting out to hold onto him without your permission. They landed on his thighs, and your face burned harder.

“Do you want this?” his thumb stroke your chin. There was nothing you wanted more.

“Yes.”

You weren’t sure how he even heard you, as you barely uttered the word. But before you could do or say or think anything else, Anakin was leaning in. Your eyes closed on instinct and you felt, very softly, the brush of his lips against yours. The volcano was back in your chest, spurting lava all over your insides as you realized, holy shit Anakin Skywalker’s lips are on mine. Holy shit, Anakin Skywalker is kissing me!

The feather light touch tickled more than anything, and you could feel his mouth twitch into a slight smile as your hands’ grip tightened on his legs.

“This okay?” he pulled back a centimeter to ask. “You want more?”

“Yes,” you said again. It was the only thing you could manage to say, the one syllable word, and you began to wonder just how much of a lost cause you were if a simple brush of his lips against yours could render you brain dead.

He muttered an ‘Okay’ and then brought his flesh hand up to cup your face, fingers sliding along your neck and locking into your hair as his thumb stroked your cheek. You shivered, goosebumps staining every inch of your body with the touch. His gloved hand stayed on your chin, tilting it up toward him for easier access.

You closed your eyes again, and he leaned in, and this time he really, actually kissed you. He applied the slightest bit of pressure, then he did it again, shifting his head and capturing your lips in his, pulling back slowly only to do it again.

You were in heaven.

You forgot to respond at first. All you could think of in your short-circuited brain was how Anakin smelled so good and his lips were so warm and he tasted like the stars. Oh, he definitely knew what he was doing, with the way he was moving his lips and the confidence he did it with. You had no idea what you were doing, so you let instinct take control.

You unclenched one of your fists from his leg and raised it to place on his shoulder, pushing just a bit to get a bit of leverage, get a little bit closer so you could respond in earnest. You opened your mouth and closed it over his lips, your stomach cartwheeling as you hoped you were doing this right. It felt right. It felt good. So you kept doing it, and Anakin’s metal arm dropped from your chin and fell to your waist as you rose onto your knees, hands finally tangling into the soft curls of his hair, kissing him like you’ve wanted to kiss him for years.

When Anakin pulled back for air, you realized just how starved you were for oxygen as well. You didn't even notice. You panted, fingers loosening in his hair, lips tingling and burning. Anakin was looking at you like you were everything he wanted, and his eyes caught the twinkle of the stars. This is right where you belong, you realized, right here in Anakin Skywalker’s giving arms. Your breathing evened out, and you seemed to be thinking the same thing.

You leaned back in.

[honey-andtea1889]

The Cold Autumn Evenings (H.S.) Part Two

AN: Hello again lovies! So this part is kind of a filler but it’s not awful! I had to go and reread some bits to fix them up a bit but I think it’s decent! I’m sorry it took so long for this to go up as well. I was down in Arizona for a week and let me tell you I miss it a lot. Anywho, enjoy part two! Requests are open! 

Summary: Y/N got caught up in reading Harry’s story, unfortunately this is the reason for her being late

Warnings: none

Song: A Slow Death In Pacific Standard Time by HUNNY

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The next morning seemed like a blur. Y/N woke up super early and continued where she left off in Harry’s story. In the chapter she was on, the man was about to profess his love for the girl, but she had been seen with someone else, leaving the man heartbroken and confused. Y/N could feel the tears slowly falling down her face as she continued the sad chapter. Her phone began ringing as she set the packet down to get breakfast. 

“Hello?” Y/N answered, sniffling and wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.

“Y/N! How’s my favorite- are you okay?” Harry questioned over the phone.

“Oh I’m fine! I was just reading something that got me a bit emotional is all. Is everything okay?” Y/N asked. 

“Yes, everything is fine. I usually hear from you by now about meetings or issues with clients but my phone was silent the entire morning and I just got worried. Are you at the office yet?” Harry said as he walked out of the fancy building in the middle of London. 

Y/N checked the time and nearly tripped on her way from the coffee machine. 

She was almost 45 minutes late. 

“Oh my god, I didn’t realize what time it was! I’m so sorry Mr. Styles, I’m leaving for the office right now!” Y/N squealed as she bolted to her bedroom to get dressed. 

“Y/N! Y/N, relax! It’s fine. I’m actually on my way to the office right now, I can pick you up if you’d like?” Harry suggested. 

“Are you sure?” Y/N asked. 

“Definitely! Send me the address and I’ll be there in 20.” He said as he hung up the phone. 

Y/N smiled as she texted him her address and entered her bathroom to brush her teeth. When her teeth were all brushed, Y/N did her hair and makeup. She wasn’t sure why, but she was nervous for Harry to see her flat. He was her boss and probably lived a lot better than she did, it made her a bit self conscious about it. 

The flat wasn’t awful. It was small, definitely built for one person or a couple who had just moved in together. The walls were a deep forest green with a brick accent wall that held a fireplace, a lighter shade of pine wood covering the floor. It had an open concept that led from the living room into the kitchen/dining area. Off of the living room to the left, there was a hallway that held the bathroom on the left side and Y/N’s room on the right. 

Her furniture was all given to her from her mother. A simple beige couch that was comfier than most couches sweetly decorated with green throw pillows and a dark brown recliner chair surrounded a small coffee table in the middle of the living room facing the fireplace. She had a small white blanket folded on the lower shelf of the table just in case it ever became too cold. She had shelves that were covered with books on both sides of the fireplace and pictures of family members and adorable plaques which gave an aesthetically pleasing look to her small flat. 

It was her cute little home that she loved dearly, but Harry doesn’t really come around so you could understand the nerves that ran through her as she scampered to get ready. As she fixed up her throw pillows and straightened up some books on her shelves, a loud knock echoed through her flat. Sam barked and ran over to the big mahogany door. 

“Sam, sh! Go into your bed please!” Y/N begged. 

The little frenchie snorted and ran over to his dog bed set along one of the walls. Y/N opened the door to see Harry dressed in black slacks, a white button up shirt, and a peacoat that ended right above his hips. His hair was slightly tousled due to the cold Autumn wind but he didn’t look anything less than perfect. Y/N swallowed hard at how ravishing this man looked. She had to make sure she wasn’t drooling in front of him. 

“Hello, Y/N! Are you ready?” Harry asked, cocking his head slightly to the side. 

Y/N shook herself out of her trance and blushed, hoping he didn’t notice her staring. 

“Almost, I just need to grab a few things. Please come in! Make yourself at home whilst I finish up.” Y/N smiled as she stepped to the side. 

Harry entered into her home and took in his surroundings as Y/N went back into her room to grab her bag and her phone. He thought her flat was adorable and it suited her perfectly. As he admired her cozy little home, Harry soon felt small paws scratching at his legs. He looked down to see Sam shaking his little stubby tail with excitement. 

“Okay, I think I’m all- oh my god I’m so sorry! Sam, don’t jump!” Y/N rushed over to pick up her sweet pup. 

“It’s alright, love! I didn’t know you had a dog. You said his name was Sam?” Harry questioned. 

“Yeah. He doesn’t usually jump on people like that. Guess you’re an exception!” Y/N giggled. 

Harry chuckled and rubbed behind Sam’s ear. The happy, little pooch licked his fingers and snorted with joy. Harry and Y/N laughed as she set Sam down. Harry looked at the small coffee table and saw his novel laying with the cover in clear sight. Smirking, he looked over at Y/N. 

“Is that why you’re late? Too busy reading  m’novel, eh?” Harry smirked.

Y/N could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. 

“Y-yes. I-I just couldn’t put it down. It’s really good, actually. I’m not done with it yet but I’m getting close.” Y/N mumbled as she grabbed the packet. 

Harry chuckled and opened the door. Y/N kept her eyes on the ground as she exited her flat and made her way to the elevator. 

Harry thought it was cute whenever she was embarrassed about stuff. He specifically recalled the day he first started calling her “Love”. She turned three shades of pink and toyed with the strings on her blouse that hung around her breasts. He wasn’t sure as to why he enjoyed making her blush, maybe it was just the thought of being able to make her flustered is what made his ego skyrocket. Harry has always thought Y/N was attractive. She was his type for sure, with her Y/H/C hair and Y/E/C eyes, not to mention the curves she had, Harry was absolutely smitten to have a girl like her work for him. 

As Harry entered the elevator, Y/N was digging in her purse. 

“Leave something in you flat, love?” Harry asked. 

“I can’t seem to find my glasses. I don’t understand, I had them this morning.” Y/N sighed, still digging into the small brown bag. 

Harry had seen a slight glare on the top of Y/N’s head. He slowly reached and pulled the glasses she was looking for. Y/N shot her head up as soon as she felt his hands in her hair.

“Don’t move.” Harry said. 

Y/N’s knees nearly buckled as she kept still until the glasses were off of her head. 

“Are these the ones you seek?” Harry chuckled. 

The eye contact between the two was intense. They were looking at each other as though the other person was the only thing in the world. It was almost like a movie scene when the love interests had realized their feelings for one another. Harry and Y/N could feel the tension between them as she grabbed the spectacles from his large hands. As Y/N took ahold of part of the frames, her fingers brushed against Harry’s. It felt like sparks when the skin of their fingers grazed one another. The sudden jolt took both of them by surprise.

Y/N blushed again and thanked him. Harry smirked and slipped his hands in his pockets. The two travelled down the building in silence until Harry spoke up as they entered the lobby. 

“You really think m’novel is good?” He smiled, holding the door opened for her. 

“Mr. Styles please excuse the next statement but are you serious? It’s amazing so far! I mean there were a few spelling mistakes and you accidentally used the wrong ‘there’ for ownership once but other than that, it’s stunning so far!” Y/N gushed. 

It was Harry’s turn to blush now. He had been working on that stupid thing for months now. He couldn’t count how many days he suffered writer’s block for the novel, so to hear Y/N praise it as much as she was just filled his heart like no other. 

“Thank you, love. It really means a lot to me that you’re reading over it. It’s been a challenge writing it.” Harry said as they made their way to his car. 

Harry was driving  a newly redone 1970 black Ford Capri. Y/N’s jaw dropped as she slowly walked to the passenger side. Harry chuckled, opening the door for her again. She carefully slipped into the vehicle and looked around the interior. The seats were made of leather and the steering wheel was black with silver lining around the logo. Y/N felt like if she were to move something would happen to the car, she couldn’t start to think how much Harry paid for this. 

“Do you want to stop and grab some coffee before we head in? There’s a shop close to the office.” Harry asked. 

“Won’t we be late?” Y/N asked, looking at Harry as he buckled up. 

“Love, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’re already an hour and fifteen minutes late.” Harry chuckled, starting the car. 

Y/N giggled as she fixed her hair. Harry smiled and drove to the small coffee shop close to the office. The two bought small coffees (her’s with extra sugar and pumpkin spice creamer, his just black) and made the last few miles to the office.

The pair had entered the office and parted ways when they reached Y/N’s desk. Claire had bolted over to Y/N once Harry had closed the door. 

“So..a meeting, huh?” Claire smirked as she sat on her friend’s desk. 

“Oh please Claire. He was at the meeting, I was simply running late this morning. I was reading something and just lost track of time I guess.” Y/N sighed, trying to get her things organized. 

Claire chuckled and leaned back slightly, trying to get a glance of Y/N’s neck. 

“What’re you doing?” Y/N asked.

“Just checking for hickeys.” Claire said, still trying to peak. 

Y/N laughed and nudged her friend softly. 

“I’m serious, nothing happened! I mean..there was the elevator when he picked me up from my flat.” She sighed. 

Claire’s eyes almost bulged out of  her head. She nearly jumped over the desk asking for details. 

“Okay! Okay! I couldn’t find my glasses this morning when we left my flat, but of course they were on my head. Mr. Styles had seen them and grabbed them for me, however when I took them from him, I had accidentally touched his hand and Claire, I’m telling you I felt sparks. I’m sure he felt them too! It just seemed like something out of a romance novel or something.” 

Like Harry’s Novel Y/N thought. The slight pink color in her cheeks obviously gave away how she felt for Harry. Claire smiled as she watched Y/N beam. She’s not seen her this happy about someone in a while and that absolutely filled Claire’s heart. The last guy Y/N had dated was a total tool. He was gross and never treated her the way she deserved to be treated. Claire knew Harry respected women more than anything. That’s what made him the most attractive! She wouldn’t have to worry about beating his ass. 

“Maybe see if he wants to hang out after work! I don’t see why he wouldn’t say yes to you.” Claire said as she made her way to her desk. 

Y/N chuckled as she grabbed the packet she had gotten lost in this morning. She turned to the page in which she had left off and began reading again, annotating little notes for ideas and questions she had. She had glanced over to the door that led into Harry’s office and smiled. 

Maybe she should see if he would like to hang out later. 

[mynanapost]

Who am I? Who I am was a question I kept asking myself all my life. I figured lately that I am a transported tree, plant, land, and home that is always gravitized to Palestine. I am a citizen of the world and my passport is a threat to all the bordered states I visit or stay in. I am recognized for many things that I am not; and, I am labeled for many things that I disapprove and do not recognize. I am a star that is always censored and tracked by foreign militaries and intelligences. I am a unique reminder of the failure of the zionist progress towards the ethnic cleansing of Palestinians.

In this article, I am aiming to take you on a speed tour consisting of no more than 1200 words about the resistance mechanisms of a second generation displaced person living in Gaza and is originally from Yafa.

Fighting like a Palestinian is as tough to us as you might see on your headline news. Substantially different though, I promise. Hello, I am Wasim, I am Palestinian (I fight) and I want to make this world a better place. And I fight. The fear of being hated and judged as a Palestinian is as bad as your fear of missing out (FOMO). Our FOMO is usually one of three things, first, the fear of missing out on a strike of bombs in your neighborhood. We usually fear not being there to calm and assure our family that we are home and that they could at least not worry about us. Second, the fear of missing out a chance to buy groceries on a ceasefire. Third, not being awake or home to use the four to eight hours of electricity we get per day. This includes cooking, charging phones and laptops, using WiFi, heating water, and doing laundry.

We as Palestinians do not resist or fight through machinery. In fact, our machinery compared to others in the region might be the least effective. Hence, we use our words, education, knowledge to fight and resist. I will be resisting and fighting in this article as you tour with me.

My grandfather was forced out of his home by Zionists. And I resist. I resist and fight through presenting a negated history. Yafa, a beautiful place and also an occupied city in Palestine, is where my grandfather lived. He assured us to have hope. We fight, resist, and FIGHT trying to explain that we have the right to return home. He adds that one day he will take us all back home, may his soul rest in peace. My home in Yafa might now be a dancing club or even better a dating bar. Who knows but it is there in Yafa. He, my grandfather, would always say that if I would bring him a granddaughter, I shall name her Yafa. He would always say that she will be beautiful just like the city.

Visualizing my beloved Gaza is easy. North and East, we have IDF blockage isolating us from the rest of Palestine. West, we only have three miles of the lovely Mediterranean Sea where fishermen struggle for their livelihood and pray to get back home safe every day. And south, we have Egypt’s borders. Gaza is a piece of land that is guarded by the most powerful powers in the region. Well, it is not really guarded for our precious souls, but from them.

I survived three brutal aggressions on Gaza before celebrating my 17th birthday. We fought and resisted during and after each of these aggressions. We learnt how to fight by picking up the rubble and turning it into something to build with. We had nothing but rubble and a 4 digit number stating the number of deaths. We have constructed the roads of our seaport in Gaza with the rubble of destroyed buildings. We have also managed to turn the ash of coal and wood into building bricks that are used in construction buildings now with great demand. We as Palestinians fight our way through every aspect of our day through education, art, history, theatre, innovation and many more. We resist our ethnic cleansing by surviving, and then, by reproducing. We fight, everyday, endlessly.

To make it easier for everyone to visualize, I will use recently used concepts on world news to explain a long living experience. Curfew, as a concept, has been a huge highlight of our lives for as far as I can remember. Similar rules are imposed in the curfews set like the ones we all had during the pandemic. You can only leave when having an extreme reason to do so, however, you are assured that you will not be safe if you decide to leave, even if leaving means saving your life or the life of a loved one by going to the hospital.

The curfews were always there to remind us that we are occupied. Our usually failed ceasefires were similar to the end of pandemic related lockdowns. We try to secure food, for God knows when the next time we might have the option of leaving the house. However, unlike social distancing post-lockdowns, we hug and kiss our beloved ones knowing that it might be the last time we do so. The next digit number by one of us.

We live with post-traumatic stress disorders (PTSDs) as if they were our closest friend. These PTSDs are censored to the sound of planes, the sound of screaming, the sound of explosion and anything similar. They also adapt as part of our human nature as they develop to assure us, when being abroad, that the planes flying above us are not the same ones that were once attacking us. The PTSD is also quite conscious during New Years and other big celebrations when we do not realize that the fireworks are noises of happiness. It is exactly how we used to lie to assure our younger siblings that they will be safe. (+18) Their shock realizing the sorrow might be as bad as when children of western side of the world discover that Santa Clause is not real. (+18)

I believe most people living abroad during the Pandemic have gone through a slightly similar experience of the Palestinian’s daily struggle. Not being able to go back and feeling unwelcome in their home because there might not be space. And not being able to go anywhere else because you will always be a suspect holder. Yes, we are always suspects; accused of having a terroristic mentality. Unfortunately, we could never disprove their false accusations with a certified document saying that we are negative to their biased misconceptions. I would wait for a week and pay the 90$ for this certification. When you are a Palestinian holding dual citizenships, life changes; as I hear from my brother and witness my friends not having to stress a lot before entering any check point. Being respected and accounted for human rights are things they encounter after traveling with their other citizenship.

You could always be concise and go straight to the point. Why don't we stop fighting or why don't we just accept the peace talks. Well, lately we have been accepting of almost anything, but people would still see us as terrorists. Nonetheless, there is nothing concise about this struggle besides the daily headline news mentioning the number of dead and injured due to a “conflict”. I would have to explain all the intersections and the cross-borders and their history to be able to go through the complexity of my beloved Palestine.

In remembrance of Murid Barghouti, “Palestinians have a unique story that's similar to none of the stories of others, but one at the same time because what is shared is huge: the sense of loss, exile, being displaced, being oppressed, being voiceless, being of a negated history and geography”. - may his soul rest in peace.

[battybumboy]

He had fallen | | Thomas Thorne

No ones catching on to the Ghosts x reader bandwagon that I have built but this wagon isn’t gonna fall to pieces, not on my watch! Here it is... Part three of the Falling series!

Part one is Here

Part two is Here! Incase yous missed it!

Enjoy part three...

-🍯xx

_____________________________

⚠️ WARNING ⚠️ - contains a scene of PTSD. You can still read at your own risk but 🔥🔥🔥- means a trigger warning. When you get to the second set of 🔥🔥🔥-s then it is clear.

————————————————————

“JULIAN!” came the angry shout of a very upset Thomas Thorne. It was the fifth time that week that said ghost had upset the poet... and it was only Wednesday.

Alison, one of the two only living residents of the house, was in the kitchen cleaning out the fridge. She, and every other resident of the large house (except for her very much alive and very much oblivious husband) had heard the commotion. The only thing was... every time Alison had came to check what was wrong, all she was met with was a silent, sulking Thomas and a smug and, if he were alive, very punchable look on the trouserless Tory’s face.

No one knew what Julian was teasing the poet about but it seemed to be serious enough to be kept quiet although Julian’s new muse was getting all too tiring for the other housemates.

“Can that mewling loaf not be so bothersome for ONE DAY?” The pirate said, smacking her head upon the table as she sat with Kitty, Mary and Fanny. The four ladies liked to gossip, (as much as Fanny complained of the unladylike behaviour) so Alison untucked a few chairs and placed down a few empty teacups as if it were a real tea party,

“I should think not. It’s rather like we don’t get any peace and quiet around here.” replied Fanny, as she looked to Y/N in agreement,

“I think we should all be friends! Just like N/N, you get along with everyone”

“It does take a lot of my patience” Y/N replied, truthfully,

“It woulds be more quiets if we weres” Mary countered

“Quite.” The previous owner of the house agreed, correcting her posture before failing to grasp the teacup.

“Right, you lot can stay here if you like. I’m going to try and get to the bottom of this.” Alison said, throwing an old bit of Brie in the bin before strutting out of the kitchen.

“I’m coming with!” Kitty exclaimed excitedly, following Alison upstairs.

“I might as well see what all that racket is about”

“Sames.” And with that, everyone except the pirate had left the table.

She was wise enough to know that the closest thing they were going to get to an explanation out of Thomas was a wave and a mumble of “you wouldn’t understand” before a small sigh.

She hadn’t the faintest clue what was wrong with the poet but it was clear he was avoiding her and ignoring the offer to talk to her. She knew it was nothing to do with her but deep down she was scared he had started to dislike her company. This caused for the pirate to try and get in his good graces again by giving him space but she was unsure if it was helping.

Y/N continued to stare into her teacup again, listening for anyone. It had felt like forever and just when she was about to go up and check on them, there came a thunderous slam.

The feeling of being mentally dragged back to the past filled Y/N’s vision.

🔥🔥🔥-

Y/N I am sorry. But as I have said. You shouldn’t have came home.

“Henry?”

You’re not welcome here anymore. It had to be like this. It just had to.

“Henry... what have... Hen-”

I’m so sorry. You picked your side.

RED. SO MUCH RED.

Pain

A slight sob

The feeling of being dragged

I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t want to do it. Honestly.

“Henry?”

Sleep now Y/N... Captain L/N... the greatest pirate.

You can sleep... I’m so sorry...

L/N?

🔥🔥🔥-

”L/N? Are you okay? Oh my god she’s crying! That’s a tear!”

“We can see that, Kitty” came Julian’s reply.

Suddenly pulled back to reality, the pirate realised that everyone was crowded around her in the kitchen. The feeling of vulnerability had suddenly dawned on her... a feeling she hated.

“Uh- I’m fine. I’m not crying, I just got watery eyes. It’s fine!”

“You don’t look fine. You’re shaking, mate.” Pat said from beside her, oh gods, no getting out of this one.

“I’m fine! I promise! I just thought about s-someth-thing... a bit too hard. I’ll be okay in a moment.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Alison asked earnestly, “It’s ok if you’re not.”

“I know...” Y/N sighed, not liking the fact she might’ve worried the others. “I’ll be fine” she forced a smile that seemed to convince almost everyone. “Thank you for you concern though.” slowly the crowd dispersed from around the table and went to do else-what elsewhere... but Y/N noted how Thomas hadn’t shown his face. She was fine. It didn’t bother her. Why would it? She was fine.

Robin was the last in the room. He looked Y/n in the eyes before sitting down in Fanny’s abandoned seat,

“You’re not okay.” He started, Y/N looked at him, eyebrow raised,

“Pardon?”

“You sad, I see in eyes”

“Robin-”

“It okay to be sad. No one happy all time.” He said sincerely, placing a hand on her shoulder,

She sighed and paused. This man. (If he counted as a man) had seen everything, he was there as soon as she’d died, back to when Button house was a lowly field, “Well. Yes, I’d say I’m rather sad.”

“Want to talk? It ok if you don’t”

She contemplated for a single second before smiling softly then looking down at the oak wood table,

“I guess I spent my life sailing away from my problems, my family, my life and every untaken opportunity. I had no husband or children to call my own... only a few friends and miles of sea. But... when I came home, my past decided to shoot me in the back and toss me away. It hurts... even though it was hundreds of years ago. But It got better and, even though I’m over it and it being centuries ago... I occasionally remember.”

“I understand. It been a long time for both of us- I sometime remember too. It turn out okay. We die, the world move on but we always remember when we could move on too.”

“You made my death feel less lonely, Robin. I’ve never been able to thank you properly for that. So, thank you.”

“Thank you too. I needed friend. I was lonely and you turn up so I was happy for company. After years being alone. I wait and wait. Then you came and I wasn’t alone.”

She smiled. Robin was her best friend, nothing more. They both understood each other and at times when they felt most alone, the other always turned up out of the blue.

Thomas walked past the kitchen, wondering why everything went so quiet when suddenly he heard the angelic voice of a fellow ghost,

“I had no husband or children to call my own... only a few friends and miles of sea. But... when I came home, my past decided to shoot me in the back and toss me away.”

“Thomas! Julian has something to say to you!” Came a muffled call from the east wing.

The poet rushed away from the kitchen quietly in order not to disturb the two hushed voices. He clambered up the stairs thinking about what she said and a mix of emotions stirred within him.

He was partly angry at himself for eves dropping but the anger melted to sadness at her words. And suddenly he realised... maybe she needed to be there for her as well.

Thomas regretted ignoring her for his own sake, not realising she had been feeling down too. He just didn’t want the pain in his heart and the butterflies in his stomach and the feeling of not being able to stop staring at her charming (almost handsome) beauty and-

Suddenly it hit him. The realisation he never wanted to have but everything added up... the way he felt warm around her and sorrowful without her. The fact that he could barely look at her without his (unnecessary) breath hitching and the way he felt like he’d been blessed every time she gave one of her smiles reserved just for him...

He had fallen.

———————————————————-

So sorry it took so long and for major sad :/ It was originally planned to be happy until I realised you guys still don’t have a clue who Henry is. I hope you enjoyed part 3! 🍯xx

[thiswasinevitableid]

winter prompt fill 5, indruck, nsfw?

5: your car slid into a snowbank and i’m the mechanic that comes to tow you

Two hours.

Two fucking hours, that’s how far this guy is from town. But because he’s three hours from the one to the west, it’s Duck’s company that got the call from AAA for a tow. On night three of what's forecasted as a week-long snowstorm.  And because it’s that kind of job, the call came in at 4:45 pm. At least he’ll get overtime for this. 

Being out of Kepler means the radio has real stations, half of them playing blocks of pop hits and the other half blaring Christmas carols. Duck doesn’t mind either, settles on listening to crooning about sleigh bells and winter wonderlands as he tries to keep the truck from sliding into snow piles. 

He’s all prepared to be aggravated at whoever was clueless enough to get themselves stranded and stick him with the four hour round-trip, but the closer he gets to his destination the more he sympathizes. Because this is a rural two-lane highway and not a major through-road, the maintenance is spotty at best. Couple that with the still-falling snow and he’s just glad the guy was in the kind of accident where he could still make a call after it.

The last half-hour he’s down to thirty miles an hour, lets out a groan of relief when the dead  taillights of a car reflect back at him. Once he positions the truck and hops out, he rolls his eyes; the sedan doesn’t have snow tires or chains on, something even a person with a Nevada license plate should have known to carry north.

Duck wonders if being unprepared is a habit when the driver steps out in far too light a coat for the weather, shuddering and stuttering out an “Th-thank g-goodness.”

“Guessin you’re Mr. Wilde?” 

Pale hair falls over red glasses as the man nods. With his hood up, he looks owlish, guarded. He’s all limbs and edges, and Duck can’t help but think of a stray cat that needs a warm bed and some food. 

“Go ahead and get up into the passenger seat. Heat ain’t runnin, but it’s sure as heck warmer than out here. I’ll get her hitched up and we can get going.”

Another nod, the man hunching forward as he scurries into the truck. This is the easy part, getting the damaged car hooked to the truck and freeing it from the snow. The hard part comes when they turn towards town, two hours of darkness and icy roads ahead of them. 

“I’m so sorry you had to come all this way. I, ah, did not intend to crash, nor to do so this far from help.”

“Hey, it’s what we’re here for. Gonna be slow goin on the way back, since it’ll be real fuckin embarassin to call a tow truck for a tow truck.”

A snicker, “I picture them as growing exponentially larger, like nesting dolls. A tow truck towing a tow truck towing a tow truck towing a car would be the size of a semi.”

Duck chuckles, “Yeah, it’d be a sight. And a fuckin nightmare for anyone who got behind it.”

The cab is warming nicely, so his passenger pulls back his hood. In the darkness he can tell the pale hair is metallic silver, and there’s a hell of a bruise blooming on his forehead. Duck’s never seen anyone quite like him, and if their survival didn’t depend on his concentration, he’d spend the next hour studying him.

“Damn, got banged up in the crash huh.”

“Yes.” The man gingerly touches the bruise, sighs, “It’s my own fault for being careless.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, nearly spun out on the way to get you from the damn black ice.”

“I wish I could say that was the sole cause, but I was also asleep.”

Duck bites back the urge to scold him; he wants him to be comfortable around him and besides, even if Duck is having a crappy night, this guy is having an even worse one.

“Wouldn’t be the first person who thought they could make it one more town before stoppin for the night and was wrong.”

“True. It’s just that, ah, I’ve been driving three days straight without sleep.”

“Jesus Christ, you on the lamb or somethin?”

In his periphery, he swears the taller man flinches. 

“No. Just having bad luck with a chaser of poor choices.”

“Gotcha.” Duck drums on the wheel, “so, uh, Mr. Wilde, what do you do when you ain’t stuck in the snow?”

“I draw. And Indrid is fine…” he peers awkwardly at Duck’s name tag, “Duck.”

“It’s a nickname.”

“Ah. Are you a mechanic as well as a driver?”

“Yep. Do it part-time when I’m not workin at the national forest. Friend of mine, Ned, runs the garage attached to the Cryptonomica.”

“I recall seeing that when I drove through. Quite the Jacks of all trades, you two,”

“Most of Kepler’s got more’n one job. It’s the kind of place that’s always losin fundin or people, just barely stayin afloat.”

“One sympathizes. Do you like your jobs?”

“Trained in forestry, so it’s always what I’ve wanted to do. The mechanic stuff,” Duck shrugs, “nice workin with my hands and beein able to help folks out. And I ain’t half bad at it.”

“I certainly appreciate your efforts. I--wait, hold on, I’m sorry but I need to…” he turns up the radio, playing what Duck assumed was Santa Baby from the melody.

“He is saying ‘buddy.’ What in the world? Why would you change it?”

“Can’t have the fella in the red velvet suit thinkin you’re gay.” Duck jokes. 

“Heaven forbid.” Indrid smiles, and Duck likes the expression so much he decides to see if he can get him to do it again.

“You wanna hear a slightly inappropriate joke?”

“Absolutely.”

“How come Santa don’t have any kids?”

“How come?”

“Because he only comes once a year and it’s down a chimney.”

There’s a beat and then Indrid guffaws, covering his face with his hands as his whole body shakes with amusement, “that was horrible, do you have any more?”

Thank god he’s got a wealth of bad jokes tucked in his brain. When he exhausts those he and Indrid trade brainteasers, stopping now and then to talk about their lives. The taller man asks Duck about his jobs, about the woods, and the town, and offers a few anecdotes in exchange. Duck senses they’re about they’re set in a time in his life that’s further away than Indrid would like. 

Indrid also readily shares the snacks from his small backpack. Duck eats what he can while still safely piloting the car. Then nearly takes them across the yellow line when Indrid unwraps a Starburst with his tongue, and prays the man will stay in Kepler long enough for Duck to take him to dinner.

-------------------------------------

Given he was expecting a painfully awkward trip at best, Duck’s friendliness is a welcome surprise. Now that they’ve been stuck in the car together for close to two hours, Indrid is confident saying this is most fun he’s had talking to someone in a long time, even before things went all to hell. 

It helps that Duck is the picture you’d get if you googled “Indrid Cold’s type”; sturdy, handsome in an unassuming way, undoubtedly pleasant to cuddle, with muscles that Indrid is positive could hold him up against a wall for at least a few minutes. In another life, one that’s so far away he fears he imagined it, he’d wait until they were done with the business portion of this evening, then slip Duck a card with his name in silver letters and his hotel room number on the back. The man is so genuine in his kindness too, Indrid feeling safer in the dark with him than he’s felt in years.

Which makes him feel even worse about what he’s going to do.

“Not too far now.” Duck turns the windshield wipers up a notch, “thank fuck for that.”

Indrid curls forward, holding his stomach, “I, ah, I really hate to say this, but I’m afraid my gas station lunch is coming back up.”

“Shit, okay, lemme pull over.” Duck guides the truck onto the side of the road, “do what you gotta do.”

His hands are on his lap, keys still dangling from the ignition. Indrid lunges over, grabbing them and trying to shove Duck into the door in one go. The mechanic is too fast, yanking the keys to his chest.

“What the fuck man!?”

“I’m so sorry about this!”

“Then fuckin stop!” Duck kicks, misses, and Indrid knees him in the stomach as gently as he can.

“I can’t, I need the truck.”

“Are you fuckin car-jackin me right now?”

“It’s not personal.” He gets the keys away, only for the world to flip ninety degrees as Duck tackles him backwards.

“It sure feels like it is!”

Indrid hoped that his survival instincts would kick in hard enough to make up for the exhaustion and that coupled with the element of surprise would bring him success. Instead, his limbs have no power behind them, and all he can do is curse when the driver flips him onto his stomach, trapping his hands behind his back and pinning him with his body weight. 

“Fuck.” It’s a pathetic noise for a pathetic man.

“Explain. Now.” Duck growls.

“I, I, you were right when asked if I was on the lamb.”

“....fuckin what?”

“It was a set up, and I finally, finally got free, and, and I will not go back, I can’t, but if I’m out a car I need a replacement and-”

“And you almost stole a truck that’s got a goddamn tracker in it.”

“Oh.” He presses his face to the seat in shame.

“Somethin tells me you ain’t a seasoned crook.”

“I’m not a criminal at all! I have no idea what I’m doing. I was just going to drive and drive until I hit the coast, I hadn’t even decided what to do after. I, I’m sorry, I waited until we got close to town so you wouldn’t be too far away to walk home safely. I, ah, I wasn’t prepared for having to do this to someone I like.”

Duck shifts above him, mutters, “what the fuck do I do now” to himself, and tightens his hold on Indrid’s wrists. 

Indrid whimpers, realizing with horror that his body responded to the mechanics of the fight but not it’s context.

Duck freezes at the noise, and when Indrid hazards a peek the mechanic is staring down in disbelief. 

“Are you fuckin hard from this?”

There’s no use in lying, he’s faced worse humiliation than this, “Some. Not on purpose. I, ah, I enjoy rough treatment.”

Duck’s face fills with bitter amusement, “And I like givin it. But not to fellas who nearly steal my truck. Fuckin figures the first guy to flirt with me is doin it for some other reason.”

“That’s not true, my plan involved no flirting.” Indrid huffs, “I was flirting because I think you’re handsome.”

More pressure on his back as Duck leans down to whisper in his ear, grinding against his ass, “Yeah? Were you hopin I’d fuck you in here? Or over the hood when we got back?”

“Maybe.” He manages a smirk.

“Hopin I’ll fuck you now?”

Indrid nods, but Duck doesn’t notice. The mechanic sits all the way back, releasing his hands, “too damn bad, because unlike you, I only take things with permission.”

“C-consider it granted.” 

The hand finds his back again, but instead of shoving or grabbing it strokes up and down, “Indrid, I’m serious. I ain’t doin anythin if the only reason you’re offerin is because you think I’ll hurt you if you don’t.”

“I’m not. I want this, Duck, I want to be with you.” He’s going back to jail one way or another after this, unwilling to consider the thought of hurting Duck to get the keys. He’d rather go back with one happy memory and a few minutes of fun freshly stored in his mind. 

There’s silence, Duck’s hand still as he thinks. Then it comes down hard on Indrid’s ass, “Okay sugar, happy to oblige you. Besides, seems to me you owe me an apology for that sorry excuse for a car theft.” 

Indrid moans loudly when Duck hauls onto his elbows and knees, though it’s the pet name that hits deeper than any of the much-welcome pain. The waistband of his dollar store sweatpants hits his thighs, there’s a pop of something plastic, and then a slick finger is teasing between his asscheeks. 

“Vaseline. Great for keepin your skin from cracking in the cold.”

The finger disappears and he whines, pushing his ass back and getting it slapped so hard he yelps. 

“Nice try. But this ain’t for you, it’s for me. Don’t got a condom and only got a tiny bit of this left and it ain’t enough to fuck you full on.”

“It’s alright, I like the pain, you could use spit or-”

“Nope” another slap, “that turns into the bad kinda pain real quick. Now open your fuckin legs.”

Indrid does so, gasps happily when Duck slides his lubed-up cock between his thighs. 

“Close ‘em and keep ‘em closed. Good, ohfuckyeah that’s good.” The thrusts are already fast, Ducks hands holding his hips in place, “fuck, tell you what sugar, you may be a shitty crook but you’re a damn good lay.”

“Yes.” Indrid moans, scrabbling for a hold on the upholstery.

“Shit, you do like it rough. Like it when I talk like that?” One hand comes down, petting Indrid’s head and brushing his hair away from where it’s stuck over his eyes. 

“So much, Duck, please, please, more, I want more AHgod!” Tears slip past his glasses as Duck hits the right side of his ass over and over again. He’s been treated like a criminal mastermind, made miserable because of it, so being nothing more than an eager piece of ass is a welcome change.

“Then I oughta tell you this is what you get for tryin to get one over on me. Think you can throw my ass out in the cold? Gonna turn yours so red you won’t be able to sit for a week.”

He’s so hard it isn’t even funny, and beneath the wonderful cycle of pain-relief-pain-relief his mind chants safesafesafesafe.

“Fuck, Indrid, I’m so fuckin lucky you tried that stunt on me, can’t wait to cum all over that cute little ass, ohyeah, fuck, fuckyeah.” He pulls out, cum spurting onto Indrid’s ass and legs and Indrid hears his own voice saying “thank you” as he does. 

As he’s contemplating what form of begging will earn him an orgasm, he’s flipped onto his back, one calloused hand pressing him down by the shoulder while the other jerks him off. He squeaks and squirms, one palm thwacking into the door as his right leg catches the steering wheel. 

“Sensitive, sugar?”

“Yes.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you bent over for me.”

“TechnicallyAH, you, you’re the one who bent me over.”

Duck jerks him extra hard in reply, grinning. The sight of him is just the right balance of menacing and protective that Indrid only needs two more bucks of his hips before he’s cumming. The mechanic works him through it, squeezing him roughly just to hear him whimper (Indrid’s certain of it).

He sits back and starts putting his clothes in order as Indrid lays there, panting from exertion and the weight of reality on his chest. 

“I don’t suppose you have something I can, ah, wipe off with before you take me to the station?” He asks softly.

“I’m not taking you to the police, Indrid.”

“What? Why?” He bolts up, his mind screaming that he shouldn’t ask too many questions lest it make Duck change his mind. 

“I’m not sure what kinda guy fucks someone and then hands them over to the cops, but I’m damn sure I don’t wanna be one.”

“You’d do that without even knowing the full truth?”

“Wouldn’t mind if you told me.” Duck starts the car, adds “seatbelt” as he pulls back onto the road. 

Indrid gets his pants up and buckles in, huddling in on himself, “As you probably guessed, my name isn’t Wilde. It’s Indrid Cold. Wilde was the man I stole that car from, who also had a very nice AAA plan it seems. I am, or was, an architect. Quite talented, if I do say so myself. And many other people said so, once upon a time. My firm got a contract with a certain large city to design and help build a bridge. I was head of design, and I was certain this would be the project that made my name. It did. Just not how I hoped.”

Duck slows down as they reach the edge of Kepler. 

“Have you ever heard of the Silverlake Bridge?”

“Ain’t that the one that collapsed a few years agooh, oh shit was that your bridge?”

“Yes. Halfway through the project, I became concerned that certain elements of the design would not be as stable as they needed to be and might collapse without warning. The higher ups said it would require a larger budget to do the new, far safer design, but gave me the go ahead to finish my proposal of the securer model. They accepted that design, and I thought that was the end of it. Turns out, they funneled the money needed for the better bridge into their own pockets, both my bosses and the representatives from the city. Unbeknownst to me, they built the weaker bridge. When it collapsed I” he takes a deep breath, the memories surfacing in a tidal wave, “I was shocked, and prepared to accept responsibility, as I could not understand how the design failed. It was only when the investigation revealed how it failed that I understood my warnings had been ignored and I was being set up as a fall guy. Not only for the collapse, but for the missing funds, my bosses swearing up one side and down the other that they’d given the money to me to manage. They’d had this planned for months, and so had built our communication in such a way that I had no proof the money hadn’t come to me. Thus I was blamed, tried, and convicted, and in the minds of many I am responsible for the death of 67 people.”

The engine shuts off and he looks up to see them in an auto garage. Duck is turned to him, face so sad and sympathetic that Indrid could almost believe..

“You think I’m telling the truth.”

“I know you are. Not sure how, but even though I ain’t much of a liar myself, I can usually tell when someone is bullshittin me.”

“I don’t want to go back to prison.” 

“You won’t.”

“Duck I, I can’t ask you to hide me, that could put you in danger of arrest.”

“There’s all of four cops in Kepler, and I’d bet my life no one here could pick you out of a line-up as a ‘disgraced architect Indrid Cold.’ And if we need a cover story, Ned’s got a knack for ‘em.”

“We?”

Duck cups his cheek and Indrid leans into it, “You and me. Indrid, I think fate is a load of bullshit, but I can’t shake the feelin me pickin you up tonight was meant to be. Lemme help you, please.”

Indrid sets his hand on Duck’s own, “Okay. Ah, where do I stay? I have fifty dollars left.”

“Could stay with me if you want. No strings attached.”

“Is that your way of letting me down gently?”

“My way of saying you don’t gotta fuck me to have a place to live. If you wanna fuck me just because, say the word and I’ll rail you into next week.”

“I’d like both those things so very much. Though right now all I want is to sleep.”

Duck leans forward, kissing him so chastely that the following lovebite is all the more thrilling.

“In that case, sugar, let’s get you home.”

[lynnsfics]

In The Spotlight

Chapter One

Pairing: Actor!Loki x Reader

Word Count: Approx. 2k

Next Chapter >

~~~

“I will no longer have you freeloading in my house! You’re 24, you need a real job! This will teach you a lesson, pack your things.” The door slammed shut, leaving you alone in your room. 

Tears streamed down your face as a sob racked your body. Where would you go? Shaking your head, you grabbed your suitcase. Maybe you could convince your mother to reconsider. You stood up and cautiously opened the door. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” she warned. “Don’t give me this ‘theatre is your dream’ B.S. Find a real job, start earning a living, then you can come back home. Until then, you’re on your own.” 

Sighing, you closed your door. You slumped down against it, putting your head in your hands. Afternoon sunlight filtered in through your curtains, casting a muted glow across the room. Well, there wasn’t anything you could do to improve the situation.  

The blue suitcase sat abandoned in the middle of your floor. Picking it back up off the carpet, you set it down on your grey bedspread. As you collected your belongings, you pulled your phone out of your pocket. 

Navigating to your messages, you quickly sent a text to your best friend. “Hey Meg, I just got kicked out. It’s a long story. Can I crash at your apartment for the night?”

Not even a moment later your phone lit up. “Of course,” she replied, “you can stay as long as you need.” Well that was certainly a weight off your chest. 

Truth be told, you had always been a little jealous of Meg. Ever since elementary school, she had seemed so put together. Right out of college she had a successful job and her own apartment. Now you were thankful she did.

Once all your things were in the suitcase, you shut it with a sigh. Creaking the bedroom door open, you  stepped out into the hall. The suitcase rolled easily along the wood floor, all the way out to the garage. 

Stepping into the one car garage, your nose crinkled at the odor of mildew that clung to the damp air. You maneuvered your way around the lawnmower, back pressed against the car door. Eventually you made it to the rear of the vehicle, and groaned. The metal around the taillight was corroded with rust, and it was spreading along the back of the car, towards the latch of the trunk.

As you tried to unlock the back of the car, the key got stuck in the lock and had to struggle to unlock it. When the key finally turned, you put your baggage in the trunk and slammed the top shut with a satisfying thud. 

The driver’s side of the car presented a similar probably, but you were used to it. Once you were finally in the driver’s seat, you sighed in relief. Looking over your shoulder, you pressed the button to open the garage door. 

After a moment, it slowly rose with a loud squeal. It stung that your mom hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye, but maybe it was for the best. You put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. Once you reached the end, you pushed the garage door button again. However, this time it didn’t work.

For a moment you considered getting out of the car to close it, but the sun was already beginning sinking on the horizon and you’d hoped to make it to Meg’s by nightfall. You had a full hour’s drive ahead of you, so time was of the essence. Rolling your eyes, you continued to back out of the driveway, then turned and drove down the street.

“If she’s able to kick me out of the house, she’s able to close the garage door,” you muttered to yourself. When you reached the stop sign at the end of the road you paused to roll down the window. You scowled as you turned the crank, bitterly musing to yourself about your old car. Once you had a job and a permanent place to live, buying a new car—one with power windows and a working A/C—would be your top priority.

Soon after, a cool breeze filtered through your window, you took a deep breath. The smell of must and mildew had cleared from your lungs, and was now replaced by the warm, dry air of the summer evening. You turned on the radio and let the music take you out of the moment. All that lay ahead of you was an open road, the red and purple hues of the sunset and the welcoming comfort of your best friend’s city apartment. 

That was another thing you had been jealous of. After the divorce, your mom kept the house in rural, upstate New York, while your dad stayed in the city. Since your mother had full custody, you had to kiss any hope of city life away. Including your dream of theatre. Meanwhile, Meg was able to live in the city and pursue whatever dream she wanted. Yet you didn’t resent her for that. 

Whenever you had a chance to visit her, the city always fascinated you. Sure, it was bustling and usually quite dirty, but it never died. No matter where you were, there was always some background noise to preoccupy your mind. 

The further you got from home, the more uneasy you began to feel. Looking at your fuel gauge, you pursed your lips in frustration. You were practically running on empty, and from the looks of the empty road around you, it was a long way from the nearest gas station. 

Sending a silent prayer to whatever gods may be listening, you pulled out your phone. Apparently those prayers were answered as you had a signal and could pull up the map. From the looks of it, the closest gas station was only a few miles away, so you kept driving.

In five minutes time you arrived, and you couldn’t help but cringe slightly at the sigh around you. Gravel crunched under your tires as you pulled in, and you hoped you wouldn’t drive over a nail. There was only one gas pump and it looked as if a strong gust of wind could blow it down. The service station next to it was equally unkempt. 

The paint peeled off the front of the building and you couldn’t quite make out the name of the station. One of the windows appeared to be shattered, and the one light illuminating the whole area flickered ominously every few seconds. 

You parked the car away from the pump, wanting to check it out before getting any fuel. Upon inspection you realized they didn’t accept credit, only cash. Walking back to your car, you began to rummage through your glove compartment for some loose bills.

A loud screech brought you back to reality and you looked up. There was a flashy black sports car parked next to the pump, not even a foot away from the front of your car. 

That was it. You weren’t getting pushed around any more today. Stepping out of your car you yelled at the driver, “Hey watch where you’re driving! And I was here first, asshole.”

A tall man folded himself out of the car. He was dressed impeccably, wearing a dark green dress shirt with black dress pants. Long black hair fell in waves just past his shoulders, and he held himself with a certain level of elegance. You blinked, forgetting what you had been so upset about, instead finding yourself preoccupied with his chiseled jawline and sharp, high cheekbones. 

However, the moment he spoke, it all came flooding back. “Oh dear, nasty manners. I have places to be. You can wait.”

“What makes you assume that I don’t have places to be?” Alright, now you were mad. Who the hell did he think he was?

He walked over to you and you began to feel antsy. Just because you wanted to fight him didn’t mean you wanted to fight him. 

“Here, take this for your troubles. Maybe get some anger management with it.” Forcibly, he shoved a crisp fifty dollar bill in your hand. You weren’t sure what to do, but you decided to keep the cash. The need for fuel was greater than the need to see that smirk wiped off his perfect face. 

As abruptly as he walked up to you, he turned and walked away, heading into the building. You sighed and got back in the car, waiting for him to leave so you could purchase your fuel and be on your way. 

There were about fifteen missed messages from Meg, and you couldn’t help but smile. Most of the texts asked where you were and if you were alright. You responded, telling her you were about a half hour out of the city, but you had to stop for fuel. Something told you to leave out the part about the pretentious British jerk. That was a story to save for when you saw her in person. 

As soon as he left, you drove your car forward, getting ready to buy the fuel. Walking over to the station, you bristled. The door handle was covered in a deep rust, worse than the corrosion on your car. Cautiously, you reached out, pulling on the door. It didn’t budge.

It was at that moment you noticed the large sticker above the handle that said ‘push’. Of course you noticed it only after you made a fool of yourself. Sighing in exasperation, you pushed open the door. Entering the small service station, you blinked back your surprise.

Bright fluorescent lights illuminated the shop. While most of the display racks had auto repair goods, some advertised different overpriced snacks. Looking at the ridiculous price of three dollars for a candy bar, you scoffed. So that was how this place managed to stay in business.

Placing the fifty on the counter, you nibbled on your bottom lip. You’d only need thirty dollars worth of fuel. Besides, you wouldn’t be driving much once you reached the city. Finally you came to a decision. “Thirty dollars of fuel and one coffee please.” 

The man behind the counter nodded gruffly. He handed you back your change and your cup of coffee. It was black as night, no cream or sugar. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you,” you began.

“That’s the way we serve it,” he cut you off brusquely. “You can take it or leave it.”

Part of you considered ‘leaving it’ all over his face. But instead you shook your head and said, “No it’s alright, thank you.” God how you hated being a pushover.

When you were finally back on the road, you took a sip of your coffee. It was somehow still piping hot and not quite as bitter as you had expected. Or maybe the exhaustion was finally setting in and everything was losing its flavor. You were more willing to put your money on option two. 

Finally you made your way into the city. It was near impossible to see the moon or any stars, but judging by how dark the sky was, you knew it was late. Meg was waiting for you outside the apartment building, and once you were out of the car she rushed to give you a hug.

“Are you alright? When it took you so long I was worried,” her eyebrows were knit together in concern. 

“I am, thank you. But how about I tell you all about it in the morning? It’s been a long day and right now I just need to sleep.” Meg nodded, leading you up the stairs to her apartment. 

It was nice and cool inside, and you took a breath. Looking at the couch you saw that blankets and pillows were laid out already, and you smiled. Leave it to Meg to know how exhausted you would be. After washing up and once again thanking your best friend, you collapsed onto the sofa, falling immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep. 

~~~

Hey everyone! As promised, here is Chapter One! If you want to be added to my taglist for this fic let me know! As always, likes and reblogs are appreciated! Love you all! <3

[pink-bird-30]

Mistltoe- Hournite Fic

I saw this idea on a tumblr post from @bethschapel ( and I hope it’s okay that I wrote a story about it *crosses fingers)

The idea was Beth snuck a kiss on Rick’s cheek under the mistletoe, and I absolutely love that idea.

I just thought this was the cutest idea ever and needed to write it.  Well, at least some variant of the idea.

You can find the link to this story here on my FF.Net.

Well, here we go

---------------------------

Rick peers around the large grey wall trying to avoid a particular JSA member.  Ever since he arrived at Courtney's to help setup for the Christmas party, he's been paranoid he’d get stuck under the mistletoe.

Well, more like mistletoes.

Mike decided to decorate half the house in mistletoe, which made things absolutely difficult for Rick if he were to stand too close to her.

Noticing the kitchen is a mistletoe free zone Rick made a quick dash for the island.  He slides across the floor and settles against the dark wooded cabinets before letting out a deep breath.  Rick rests his head against the cabinets and closes his eyes for a moment.

How the hell am I going to avoid Beth all night?

Don’t get him wrong, Beth is amazing and things have been going great for them.  Ever since the JSA defeated the ISA, Rick and Beth spend more time together attempting to repair her broken goggles.  With his new found knowledge on chemistry and a bit of alchemy, he thinks there’s a way to make them work again.  

Beth enrolled in a few computer science classes in school in hopes of understanding the coding Chuck used to create the goggles.  But every time they get somewhere, whether they get the lenses to read a room or Beth asks it a question and it starts to search, something goes wrong.  And Rick hates those moments the most.  He sees the light in Beth’s eyes dim each time, and it makes Rick frustrated because he hates seeing Beth sad.

After Chuck’s demise against Icicle’s blast, Beth felt responsible for his death.  Ever since, she keeps thinking she could’ve done something to protect him.  But after hours of consoling her, and letting her cry while he held her tight, she’d still be sad.  But Beth’s ambition to fix the goggles is what always helped her to brush away the tears and do everything to keep Chuck’s legacy alive.  Even if it means Chuck isn’t there anymore once the goggles are repaired.  Rick thinks that’s the hardest part for Beth.  Chuck was someone who understood her and made her not feel alone.  Particularly when her parents started to work more and she wasn’t close with the other JSA members yet.  He was her friend and she lost him.

Shuffling against the side of the island, Rick peaks out to glance down the doorway to the next room over, where Beth and Yolanda were decorating Christmas cookies.  His ears perk at their loud giggles.  Curiosity grabbing at him, he crawls across the floor and stands up against the opposite wall to hear the girls' conversation.

He dusts off his green and red knit sweater where a few dust bunnies clung to it, and shifts his head to press against the gray wall.

“So Beth,”  Yolanda’s voice drawls.  “Who do you think your secret Santa is?”

“I’m not too sure.  Maybe Courtney?  Ooo or maybe Rick!”

Rick's eyes widen.

There's no way she could’ve known…

Yolanda laughs, “I know who Courtney’s person is.  And its not you.  Maybe it is Rick.”

The sound of Beth’s giggle rings in the air before she said,  “I wonder what he could’ve gotten me?”

The girls’ conversation continues as Rick smiles to himself knowing his gift for Beth is perfect…

Later that night, the party is in full swing and everyone is having a great time.  Pat and Barbara are dancing to some upbeat version of ‘Jingle Bells’, Mike is chasing Max around the house trying to get his Christmas hat back, and the four JSA members are trying to make gingerbread houses.

Yolanda and Courtney took it upon themselves to work together on a house, leaving Rick and Beth to make their own.  They all fought over gumdrops, licorice and sprinkles to make their houses the best possible.  Rick finds himself smiling more and more as the gingerbread house making goes on.  Beth catches him laughing at one point and it warms her heart.  It’s moments like this she’s glad he can enjoy himself.

After making ginger bread houses, Rick steps outside to cool off from the heated house.  He walks across the porch to take a seat on the white wooden swing.  He sways back a forth for a while, enjoying the snow fall silently to the ground.  From behind him, he can hear the laughter of his friends as they enjoy the party.  He’s happy he can take this time and enjoy life for the first time, he wants to relish in the fact that he can be happy.

He chuckles to himself thinking how he was afraid of some mistletoe a few hours ago.  Sure he was able to avoid getting caught under it with Beth, but seeing her laughing and dancing with him to Christmas music was the perfect distraction.  At this point he wouldn’t care if they got caught, it’d be a great excuse to make the first move.

Rick let his eyes close, letting the brisk winter air calm down his heated body.  No sound for miles except the soft hum of Christmas music in the house.

After a few minutes he hears the front door open and close.  He doesn’t bother to open his eyes knowing who came looking for him.

“Hi, Beth.”  He slowly opens his eyes, seeing her standing in front of him with two mugs and a plush white blanket.

She smiles brightly at him, “How’d ya know it was me?”

He smiles warmly at her, “No one else would have come looking for me.”  Her cheek redden at the assumption and glances away from him bashfully.  Rick reaches out to take the mugs from her hands, gaining her attention and nods his head to the empty space next to him on the swinging chair.

As Beth gets comfortable on the swing, he notices she moves close to him and drapes the white plush blanket across their laps.  She reaches for the red mug in his hands and takes a small sip.  She smiles joyously letting out a small ‘Mmm’.

Rick holds his mug between his hands feeling the warmth chase away the cold.  He can smell the chocolaty aroma of hot cocoa but is curious by what he sees inside.  “Are there sprinkles in the hot cocoa?”  he asks.

Beth nods her head enthusiastically, “Sure is!  It’s a Chapel family secret.  My mom always adds a scoop of cool whip, a dash of cinnamon, and a drizzle of rainbow sprinkles.  Isn’t it great?”  Rick glances down at his cup again before taking a small sip of the warm beverage.  Instantly his senses are overwhelmed by the delicious drink.  The coolness of the cool whip melting against the heat of the cocoa, and the spicy sweet mixture of the cinnamon and sprinkles dance in his mouth.  Needless to say, it’s Rick’s new favorite drink.

“My god…”  He takes another sip and moans.  “There’s no way something this good exists.”

Beth giggles besides him and shifts to rest her head against his shoulder.  “Yeah, it’s a family tradition.”  She takes another sip of her cocoa and settles it on her lap.  The dark chocolate swirls around the white cool whip in her mug, mixing together to make a light chocolate. “Usually I’d be spending Christmas Eve with my parents, but they decided to work instead…”  Rick picks up on the sadness in her voice, and wishes nothing more than to make her feel happy again.  He rests his head against Beth’s and wraps his arm around her to pull her closer into his side.

They stay like that for awhile; sipping their hot cocoa and watching the snow drift softly to the ground.  Rick has never been more content in his life; his favorite person in his arms as they slowly swing on the porch.  The warmth from each other keeping them comfortable in the frigid Alaska winter.  Eventually, an hour passes and the hot cocoa is long gone.  The two teens decided to head inside for some warmth when the snow starts to come down a bit heavier.  Rick wraps the blanket around Beth and takes the two empty mugs from her hands.

“I could’ve held them.”  Beth holds the blanket tighter around her, feeling the chilled Alaskan air rush past them.

“I don’t want you catching a cold.”

Beth smiles to herself, happy with how sweet Rick is being with her.  Between the hot cocoa and cuddling while watching the snow…this night is perfect.

But Beth couldn’t help but think something is missing.

Rick opens the front door and gestures for Beth to walk through first.  She thanks him and walks into the living room where everyone is exchanging Secret Santa gifts.  Rick goes to the kitchen to drop off their mugs into the sink before making his way into the sitting room.

“Beth, this one has your name on it!”  Mike hands her a medium sized box in bright yellow wrapping paper and a dark blue bow. Beth smiles happily and takes a seat on the couch next to Rick.

“Ricky, this one is for you.”  Rick scowls at the preteen and grabs the box from his hands.  He mutters a “thanks” and crosses his arms.  He doesn’t like the name Ricky, it sounds extremely douchy.

“Mike,” Beth frowns.  “You know he hates when you call him that!”

Mike shrugs, not really caring what they said and passes around the rest of the gifts.  Everyone starts to open their gifts one by one, but before Beth could tear the wrapping on her present Rick places a hand on top of hers.

“Hey, umm…” Rick rubs the back of his neck nervously.  “Can you open your gift with me in the other room?”

Beth looks at him quizzically wondering why he’s asking such a strange request.  But she nods anyways seeing the hopeful look in his brown eyes, “Okay, sure.”  He smiles and takes her hand in his, ignoring the glances of everyone in the room.

Pat tilts his head slightly and turns to Courtney, “Court, what’s that all about?”

“Oh, you know.  Young love…”  Courtney says dreamily and clasps her two hands together while fluttering her eyelashes.

Pat rolls his eyes and mutters, “Teenagers.”

Across the house, Beth and Rick take a seat on a love sofa in the den.  Beth cradles her gift in her lap waiting for what Rick has to say.

“Look, I know it’s kinda weird I asked you to open this away from everyone.  But I just—”  He pauses trying to find the right words.  Focus Rick.  “I just wanted to be alone with you when you opened it.”  Beth smiles softly at the gift in her lap and slowly reaches for the blue bow.  She pulls at the ribbon, the coils coming undone and pulling with ease.  She lets it flutter to the floor, landing against the hardwood floor without a sound.

Beth tears at the yellow paper, the crunching sound eats away at Rick’s nerves.  He knows she’ll love her gift, but the tight feeling in his chest still holds as he watches her open the white box and peer down at its treasure.

Beth’s eyes widen noticing the leathery brown material anywhere, now taking on a new shade of yellow in the lenses and no longer having a strap, but two arms like a pair of sunglasses.  Slowly, she reaches into the box to pull the goggles out, letting the box in her lap fall to the ground with a thud.

“Rick…” Beth looks at him expectantly.  He can see her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.  “Will they—will they work?”

Without a word, Rick reaches out and removes Beth’s glasses from her face and gestures for her to put the new goggles on.  Taking a dep breath, Beth lifts the new goggles and slides them onto her face.  It was strange at first but then the goggles transformed; no longer were there arms on them but a sleek black band settling the goggles snugly against her.

“Hello, Dr. Mid-Nite.  My name is Chuck, how can I be of service to you?”

Beth sniffles as she asks Chuck, “Are you-u,” She takes a deep breath before continuing.  “Are you my Chuck?  The original Dr. Mid-Nite?”

Rick frowns realizing what Beth is asking.  He touches her arm gently, knowing the reply from ‘Chuck’ won’t be what she’ll expect.

“I am sadden to tell you, but I am no longer programmed for the original owner of these goggles.”  Beth’s shoulder deflate, upset her friend is gone, but she is still grateful her goggles work again.  “But I do have a message from Chuck-aka the original Dr. Mid-Nite.”  Beth stares at Rick as her goggles project a life size version of the original Dr. Mid-Nite.

“My dearest friend, Beth chapel.  Although my end was abrupt and none of your doing.  Do know my knowledge and legacy will remain with you.  The new Dr. Mid-Nite.”  Beth feels the tears gather at the corner of her eyes hearing Chuck speak to her again. “As long as you keep your friends close, you will never truly ever be alone again.  Until we meet again, Beth.  Godspeed.”

The image of Chuck fades out and Beth touches the goggles, returning them to their original form with two arms as she pulls them away from her face.

Rick stares at the space where Chuck had occupied at a loss for words.  “Um…I don’t remember that feature…”

Beth wipes at her eyes, “Storage memory.  Chuck must’ve added it once the basic technology of the goggles was too extensive. Smart.”  Her usual enthusiasm is missing in her voice, drawing concern from Rick.  He shifts closer to her on the sofa and pulls her into his arms.

“I didn’t know that would happen, I was just excited that I finally got them to work again.”  He whispered into her hair.  Beth rests her head against his chest and wraps her arms tightly around his torso.

“I love them.  Thank you for figuring out how to fix them, It means a lot to me.”

“I’d do anything to make you happy, Beth.  Merry Christmas.”  He kisses her forehead before pulling away to look down at her.  Beth  looks up at Rick and smiles but then notices something above him that catches her eye.

Rick tilts his head wonder what she find so amusing.  He follows her line of sight to see his enemy from earlier tonight.

Mistletoe.

Rick feels the heat rise to his cheek as his attention slowly drifts back to Beth.  By the time his eyes meet hers, they’re already glinting with mischief.

“I do recall you mentioning you’d do anything to make me happy…”  her voice is lower than Rick remembers, making him extremely nervous.

He pulls at the neck of his sweater feeling it tighten all of a sudden, “Yu- I mean,”  he clears his throat, “Yes.”

Beth’s hands trail up Rick’s chest and make their way around his neck. “Does that include partaking in Christmas traditions?”

Yes, a hundred times yes.

Regaining his confidence, Rick pulls Beth into his lap while wrapping his arms around her waist.  He leans in close, letting his lips hover over hers for a moment, “Wouldn’t want to be a Grinch.”

Beth brushes her nose against his and rests her hand against his cheek, “No, we wouldn’t want that.”

With his patience running thin, Rick brushes his lips against Beth’s eliciting a small gasp from her.  Hearing that small sound ignited something between them and their lips collided again and again.  The soft touches innocent in nature, but eager with heat.  Chaste kisses that leave Beth breathless as Rick kisses down her neck and stops at that spot beneath her jawline, making her already blurry vision diminish completely.

Her hands thread through Rick’s hair and gently tugging to bring his mouth back to her for a slow kiss.  It wasn’t rushed or hot but passionate and sensual.  It’s pure emotion being poured out into this one moment, a moment that has been put off for far too long.

The sound of footsteps heading in their direction is what pulls them apart just in time for Pat to tell them it was time for dessert.  But the obvious stern father tone is enough for them to follow him back to the dining room hand and hand.  Pretending to ignore the blatant glares they’re receiving from their friends, Beth and Rick spend the rest of the night happy that Mike was adamant about the mistletoes.

Especially when he gets stuck under it with Max.

The End.

[dumbofassjoey]

THE ROLE OF A LIFETIME

WHO: @dumbofassjoey​ WHERE: community theater WHEN: february 17th, wednesday  WHAT: joey auditions for “spring awakening”

Joey had to admit that he missed performing on stage – after all, the last performance he had done had been Grease and that had been a lot of fun. At first, he was sort of sad that he hadn’t been able to perform in Into the Woods, but after hearing the reviews and working as a stage manager, he was sort of relieved that he wasn’t part of that. When it was revealed that the musical would be Spring Awakening, Joey had to admit that he hadn’t even heard of it – he questioned what the musical would be about and he even had to ask his dads to see if they had ever heard about it. It was no surprise that they knew, especially since Kurt seemed to be obsessed with everything that was related to Broadway, but Joey was confused at the fact that it had nothing to do with the arrival of spring or anything like that – turns out that it was just about some horny teens singing. Either way, he had heard the soundtrack, the songs were good and the plot was interesting; but there was no way that he would audition for the lead and that’s when he settled on Moritz.

After doing some research on the role and bothering his dad for some details about the character, Joey came to the conclusion that this role was different than what he was used to – but he could use a challenge, and his dads seemed to agree on it. Plus, if he wanted to make it to the big drama schools, he had to have some experience, or at least that’s what Kurt kept telling him (mostly talking about NYADA, but Joey was still indecisive on that matter). Joey was glad to have his dads support him whenever it came to musicals, especially since they always seemed to help him with the songs and the monologue aspect of it all – he never needed help with the dancing part, he was one of the best dancers in Lima and he was sure of it. From the moment he had told his dad that he was going to audition for Moritz, that he had made sure that he found the right song for him to sing, looking through the dense amount of music sheets that he had in his room.

After a few days of searching, Kurt came up to Joey’s room with a music sheet in hand and as soon as Joey read it, he knew that this was the song he was going to sing at his audition. Usually Joey would have a hard time memorizing things, mostly because he couldn’t focus on a certain thing for that long, but with music it was different. His process was pretty simple, he listened to the song on a loop and he read the lyrics until he had them stuck in his head – it seemed to work all of the times he had to sing a song for Glee Club or even when he had previously auditioned for musicals at his school, so this wouldn’t be a problem.

Joey knew that there were probably going to audition for that role – after all, it was the second protagonist, so it did make sense that a lot of people were trying to get that role, but Joey was confident on auditioning for it either way. He knew that he could sing better than some people that he knew, and that wasn’t being cocky, it was just the truth. However, being confident didn’t help with the nerves that he always felt before the audition. Audition day was always a stressful one for Joey, though he wasn’t sure why – at this rate he had done it so many times that it didn’t even make sense that he would get nervous over it, but there he was: pacing around the wings of the stage, waiting for his name to be called. He hadn’t even heard the audition before him, he wasn’t even sure who it was before he saw Miles Pearce walking off stage, shooting him a look for a few seconds before he heard Bryan Ryan yell: “Next, Joey Hummel-Anderson!” – he took a deep breath and walked towards center stage.

Clearing his throat, Joey smiled at the people in the audience, even though he really couldn’t see them thanks to the spotlight pointed directly to him. “Hi, I’m Joey Hummel-Anderson and I’ll be auditioning for the role of Moritz Stiefel. But I’ll gladly take any role that you see fit for me.” Joey said with a nod of his head, proud of himself for memorizing what his dad had always told him to say in auditions – it was simple courtesy, but it was something that Joey normally wouldn’t say; if he wanted a part, he’d simply say that he was auditioning for it and nothing else. “I’ll be singing ‘Role of a Lifetime’ from Bare: A Pop Opera.” Joey stated, before he nodded, motioning that he was ready to start singing.

As the instrumental started, Joey took a deep breath as he stared down at the microphone that was in front of him before he started singing on cue. “Everything’s an act, when you’re pleasing everyone… And he assumes that role to such renown. He plays a perfect part, straight from his heart, knowing the risk he takes and hoping the house is not brought down.” Even though Joey loved to dance, he had to admit that he loved performing too – being on stage while singing a song from his heart was one of the best feelings that Joey had and he remembered doing it from such a young age. Sure, it had started with his dads’ obsession with Broadway, but it had become such more, especially when Joey had learned how to love and how to be on stage from across the years. He definitely wasn’t the person he was when he had started performing, somehow he felt like that he had only got better over the years.

Even though he liked performing, he would barely audition for the lead role – with the exception of Grease, Joey had always auditioned for the second protagonist or something smaller, but he was okay with that. What mattered was that he was having fun, whether it was on stage or during rehearsals with all of his friends. “The role of a lifetime is living a fantasy, the trauma that you struggle to erase. Thoughts battle words over deeds, a war with such causalities, all played out behind a smiling face.” Joey sang out, closing his eyes as he remembered everything that his dad told him – always keep a smile on his face and make it seem effortless. Not that his dad had ever been strict about auditions, but he knew that he just wanted Joey to succeed in everything that he did. Of course, Joey had troubles in school and just life in general, mostly because his brain didn’t work like everyone else’s, but what he lacked in brains, he sure did compensate when he was on stage, or at least he liked to think  he did.

“God I need your guidance, tell me what it means, to live a life where nothing is as it seems. Spending days in silent fear and spending nights in lonely prayer, hoping that when you wake, those feelings won’t be there.” The song went on for its entirety, Joey only getting more emotional as he kept singing – he usually wouldn’t get that emotional while singing, he wasn’t anything like Rachel St. James who seemed to cry whenever she sang a solo, but from the moment that his dad had showed him this song, he had been listening to it on repeat for so of course it was getting to him. As the song came to an end, Joey sang out the last lyrics in perfect harmony, hitting all the notes that he needed to hit. “What happens when the music stops? In the silence will he stay one day, one day you’re realize that these feelings aren’t going away, so we drive ourselves insane, spinning circles in our souls. As we dance around and play pretend, then once again, reprise our roles.” Joey finished the song, holding out the last note for a couple of seconds, before he took a deep breath and took somewhat of a bow as he thanked everyone who was watching.

The next part was the easy part of the whole audition – dancing. Joey could have showed up unprepared and he would have been able to do a good job, but since this was a serious audition and he didn’t want Bryan Ryan to judge him for coming unprepared to an audition, he had prepared a simple choreography, but complex enough to show that he could actually dance. It wouldn’t be Joey if he hadn’t picked a Dua Lipa – he always felt like he was better when he was dancing to one of her songs, so the choice had been pretty easy: Break my Heart. As the song started off, Joey was quick on his feet as he danced to the choreography that he had prepared a few days earlier and as he danced, he truly felt happy. Dancing was his true passion and there was nothing that was going to change that – he just knew that he wanted to keep dancing for the rest of his life, even when he was old and he could barely move.

As the song came to an end once again, Joey stopped his dancing before taking another bow to the audience and then the part that Joey hated the most was about to happen: monologues. Memorizing anything for Joey was a pain, even if it was for the musical. He had trouble with memorizing things and unlike music, he couldn’t just listen to it and read the text while he did, he had to practice. But once again, he had stuck to his dad’s advice: keep it short and be objective. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he believed in what his dad to say. So, after reading the monologue a couple of times and even practicing it in front of his dad, he was ready, or at least he thought he was. Joey would always pick something from “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown”, especially since it wasn’t that hard to read and Joey had enjoyed the musical from when he went to New York with his dads.

“Here’s the World One I flying ace high over France in his Sopwith Camel, searching for the infamous Red Baron! I must bring him down!” Joey started off, always keeping his dad’s advice in his head, making sure that he showed all of his emotion as he kept reciting the monologue, giving his best to remember everything that he had read – sure, it wasn’t that long of a monologue, but he still had tried his best. Once he was done, Joey took a final bow as he smiled at Bryan Ryan. “Uh, thank you!” Joey said, as he started heading towards the wing again, proud of the work he had just done – he was hoping to get at least a good role, but he knew with the amount of people that were auditioning, that he would have some competition ahead of him.

[strangest-hour]

Gallowdance (Steve x Reader)

Chapter One: Hang the DJ

Synopsis: You and Steve had bonded over the trauma you two had endured during the Summer of ‘86 at Starcourt. Mere months later, everyone else had gone back to normal. However, you had a hunch that everything wasn’t quite as normal as it seemed. It was up to you and Steve to conquer whatever sinister evil was at play this time.

Word Count: 3,077

Warnings: swearing, alcohol, mentions of blood, gore, mentions of pizza

*Author’s Note* If you’re a Billy stan, I would highly suggest reading something else. He’s a serious asshole in this, so don’t say I didn’t warn you.

 The party was in full swing. You stood on the sidelines as you watched the crowd of sweaty bodies gyrating to ear splitting party music. Everyone else seemed to be having a good time, but you just wanted to go home. It was hard to enjoy yourself when you just felt so stiff. Even with the ungodly amount of alcohol polluting your bloodstream. You should’ve been as loose and happy as ever, ready to drag yourself onto the dance floor. But your mind held yourself back. It was difficult to act like everything was normal and to just let yourself go wild.

“Just act normal.” 

Steve had said,

“Act like nothing happened here and that everything is fine.”

Which is what you were doing. Just acting normal. Doing your normal thing. Going out late, hanging with friends, going out to parties. That was what you did. But that’s not what you do now. You now lived in a state of constant fear. All you could do was follow Steve’s advice and hope that one day, things would go back to feeling normal. God, how you yearned for normalcy again.

“Hey, wanna come play this round of beer pong with me?”

The sound of Tina’s voice snapped you back into the present. How long were you zoned out for?

“Oh, no thanks. I’m already pretty trashed. I think I might go home. I don’t feel so good”

It wasn’t a complete lie. You were pretty over trying to pretend. At least for the night. The room was spinning and you just wanted to get the fuck out of there.

Tina pouted her lip in disappointment at your answer.

“Pretty please? Tommy and Carol are kicking my ass out there. Quincy passed out, so I need a new partner.”

Ugh, you really didn’t want to. And you had a sneaking suspicion that she wasn’t going to give you much of a choice.

“I’ll let you borrow my new Blondie tape for a week?”

Dammit.

“Fine.”

*******

Suffice to say, you kicked Carol and Tommy’s ass at beer pong. You and Tina always did make a dynamite team. Tommy was being a sore loser about the whole debacle, drunkenly slurring about how the game was somehow rigged. All you could do was chuckle at the notion as you left the table. 

If you weren’t drunk before, you sure as hell were drunk now.

It was a challenge battling your way back through the mob of hammered people, trying to get to the other side. You could feel bile rising to the back of your throat as you quickly rushed outside to empty the contents of your stomach onto Tina’s lawn. It was going to rain tomorrow. Hopefully, mother nature was kind enough to clean it off the lawn for you.

You stumbled back inside to get your jacket and noticed that Cheryl’s jacket was gone. She was your ride home.

Shit.

By some miracle, you were able to find Tina again and ask her where the hell Cheryl was.

“She asked you if you still needed a ride home during beer pong, and you said no. Don’t you remember?”

You vaguely remember her coming up to you, asking you about something during beer pong. But you were too focused on the game to pay attention to what Cheryl was saying. And that was almost an hour ago. Cheryl was definitely long gone by now.

The only other option was to walk home. As everyone else there was either too drunk, or too unconscious.

You slipped on your jacket and slid your purse on your arm, heading out the door.

The cool breeze of the fall air brushed across your face as you trudged through the lawn. Being extra careful not to step on your pile of bile on the lawn. Or anyone else’s for that matter.

It was only a couple blocks home, but god did you hate walking home by yourself. You had done it many times before when you were too wasted to drive yourself home, and hated it every single time.

This time felt different, though. Maybe witnessing the world quite literally almost ending before your eyes had something to do with it. Demogorgons, mindflayers, and who knows what the hell else was out there. Well, they were supposedly all taken care of. You just couldn’t shake the feeling that something else sinister was going on right under your nose. There was no real justification for your theory. It was probably just the trauma that was keeping you on edge.

You heard the roar of an engine pulling up beside you.

“Hey there, dollface. Need a ride?”

Speaking of sinister things. 

“No thanks, I’m fine.” You said, not even looking in his direction.

“Oh, come on. It’s cold as hell outside. I won’t bite.”

“Billy, I said no thank you.” You stated sternly.

You despised the guy. Why wouldn’t he just leave you alone?

“You live just down the road from me, so it’s not even out of the way. Just hop in.”

You just ignored him as you continued walking down the sidewalk, his car slowly following you as he was obnoxiously pleading for you to get in.

“I could just drive right alongside you the whole way home. Make sure you’re safe and all.”

All he needed was a windowless van and the promise of candy to finish off his incessant bothering for you to get in his car.

“Fuck off, man! I’m just fine all by myself. I don’t need your help.”

Something in your gut made you uneasy about his offer. Or rather him being so adamant about you getting in his car. You felt more uncomfortable than usual around him.

“Whatever.” He spat out as he zoomed off.

A breath of relief left your lips as he left your sight. You weren’t sure, but there was definitely something telling you that being near him was a very bad idea. Maybe it was the alcohol giving you false signals. 

More than likely, it was because of the events that unfolded mere months ago. At Starcourt, you literally saw the mindflayer rip a hole in his chest. He should’ve been dead. Somehow, he emerged through the woods a few weeks later, and he was just peachy keene. Apart from some cuts and bruises.

His family had held a god damn memorial for him. Figuring his body had burned with the rest of Starcourt. When he came back, he was unofficially proclaimed zombie boy number 2: electric boogaloo. You didn’t feel that he even deserved that title. Will had been through hell and back. Had been missing for weeks, stuck in the upside down. Left to fend for himself before he even hit puberty to earn his title. That’s not even counting the PTSD that was going to follow him for the rest of his life.

Billy just had dumb luck. Fortunate enough to not have any major arteries shredded.

You and the party had tried every test possible to ensure he wasn’t flayed again, or somehow a demogorgon in disguise. The tests checked out, and he was fine. That still didn’t excuse the fact that he should have been dead. He could explain his injuries away until he was blue in the face. That didn’t change the fact that you knew what you saw.

Thinking about all that shit was the last thing you needed running through your mind while you were walking home alone. At the end of the street, you hung a left and took a shortcut through a grassy field. Admittedly, you hadn’t gone this way many times, so you were a little fuzzy on where you were going. Especially since you still had a decent amount of booze in your system. 

After navigating yourself around a little bit, you emerged on the other side of the field. Ending up at the abandoned warehouse.

You trekked around the warehouse to get to the other side. It felt like miles getting around the damn thing. When you finally got to the other side of it, you wished you hadn’t.

“Hey there.” Billy said as he leaned up against his car with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. 

Had he been following you?

You were planning on simply walking right past him, ignoring him completely. Though upon getting closer to him, you noticed a smear of blood on his chest.

“What happened to you?” You said, pointing to his chest.

He shrugged “Oh, this? Eh, I just killed someone earlier. Didn’t quite get all cleaned up.”

You rolled your eyes. Though something about his joke didn’t sit right with you.

He shook his head “I’m not kidding.”

“Oh, ha-ha. Very funny.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, and your heart started beating rapidly.

You could tell by his cold gaze that he was dead serious.

You turned around, and immediately started running. All you could do was run. You ran until you felt like your lungs were ready to explode. His admission had you almost completely sobered up in an instant, having you dart away like a track star.

Suddenly, there was an exploding pain that radiated from the back of your skull. Slowly but surely, your vision became flooded with darkness as you began to drift into unconsciousness.

******

Your eyelids started to flutter as you began to regain consciousness. Wherever you were, it had a piercing brightness above you, making it hard for you to open your eyes.

If you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve suspected that you had died. The dull pain encompassing your body told you otherwise.

God, how your body ached. It felt like you had been put through a damn blender.

As you began to slowly open your eyes, you recognized your surroundings. You were in a hospital.

Steve turned around and his eyes met yours.

“Hey!” He shouted out to the nurse in the hall “She’s up! Get someone in here!”

He then turned his attention back to you.

“Hey, how are you?”

He was incredibly grateful to see you awake after worrying about you for hours.

“Uh, I don’t know.” You admitted. “I feel like I just got hit by a damn bus.”

You tried to sit up in the bed, and it hurt. Everything hurt. Your body screamed in pain any way you moved.

“What happened, y/n?” Steve inquired, worried as hell. “Did someone try to mug you?”

You shook your head “N-no. I mean, I don’t think so?”

To be honest, you were still a little fuzzy. Still coming to as you tried to shake off the last bit of grogginess that lingered in your body. You felt a sharp tear in your neck as you almost doubled over in staggering pain.

“Fucking hell!” You yelled out as you brought your hand to your neck. You felt mangled flesh against your palm. The sensation had you pull your hand away. Upon further inspection, you noted your palm was smeared with blood.

“Steve. Oh my god, Steve. What happened to me?” You were scared. Too afraid to even lift up your hospital blanket to see how bad the rest of your body was.

“Well, the Doctor said that you had a pretty serious gash on your neck. Bad enough that they gave you a few stitches. You also got busted up pretty bad on the back of your head. The rest of your body is just cuts and bruises.” He peeked out the door and then turned back to you as he lowered his voice “Oh, and if anyone asks, I’m your brother. That’s the only way I was able to even find that stuff out. Had to make sure you were okay and all.”

Your fingers trailed to the back of your head to feel how bad the injury actually was. A light press to the top of your skull was all it took for your head to explode in pain.

The familiar sensation had memories rushing back to you as you remembered bits and pieces from last night. At least, the last thing you saw before you felt that familiar pain. Or rather who you saw.

“Steve. Who found me?”

“There was some lady who found you this morning trying to find her dog. Stumbled across you and thought you were a mannequin. When she found out it was a body, she called the police. Thought you were dead.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, gently squeezing your knee.

“You-” He choked up a little “You almost were. Your body was almost completely drained of blood.”

What? 

“Steve, we need to get out of here. Now.”

His admission had shaken to your core. There was something in your heart that was desperately telling you that this wasn’t just some freak thing that happened. Darkness loomed over you after Starcourt. Following you wherever you went. You goddamn knew that everything wasn’t fixed and wrapped up in a neat little bow like everyone else had probably thought. You could feel it in your bones. You just needed to find a way to prove that you were right about all of this.

“Steve, I-”

A doctor came in and interrupted you.

“Hey there, y/n. How are we feeling today?”

You shrugged “I’ve definitely seen better days, Doc.” You took your lower lip into your mouth, debating in your mind what you should do.

“Can I leave?”

Your question took the Doctor by surprise.

“Well, I’m not so sure about that. We were having issues with some of our equipment earlier and weren’t able to get a clear read on all of your vitals.”

He cleared his throat.

“We can’t legally keep you here against your will. But, I would strongly advise you against leaving-”

“Then I want to leave.” You hated that you probably sounded rude, but you just needed to get the hell out of here. There were bigger things to worry about.

He sighed at your response. “Alright, then. Give me just a few moments, and I’ll write up your paperwork.”

The minute he exited the room, Steve glanced over at you.

“Are you sure you’re well enough to leave?”

“No. But I know I’m going to need to leave anyways. Some tylenol and hot coffee should get me back to better in no-time.” You said as you swung your legs to the side of the bed. Trying not to wince in pain at your injuries.

He was irritated at your total lack of care for yourself at that moment. But, he knew that all the begging in the world wouldn’t get you to stay in the hospital. You were stubborn like that. 

A few moments later, the doctor arrived with your paperwork.

“Here are your discharge papers. And I also wrote you a prescription for tramadol, for the pain. You should follow up with your primary care physician in 5 days.”

You took the papers. “Thank you.”

As soon as the doctor exited the room, you got up out of bed.

“Alright. Let's roll.”

******

When you finally got back to Steve’s house, you both plopped down on the couch. It felt nice to be at his home again.

He had been kind enough to help you work through your trauma after what happened at Starcourt. He would invite you over for pizza. The two of you would pop in whatever rental he was able to swipe from the video store, and you both would shoot the shit for hours. It was so nice to feel like things were normal. Even if it was just for a little bit.

The two of you became incredibly close. Before all that crazy shit happened, you and Steve hardly even talked to one another. Maybe it was just trauma bonding bringing you together. Either way, you were grateful to become his friend. There was even one night you were feeling particularly upset, so he made you your favorite treat to cheer you up. Vanilla milkshake. No whipped cream, extra cherries.

Now, here you were again. Those good times felt like a distant memory, now. Felt like you were back at square one with your progress. Only this time instead of dealing with otherworldly creatures trying to take over the world, it was a person. Who tried to murder you specifically. All the milkshakes in the world couldn’t help with that.

“So…” He trailed off as he fidgeted with his thumbs. Normally, he wouldn’t force you to talk about anything you didn’t want to talk about.

“Steve, it’s okay.” You reassured him. “I knew I was going to have to talk to you about this. That’s why I wanted to get the hell out of the hospital.” You sighed, not looking forward to recounting your traumatic events. “So, it all started at Tina’s party...”

You spent the next few minutes explaining everything. Making extra sure to not leave out the part where Billy admitted to literally killing a person.

His jaw hung open at what you were saying. He heard your words as clear as day, he just couldn’t believe it.

“I- So… you- I mean...” He ran his fingers through his hair. You had quite literally rendered him speechless.

He shook his head, trying to gather his words. “So, he tried to kill you, and he killed someone else? We should go to the police. He doesn’t sound like some ‘creature’, he sounds like a fucking murderer. ”

You shook your head. “No, Steve. You don’t understand. He walked and talked like him. But it just… wasn’t him. And when I ran away, he didn’t run immediately. It was like he just wanted to watch me run. Like he got some sick thrill from seeing me being scared. But then he caught up to me almost instantly. It was like he had some superhuman running power or something. ”

He shook his head, not sure about what to say.

“Look, if he turns out just to be some murderous psychopath, then we can go to the police, and i’ll tell them everything. Promise.” You scooted closer to him, resting your hand on his shoulder. “But I can’t do that until I’m positive that the bastard is just a human, and not some creature of the night. Steve, you’re going to have to trust me. Please.”

He took a long pause. Thinking about what he was getting himself into.

“Fine.”

[dopescotlandwarrior]

Unforgettable-Final Chapter

Also on AO3            A very special thanks to @statell​ for all your help

Chapter Nine

A young man knocks hard on a wood pole of a tukul, a round shelter made of grasses, mud, and wood poles, very common in South Sudan and the only type of structure on this UN base. It is officially known as the United Nations Protection of Civilians Site Bentiu. It was constructed outside the scorched city of Bentiu in the poorest nation of central Africa. The civil war had been raging for three years and when a peace treaty was signed in 2015 it failed to stop the fighting, so the war raged on.

The young man knocked harder on the tukul making the structure wobble in its feebleness. “Claire! Wake up! Treatment three and hurry! The door opened in a rush and Claire stood on the other side pushing her t-shirt into her pants.

“Jesus, I hate waking up to a flood of adrenalin! Nabbi when the tukul shakes like that the creatures in the grass roof fall to the ground, or on me.”

Nabbi smiled mischievously at his favorite nurse, “and now you are up and need very high, doctor says run!”

Claire felt her thighs burning as she sprinted to the treatment ward. Rounding the corner she saw both doctors bent over bodies that were unrecognizable. Casualties of government soldiers shooting, raping, and burning a village in the night.

Sterile gloves slapped back on her hands that were held aloft. There were no sterile gowns and no clean water on most days.

“I’m ready!

A long stream of Gaelic profanity was growled as Jamie threw his instruments on the wooden tray. He hung his head wondering what the intensive nine-month training he endured was for as he lost more than he saved. The patient was removed by workers and another mangled mess was placed on his table. Claire held his gloves open and his huge hands jammed into them.

“Pea! On the double, bring a clamp pack, this boy is bleeding out!

Claire felt like she never stopped running when the wounded arrived from a village raid.

“Clamp the arteries as fast as you can. I have the chest, you take the abdomen. We can save this one if we hurry.”

Claire’s steady hand held the row of clamps as she jammed the forceps into one and pinched a bleeder off by squeezing it around the vessel. She worked fast from three months of practice at this level of trauma. Her eyes flicked at Jamie every few minutes because she was worried about him. He was losing weight and had dark circles under his eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw him smile.

“Eyes on the bleeders sweet pea, your betrothed is fine, just frustrated.”

“I’m worried, Cutter, he doesn’t look well, as a matter of fact, either do you. Thank Christ we’re getting out of here in four days.”

(NSFW under the cut.)

Hours later they each had a bucket of semi-clean water to pour over their heads. One bucket per day. Claire spent many hours daydreaming about long showers with her favorite scented body wash and it was finally just four days away. She took a seat next to Jamie at the grub table and ran her hand down his leg. Looking up at his tired face made her long to lay in his arms and kiss him to sleep. She missed him. Nine months of working his practice while completing his field training had kept him away from her and then they were off to South Sudan to do their part with Doctors Without Borders. He had done that for her and now she just wanted to get him home.

She thought about the visiting doctor they met the week before. He, Jamie, and Cutter had much to talk about allowing Claire to watch his face, the slump of his shoulders, and his haunted eyes. He headed a research team of five other doctors that were sent to Africa to treat the outbreak of Ebola. Once their treatment protocol was established, he flew back to the states to compile the mountain of data that would be coming. All five of those doctors, his colleagues, and friends, died a horrifying death and their corpses were left rotting in the jungle until procedures were developed to bring them safely home.

Claire recognized the symptoms of survivor's syndrome, his guilt that he survived when his team did not was taking a toll on his promising life. Snuffing out the flame that once burned bright. Their contribution to the treatment of Ebola would save thousands of lives, possibly millions in the future. Once the paper was published the doctor resigned his position at Harvard Medical, locked his lab, and left civilization. Now he headed a program for monitoring the doctors on the front lines of emerging pathogens. He had come to examine the medical staff and clear them to return to America.

Cutter left to write a letter to his wife and Claire asked Jamie to take a walk with her. The compound walls stretched for a mile in each direction and U.N. peacekeepers manned the turrets along the wall with machine guns. It was crowded with people seeking refuge from the war making a relaxing walk impossible. Claire’s mantra played over and over in her head, I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home.

New doctors arrived two days later and spent twelve hours with Jamie and Cutter, learning the base, the wards, and the one-hundred seventy patients being treated. They walked through the rape ward where the girls and women were kept away from the other patients. Little was said about the brutality of the attacks. They would find out soon enough.

The pediatric ward was last. It was Jamie’s poison to watch the babies, sick with Cholera, malaria, or malnutrition succumb to their illness, week after week. Cutter had taken over the tour and Jamie sought out the quiet of their tukul. When Claire found him later, he was respondent.

“I’m sorry we came here Jamie, I’m sorry you are suffering because of me. Please talk to me before I die from sadness. I am left to guess what has struck you down, pulled you away from me. When it didn’t happen after three months, I thought I wasn’t cursed anymore. Wh…when you didn’t turn against me I mean, I thought we were safe. It just took a little longer this time, right Jamie? Now you hate everything I do and every breath I take.”

She put her arms around him and cried the words out until he turned to her and held her closely, shushing her and saying no.

“My sweet Sassenach, stop, ye dinna speak my truth lass, I’ve never loved ye more. Ye break my heart when ye cry like that.”

“Then tell me what it is and if we’re over Jamie.”

“We are powerless to save these people that have come here to die. We have no supplies, no sterile theater, and no freshwater. We are but undertakers for the almost dead. The babies, so innocent, so sick, have no chance. Born to a short life of misery. Where is God Sassenach? I can kill a man, face to face because I battle the devil. I would feel better to be let out of here where I can do some good.”

Jamie stood up abruptly and started walking to the door like he would walk out of the base and join the war.

“No!” Claire jumped on him crying no. Begging him to stop, not to leave her, not to die. “Tomorrow Jamie, we leave this dreadful place tomorrow. Please, don’t break my heart today!” She jumped off of him and ran to the door to stand in front of it.

“Let me out, Claire”

“You will have to hurt me for that to happen because I’m not moving! I understand how you feel now, and I agree, this was a terrible choice of location. In sixteen hours we board a plane to get out of this hell, why can’t you hold on until then?”

Jamie knew he wasn’t making sense and he knew this was the last night here. He took a deep breath and held his arms out to Claire.

“Please, Sassenach. Let’s go to bed, and I promise to just hold ye all night. Please, Claire, stop cryin, we will get out tomorrow and go back to our life. Come here.”

Claire flew into his arms and he carried her to bed, to hold her, until morning when this nightmare was over. She couldn’t relax until she pulled a piece of twine from her belongings and tied it around Jamie’s wrist. With much effort and Jamie’s help, the other end was tied around her wrist. She found a comfortable spot but woke up through the night to make sure he was still there.

Before they left, Claire found Cutter coming out of the surgical ward covered in blood.

“Shirt off Cutter.”

He smiled wickedly and pulled his shirt over his head. Claire held him around his middle and cried. She would miss him until they met again next year to find a new location for the summer. Jamie came up behind them and told Cutter to get his disgusting hands off his future wife. The two men shook hands and hugged, both feeling the relief this trip was over.

“Until next time friend,” Jamie said through a smile.

Claire stowed their bags and busied herself with grabbing a blanket for Jamie. She was able to get stiff drinks for both of them when they were finally in the air. She passed a mixed drink and a shot of whisky to Jamie, looking back a minute later to see two empty glasses. She got on her knees and released Jamie’s seat kissing him sweetly. That and the alcohol sent him into the quiet of his dreams for the next five hours. Claire felt relief this exhausted man could sleep, and she guarded him from the steward and other passengers that might wake him. They were accustomed to the brutal heat of South Sudan and she noticed Jamie shaking in his sleep. She turned the airflow away from him and then covered him with the blanket.

When they were notified of landing for their connection, she stroked his arm to avoid jolting him awake. Jamie pulled the armrest up and pulled her to him, covering both of them with the blanket.

Claire leaned into his neck and felt powerful arms around her. She had not felt this close to him in a very long time and wished they could cuddle for another hour. There was another huge feeling in her stomach at the same time. Her phone! She could make calls while they waited for their connection and she was bursting with excitement. She was digging in her purse while they disembarked the plane making Jamie laugh.

“Who will be first Sassenach?”

“Jenny of course,” said as she punched her speed dial.

Jamie looked down at her marveling at her ability to accept changes in her life and then put the effort into creating the life she wanted. He remembered his sister’s stone face when they met for lunch so long ago. Jenny was convinced he had become a total tool and womanizer and nothing he said would change her mind. He was so disappointed she was making him choose between her and Claire. When Claire asked him to invite Jenny and Ian for dinner one weekend, he decided it was time for Claire to know the family dynamic at play. Claire sat across from him at the kitchen table and listened to the timeline he shared with Geneva and how she poisoned Jenny’s mind against her. She felt sad for Jamie because there was now an ultimatum standing between him and Lallybroch. I can fix this, she thought, just need a little luck.

Over the next week, she checked in with Geillis and Laoghaire to get caught up on the details of Geneva’s life. She broached the subject at the club when her friends were three sheets to the wind.

“So I understand Jamie dated this girl Geneva while I was gone. I totally understand because I told him I was not coming back to Scotland, ever. Now she has lied to his sister about their relationship, so I need all her details girls.”

“Her family is rich and she flaunts that over everyone since she was in elementary.” Laoghaire was clearly harboring a dislike for the lady and Claire seized the opportunity.

“I heard she was really nice,” Claire lied.

“She is not nice! She’s a cold, calculating bitch actually. She was all sweet to me until Jamie dumped her and now she doesn’t seem to recognize me. That’s okay, she is gettin what’s due her now.”

“Do tell sweetheart,” Claire inched her chair closer to her friend.

Geillis started to laugh wickedly, “the lass got herself knocked up by some hotshot, handsome, rich, and new to the area. He’s developing the new mall and already well known around town. They were datin for a month and she told him at her birthday party she was pregnant. He instantly left the party and she cried for the rest of the night. We were there and saw the whole thing.”

Claire’s mind was churning the facts and she smiled broadly at her two best friends. ”Is that a fact?”

It took two days for Jamie to fall asleep before she did and she took his phone outside and sent a text message to Geneva to meet him at the house tomorrow, twelve noon. Then she deleted the message and blocked text messages from her.

When she answered the door the next day, she leaned against the door jam and stuck out her hand with a smile. Geneva was not happy about the intrusion of this girl and demanded to see Jamie.

“Of course, come in, let’s get acquainted. I’m Claire by the way, Jamie’s girlfriend.”

It took some persuading to get Geneva to the kitchen table where she could deliver the coup de grace.

“I am so happy to spend time with you before Jamie gets here. You see, his sister Jenny has a misconception of your relationship, and it's causing a rift in the family. I want you to fix that, today.”

Geneva snorted a weak laugh and looked at Claire with utter disdain. “Not likely, I told her the truth. I feel sorry for you because you were duped by Jamie. He was with me, actively with me, until a week before he broke it off. We talked about getting married and then suddenly he was done with me. Poor baby, you’re next.”

“I know the truth of it Geneva and you will come clean to Jenny, today. If you don’t, it’s high time your father knows about your pregnancy to a guy that has run from any association with you. An abortion, trapping him with a paternity test or just hoping he comes back will do nothing but tarnish your family’s good name. You’re a social parasite Geneva and I can see your father cut off your support and throw you to the streets to cohabitate with others as misguided as you. You must be working on solutions to your situation so tell Jenny the truth and I leave you alone. Otherwise, everyone in town will know, including your parents.”

Claire smiled sweetly at Geneva and waited until she bolted out of the house cursing under her breath. She could only hope she was right about the family dynamic and how this news would poison Geneva’s position in it.

Jamie came home the next night with company. His contrite sister was there to apologize to Claire and ask to start over with her. Claire was over the moon and made plans with Jenny for a night out on the town the following weekend so the four of them could have some fun. It was like magic to a grateful Jamie. The four of them got on so well and Claire and Jenny started a friendship that would bond them to each other like sisters.

Jamie grabbed the phone from Claire and asked Jenny to hold on a minute. He pulled Claire to his lips and kissed her deeply sparking a look in her eyes that made him weak. He handed the phone back and dropped his head to the back of his chair, asleep in minutes.

The wait for their connection was long enough for Claire to check in with Laoghaire and Geillis also. She drifted to the gift shop and purchased a beautiful bracelet made in Africa. She felt done with the excursions into remote parts of the world to render aid to the less fortunate. She just felt empty inside for such an effort again. Deep inside she knew the reason. She had her suspicions for a month but couldn’t confirm it. She felt lonely suddenly and walked quickly back to Jamie who was awake.

“Hey, sunshine, how do you feel?”

“Sleepy Sassenach. I want ye to keep me awake so tell me a story, aye?.”

Claire held her breath, wanting so badly to tell him her truth.

“Jamie, I think I’m pregnant.”

He stared at her for a good minute, expressionless, “stay here Sassenach, I’ll be right back.”

Jamie ran to the boarding counter and asked where he could find a drugstore in the airport. He sprinted away while Claire watched in total confusion. He must absolutely hate the idea, she thought as she slipped into depression.

Ten minutes later Jamie ran back with a small bag and lifted Claire to her feet guiding her to the ladies' room.

He put the bag in her hand and pushed her into the room, looking wide-eyed, almost wild.

Claire took the pregnancy test out of the bag and read the instructions. She still could not read Jamie’s emotions and felt her folly at surprising him with something life-changing and yet unverified. Holding the stick in the air to dry it she looked at the results window and felt her world tilt. It took so long to get to the sink when she looked at herself in the mirror Jamie was standing behind her.

“May I see it, Sassenach,” he whispered, looking at Claire’s pale face.

When she lifted the stick for him, he grabbed her and spun her around until she was dizzy. She smiled weakly at him trying to take in his reaction. He was absolutely beaming and kissed her face a dozen times telling her this was the best news. He gushed over her ability to make him deliriously happy, neither of them noticing a toilet flushing and a woman join them at the sink. She smiled knowingly at the two young people in love.

Spoken with a Swedish accent she told them, “now you must get off the street and get a job for your baby. You will be very happy.” She walked out of the restroom leaving Jamie and Claire clearly shocked at what she said.

Claire bent over laughing at the comment. “No shower for three months makes us look like bums on the street!”

Jamie looked like he had seen an angel and wrapped her up in his powerful arms.

“Sassenach, when we land in Scotland, I will have an agenda that will keep my mind occupied for at least two days. I willna have the brain space to utter a single sentence I’m afraid. Come, lass, let’s talk about this miracle and makin an honest woman of ye while I can.”

Jamie pulled her back to their seats and looked at a confused Claire.

“I don’t understand Jamie, what is so important for you when we get home?”

Jamie held her cheek and sighed, letting her see his need for her, making her squirm in her seat. “Oh, I see, well that trumps everything, doesn’t it? I love you Jamie and as long as you still look at me that way, I fear nothing.”

The second leg of their trip home, Claire curled up against Jamie and dove into the calming sea of her dreams. Jamie pulled her head to his lap and made sure nothing and no one disturbed her. It was a magic seven hours for him as he contemplated the family of his future with the fierce loving, free spirit who slept in his lap.

When the front door opened, two battle-weary lovers dropped their duffle bags and struggled to the shower. Jamie covered Claire with her favorite body wash followed by scented shampoo that made her moan with pleasure. He pulled the shower curtain aside and wrapped her in luxurious towels before heading back for his own time with the soap. When he emerged, the beard and mustache were quickly eliminated, and he felt like a new man anxious to devour his love in the slowest, most thorough way possible. He walked into the bedroom with his curls dripping water onto his shoulders and found Claire sitting on the side of the bed, head jerking up from falling asleep. His heart nearly melted in his chest as he pulled her to him and held her down until sleep came and took her away.

Claire woke up feeling groggy from her deep sleep. She knew they had two days to re-acclimate before work pulled them apart. Jamie looked like an angel to her as he slept. She could take a bit of time to recreate the body she preferred. She snuck quietly to the second bathroom and filled the bath with hot water and scented bubble bath. She placed two new razors on the tub and scraped off the unwanted hair that invaded her most intimate body parts over the last three months. It was liberating and unleashed her arousal, dormant for so long. By the time she was done, it was a struggle not to jump on Jamie and win her release that was throbbing between her legs.

Standing at the foot of the bed, she watched him sleep, noticing the room had become grey with the coming sunrise. She knelt to kiss his feet, followed by his calves, licking the back of his knees and causing him to gasp. She ran her tongue slowly up the back of his legs and buried her face under his buttocks to lick his balls until he flipped over and looked at her.

Jamie struggled to contain his need to pound her and his mind was full of this wonderful woman. I must slow my heart, he thought. She is kneeling over me naked and I canna get enough of her, clean shaved, smelling like sex. Her hair is falling around her face as she runs her eyes up and down my body. Jesus, she is beautiful and has no idea how I want to take her. Brutally, lovingly, dominating her body and mind until she gives in to me. I must fight the urge to consume her. She is the mother of my child and I will use all my strength not to overpower her. God, when she pulls my nipple into her mouth it strips my resolve. I want to take her, my way, without consent, without mercy, until she’s mine.

“Sassenach, my love, come here.”

She is resistant. Careful lass, dinna tempt me, I’m no that strong. What is this? No, not a good idea, keep yer beautiful mouth away from me. It’s not fair but oh…my…God it feels so good. Jesus lass, stop or I’ll come down yer throat before I can worship yer body. Come here, love.

Claire felt Jamie pull her to his lips and crush her. He flipped her over and pulled her legs apart feasting his eyes on her gorgeous pussy. She dropped her fingers to her fold and held it apart for him to gorge himself on her throbbing core. She arched her back into her first orgasm and tried to pull him to her. He entered her softly and slowly making her pant for more. She grabbed his face to her and looked him in the eye.

“I don’t want Sunday school. If I say, uncle, I do the wash for both of us. Show me how much you love me Jamie, right now, and don’t hold back or I’ll go back to sleep, I swear I will.”

For the next thirty minutes, Claire felt the power of Jamie and it thrilled her as he pulled her into the most intimate and edgy positions that most women would push away from. She opened her body to him, and he feasted, growling into his orgasm that stung his balls as he ejaculated. Claire was vaguely aware of the quilt pulling up to cover them and Jamie’s soft kisses on her face. They were clinging to each other as they fell into another five hours of sleep only to repeat the intensity once again.

Many hours later, Claire heard the quiet ringtone alerting her to a call coming in. She patted the bed until she found the offending phone and opened her eyes just before clicking the dismiss button. She answered hoping she could stay awake long enough to let him talk.

“Joe, why are you calling in the middle of the night?”

“It is one in the afternoon gorgeous and it’s time to get up.”

“No, it’s time to sleep some more dear one. What do you want?”

“I want to say welcome back to civilization, hear about your tour in Sudan, and one more thing Claire.”

She looked at the phone and shook her head, trying to wake up. “What other thing Joe?”

“I found Luna.”

“What?!”

“She’s in an orphanage Claire, has been since the raid on the hospital. The rebels leveled the settlements nearby and Luna’s family was wiped out. Thank God those monsters have respect for the innocent. I thought you would want to know.”

Claire was on her feet and pounding Joe with questions as she paced the bedroom. Running for her laptop she brought up the URL Joe dictated and raced through the pictures of babies and children that were up for adoption. Her fingers abruptly stopped when she found the face of her angel and she gasped at the sight of her.

“Jesus Christ Joe, she’s been in that place for over a year! How can I get her out?”

“It’s not easy Claire, but someone has to help her.”

Joe gave Claire the number to call the adoption agency in Honduras and what little he had discovered about Luna. He warned her the adoption protocols were temporarily closed for unknown reasons and forwarded the email listing the steps to adopt a child from a country outside of Honduras. It included two stays in-country to live among the culture of the child as the agency went over her dossier.

Claire was crying with the love and fear she felt for Luna and promised Joe she would keep him posted. When she felt Jamie’s hand on her bare shoulder she looked up into compassionate eyes and she felt him say, I’m here to help you, trust me with your truth, I will help you bring her home.

Claire clicked off from Joe and dissolved into her tears and fears while Jamie held her with his strength.

Jamie looked at the pictures of Luna on the website and felt his heart open up and pull her in. Her face was the picture of innocence, her huge eyes revealed her loveless life and fear. He waited for Claire to be distracted and returned to her picture again and again. Claire loves this beautiful little girl like she was her own. Something had to be done.

Luna became their project during their off-hours. Returning to work was hard enough, but Luna was a constant presence in both their minds. The requirement for being considered as an adoption family were rigid including two prolonged stays in-country. When Jamie brought that up Claire would start shaking and he could see the war going on in her head.

“Stay in Honduras for two weeks? I could see Luna during that time, but we must be invited and they have had our dossier for three weeks, Jamie. When are we going to hear from them?”

Claire was clearly scared shitless about entering that country again, even when Jamie assured her the city was safe. He talked it over with John during an afternoon hike when Claire was working. When John bid him farewell he followed up with, “I’m going with her Jamie because you can’t. Tell her to schedule the visit right away before I’m assigned to a case.”

When Jamie told Claire John would go with her to Honduras she cried and hung on his neck. Within a week, Claire was invited by the agency to come and see Luna. Jamie had mixed feelings letting go of her at the airport.

“Sassenach, I’m so sorry I canna go with ye. Are ye alright with John lass?”

She looked into his eyes feeling such gratitude he would let her go without him. She smiled and kissed him before breaking out of his embrace to jog to her boarding gate. John settled into the seat next to her and complained that her pregnancy put a stop to partying enroute to Honduras.

“You’re a very selfish person, curbing my happiness on this trip. I just wanted you to know that Claire.”

She smiled at him and got comfortable for the long plane ride to a country she hated.

They strolled through the nursery the next day, a requirement of the agency to look at all the children up for adoption. Claire could hardly breathe waiting to see Luna. She heard a familiar cry and looked through a window at numerous cribs with children inside. The minute her eyes saw Luna she struggled to stay on her feet. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she smiled at the infant who was having a tantrum, shaking a stuffed toy in Claire’s direction. They were forced to view the rest of the infants before returning to the nursery where Luna was.

Claire walked directly to Luna and smiled at her obvious recollection. She held her arms out for her and Luna moved into them gripping Claire’s hair with both fists and burying her face in Claire’s neck. They both clung to each other with tears that flowed freely. Even John was choked up and turned around to cough harshly. The rest of the afternoon, Claire held Luna in a huge rocking chair and seemed far away in a world she shared with Luna alone. John paced the hallway watching with growing concern.

“Jamie, I’m worried. These two are obviously bonded and Luna remembers her. Claire is in another world and just wants to hold her. I’m not sure this will end well for Claire. What should I do?”

“Protect her John. Dinna let anyone close to Claire. Other than that, let it play out. Ye willna be able to drag Claire away until they tell her to go, aye?” Claire cried so hard on her last day with Luna. She heard the baby wailing for her until they were out the door of the orphanage. John held a weeping Claire all the way back to Scotland and was anxious to hand her to Jamie to console. He really didn’t get the emotional part of this mission.

Claire returned to work and pushed Luna out of her mind so she could function. The next in-country requirement was a four-week stay in Honduras and Claire made contact with the agency every week asking for an invitation to come. She was being stone-walled without any explanation and it was taking its toll on her.

Jamie watched her brave attempts to act normal but as her pregnancy progressed her expanding waistline reminded him constantly of her delicate condition. He was prepared to accompany her to Honduras as soon as they were allowed. The weeks turned into months and Claire could not take it anymore. Jamie held her close and promised to find an answer to why they had not been processed already. He looked into her eyes and asked her with a sincere and loving heart to marry him, right now.

The following weekend, they were married at the Justice of the Peace with Jenny and Ian standing as witnesses. Claire was six months pregnant and Jamie knew the window of opportunity to travel to Honduras was closing.

Cutter answered Jamie’s call with a heartfelt hello to his friend. Jamie asked about other means to push the adoption through since the agency had closed the proceedings at the order of the government. It was a match to kindling as Cutter felt Claire’s despair to save Luna. He remembered her asleep on the Lazy Boy with a hand in the incubator, waking every hour to feed this doomed child. He was mobilized to cut through this ridiculous bureaucracy and get some answers from the agency.

On a whim, Cutter wrote a letter to the president of the United States, detailing the surgical procedure that saved Luna and how one nurse fought for her against all odds. He told of her bravery when the hospital was raided, how she was shot and barely escaped her own death. These terrible events befell her because she pledged two years of her life to help the Hondurans. He included her husband’s bravery when he got all of them out of the country, risking his own life. He completed the letter with his wish to reunite this forgotten child with the only mother she ever knew. “Go with God.” The envelope was sealed and sent.

A month later, Cutter received a letter from the White House. A duplicate letter was received by Jamie and Claire. Both letters were signed by the President with the amazing news that Luna was coming to America the following weekend and they were invited to the Dallas airport to greet her.

Claire sat down hard in the rocking chair and stared at the floor as Jamie read the letter. She looked up expecting the next shoe to fall and watched Jamie typing into his phone. Claire was frozen watching Jamie pace as he arranged a flight for the following weekend. She felt the tears fall down her cheeks as she waited to hear bad news or wake up from a dream.

Jamie knelt on the floor to look into her eyes. “She is coming home Sassenach, in four days! The president arranged this for you, and for Luna. Be happy Sassenach, it is happening and we will have her home with us by next week!”

Jamie pulled Claire into bed and held her close telling her it was going to be perfect and to have faith. Claire gripped his sides and shook, feeling so small in this miraculous undertaking.

Claire gripped Jamie’s hand at the Dallas airport and heard her mantra repeated over and over again, please let her be on that plane, please let her be on that plane. She looked up at an entourage coming out of the plane. They were obviously secret service and surrounded a woman in the middle of all those bodies. Claire and Jamie stood waiting, barely breathing.

A petite, young, blonde woman with striking features was revealed and she held Luna in her arms looking around for a familiar face. When her eyes found Jamie she smiled and walked to him, seeing Claire’s face she knew who she was. Luna was handed to Claire as she dissolved in grateful tears and sat down to avoid falling over as Luna’s face pressed to hers.

Jamie looked down at the office manager and his eyes were shouting his thanks to her. “Mission accomplished soldier, I would salute ye if I could. I am so grateful.”

She looked at him with compassion, her face showing her delight in helping this mission come to pass. She placed her hand on Jamie’s arm.

“The U.S. President salutes you, Jamie, from behind the scenes as you and I have come to know it. It was a three-country effort to arrange the adoption, the U.S., Scotland, and Honduras. How the U.S. President got involved I’ll never know but it was his clout that got the attention needed. Luna belongs to the two of you now. I pulled strings to get assigned to this mission so I could carry her to you. It’s my going away present and no one is more deserving than you.”

Jamie was reeling from the disclosure. He looked up and saw Dougal hanging back looking like he was a stranger, waiting to board his flight. He turned slightly and locked eyes with Jamie and the two men nodded slightly to each other. Jamie looked at Claire and Luna feeling like his heart would burst in his chest. There was much to do to ready the house for this precious child and another soon to be born. He took a deep breath and looked for the office manager but she was gone, as was Dougal. They melted into the airport population on their way back to Scotland.

Jamie felt the tears on his cheeks and sat down next to Claire and Luna, holding them close and thanking God for this miracle. His head was bowed as he prayed his thanks until a tiny hand reached out for him and pushed her body toward him. He pulled Luna to him and locked eyes with his new daughter.

“I’m Da, Luna.”

She touched his face and then his tears with her finger, looking at him like he was the most important person she had ever met.

“No more fear lassie, ye’ll have a life of love, I promise.”

Jamie struggled to push the tears back. Not for his pride or appearing weak. He wanted his eyes clear so he could see his two lassies and Claire’s round abdomen that held his next son or daughter, closely protected and fiercely loved.

The End.

The spirit in me bows to the spirit in you...Namaste and thank you.

[cherryyharryy]

Burning Words

Chapter Two: Lunch, Library, and Lady Liberty

WC: 7,400

Previous part

Songs for this chapter

The prickling scratch of my highlighter dragging across a strip of text reminds me of how naïve I really am. I hate the sound, hate how uneven the lime green line sits, jagged over the inked words, with a pool of color where the pen sat at the beginning of the sentence. 

It’s raining outside, and rain in New York is not like rain anywhere else. It’s purposeful, like a painting, like it belongs here. The only difference is that nothing changes—not like back home. In Georgia, people would come out afterwards, drive ten miles to the nearest pit and screw their trucks through the mud. Kids would run outside and look for worms and slugs, puddles to jump in. Dogs would dig holes in the softened earth. But here, no one stops. No one bats an eye, not even the people who forget their umbrellas. I wish rain was still life changing.

I sigh, close my notes, and cap my highlighters. “Any ideas for lunch?”

Jessie dips her head back in thought. I see her lashes flutter and her lips pinch, but then she shrugs. “We could order pizza?” She’s sat cross-legged on a patchwork armchair, laptop balanced across her thighs with a pen teetering between her teeth. I have to tip my head over the back of my chair to see her, upside down. “I’ve got a coupon for that place down the street.”

“We always order pizza.”

“We could learn how to cook.”

I click my tongue. “Bingo.” 

The far wall of the apartment has a generous sized window. The floor creaks like we’re torturing it every time we move across a room, the bathtub faucet leaks when it’s hot out, and I know more about my neighbors’ lives than I really need to. But the window....it’s like a movie. My chair sits beside it. I try to count raindrops but there are too many. 

“Chinese?” I offer. 

“You and your egg rolls.”

“They’re the only thing I want when I don’t really wanna eat. I didn’t eat breakfast. And I only had a handful of popcorn for dinner last night.” 

I can see a park from here, and in the winter when the trees are bare, a neighboring tennis court. Flowers hang limply from their stems along the sidewalk. A cat scrambles across the road, sporadic, and suddenly I envy the lack of knowledge animals have, lack of responsibilities, sense of time, unspoken contracts. At times I wish I were a depressed cat soaked to the bone, thinking if I move quick enough I’ll escape the rain. 

“What?” I miss half of what Jessie asks. 

“How’s your class been?”

“Which one?”

Jessie pauses her movements to assert me with a knowing glare. “You know what class. How’s the British babe?”

“Ugh, Harry.”

“Harry,” she tests his name before I continue. A few students have called him by his name, but he’s quick to correct them, surely enjoying his authority.

“He’s most definitely not a babe. A jackass. And he’s been as jackass-y as ever.” I join Jessie when she starts to laugh. “He calls on me every chance he gets. And I swear it’s just to humiliate me.”

“Well at least he’s nice to look at.”

“That means nothing when he’s a jerk.”

“True.” Jessie shrugs. “What about Truman’s...it’s near campus?”

I loll my head back and narrow my gaze. They don’t have egg rolls. “Yeah that’s fine.”

“My treat.”

***

In Hungarian, there are two words for the color red. Piros and vörös, with different times to use them, and should be used accordingly. When I was a kid I got them wrong; called my mom’s hat vörös, and got a slap on the wrist by my grandmother. 

I spent that evening hiding in my closet, using the sleeve of my Winnie the Pooh pajamas to soak up the cascade of tears. When my cousin found me, I begged him to explain what I’d done wrong. 

“Piros is blood inside the body. Vörös is when it comes out.”

That’s all I was left with. And I never did understand the difference. For years now that night resurfaces in my brain, and I think, I’m older now, I’ll be able to get it.

But now, as I stand on the sidewalk, peering through the window of Jessie’s lunch choice, I’m swarmed with the overbearing realization that age has nothing to do with it. 

Harry’s in a striped button down, a sea foam green that reminds me of how different candy felt when I was younger, and high-waisted navy blue pants that couldn’t decide between flaring out or forming to the shape of his legs. I watch him balance plates and glasses, stacking forks and knives, spoons and mugs, soiled napkins and empty Splenda packets. He shovels his tip into his pocket and then disappears out of view while someone else wipes down the table. 

“We can go somewhere else.”

“No.” I drag in the humid air, freshly washed, and hold it in my lungs until my head starts to spin. “This is fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. We’ll sit in the back. At Brigette’s table.”

I’m not sure if you can call Truman’s a restaurant. It isn’t fast food, fine dining, or even a bistro. It’s always dark. The chairs are pink and the tablecloths are green. There are flowers everywhere, I thought it was a flower shop and was sadly mistaken when I came in for the first time to buy Jessie a bundle of roses for her birthday. Strumming violins fill any silence between tables. It’s old but new, rooted woods, lamps from the 90’s, curtains from the 80’s, cooks from the 60’s and 70’s. 

“Brigette’s not on today, but that table is available if you want it.”

Me and Jessie both blink at the hostess, unintelligible utterances coming out until we give up, give in, and sit ourselves down at the small tea table under the back window. 

“I hope the rain doesn’t start again. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

I hum, more preoccupied with trying to find a better distraction than my ripped cuticles. 

“He’s up front,” Jessie assures, “I think I saw that guy I dated the summer after freshman year...Mack something or other...busing these tables. I’m sure he’ll wait on us.”

“Whitaker.”

“What?”

“His name was Mack Whitaker.”

“Yeah, him. It’ll be fine.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. I can’t imagine being her.

The place is busy, rightfully so on a bleak Saturday afternoon. The sun pokes through the clouds occasionally, carving streams of golden light across our table, Jessie’s face, and I assume mine as well. She compliments my eyes and I thank her, then proceed to detail a hundred abstract thoughts as to why she must pity me enough to lie. Someone—who isn’t Mack Whitaker—brings us each water and apologizes for the wait. They’re swamped, understaffed, and had barreled through a visit from the health department early this morning. 

“Anthony’s pissed again,” Jessie mumbles, pursing her lips when I look up at her. I raise my brows so she’ll continue. “I missed his call the other night. But I was busy, so…” she shakes her head and scoffs a laugh. 

“It’s sweet though, that he wants to talk to you everyday.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs. 

“He’ll get over it,” I assure her. “He did the last time.”

“I just hope he’s over it before he comes up here.”

“Good afternoon, have you had a chance to look at the menu?” A girl from my class ends our conversation. She wears the same outfit as Harry. When she smiles I have to blink, her teeth whiter than heat, slightly crooked, and I imagine she overdoes the stinging gel against her gums to make up for it. It works. Her lips and cheeks look as if she’d became too friendly with strawberries; a character face, full and round, structured like magazine models with skin to match. I remember her from the previous year: pretty, even at eight in the morning. Boys like her, professors like her. Head of the Spanish club but I bet she can’t count past diez. 

“Two turkey on ciabatta with tomato soup. No mayo on one. Diet Coke aaand…” Jessie raises her brows at me.

“My water is fine, thanks.” 

“No mayo,” our server draws out the syllables while jotting down our order. ”Well my name’s Danielle, if you need anything just—” She points her pencil at me and squints, as if that clears my image and her memory. “You look familiar…” She hums to herself, taps the end of the pencil against her lips before her eyes light up. I gulp. “Oh! You’re in my class aren’t you? The early one on Monday and Wednesday!” 

I nod. “Yeah, World Lit.”

“Yeah! How are you doing on your book report?”

“Um, good I guess. Haven’t gotten too far into it yet.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty stupid right? I heard it was the TA’s idea. I mean, I haven’t done a book report since high school.” She laughs and rolls her eyes. “So—oh! Speak of the devil.”

My face feels as though I’m being stung by a thousand bees. Harry sidles up beside Danielle and nods to each of us. 

“Afternoon, ladies.” He’s holding a pitcher of ice water and flicks his gaze down to my glass.

I regret how much I drank when he fills it back up to the rim. I scrape my teeth against my tongue before I’m able to say anything. “Thank you.”

He nods, opens his mouth, but Danielle beats him to it. 

“We were just discussing our class.”

My veins are filled with wax, dripping at a pace so unoriginal, hardening, crystallizing. I grab my cutlery wrapped in a mauve pink napkin to occupy my hands, twisting and prodding and jabbing. 

“Yeah,” she continues when all he does is nod. “So what are we doing on Monday?”

“I have a surprise for you all, something I’ve been working on with Dr. Pierce—”

“Oh!” Danielle interrupts. “What is it?”

Harry raises his brows and laughs. “Well I can’t tell you, now can I? Won’t be a surprise.”

“Ohh, yes you can. We won’t say a word.”

Harry denies her once more. His eyes flicker down to me. “I’m sure you won’t. But you’ll have to wait for class to find out.”

“Oh my God! Your hand!”

I follow Jessie’s voice to see a small pool of blood decorating the table, my napkin having soaked up some, my skin a bit more. Red reflects in the sparkling silver of a fork and spoon, glistening on the blade of a knife I have carelessly sawed against the tip of my ring finger. I didn’t feel anything until I saw the cut, and now it stings. 

“We have a first aid kit in the back.” I hear Harry say but I look to Jessie. “Here,” he pulls a handful of napkins from his apron and cups them around my finger. “Is this okay?”

I nod without looking at him. He tells me to come with him, and I oblige, weighing my evils as the entire room is now focused on our table and the girl bleeding out right before their eyes. As I walk with him, I selfishly hope I do lose enough to earn a transfusion, amputate my finger, something, anything, so I can leave. If I get to stay in the hospital, I won’t have to go to class Monday. 

“Don’t worry!” Danielle whispers as she passes by us. “He’s great with his hands.”

I see vörös everywhere. 

***

It burns. Really burns. But I’m thankful. It’s the only thing keeping me aware that I’m alive, that I can’t hide away, that I need to mark my movements as always. He rinses my finger under an ice cold water bottle he pulled from a tiny fridge below the staff’s sign-in computer. Someone yelled at him—Ralph. His name is on the bottle. 

“This is cleaner than whatever comes out of the sink.” 

He slips his foot around the leg of a metal chair and drags it over by the sink; the closet door it had held open falls shut. With a nod he tells me to sit. I say nothing, just watch him care for the small wound like my life really is dependent on it. 

“Can I have your hand—er—can I see it? Your hand?” He rolls his lips in and clears his throat when I extend my arm to him. His touch is almost nonexistent. I barely feel his fingers splaying my hand flat and wide while he rinses the blood off. He uses a towel tucked into his waistband to dry me off, and then pops open the lid of the first aid kit. 

“This is just an antiseptic...don’t think it should burn.” He smooths a small bit of opaque gel over the ridiculously tiny split in my skin. “I think the head and the hand...always an extreme amount of blood. When I was a kid, my sister’s cat scratched me, right under my left eyebrow. It felt like someone poured water down my face. Mum thought I was goin’ to die.” He folds a purple band-aid over my finger, frowning when it’s not smooth so he starts again. “There. Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” I whisper.

“Good. Okay. Um, well I guess I’d better get back.” His hand lingers on the bandage, running his thumb over it one last time, and then he finally pulls away. 

“Yeah.” I’m shaky when I stand, and curse myself when I almost trip over the chair when I turn to leave. I pause to speak over my shoulder. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

The walk back is long, and I have to fight the urge to look and see what he’s doing. I don’t hear the chair scraping against the floor or Ralph complaining about his water. I’m thankful I threw on my good jeans this morning. 

Jessie is bouncing in her seat when I return—the table beside ours. “Is it bad? It was a lot of blood! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was really small. The cut I mean.” I look down at my bandage like it’s a secret. “Where’s my stuff?”

“They’re replacing it all,” she waves off. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it throbs a little bit—”

“No, not that! I mean him. Did he say anything to you? Was he mean? Because I’ll go back there if you need me to.”

“No—no, sit down, would you.” I hold back a laugh; she doesn’t need the encouragement. “He was nice.”

“Good. I tried to follow you but the manager came out and asked me what happened. We get our meal free, by the way.”

“Well then I guess this was worth it.”

Our food comes quickly, served by the manager herself. 

“Why aren’t you eating?”

I stir my soup. I can see the reflection of my eyes in the red pool, and I watch myself blink once before rippling my image away. “M’not that hungry.”

Jessie leans over the table and lowers her voice. “What happened?”

“What?”

“With Harry, in the back.”

“No, nothing.” I sigh and slump back into my chair. “I’m just tired. And I have a lot of work to do. That stupid report. And I have a quiz in another class on Tuesday. I’m fine. And he—”

“How are we doing? Is there anything I can get you guys?” Danielle looks prettier each time I see her. I shake my head while Jessie answers, keeping my focus on my untouched food. “Did Harry take care of you?”

It’s a good thing I wasn’t eating or else I would have choked. “Uh, yeah. He did.”

“I knew he would. He’s a sweet one.”

“Mhm.”

How easy it would be, to tell her my name. Tell her that her teeth are too white and her shirt is too tight. I could tell her that Harry’s sister’s cat scratched him when he was a kid and that’s where that tiny little scar above his eye is from. Did you know that Danielle? Or were you too preoccupied with what his hands were doing?

“Alright, well just holler for me if you need anything!”

I ignore her but she doesn’t seem to notice, waltzing off. Harry’s counting menus when she approaches him at the front. I think I hear her call him an angel, but I know I see him smile. I tell Jessie I want to leave. If I’m going to throw up it’s going to be in my bathroom with my best friend holding my hair back. 

***

I've had the Arctic Monkeys stuck in my head all morning. Every clink of the spoon against my bowl of cheerios, every step I took rushing to school because I decided to spend my time in the shower crying, every yawn from everyone stumbling into class. 

And I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky, 

Yours, until the rivers all run dry. 

It’s five past eight. Dr. Pierce stands towards the corner, pointing at paperwork another professor is showing him. Each time a student cracks the door open they smile and hurry to their desk like they’ve won something. Freshmen. He told us twice that he doesn’t care if we’re late, it’s our grade not his, which I appreciate. My pen taps across my notebook. 

And I'll be yours until the sun no longer shines, 

Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme 

In other words, until the end of time

He is late, however. I try to refuse my need to look up at the door each time it opens. I want to dismiss the anxiety of waiting for him. 

I'm gonna stay right here by your side, 

Do my best to keep you satisfied 

Nothin' in the world could drive me away 

'Cause every day, you'll hear me say

“Sorry, sorry,” Harry apologizes, bustling through the door. He did his best to fix the upturned collar of his rose pink button-down, subtly, albeit he fails miserably when a smudge of maroon is revealed. “I uh,” he clears his throat, “had some things to take care of. Got carried away.” He directs his excuse towards our professor, scrambling to pull out today’s materials from his bag. 

Dr. Pierce bids the professor goodbye and welcomes Harry, offering him time to gather himself which he does rather quickly. His lips are pressed together until he’s the center of attention, scanning the room as he always does, finalizing on me and I swear his eyes glisten. 

“So, uh, today we’ll be—”

“So sorry I’m late.” Danielle hurries through the door and takes her seat at the front.

“Right, um, welcome.” Harry’s gaze is trained on the paper in his hands. His brows furrow and he clears his throat before continuing. “As I was saying, we’re doing something a tad different today. Dr. Pierce and I have been talking, and we decided to break up our usual routine And with your reports due soon, offer you all a little added support. So we’ll be heading to the library where you all can work, ask questions, get mine or Dr. Pierce’s advice—whatever you need to finish the final touches before you hand anything in.”

Most everyone appears pleased with this news, proceeding to sling their bags over their shoulders and get out of their chairs. 

“Hold on, hold on,” Dr. Pierce interjects the flow. “You must work on your report and your report only. This isn’t a free-for-all. And I don’t want to hear that you’ve finished it, because I can guarantee that there’s room for improvement from each of you.”

Danielle is the first to make it to the front. She passes Harry on her way to the door and straightens his collar. His face matches the rose colored stain she thumbs over and I think about how if I veer off and go home, no one will notice. 

And I'll be yours until two and two is three, 

Yours, until the mountains crumble to the sea 

In other words, until eternity 

Baby, I'm yours

***

Our library is something out of a medieval storybook. Rich, haunted woods and six tier windows where dust sparkles through the light pushing in. You can lose aged pennies against the floor and get lost behind dusty shelves if you want to. There are microfilms, typewriters, and a spirit machine downstairs and two velvet couches on the second floor. 

I spent the majority of my first semester here, back when Jessie brought a different boy home every Friday night. I’ve missed the smell, the quiet, the disturbed alteration of reality inside its doors. But when I look around at my class tossing their bags on tables and hollering for Dr. Pierce or Harry’s attention, I’m not sure if I’ll make plans to come back. 

Ms. Bortnick, the head librarian, is a stout woman who barely sees over the front desk, but somehow always knows when I’ve come in. When it’s raining, she knows the shake of my umbrella from everyone else’s. And when it’s spring, she knows my sneezes from everyone else’s. She is like a grandmother, only she’d never had kids, so not quite so in that you can’t get away with stuff. She has a bad eye and one good kidney, and sometimes she mixes these two things up, but I gave up on correcting her long ago. That’s how long I’ve been here. 

She is Ukrainian and her accent is thick and aged, much like her mind. “Hello nyuszi,” she says before I’m fully inside. It’s bunny in Hungarian. A nickname from my mom, who tells everyone because she thinks it’s cute. Everyone, including the tiny librarian during the campus tour we took forever and a day ago. 

“Hi Ms. Bortnick,” I say, lagging, like I’m embarrassed, because I am. 

She just waves with a big grandmother-like smile that makes you miss home. 

I take a seat at a small table, behind a section of Virginia Woolf. Most of the voices die down, the clicks of keyboards taking their place, and I  pull out the research I’ve started for my report. The Tropic of Cancer, slightly tattered and worn, lay open beside my notebook, and my laptop sits adjacent. 

“You coming along well?”

Shit. I jump, my ears ringing. “I’m fine.”

Harry nods and paces behind me to look over my shoulder. The air below his body weighs down against my back, so suffocating and harnessing that I’m sure I feel the waves and vibrations his heart emits. I try to swallow but my tongue gets in the way. I should’ve stayed home.

Harry nods and paces behind me to look over my shoulder. The air below his body weighs down against my back, so suffocating and harnessing that I’m sure I feel the waves and vibrations his heart emits. I try to swallow but my tongue gets in the way. I should’ve stayed home. 

“I actually did an analysis on Henry Miller a couple years ago. If you wanna pick my brain, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Oh uh, thanks.”

His voice is grumbly, like rocks turning over beneath tires. Yet smooth, like washing sand off your body. I’m perplexed for a moment, at how these two things meet together so well, but that’s always the case with people. Like how Ms. Bortnick can’t remember anyone’s actual name, but sews that wound up with a pet name she picks out just for you. 

“Yeah, I think I might even have an essay on my laptop. You can look over it if you’d like,” he says. 

“Thank you, but I think I’m fine with what I have.”

“Well if you need anything, just let me know.”

I nod. My eyes blink once he steps away, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am and what I am doing. I’m a bit separated from most of the class, at one of the outlying tables apart from the student section where Harry ambles around everyone. Whenever he bends over to look at someone’s work, the muscles beneath his shirt ripple and contract. I can see his shoulder blades from here, and I’m failing to recall a time when the definition of someone’s spine has ever called for my attention. 

I shake my head, naïvely expecting that to clear my mind. Google is pulled up on my laptop, but instead of searching for The Tropic of Cancer, I press the keys in Harry’s name. 

The first couple links that pop up are social media accounts. I avoid these and move on to the next option, a link going back to our school. It takes me to his name under the directory, nothing more than a profile picture and his credentials. 

Harry Styles

Received his Bachelor of Arts in English Literature at New York University in 2016. He completed a one year internship at the Ann Rittenberg Literary Agency Inc. in New York in 2017, and in 2018, spent a year abroad in France and Italy studying classic literature surrounding the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries. He is currently working on his graduate degree, assisted professional teaching placement, and his thesis on the cultivation of the Renaissance era in regards to English literature. 

I read over everything three times. That’s how long it takes me to grasp it all. He’s accomplished more in three years of his life than I have in my entire existence. It’s weird, being in my twenties and already feeding off the desire of wanting to be young again. It’s not fair how some people are prone to achievements and winning, while the rest of us are left to scramble around, years later to piece together a life that offers a sliver of satisfaction. 

I close the window and ineptly click on one of his social media accounts, and for some reason my stomach twists. There’s a picture of him on twitter, from this weekend. He’s at Truman’s with his arm around Danielle, a smile on his face, and a caption thanking her for getting him his job. They’re both pretty; perfect for each other really. The only thing I can think of being thankful for in this moment is that I was not included in their picture. No one needs to see that comparison; I provide myself with enough pity to feed an army.

And maybe it’s stupid, but I navigate to Danielle’s account. There’s a weird fraction in the self-loathing lifestyle, like my brain needs a reminder of where I stand in this world. It keeps me in check, I believe. I cannot imagine thinking I look good, only to be reminded that I don’t in fact, look anything close to good. That’s a big fall to take, and I prefer to spend my time at the bottom. I’ve earned my place here.

I zoom in to every picture. Have you ever compared your wrist to someone? Or the space where your neck meets your shoulders? She has a big, red birthmark on her hip, but she makes it look necessary. And I’m sure Harry probably likes it. And I’m sure she’s told him how she’s no longer ashamed of it, and she’s not afraid to wear bikinis because she doesn’t care what people think. And she probably thinks that’s what makes her different and that’s the story she tells, how she overcame insecurity and loves her body now. And she would probably tell me that I just need to learn how to accept my flaws and learn to love them and then I’ll finally be happy like her. But that’s stupid, even stupider then me scrolling through her account to find some awkward picture, maybe one where her nose and lips are less perfect and I can start saving up for surgery too. Because if I looked like her, I’d have no problem being happy. I’d post pictures on the beach, and find a boyfriend, and not feel like a pathetic loser who’s done nothing with her life.

“Are you writing your report on Danielle?”

I lurch with stiff bones, and now I can’t remember if I’ve had this headache all day or if Dr. Pierce’s voice triggered it. Shamefully, I close the browser. “No, I’m sorry.” I hope that’s enough, because it’s all I can afford to give right now. Maybe if he knew I was seconds away from crying he’ll leave me alone.

“Get back to work please.”

Just make it ‘til you get home. You can cry there. Not here. Not here. Not here.

***

I tediously lower my body so that the water pulses right below my chin. My knees are covered, but only if I remain motionless, or the water will break against my skin and then my knee caps will appear suddenly. I inch my feet further across the acrylic until they are hidden once again. 

There is a window extending from the floor beside the tub all the way up, over my head so I have a view of the street below as well as the sky, and it’s always quite a contrast. If the street is busy, then the sky is not. But then if the sky has a heavy to-do list, then it’s the road below me that becomes shallow, except when rain is falling in a race to its demise against the concrete. 

I suck in a breath that’s full of my shampoo and bodywash and the rose oil I dropped in twenty minutes ago. I can taste it in my lungs, so before it becomes too much, I push against my heels, my knees forming mountains as they break the surface and my head becomes consumed a moment later. The pressure is light, just enough; I’m more aware that I’m living than I did when oxygen was flowing through my lungs. I count to ten and then release the burn as I crash upwards. It’s a bit dramatic and cinema worthy, but there’s no one watching; even the city-goers are too far below me to care that I live here. 

“Is my phone in there?”

I drag my eyes open and sure enough, Jessie’s phone sits on the counter. “Come in!”

“Oh thank God, thought I left it at that party.” She picks her clothes from last night off the floor and throws them in the hamper. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“And why’s that?”

I shrug, but she doesn’t see me, now straightening up the mess she made of her toiletries, her back to me while she shoves everything into her drawer.

“Just one of those nights I guess.”

She peaks over her shoulder and hums. “You have a lot of those.” She turns fully, looking at me like she is a mother. I rack my brain for an excuse but I can’t find one. If I did, I would’ve tried it out on myself years ago. “Y’know I’m here to talk. I’m your best friend...that’s part of my job.”

I smile at the water, but turn away when I see my reflection. “I’m fine. Just getting used to the semester.”

She lets the defeat show on her face, and I’m glad I know how to mask mine. “Alright then. Well just text me if you need me. I’m always here for you.” Her voice is soft and patient and I feel guilty for lying to her. “I’m late for cello practice.”

“I’ll be fine. Gonna enjoy my day off.”

“And actually enjoy it! No studying, no flash cards!” She laughs when I roll my eyes. “I mean it. Go to the park, eat a pint of ice cream, masturbate, please, anything outside of those notebooks of yours!”

“I’ll add those to the list,” I laugh. “I’m probably just gonna stay home and relax. Watch Uptown Girls or something. Eat cookie dough.”

“And—”

“And masturbate I know.”

She kisses my head and grabs her phone, heading out the door, her voice fading as she leaves. “You can tell me all about it later.”

The tile is cold beneath my feet, and slick with warning as I pull the plug on the drain and take a moment to scan the world outside. The sun is in attendance today, some of its beams make their way into the bathroom and have crawled across the floor all morning. I decide to stand there, on the beams to warm my toes slightly. It’s probably more in my head, the warmth, but I’ll take it either way. The tiles are black and white, a classic checkerboard, and I gave up on choosing a color to step on not long after we moved in. 

The mirror is foggy and I work fast to wash my face and brush my teeth, keeping my towel tight around myself until the last possible second, trading it’s warmth for a sweater and jeans. I slip into my shoes. I haven’t read much for leisure, and pick up my copy of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl from my bookshelf before I leave. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve read it, but each time never fails to reward me with something I didn’t catch the last time. 

***

There’s a park within walking distance from my apartment. I like to go there in the rain sometimes, under my green umbrella, and read literary magazines with a thermos of coffee Jessie made me. I look like the adult that I’m supposed to be. I don’t think anyone ever notices, which isn’t much different then the expectations I lay out for myself the night before. 

Today, however, I am not walking to the park. I am taking a train to the park. The park—Central Park. And it’s not raining and I forgot to bring coffee, but I need today. I need to do something for myself. Something outside my comfort zone. That’s how you become a better person, right?

We don’t have subways back home. There isn’t much of anything back home other than high school football games, car washes, and stray cats that everyone feeds. The first time I rode the train I cried. Jessie told me that it was okay, and that’s why I did it the next time, and the time after that. I’m not going to cry today, though. I am not going to get overwhelmed and worry about when to get on and when to get off and who’s looking at me and how I wouldn’t be able to help anyone if they get mugged or how if I trip and fall on the platform, I’ll start praying for death. 

Light flashes at a rhythm I’m unfamiliar with, but I manage to keep my focus on my book. It shakes in my hands but I keep reading. I’m not really reading, in its true form, that is. I’ve marked this book up so much I could use it as confetti, and those are the parts I’m reading. The parts that meant something to me at each stage of my life: I used a green pen at age eleven, red sharpie at fifteen, blue highlighter at twenty, and ripped sticky notes at twenty-three. It’s less of a commitment this way, but when the screeching travels up my spine and I can smell something other than people when I’m back on solid ground, I wipe my cheeks and they’re dry. 

When I lie in bed at night and think over the many sins and shortcomings attributed to me, I get so confused by it all that I either laugh or cry: it depends on what sort of mood I am in. Then I fall asleep with a stupid feeling of wishing to be different from what I am or from what I want to be; perhaps to behave differently from the way I want to behave.

I have a plan in place. One that I didn’t feel comfortable telling Jessie even though I know she’d be supportive. That’s the conundrum; having a best friend who loves you so much they want to fix you. She would have tagged along today, asked me how I’m feeling a million times and try to rationalize everything. She’d tell me all the ways I can be happy. But she can’t do that. No one should be allowed to, really. Because if you say can then there also has to be the option of can’t. And if people had the choice to pick what state their mind was in every day, I wouldn’t be strolling around parts of New York I’ve never been in, trying to scrounge up some off-handed version of self-love.

I bought a bath bomb and candles, stopped at a stationary store to pick up pens and notebooks that I don’t need, another Beatles t-shirt and chocolate. A farmer’s market was selling fresh fruit and I bought a tomato and ate the whole thing right there. I don’t care that it’s cheap retail therapy. It’s blocking out school and certain people and my age and my lack of success as an adult. And maybe it’s not working, but it’s New York—there’s distractions everywhere. And that’s exactly what I’m doing today. 

***

Liberty Island. That’s where the Statue of Liberty is. I am stupid for thinking Staten Island, but in my defense, that’s where everyone outside of New York thinks it is. When I moved here I wanted to see it. It was going to be this defining moment that solidified me in my new home, this incredible rebirth that validated me leaving my parents. I was going to buy cheap postcards and send them to my mom and I’d say See, I’m here and I’m happy. This was the right choice. I fit in. Please stop crying. At least I didn’t think it was Ellis Island. 

I’m on the right ferry heading towards the right island. Soon, I really see her and I start crying. She’s green but she’s not green, and she’s copper but also not really. She’s this woman and that’s fucking cool, except I know had she not been a gift, she would have been a man. There is someone with a microphone talking about her but the wind burns my ears so I pull up google on my phone. 

The Babylonian Ishtar, Imperial Rome’s goddess Libertas was Papal Rome’s “Mother of the Harlots and abominations of the earth” and the template for America’s Statue of Liberty.

I paid to visit the pedestal but not the crown. I don’t trust my body to climb twenty stories. I don’t wanna know what I’ll think about that high up. I saved up and bought a reservation and now that I’m here, I wish I’d brought Jessie along. I wish I had more people to choose from to bring along because this isn’t Jessie’s thing. But that was the idea, after all, to keep this day to myself, venture out, mark something off a bucket list I haven’t started yet. Distractions, distractions, distractions.

My bags are heavy and it’s hot, but I manage to read a lot of plaques and stroll around intentionally. I do, at certain moments, feel a sort of liberation with myself. Kind of like the first time you go out driving on your own. It’s scary, and a part of you still wishes your mom was behind the wheel, but that kind of being alone is freedom. It’s not the car or the license, it’s the option to be fully by yourself at any time. 

And I can’t help but wonder, compare, really, myself to the woman who I’m wandering around below her dress. She does lonely well. She does it right. All by herself she stands, a beacon, a purified symbol. And this is where I’m at, apparently, scrutinizing my abilities at making loneliness look mature and comparing myself to a statue.

Truly, this is my day. 

I take pictures of everything around me and it must be the sea air, because I do contemplate asking this dad of four kids to take one of me. I push that out of my head rather quickly. I switch the filter to black and white and angle my phone to get a photo overlooking the harbor once I’m back outside, but stop right in my tracks, when a familiar face is in the frame. 

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you’re here! What a small world!”

Dozens of names swim around my head, and my courtesy smile eases into a real one once one of them starts flashing, matching this person’s face before I make a fool of myself. 

“Devon, hey, s’been a while.”

“I know, God,” she shakes her head in disbelief, “high school feels like a century ago.”

She looks the same, only like a new version. Not exactly older or more mature, but like she stopped experimenting with makeup and her acne finally calmed down. All of her features sit on top of her face, warm, eyes just as piercing as when we were seventeen. She was always cute and that quality has followed her over the years. 

“So what are you doing?” she asks and I squint because of the wind, imagining her words rearranging in the breeze into something easier to answer. 

“Um, just sightseeing.”

“Well I figured that,” she laughs. “I mean, your life, what’s up?”

I know my face looks resistant. Everyone pulls the same look when your stuck explaining something that is going to automatically lower the standard in which the other person sees you: nearly closed eyes, barred upper teeth while your top lip pulls up in thought, sucking in a short breath before speaking, stiff neck and chest. 

“I uh, well I’m still in school,” I nod along and loosen my volume to sound like I’m happy. “And uh, working.”

“Oh are you working on your masters?”

“No just um, maybe one day, but not right now.”

“Okay.” It is that ‘okay’. The you-are-turning-pathetic-right-before-my-eyes Okay. She smiles anyway. “I’m thinking of going back next year to get my doctorate.” She shrugs. “So do you live here, or…”

“Yeah, yeah, I got a scholarship—”

“Oh well that’s good!”

“Uh huh.”

“We’re just visiting. Trying to hit all the hot spots though.”

“We?”

“Me and my fiancé. She’s—” she cranes her neck and points to somewhere behind her, “on a work call at the moment. Y’know it’s beautiful here, I wonder if we could have the wedding right here,” she laughs. 

“Yeah that would be something.”

“So, are you seeing anyone?” 

“Not at the moment.”

She gasps like she’s discovered something and points at the air between us. “Wait, weren’t you dating that guy, the uh, really smart one who graduated early? God, what was his name, Mark or Matt?”

“No that uh, that wasn’t me.”

“I could’ve sworn it was,” she laughs. 

“Nope.”

“Aw, bless your heart, well you’ll find someone. The city’s big!”

I am done with this conversation. I force a smile and excuse myself, heading off in the opposite direction so if any tears fall she won’t see, and keep to myself until it’s really cloudy and mist pricks my skin. Not soon enough, we’re boarding the ferry again. 

I wave to Lady Liberty and imagine her waving back when we leave. If I squint, it kind of does. Whether she’s saying goodbye or good luck, I don’t know.

***

Dinner is one of those meals that either means everything or nothing. Tonight it means nothing. I walk past Truman’s, slowly. Harry isn’t in there and I stop right outside the plated glass window, now decorated with orange and yellow leaves, and try to figure out if I would’ve gone in had he been there. A band is setting up along the back wall and that’s where I see Danielle. She’s got a tray of drinks that each member takes. When she spins around she’s smiling and she smiles as she walks towards the hostess’ podium and she smiles when she squeezes the hand of some guy that comes up and she smiles when she sees me. 

I wave because what else am I supposed to do. If I flip her off, she might strangle me with her extensions, or tell Harry that I was a bitch, or spit in my food the next time I come in. I wait till she’s distracted, and then I leave. I stop at a food truck and stuff my face with a taco. Nothing. 

Back down the street, back on the train, back to my apartment. 

“I didn’t cry this time.”

Jessie glances up from sliding the bow across the strings, the last note stinging the air. She looks so small next to the instrument. 

“On the train. I didn’t cry.”

****************************************************************************************

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