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sofasoap · 2 years ago

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*rolling up my sleeves * OK i have read this once but heheh time for review ( sorry took so long!!)

"something to confess?" price utters, brows furrowing as he stares you down with a confused look. you wring your hands together, feeling the perspiration on your palms even through your gloves. "yes, it's about makarov—"

no Price, it cannot wait.... listen to your daug... I mean Petra.

"captain, i—" you start, before getting interrupted again. "we'll discuss this after the mission, lieutenant." price mutters, giving you a tight-lipped smile. "i promise."

SHE GOT THE INFO PRICE

most teams clear out their sectors without much issue, securing canisters of chemical gas and weapon caches, but the supposed nerve center isn't anywhere to be found.

... they been duped? false info given?? mmmm

you wave the question off and clear your throat. "yeah, i just, uh..." you trail off, before taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, resigning yourself to your fate. "i've been getting intel from makarov."

and the truth comes out. my heart clenches for Petra when she spill everything out she knows... admitting what's been happening . afraid of his response to her.. what other ppl will perceive as betrayal.

you said it yourself: at the end of the day, somebody needs to make the enemy scared of the dark."

She's got a point, Price. someone gotta do the dirty work. ( .... and get into Mak's pants )

"he's already offered me protection," you say. "i'll figure out a way to gain his trust." you add, grimacing.

i almost have this image of price: ok you need to do this first... petra: uh... we already did it... price give you that dad look

sorry. just something pops into my brain. carry on.

"i'm surprised you've called so quickly." you can hear the amusement in his voice after he answers the phone. "have you come to a decision?" makarov asks.

Mak : YES she rang me!!!! *heart shape drawings*( sorry peep. inside joke ) is this all under Mak's plan and calculation? he expects that she will agree to his offer?

you're also left curious about the lack of soldiers. a sign of trust, perhaps? you doubt it, but he's not a man whose decisions are easy to understand. maybe his goal is making you question every little thing that he does, forcing you to stay alert until you exhaust yourself and he has the chance to strike.

or maybe, the man he sent to pick Petra up IS good enough to do something IF petra starts to play up. ( one of his elite ) or it can mean the other way.. he only sent the elite/who he trust the most to pick her up because she is the special one...

makarov regards you with a small smile, something akin to pride and a more sincere emotion – relief? – glimmering in the dark recesses of his gaze.

his behavior is… unexpected, to say the least. you were expecting cold apathy like you experienced in captivity, but instead, makarov seems eager to have you here. you're sure it's all part of a plan that you're unaware of, bigger and more important than yourself.

Mak : she's here!!!

the contrast between how he is probably TRYING to be sincere.. and she is still VERY doubtful. petra: what is he trying to pull here mak: i must show her i really mean it.

konni is not like the other crude, second-rate paramilitaries you've encountered, petra... we have a goal, organization, leadership—"

showing off a bit here Mak? a peacock fanning his tail trying to seduce the peahen with his best.

"do you doubt me?" he asks, brows furrowing. "need i remind you who is shouldering the burden of protecting you?" he adds,

yes she is, lover boy.

"you need me, petra. that is what matters." he leans closer still, shifting to rest his forearm against the wall instead, his lips twitching up in a crooked smile. you try to avert your eyes, to stare at the wall past him, but his other hand comes up to stop you with a firm grip on the sides of your jaw, keeping your head still. "i strongly suggest you find it in yourself to cooperate instead of fighting me. this is a very unique opportunity for us to help each other."

she needs you, yes, but you do need her help as well mak ( and that is not a good way to please a woman. )

so eccentric, you think.

that is because this man still can't figure out his own emotion about you Petra.

"i can come back," you whisper, hand already reaching for the knob behind you. "stay." he replies, making you freeze.

So domestic, like a spouse interrupting the other's phone call... ah...

gas? as in, the chemical gas you saw in al-mazrah?

👁️👁️ info

not sure. care to educate me on the gas you were talking about, though?" you smile, folding your hands in front of yourself.

bold move Petra, BOLD MOVE

"but, you do raise a fair point, lieutenant. these plans can be delayed a little while longer." he says, holding it out to you in offering.

and.... totally unexpected answer from him. either...

he's doing it for her.

or... part of his trick. and deception.

"there are still steps between now and then. having you as an ally is far more important in the present."

keeping her in for personal reason? or keeping her in for ally point of view. i wonder.

it just sounds like a long-winded way of saying, "direct your anger at anyone but me."

mak. trying to dodge her anger? pfft.

you got yourself into a VERY complicated mess Petra....

thank you so much for the update!! :D

bloodsport – V

characters: vladimir makarov

summary: after a talk with price, you decide to make a risky move. keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

genre: angst, slowburn, enemies to ?, fem!reader (callsign: petra)

warnings: semi-proofread, cursing, mentions of canon-typical violence, makarov's usual bs

word count: 4.3k

note: a very sincere thank you to everyone who sent support and waited so long (a month) for this update :') not super proud of this ngl, i'll try to make the next chapter better and sooner lol

"something to confess?" price utters, brows furrowing as he stares you down with a confused look.

you wring your hands together, feeling the perspiration on your palms even through your gloves. "yes, it's about makarov—"

what's left of the building around you rumbles, pieces of the wreckage crumbling into smaller pieces and falling apart. price tears his gaze from you and glances around before patting your shoulder.

"whatever it is can wait. we need to get out before the rest of this collapses on top of us." he says while turning away and motioning for you to follow, graves and the shadows already starting to move ahead. you huff to yourself and jog after him, sticking close to his side until you reach the sizeable breach that he was leading you to.

you try in vain to talk again once the team is safely outside, but graves speaks up the second you go to open your mouth.

"we need to find where they moved that control center," he says, one of the shadows nearby already grabbing his radio – communications expert, you realize after a moment. "i'm wiling to bet it's still in the city, probably a smaller base."

price nods to graves from where he's standing next to you. "might be in an entirely new spot. tell the squads to keep their eyes peeled." he looks at the communications expert at the end of his warning, directing it at him, and gets a thumbs-up in reply.

"captain, i—" you start, before getting interrupted again.

"we'll discuss this after the mission, lieutenant." price mutters, giving you a tight-lipped smile. "i promise."

you bite your tongue and try to swallow down the lump in your throat, giving him a confirmatory nod of your own. the team moves on from the derelict building, with graves and his shadows splitting off after one of the strike teams radios about a suspicious spot. price and you end up assisting the bravo team with the second-largest base; for once, you're happy to see enemies in a location.

most teams clear out their sectors without much issue, securing canisters of chemical gas and weapon caches, but the supposed nerve center isn't anywhere to be found.

after hours of searching under the scorching sun, price and graves come to a mutual agreement: cut your losses and extract with what you did manage to get your hands on.

the flight back to base is quiet for the most part. everyone's too exhausted to fuss over anything, allowing you to sit in relative peace as you debate on what to say to price. the intel from makarov – the mole within your group – replays in your head over and over again, adding to your ever-growing level of stress. if anyone notices your leg bouncing practically the whole ride, they don't comment on it.

you're chasing the captain to his office the moment you touch down, pushing the heavy door shut behind you as his eyes fall on you.

"never seen you this frazzled, lieutenant." price remarks with a soft chuckle, moving to rest against the front of his desk with his arms loosely crossed over his chest. "what's bothering you?"

you blink at him, the words that you've been wanting to say suddenly dying on your tongue. you want to tell him, you really do, but what will he think of you? what if he takes you off the team for this? brands you as a traitor for working with the enemy?

"petra? y'okay?" price asks, leaning towards you.

shock briefly crosses price's face before it returns to a somewhat neutral expression – alarmingly neutral. you know the look, you've seen it a hundred times.

he's calculating his response.

"it started when i was captured," you stutter out, trying to explain. "it was just the information on shepherd at first, but then he showed up at my apartment after you sent me home— there's a mole in our team, whoever it is put a tracker on my phone, and now shepherd knows that we're onto him—"

"lieutenant." price interrupts, his voice as cold as the ice in his stare, shutting you up with little more than a startled whimper in reply.

he pauses, his jaw tight. you stare at him, wide-eyed and waiting for a furious response, but when he speaks again, his voice is soft.

"tell me everything you know. everything."

you draw in another breath and nod your head slowly. "one of the new recruits – someone who arrived recently – is working for shepherd, keeping tabs on us. his men are targeting the one-four-one; after the building collapse, one of them tried to sneak up on me. makarov found him before i did and took him out, but—"

"wait, he was there?" price all but growls, his arms falling back to his sides as his hands clench into fists against the tabletop.

you nod, again, shrinking under the barely-kept tension rolling off him in waves. "i didn't know he'd be there, it wasn't planned," you say, gaze falling to the floor. "but, he's not important right now. what is important is stopping shepherd before he uses the conflict in al-mazrah and urzikstan as an excuse to start a global war."

price doesn't reply at first, but you can see the gears turning in his head. evaluating, scheming, doing what he does best. a painful beat of silence passes between you, prompting you to speak again, uttering words that will earn you a medal, a grave, or life behind bars.

"makarov's given me intel before, captain. he has eyes in places that we don't, more resources than us, more freedom to act—"

"petra—" price cuts in, but you keep talking.

"—if you let me go undercover," you pause, staring into his eyes, searching for approval in his gaze. "i can get the information we need and act on it. shepherd, makarov... we can eliminate them in one fell swoop. i'll use makarov's resources, then take him down from within his own group. we can't do this clean. the gloves need to come off."

you step closer to him, lowering your voice to a quiet murmur that hardly reaches him. "you said it yourself: at the end of the day, somebody needs to make the enemy scared of the dark."

price clicks his tongue before shaking his head, an amused chuckle tumbling from his lips. "this is risky, you'd be inserting yourself right into his inner circle," he comments, tilting his head at you. "do you really think you'd be able to fool him?"

"he's already offered me protection," you say. "i'll figure out a way to gain his trust." you add, grimacing.

"normally i wouldn't approve something like this, but... for whatever reason, he seems to want you on his side. we might as well use that to our advantage." he concedes, earning an affirmative hum from you.

"i'll give him a response, then. you won't regret this, captain."

⋆⋆⋆

"i'm surprised you've called so quickly." you can hear the amusement in his voice after he answers the phone. "have you come to a decision?" makarov asks.

you let your eyes flutter closed and inhale deeply through your nose, hand clenching and unclenching at your side.

"i have." you reply after a long moment. "are you really wiling to offer me protection from shepherd?"

the grin on his face is evident despite you not seeing it. "i am. all you have to do is help me kill him."

you stifle a surprised laugh. "you're asking for a miracle like it's a small favor." you mutter, to which he sighs, heavy through the speaker.

"i'm confident in your abilities, lieutenant. i will arrange a meeting point and send you the coordinates and time. don't be late."

"punctual. i look forward to it." you respond, sealing your fate as you end the call.

once again, just as you return, you're departing again. you haven't stayed anywhere for longer than a day since escaping the prison, and yet, here you are, preparing to deliver yourself to the maw of the beast. it's almost poetic, just how quickly you've leapt back into danger after weeks of wanting nothing more than to get away from it.

true to his word, you receive a set of coordinates and a time from makarov shortly after the conversation. the only goodbyes you give are rushed words shared with the captain before you take off in an unmarked helicopter, leaving behind promises to explain the situation to those who matter and to get you home as soon as possible.

the location isn't anything of significance, that you're sure of as soon as the helicopter touches down. it's a road just outside of a quiet city, unassuming aside from the sleek black car that sits pulled over to the side. as soon as the gravel crunches under your boots, a man emerges from the vehicle to greet you in a gruff murmur of your callsign. you nod once, unmoving from your position, studying the man as he remains still several feet in front of you.

dressed in painfully normal clothing, a black shirt and a pair of dark weathered jeans, you almost think he's a civilian until your eyes find the patch hastily stuck onto his sleeve, the annoyingly familiar snake skull curving around his bicep as if to taunt anyone who sees it.

he's a mercenary, no doubt. probably someone makarov hired to handle the work his soldiers are above – like this.

as you follow the man to the car, settling in the backseat as he sits in the passenger and vaguely motions to the driver, you briefly wonder just how large makarov's forces are; how far does his influence reach?

the car pulls back onto the road, leaving you to stare out the window as it travels away from the city. the forest surrounding you isn't terribly dense, but enough so that you have to squint to see anything through the passing trees. the winding road heading steadily up a mountain makes it no easier; you searched the coordinates during the flight and saw nothing of significance in the area...

where are they taking you?

the man mumbles something to the driver, catching your attention despite not hearing what he said. the response he receives is in russian and, again, words that you miss due to how quietly they're uttered. once the trees start to thin, however, you assume the sight ahead is what they were discussing.

a villa. a grand one, at that. it's not far from the city, you glance at your watch and time the drive as a half-hour, but the location is secluded, sitting on the cliffside overlooking the population below. it's gated, with armed guards staring the vehicle down as it approaches the entrance; like a stronghold, a private residence barred from any unwanted visitors or influence. it reminds you of las almas, of el sin nombre's villa.

the sun starts to set behind the villa as the car passes the gate and comes to a stop in front of it. the door next to you is suddenly pulled open, yanking your focus from the building as you meet the eye of the soldier, clad in a dark uniform and balaclava, staring you down while holding the door open.

wordlessly, you climb out and narrow your eyes at him, watching as he slams the door shut behind you. there's something familiar about him, but you can't quite put your finger on it.

as his eyes meet yours, it clicks.

"are you the guard from the prison?" you ask, his tired gaze bringing you back to your imprisonment. it's barely been a day since your escape, and yet that place – the injuries that left you in near-constant misery, the prying eyes watching you, the all-too-kind doctor, the other doctor, your enemy being the only person you could even begin to trust – it all feels so distant, despite being so recent.

the soldier huffs, scratching the side of his jaw through his mask. "i have been a guard in many prisons, you will have to be more specific."

you cross your arms tightly, his voice becoming more recognizable as he speaks. thick accent, perpetual disinterest worn like a badge, treating you with indifference despite not walking away.

"i hope the trip wasn't too difficult, lieutenant." a voice pulls you away, making you turn your head to the side as a "friendly" figure emerges from the set of doors nearby. makarov regards you with a small smile, something akin to pride and a more sincere emotion – relief? – glimmering in the dark recesses of his gaze.

you shrug, standing stiff when he stops in front of you. "i think the trip was the easy part." you mutter.

"you underestimate my sense of hospitality," he chuckles, taking in your fatigued state. "you've had a long day, i'll keep the tour brief tonight. i'm sure you have a lot of questions, hm?" his head tilts to the side for a second, emphasizing the question at the end of his remark.

"that's putting it lightly." you reply, walking two paces behind him when he motions for you to follow him inside. the masked solider follows you after a nod towards makarov, accepting a silent order from his commander.

the interior of the villa is equally as extravagant as the exterior— your breath catches in your throat as your footsteps echo against the tile floor, eyes flitting to the art dotting the walls and the furniture that you're certain costs more than your apartment.

"it's all a bit excessive, don't you think?" you murmur, sending a glance to the man in front of you.

makarov hums, hardly sparing his surroundings any attention. "i think it's fitting," he says, leading you to an elevator. "konni is not like the other crude, second-rate paramilitaries you've encountered, petra... we have a goal, organization, leadership—"

"—that leader being you?" you chuckle, stepping into the elevator and facing him. makarov waves the soldier off and presses one of the buttons on the wall, leaving you alone together when the doors slide shut.

"do you doubt me?" he asks, brows furrowing. "need i remind you who is shouldering the burden of protecting you?" he adds, leaning closer as his voice lowers just slightly. you recognize the look, the intent behind the way he moves closer, forcing you to take a step back to create some distance.

"let's get one thing straight," you mutter, trying to keep your tone steady despite your back meeting the wall. "i don't need protection because you're any better than me. you just give me the freedom i need to move against shepherd without putting my squad at risk."

you pause, wetting your lips, before opening your mouth to continue. any words you planned to say leave you in a short breath as you're literally cornered in the small space, though, blinking at the man in front of you. makarov holds your gaze, amusement clearly written on his expression as his arm lifts, caging you in with a tight fist on the wall next to your head.

"you..." a frustrated sound escapes from you, only serving to encourage him to tighten his hold, leather-clad fingertips digging into your skin. you need to gain his trust if the plan you discussed with price has any chance of succeeding. we get dirty, world stays clean. killing shepherd is the mission; makarov comes later. play your cards right and you can take out them both.

"fine... i guess i owe you civility, at the very least." you concede, one of your hands shooting up to grab his wrist. "just get your hands off me." you grumble with a pointed glare.

makarov's hand retracts before the complaint even fully leaves your lips. "clever girl. you've made the right choice." he murmurs.

he moves away as the elevator reaches the floor and the door slides open again, immediately revealing a corridor dotted with soldiers – some conversing, some standing guard, others approaching the elevator as makarov steps out with you in tow.

"we'll have time for a proper tour later. in the meantime, if you need help navigating the grounds, any of my men will be happy to assist." he says, marching ahead.

"don't have any more room in your busy schedule for me?" you utter, trailing behind him.

he rounds a corner and keeps walking. "not at the moment, unfortunately." you arrive at a door, where he turns to you once more. "i have matters that require my attention, otherwise i would stay longer. i've arranged a place for you to sleep. i suggest you rest tonight. once we have the general's location, you will be needed."

you nod, admittedly taken aback. "i'll... do that, then. thank you." you stutter out.

"don't mention it." he says, already backing away from you and heading back down the hallway. you try not to stare as he disappears from your sight, intentionally fixing your attention on the door he led you to.

so eccentric, you think.

⋆⋆⋆

you let out a contented sigh as you pull your shirt down over your head, standing in the middle of the sizeable bedroom after your shower. a glance out the window tells you what time it is before you even check— the sun set over the horizon about an hour ago.

when you pick your phone up off the nightstand, there's a message from price waiting for you.

status report? 19:05 pm

you look to the door, debating on a response.

all settled in. nothing significant to report yet. 19:15 pm

good. keep your guard up. 19:15 pm

laswell got into contact with alex earlier. potential base in verdansk. 19:16 pm

need me to handle it? 19:16 pm

no. focus on makarov for now. we'll take care of it. 19:17 pm

copy. good luck. 19:17 pm

save some luck for yourself. stay sharp. 19:18 pm

you shove your phone into your pocket and send the door another look, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth. makarov said he would be busy, but... there's something telling you to seek him out, some horrible feeling bubbling in the pit of your stomach. you have a lot of questions and very few answers, things weighing on your mind that, to your chagrin, only he can ease.

"fucking fantastic," you say to the empty room, shaking off the feeling and heading out into the corridor. after getting directions from a handful of soldiers and a short elevator ride, you find yourself up on the penthouse floor, standing in front of the set of doors leading to his personal office.

you knock before you have the chance to psyche yourself out, three short taps in quick succession, your shoulders rigid until you hear an "enter" from the other side.

when you step in, letting the door softly click shut behind you, makarov lifts his head from the papers on the desk in front of him. you don't move immediately, standing with your back pressed against the smooth wood, your eyes flitting around the neatly-kept space before meeting his.

before you can say anything, he lifts a hand to stop you, bringing your attention to the phone next to his ear.

"i don't care about the weather, alexi," he mutters into the speaker, his focus never shifting from you. "you are leading a group of soldiers, not children, they can handle a storm. communicate the old-fashioned way if you're so worried about signal issues." he continues.

you awkwardly linger in your spot, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. his jaw tenses as his gaze narrows, and for a moment, a small part of you worries that the ire might be directed at you for intruding at an inconvenient time.

"i can come back," you whisper, hand already reaching for the knob behind you.

"stay." he replies, making you freeze. "no, not you, сволочь— just deliver the gas according to the schedule. i won't accept anything later than that." he grumbles into the speaker before hanging up the call and dropping his phone onto the papers, sighing heavily and moving to rub the fatigue from his eyes.

gas? as in, the chemical gas you saw in al-mazrah?

"pleasant conversation?" you tease, earning a pointed glare.

he stands from his chair with a soft groan. "what are you here for?"

you step further into the room, watching as he circles around the desk to meet you in the middle. "not sure. care to educate me on the gas you were talking about, though?" you smile, folding your hands in front of yourself.

makarov eyes you down, scrutinizing you, but gives in after a brief staring contest that you arguably win.

"after we succeed in urzikstan and the kremlin realizes what must be done, we will move on to their allies." he begins, speaking slowly. "my soldiers are making the preparations as we speak, planting it within each target nation."

as he continues, that prior feeling returns tenfold, and you mutter, "the gas used in al-mazrah and vondel?"

he nods, unchanging, even as your expression freely gives away the unease and anger steadily building under your skin. "exactly that. this is just the first step."

there's an emotion on his face, something haunting that makes your chest tighten. total apathy, as if the consequences of his actions mean nothing to him. they don't, your reasonable side is well aware of that, but the sheer wrongness of the situation nags at you, pushing you to try to prevent it in whatever ways you can.

"okay, i know you don’t care about innocent lives being lost," you start, crossing your arms over your chest. "but, i do. i'm not going to stand by and watch you destroy the world over some... bullshit hunt for glory! if you use that gas, i'm backing out." you assert. he steps back from you, creating a comfortable distance.

"i thought you were here for a reason, petra. unless, you've changed your mind?" makarov asks with a curious lilt, turning to face away from you.

your arms drop to your sides as your hands clench into fists. "we both know how deadly that gas is – it can kill millions. i'd rather take my chances with the government than assist you with that."

makarov hums in acknowledgement, standing in front of his desk now, and you watch as he reaches for the bottle of whiskey and empty tumbler sitting near the edge.

"are you seriously pouring yourself a drink right now?" you pause your rant, positively fuming while he pours the liquid into the glass. is this all some kind of fucking joke to him?

"i find it easier to listen when i have a drink," makarov replies. he produces a second glass and fills it up, before turning back to you. "but, you do raise a fair point, lieutenant. these plans can be delayed a little while longer." he says, holding it out to you in offering.

you take the glass slowly, confused. "just... like that? so easy?" you hesitate, distrustful— for good reason, too.

the amber liquid swirls in makarov's glass when he moves his hand, dismissing your concerns. "there are still steps between now and then. having you as an ally is far more important in the present."

"wh... just like that?" you parrot, gawking at him when he hands you his glass and walks past you, heading to the door. you spin on your heel and stare at the back of his head as he twists the knob and swings the door open.

he barely acknowledges you when he waves over his shoulder, again, dismissing it. "don't spend too much time on it. focus on the situation in the present."

as he disappears into the corridor, leaving the door to the very private room wide open behind him, you're completely dumbfounded. you came to him for answers; instead of getting that, all you have are more questions.

focus on the situation in the present.

it just sounds like a long-winded way of saying, "direct your anger at anyone but me."

from a tactical standpoint, it's hard to disagree. you're allies with this man, even if it is temporary. no matter how harsh his methods and unreasonable his beliefs, you'll have to learn to tolerate it. your eyes fall to the untouched glasses in your hands, then to the desk behind you, and finally back to the door.

"what the hell have i gotten myself into?"

translations:

сволочь (svoloch) - bastard

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#not my fic #call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #mw2 #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #makarov x reader #vladimir makarov x reader #cod makarov #vladimir makarov #sylph.writes

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fgrobichiko · 3 years ago

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Case 2022N - Truths and Liars

[Subject: the manifesto of the serial killer known as "The Equality Killer"]

"Have you ever seen one? I know we all act like they aren't real, or like they just stopped existing one day. But have you ever actually seen one? Suprahuman abilities are terrifying. Horror follows them wherever they go. If I was rich, I'd spend every penny trying to end them. Have you seen a person blur from one place to another? Do you have any idea what kind of biological processes would have to be possible for them to do that?

I know what people say about me. They say I was a doctor. That's not exactly true. I HAVE a doctorate, yes, but it's in physics. What are you supposed to do when you see proof that everything you've spent your life researching is just... not true? Just a lie, that some rich bastard, or some government spook, or some old monarch decided we should play with instead of the reality of the world?

The fact is, they walk among us. Some of them are only strong. I'll admit I'm not a biologist, but I don't know how their tendons could support buildings or survive the torsion they'd have to experience. Others are fast. That doesn't make sense, and we all know it. How do you stop so suddenly? How does your heart pump blood with enough pressure to move your limbs? How does your brain fire fast enough without cooking itself?

Then there are the others. The ones that just... don't work. I don't understand how society survived after we saw the first man fly. What is the strange exception people make to gravity? Why do we brush it off in our classrooms? Why the hell can a human being fucking fly???? Is it some sort of organ? Does it.... I don't know, does it move part of them to another dimension? Why on god's earth does physics just work differently for some human beings? Are they even human? Are we sure they aren't... spirits? Ghosts? Demons? And why do even I find that more acceptable when it spits in the face of science?

They ask why I kill them. Why I would look at a human-shaped thing that can launch lightning from its flesh and need to destroy it. Why I took apart that man in my garage, looking for what the hell could let him create living matter in his own shape from nothingness. I ask how the hell you can see a thing like that and not feel your skin crawl. I ask how on earth you can live knowing everything, EVERYTHING is a lie. And such an obvious lie. I ask myself why only I seem to care. And I realise. It's people like you. I'll see you soon. Maybe I'll die, and you'll take my story as well as my life. File me away somewhere. I hope you choke on it.

[The "Equality Killer" was apprehended on the grounds of [REDACTED] facility. He has been held for several years, though now we have discovered his cache of notes and experimental data the choice becomes clear; do we execute him? do we perform a mind-wipe? or do we hire him? I know which I'd prefer. This page will be added to his dossier for consideration. Signed, [REDACTED].]

#microfiction #foundation texts #my writing

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neonponders · 4 years ago

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*sigh* catch me projecting on a Saturday.

I read this post ( @lazybakerart you wizard - ALSO IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY?????? HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! 🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹) and am now thinking about a sugardaddy!Billy with an ace!Steve. (*emphasis on grey ace*)

* Please nobody attack me for writing about leather fashion. I’m vegetarian and it’s fiction. Live a little. *

Read on ao3 ~

🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹 🌹

Steve just kind of stared at the box on the restaurant table. It wasn’t a ring box, but it was velvet. Goodness knew how many of these he’d seen in his life.

Steve knew wealth. He knew money, and all of the material variations therein.

He’d gotten pedicures with his mother before his father declared such a thing unfit for a boy coming into puberty. If you look like a man, act like a man. As if men didn’t have feet, or something.

Then he went to the salon. That wasn’t so easy to take away. Ventures with her son seemed to be the only things keeping Mrs. Harrington from being connected to her husband’s hip, so Mr. Harrington let them both have this one. Steve, fresh out of graduation, being given a hairdresser’s chair to accomplish summer-fresh highlights.

Mrs. Harrington was also the type of woman to enjoy shoes. Everyone has a thing. For some, they had bags. Others, jewelry. Vintage furniture. Designer wallpaper. Mrs. Harrington enjoyed shoes. It was where Steve learned to carry a woman’s bags, but he didn’t stay outside of the store. He learned how to clean suede, the difference between a 130 So Kate and an ordinary heel. What fetish meant in terms of fashion. He can convert heels sizes in millimeters to inches faster than a cashier calculating change.

Tommy and Carol had joked about Steve’s father having a different kind of fetish. Nothing to do with fashion, and everything to do with sex. Steve had foolishly let them into his mother’s bedroom and they were having a field day with a shoe closet that cost more than both of their houses combined. Still smelling of Nancy and pool chlorine, Steve as good as ended that friendship right there.

Because they didn’t get it.

Mr. Harrington certainly didn’t get it. Could never have such a sexual inclination because he didn’t understand pampering or indulgent interests.

He understood favors. Material apologies.

Mrs. Harrington had a collection of pearls and diamonds that she never wore.

Steve knew she liked opals and pink, pink rubies, because Steve liked opals too. Because he used his father’s money to buy ruby studs his mother actually wore. Because he gets her oldest, broken bracelet with green amber fixed, and she wears it until it breaks again. And then she presented Steve with a thin, gold chain to go around his ankle. With a gleaming, green amber stone flanked by two opals.

The green goes with our eyes, she said. Someone special will see the green in all that brown. It’s why we look good in reds.

Steve was still looking at the box on the table.

“It’s not going to catch fire, the longer you glare at it.”

His dark hazel, creek water eyes slanted up to the man sitting opposite him.

Billy Hargrove.

Stubborn to a fault. Gorgeous as Lucifer with wings freshly burnt off. And just as dangerous.

“I thought I said no more gifts.”

“And I ignored you. Open it.”

Steve went about it like ripping off a bandaid. He sighed at the window beside their booth, wrenching the thing open to see -

Diamonds.

He shut it with a loud clap and set it on Billy’s placemat. “No, thanks.”

The man’s features froze in tolerant stoicism, but he eased the box inside his suit jacket pocket. “You’re a hard one to shop for.”

Steve’s eyes widened dramatically over his wine glass of water. Not because he was sober - he’d willingly pay for an overpriced red, himself, if the handsome asshole weren’t trying to wave his wallet everywhere. “You can stop trying to buy your way into my pants any time you want.”

“If that’s all I wanted, I would’ve stopped three months ago.”

Three months ago,

When Billy breezed into Steve’s life as easily as he had senior year of high school. The two of them certainly deserved some kind of award for having a bizarre history.

Within a handful of months, Billy had arrived upon a turbulent time in Steve’s life, and then left nearly as quickly. Billy witnessed Steve and Nancy’s break-up, Steve’s fall from Hawkins High grace, and even beat his face a little bit. Because that’s what teenage men with bad emotional processing and even worse communication skills do.

Now, almost ten years later, Billy had some kind of empire behind him and Steve, well, didn’t. He had no idea what Billy’s job consisted of, but he got little hints. Mostly the negative space from Billy’s lack of discussing his job told Steve a whole lot.

Steve, who worked two jobs and occasional gigs wherever he was needed. During one such time, while Steve managed the cables and sound boards for Robin’s band, Billy Hargrove sauntered up to him with just as much charm mixed with hauteur as he’d ever displayed.

It wasn’t like meeting an old friend, because they had never been more than acquaintances, and roughly ten years was enough time for a personality to evolve ten different ways.

Steve couldn’t say how much he and Billy had evolved, really, but there was a point in there somewhere.

Maybe it lived in the, “I never expected to see you in a dyke club, pretty boy,” since it was all the coming out either of them needed.

Or the wanton kisses and fervent hands underneath the neon rainbow on the venue’s wall.

Maybe the point sat in the things Billy wanted, and what Steve was reticent to provide. Because Billy was a king who knew what he liked, and seemed particularly talented at walking into Steve’s personal crises like an anniversary.

Steve craved.

But he didn’t know what he craved. What he yearned for. He knew Billy’s kisses made his brain go molten and fuzzy. He knew Billy’s smell brought him just as much comfort, excitement, and anxiety. He knew finally being outside of sex-crazed high school had deflated something in him. The expectations to perform. He knew losing Robin’s stupid game of You Rule / You Suck gave him a secret gift of relief.

But he still craved. He wanted touch but he wanted to be alone. He wanted companionship but he didn’t want sex. But he did enjoy sex, except he didn’t want the expectation of it.

Well.

That was it, wasn’t it?

Billy Hargrove, who could have anyone he wanted plastered to his stupid, unbuttoned chest, had sought out Steve. Steve, king of mixed signals, Harrington. It was only a matter of time before he got his face beaten again. For wasting Billy’s time. For refusing Billy’s advances even though Steve clearly enjoyed Billy’s lips on his neck, and Billy’s hand on his inner thigh. For wanting Billy’s company and flirtation without the rules that finished in the bedroom.

So Steve refused the gifts. The material favors he could’ve sold for a better apartment. Fucked his way to owning a house that his mom would feel comfortable visiting. Be an unfeeling toy who could pay for his mother’s shoes and his own pedicures.

“Steve?”

He turned away from the window and the city’s electric constellations. “Hm?”

“Where’d you go?”

The back of Steve’s throat ached. He looked down at their appetizer plates and decided, “I think I’m going home.” After a second of them both hearing it out loud, Steve said with more conviction, “I need to be home right now. I’m sorry. Thanks for dinner.”

He almost reached for his wallet to pay for his half of the artichoke dip, but reconsidered. He took his old prom tuxedo jacket off on the way to the elevator, waiting for the doors to close before he pressed his face into the old fibers.

It would be easier if Steve didn’t know money. If wealth were a foreign pillow he had never slept on; could be spoiled into never giving it up again.

Like a true mother with a sixth sense, Steve withdrew a package from his mailbox when he returned to his apartment building. Mrs. Harrington’s versions of care packages were fashion magazines, a subscription to The New Yorker, polaroids of her latest closet pieces, and Steve’s favorite candy.

He loved it all. He didn’t need laminated recipes, bags of rice, or resupplied hair products. He went up to his bedroom, stripped down to nothing, and fell into bed with the hefty parcel. Fruity hard candies fell out like confetti, and he stuck a green apple square inside his cheek while he looked through her baggie of polaroids.

Peach suede 130s. Steve felt a warm tickle in his belly at that. She only wore 130s if she was pissed at his father. A woman in 130s walked with the force of a storm, mostly because the damn things were nearly intolerable to wear without a platform.

Another pair of diamond earrings. One of these days, people were going to realize how boring clear rocks were.

Dark, amethyst Miu Mius with the heel and toe encrusted with pearls. Steve’s dad must’ve really pissed her off to warrant that apology.

The magazine subscription had piled up, so he had three New Yorkers to read, but he opened the tome of Vogue first. His mother dog-earred her favorite articles, scent samples, and spreads. She often favored the androgynous and male fragrances. Steve liked that a whole lot. He wasn’t sure if she did that for him because he liked them, or if he liked them because she did that.

He held the magazine to his face as he went to the kitchen, smelling the first fragrance sample while he reached for his cache of boxed cake mix. It was a funfetti kind of night. He rattled the package of sprinkles in his hand while reading about some summer collection where the runway happened in a Greek ampitheatre. Sounded fun. Sounded like a great vacation. Beach, wine, and then modern art fusing with ancient architecture.

Steve didn’t excel in chemistry, but he knew a different kind of magic.

Which didn’t actually include baking. The cake emerged a little dark, but he cut off the burnt top, iced it to glorious, sugar perfection, and took a slice to bed with him. He turned the parcel upside-down for the last of the candy to come out so he could throw the envelope away -

Two bottles of nail polish landed heavily on the bed. Steve lifted the darker bottle to see a purple so ebony he thought it was black until he opened it to see the paint up close.

Purple and peach. To match his mother’s shoes.

Not many people understood his parents’ methods of producing or avoiding affection. But Steve did. He shook up the poison violet and painted his toenails in between forkfuls of cake.

He didn’t hear from Billy the next day.

Or the next.

As bad as Steve felt, he couldn’t say he minded. Nor would he be surprised if Billy never called him again. The idea brought a lonely peace during the commute to work, reading his magazines on the train before keeping them safe in a folder that he stuffed inside his backpack. Even if Steve’s chest felt like a cold balloon, with its latex worn thin and tired, he had his little things to keep him warm.

Then a knock on his apartment door.

Steve answered it with a cheek full of cake, interrupted from making his grocery list of actual nutritional value -

Billy had never visited before. Steve stared at him long enough for him to ask, “Are you going to let me in?”

Steve glanced at the box under his arm and turned into his apartment with a sigh. Billy closed the door behind him as he remarked, “You don’t know what’s in it yet.”

There wasn’t exactly anywhere for Steve to theatrically storm off to. His kitchen was also his living room, and a half-wall partitioned the bedroom off to the side. His apartment was one long rectangle, and Steve remained stuck in the middle of it.

“Billy, I don’t know what you want from me that you think you can get from expensive things.”

“I don’t recall asking for anything in return,” he drawled while removing his coat.

“Don’t take that off,” Steve retorted.

“I’m taking it off.”

“This isn’t going to be a long visit.”

“Would you at least open the damn thing first?” Billy presented the box on the flat of his hand like a waiter’s tray.

Steve knew a shoe box when he saw one. He swatted the lid off the box before he even meant to. He was so tired of this game. Of these rules. He doesn’t want to see some snotty designer sneaker that isn’t to his taste. Some item the rules would dictate he accept without complaint. Or some chunky, foamy plastic, glorified tennis shoe that is over hyped . . .

He sees the red first.

It’s not a sneaker.

Hot Chick heels. 100mm. Black suede on top, red bottom. The leather around the heel scallop-cut like minimalist flower petals.

Steve’s breath has stopped in his chest. The pad of his thumb moved across the soft, matte leather before he stops himself. He tries to look stern when he dares to peek up at Billy, but those water-turquoise eyes are steady on him, absorbing his every reaction.

“These don’t exist in suede.”

Because they didn’t. Hot Chicks came in patent leather only.

“They do now.”

“Louboutin sizes down.”

“Then we’ll have them stretched.”

Steve is losing. Billy knows he’s losing. Billy - he -

“How - ?” Steve begins but stops. He closed his eyes and swallowed, only to flinch a little when Billy grasped his chin, holding him in place as he leaned in to lick the corner of his mouth free of icing.

“Will you try them on for me?”

Steve feels a mixture of defeat mixed in with petulance and vulnerable glee as he warily takes the box to his humble couch. Billy looked at his bed, and then to the kitchen on the other side of the apartment. He strolled into it and lifted the knife for a slice.

Steve, meanwhile, took his time. He opened the paper from where it had floated back over the shoes. He lifted the box to inhale the leather. He took one shoe out just to...see it. Look at it. Read the number stamped on the red arch.

Steve had to remove his socks, revealing his lacquered toes as Billy sat next to him with a plate. He eased the coffee table out of the way, giving Steve room to wiggle his foot into the severe 100mm heel.

They were hardly glamorous under his old, cut-off sweats.

But.

He’d never actually seen his feet in heels before. Never bothered to try to find his size.

Billy handed him the other shoe, and stood up with a ready hand. Steve wiggled into it and accepted his hold as he stood up.

How do you walk in those? he’d once asked his mother.

Trust the heel, my love, she’d answered, strolling around her bedroom in her 130s. If you’ve paid enough for it, it better hold up your entire form, and your dating baggage.

Steve had laughed, but listened to her every word. Move like a wheel barrow. You pivot on your toes, like the wheel, and rest on the heels.

“I’ve got you,” Billy purred when Steve teetered. Just a little.

“Why did you get me these?” Steve had to ask while he began to ease his arm off of Billy’s shoulders.

“Might’ve had a look inside your mail,” he admitted shamelessly. “I thought you might’ve ordered something and I could finally see what you liked. Instead, it’s the one thing I’ve seen you accept.”

“You’re a creep,” Steve declared, but he couldn’t look away from his feet as he strolled around the coffee table.

Billy laughed and sat down to his cake. “This is good.”

“It’s from a box.”

“It’s still good.”

Things . . . changed, after that. Billy came over just to come over. And he pestered Steve with endless questions.

“Do you like these?” he asked with his nose against the magazine pages.

Steve towered over him in his heels, but he’d wash dishes in whatever he wanted, thanks very much. And leather needed to be worn, as his mother taught him. Plastic is trash. If it comes from a living creature, it lives on a creature.

Steve snorted beside him. “My mom crimps those pages.”

“But do you like them?”

“They’re fun in magazines, but perfumes were never really my thing.”

“What is your thing?”

“Right now? You, elbows deep in here.”

Billy perked right out of the magazine only to lock onto the sink. “Because you’re having trouble reaching it now?”

Steve meant to have a witty come-back, but he got caught up in his own giggles. “Yeah.”

Then,

“Can I stay the night?”

Something must have flashed across his face, because Billy added, “Not for sex. I’ve taken the hint, all right?”

Steve slowly unfolded his socks where he sat on the foot of the bed. “Why do you want to?”

Billy wiped his hands on the dish towel and padded across the room to sit beside him. “Because I want to taste you before I sleep. And I wanna taste you when I wake up. I want your snark in my ears all the time - ”

“All the time?” Steve repeated, deadpan.

“Yeah, all the time. I can’t believe it either.”

Billy’s features were warm, unbelievably warm as he watched Steve laugh. “Of course I want to have sex with you. But I miss you when... I miss you all the time. It’s embarrassing.”

Steve rolled his eyes onto him, to which Billy defended, “I have things to do.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re the big man in town,” Steve babied, pushing his chest so he toppled backward.

“I am, actually,” he crooned, his hands finding Steve’s legs easily when he straddled him. “I’d work better with you on my desk.”

“My hairy legs and scraped up heels?” Steve threatened breathily, holding Billy’s cheek and jaw in one hand while he leaned over him so all Billy could see was Steve.

“All of it,” he exhaled, and pulled Steve’s head the last inch for a kiss.

Billy’s next gift was a pair of slippers. Plush, soft, and perfect after an afternoon in 100s.

Then he gave Steve a massage. Steve could accept those with ease. The balls of his feet hurt and even blushed a faint indigo from being so unused to heels. The warm attention of Billy’s hands on the arches of his feet, heels, and ankles; as well as the cold tennis balls he stored in Steve’s freezer to roll along his feet.

By then, he’d seen Steve’s anklet. So the next shoe box Steve opened were dark green suede, as poisonously dark as his mother’s violet heels. The toe was bare, but the heel was encrusted with opals. The milky stones flashed green and orange as Steve walked in the 120mm heel.

“How do they feel?”

Steve, with far more mastery over heels now, pivoted on his toes and planted one on the couch in between Billy’s thighs. His warm hand cradled Steve’s ankle immediately.

“What if I shaved for these?”

“Then I’d never take my hands off you.”

“So nothing would change,” Steve giggled, teasing gone as he landed on Billy’s lap. The man underneath him hummed his mirth into Steve’s mouth, his other hand burying in Steve’s hair while he let Steve control the kiss, explore his mouth.

“I thought they’d go with your eyes,” he said when the kiss petered off and Steve kissed his nose. Billy touched the pad of his thumb high on Steve’s cheek. “There’s a little bit of green there.”

Steve let Billy fuck him in those shoes.

Because he finally craved all the way, beyond fear of rules. Beyond the existence of toys. He craved Billy deeper than skin, and Billy gave it to him.

And when Billy got him a pair of 130s . . . blood red and spiked with tiny, crimson points, he let Steve fuck him.

#everything i know about shoes i learned from Violet Chachki #harringrove #ficlet #asexual!steve #sugardaddy!billy #sugarbaby!steve #neonponders #pondermoniums #lazybakerart #happy birthday love!!!#no i don't know billy's job #cover a plot hole with an unreliable narrator~

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vizhi0nw · 4 years ago

Text

Ghost

Pairing: Kenny Ackerman/OC

Warnings: Violence, Language. NSFW.

Words: 7k

Summary: Kenny Ackerman had never met someone with a reputation just as bad as his own.

AO3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Part 4 of 4

Home

Snatching up one of Byren’s men was Kenny’s idea, and it was an idea Kenny executed with such proficiency and tact that it had Leyla shocked, disturbed, and a bit envious.

If she was a phantom, then Kenny was, for all intents and purposes, a predator.

Kenny had instructed Leyla to wait at her shop before he’d dragged the man in, beaten and bloodied to a near pulp, by the scruff of his neck. Leyla had hastily shut the blinds and arranged a chair for Kenny to sit the man in, before tying the man’s hands behind him with some spare rope. He’d fallen silent, by this point, opting to just glare at Kenny, teeth bared. Blood caked his face and the front of his shirt, dried and crusty and flaking away. One eye was swollen, and his lip was busted - the wound was fresh and still leaking. When he spoke, flecks of crimson flew.

“You have some fucking nerve, Kenny.”

Leyla recognized him, suddenly. It was the same guard Kenny had spoken to when he’d helped sneak Leyla inside the Byren estate. His eyes went from Kenny, to Leyla.

“Whore,” he spat. Kenny’s backhand was immediate - the man’s head snapped to the side and he spit out a flesh mouthful of blood, red saliva hanging in strings from his lips.

“You’d do best to speak to her respectfully. Ya’ know what I can do, and I know you’re scared shitless,” Kenny unsheathed his knife. He went to stand in front of the man, waving the knife like a kid waving a lollipop. “You’re gonna’ get real intimate with this if you don’t answer our questions.”

“I’m assuming you want to know about Vibro?”

“This little lady has a bone to pick with him,” Kenny jerked his knife in Leyla’s direction. “She’ll be asking the questions. I’m just here as...encouragement.”

Kenny’s lips curled back over his teeth when he spoke the last word, mouth shifting upwards into a grotesque smile. There was an audible shuffling of feet as the man tried to push himself away, but he couldn’t. He was trapped.

“O-okay.”

“Good,” Leyla said gruffly. She steeled herself for whatever resistance she knew she might face - she was intimidating, she knew, but Kenny was on another level that she’d never comprehend or be able to emulate. “The first thing I need - did Byren snatch a group of girls from the Underground’s orphanage? Five of them? Around twelve to sixteen years old?”

No response. Leyla could tell that he was pondering over how to give his answer, but Kenny grew impatience and promptly slapped him across the face once more.

“Answer her.”

“Yes! Yes. I..we..me and another were told to track them through the market...Byren has had an eye on the orphanage for a while. Getting willing sluts above ground is harder than just taking them from down here.”

Leyla’s stomach lurched. She and Kenny exchanged glances, before Leyla reached over and dragged a chair across the floor, letting it rest in front of the man and straddling it. She stared at him with hooded eyes, lips pulled into a taut line.

“Are they at the estate, still?”

“They’re alive, if that’s what you mean. They’re with the others,” the man gave a ragged cough, spitting out more blood. After he’d cleared his throat, he looked up at Leyla. “That’s all I can tell you. My job was just to grab them.”

The chair creaked as Leyla put more of her weight on its back. The man wasn’t pleading verbally, but she could see in his eyes the fact that internally, he was begging, screaming, for Leyla to show him mercy.

Leyla felt nothing but disdain for him. She also knew that it was pointless - Kenny wouldn’t let him walk out alive, even if Leyla tried to convince him to.

“Those girls are either going to be sold and trafficked, or die when Byren is finished with them,” Leyla snarled. “They’re children.”

“I told you, I just did my job,” the man replied. “You think I don’t know that they’re kids? You think I would ever fuck one of them? No. What Vibro does...is what Vibro does. There’s no stopping him. People who speak out don’t last long.”

Leyla tensed.

She’d been seven years old when her parents had been killed. She remembered their faces, remembered her mothers soft voice and her fathers comforting touch. But, each year, her memories of them were beginning to fade as time went on and on and on. It was a constant battle, trying not to forget. Trying to remember.

“You’re a coward,” Leyla breathed.

“I’d rather be a coward than be dead.”

Leyla closed her eyes. She let out a sigh, hearing Kenny snort beside her.

“How pathetic,” Kenny said softly. With shocking speed, he slammed the knife into the man’s shoulder, burying it to the hilt. The man let out a blood curdling scream, and Leyla’s eyes snapped open. Kenny continued, “There’s nothing I hate more than a fucking coward.”

“I’ll answer whatever questions you have,” the man sobbed. “Please. Please.”

Kenny flicked the knife with his pointer finger, easing back and letting it stay embedded in the man’s flesh.

With Kenny watching closely in the background, Leyla proceeded to drag as much information from her captee as she could. Locations, names, stockpile information - Byren had several caches of supplies around Mitras, and owned several storehouses out in other districts. She managed to get a rather simplistic, but helpful, layout of Byren’s estate as well. It was enough information to make her feel confident that she and Kenny could take on Byren as a duo, without possible help from a woman Kenny had mentioned was named Traute.

The man was sporting another swollen eyes by the end of it. One to match the other.

“That’s all I know,” he moaned.

“I believe you,” Leyla whispered. “Kenny…”

“No, please n-”

Blood and brains splattered against the back of his chair and across Leyla’s floor. The gunshot was loud, like a crack of thunder. Leyla had become so used to the sound that she barely flinched, watching the man’s body slump forward.

“I thought you’d never fucking ask. Asshole was gettin’ on my nerves,” Kenny let out a groan and rolled his eyes. He glanced at the carnage - bits of bone, hair, and bodily matter clung to the hardwood. “Shit. Sorry for the mess…”

“It’s fine,” Leyla said hallowly. “I’ll clean it.”

“Meet you at home?”

Home. Leyla looked around the shop - the wine bottles were gathering dust and some of the chairs had cobwebs criss-crossing from one leg to the next. It smelled stale.

This was no longer her home, she realized. The blood and brains were just an unfortunate decoration, at this point. Kenny’s apartment had been her place of residence for several months, and it already felt more congenial than the shop ever had. While she’d always love the place, it had been her grandfather’s legacy, not Leyla’s.

While she’d never have a true home with Kenny, she could pretend for now.

“Yeah,” Leyla said, her voice sounding a little less hollow and a little more hopeful. “I’ll meet you at home.”

______________

Leyla usually woke first, something Kenny was eternally grateful for. It gave him one of the most stunning views he’d ever have the pleasure of seeing - Leyla, clad in one of his button-up, white shirts and only one of said white shirts, walking around the apartment. He could see her from his room, reaching up to the top shelf of the cabinet to grab something, the shirt riding up past her thighs and giving him the shortest glimpse of panties and the curve of her supple ass. He’d be staring, and when Leyla caught him, she’d simply smile and slip out of his sight.

Fuck.

Kenny rolled over onto his back, bare chest rising and falling as he let out a long breath. There was an indent next to him where Leyla had been sleeping, and the area was still warm - she hadn’t been up very long. He heard shuffling in the kitchen, and footsteps. A moment later, Leyla entered the room with her arms crossed over her chest.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

Kenny raised an eyebrow. His eyes followed Leyla as she waltzed over to the bed, swinging her legs on either side of Kenny’s waist. She straddled him, leaning down to rest her head against his chest. Kenny basked in her closeness, groaning as his cock twitched beneath his thin sleep pants.

“Don’t care,” Kenny murmured. “Just want you right now.”

Leyla gave a rumbling chuckle. She pressed a kiss against Kenny’s chest, making her way up to his shoulder, neck, and then mouth. He buried a hand in her thick curls, hips bucking when her soft hands slid beneath his pants to grip the base of his dick. She jerked a few times before working on wriggling his sleep pants down past his hips, before doing the same to her panties. He could feel her slick against his thigh and he relished in her soft groans as she curled over him, deftly sliding the head of his cock past her soft walls.

“Sweetheart,” Kenny groaned. “So good...”

Leyla’s whimpers were consumed by Kenny’s questing mouth. He thrust upward, wanting nothing more than to tear as many sounds as he could from her throat. His hands gripped her hips, bouncing her on his dick with furious abandon until he felt his balls tighten and his stomach clench and he was shooting ropes of his cum deep inside of her.

“Kenny,” Leyla sighed, the prime indicator that her own orgasm was approaching - Kenny fucked up into her a few more, final times, before she was clenching around him and riding out her own release. She placed a damp kiss against Kenny’s shoulder, one hand lazily tugging at the grey-laced strands of hair on his head.

They lay together for a few moments, before Leyla rested her palms against Kenny’s chest and pushed herself up a bit. She stared down at him, full lips stretching into a smile.

“We need to eat. Have you decided what you want?”

“I was supposed to decide?” Kenny gave a breathy chuckle. “Show me what we have and I’ll make up my mind.”

Leyla rolled off Kenny, pulling her panties back in place. She yelped when Kenny placed a playful slap against her ass, bouncing away on the balls of her feet and disappearing back into the kitchen.

He did everything he could to remember this moment. Remember how it felt to hold her close and murmur sweet nothings into her ear - the previous night, he’d done his best to sear her touch into the very fabric of his mind. He’d taken his time with her, unwrapping her like a sweet, sweet gift and savoring each little sound he drew from her. It was addicting, but it was an addiction Kenny knew would never last a lifetime, no matter how much he wanted it to.

Kenny rolled out of bed, opting not to don his shirt for the time being. When he padded into the kitchen, Leyla was preparing fruit and slices of ham. She had her back turned and seemed to be caught looking out the window before her at the vast expanse of Mitras as she worked to cut up apples.

Was he making the right choice?

Kenny was beginning to doubt himself, doubt his decisions. It was the first time in a while he felt nervous - not for the blood and carnage he knew would ensue in a few days, but because he was genuinely wondering if the divine beings above, if they even existed, were sending him a sign. Leyla was here, in all her beauty, strength, and wit. Willing to settle with him once the deed of killing Byren was done.

He was going to choose a life of servitude to the King and to the MP’s over her.

There was a house out near Shiganshina for them, waiting.

“You’re staring again, Kenny,” Leyla said softly. Kenny shook his head, snapping out of his trance. He shoved the thought as far into the back of his mind as he could push it, walking over to settle at the table while Leyla brought over two plates arranged with berries, apples, and ham.

“I was just caught up in my own thoughts. Ya’ know how it gets,'' Kenny toyed with an apple slice. “I’m going to run recon on the estate later this evenin’.”

“Thank you,” Leyla said through a mouthful of food. She swallowed, plucking a berry from where it lay and analyzing it. “I want to get this over with. Make it smooth and clean...get those girls out of there.”

“This is a rescue mission now, huh.”

“Something like that,” Leyla murmured. She popped the berry into her mouth, chewing very slowly as she thought for a moment. When she swallowed, she took a second before speaking in a low voice. “I remember what it was like, crawling around the brothel, having to deal with clients...I did it on my own accord and still got treated like shit. I can’t imagine...what Byren is doing to those girls.”

“My sister was like you,” Kenny said tightly. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Same profession. I’m glad you got out.”

“What was your sister’s name?”

“You wouldn’t have known her,” Kenny replied. After a pause, he said, “Her name was Kuchel. I’d visit her sometimes, and I’d come in and see her bruised and battered because she’d refused to fulfill the fantasy of some sick deadbeat.”

“I hope she hit back,” Leyla said.

“Oh, I’m sure she did,” Kenny chuckled. He could tell that Leyla wanted to know more from the way she leaned in, head tilted to the side a bit. It was the first time, he realized, that he’d spoken about Kuchel out loud to anyone. There was a weird weight floating off his chest, and he found himself wanting to speak, wanting to talk more about her. It was weird, it was foreign, but Kenny had never shied away from something new, so he embraced the feeling. “Her kid though...her kid was - is - a damn spitfire. Craziest damn brat I’ve ever known - he hits hard.”

“You have a nephew?”

“Levi,” Kenny chuckled. “You and him would get along.”

“Hm,” Leyla hummed. “Tell me more.”

Kenny did.

The weight was gone by the time he’d finished. He felt free - as free as he felt when he was flying high over Mitras with his gear, soaring above the little ants below, able to go wherever he wanted, however he wanted. He spoke to Leyla of his grandfather, of Traute and the MP’s - of Uri, and the Reiss family. He took it slowly, revealing information bit by bit until he was confident that Leyla understood.

“It’s amazing,” Leyla breathed, when he was finished. “There’s a whole world outside of the Underground that I would have never known, had I not met you.”

“Big picture, sweetheart,” Kenny ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right. The world is much too big, and you’re much too good for it.”

“Kenny…”

“When this is all over, I’m packin’ up my shit with the MP’s and we’re going to find a house near Shiganshina,” Kenny said, chest clenching when Leyla reared back, startled. “Just you and me. We’ll buy some chickens or goats or some shit…”

Leyla covered her mouth as she laughed. She reached out and clasped Kenny’s hand, suddenly. “We said we’d talk about it after, Kenny. You have your dreams as well.”

He had dreams, but he hadn’t disclosed the specifics of them to Leyla during his explanation of Uri’s abilities. She’d taken it rather well, only inquiring once or twice about the nature of the Titan powers. Kenny had told her as much as he could, and he wondered if her apathy towards the situation was due to the fact that, for all intents and purposes, Titans were something Leyla had never had to deal with. If there was one positive thing about living in the Underground beneath the Mitras, it was that death via Titan was last on the list of ways to go.

“I just...fuck, I love you,” Kenny let out a breathy chuckle. He felt Leyla squeeze his hand, and his heart did somersaults in his chest. “If only we had more time…”

“We will have time, Kenny. I promise,” Leyla said sincerely. “We’ll try. I swear, we’ll try. But right now I’m...I’m not ready. I have to do this.”

Kenny said nothing. He’d heard it before - the excuse.

This time, however, it was different.

“I’m scared of being truly alone. That’s why. I stay in the Underground...I push myself to do things like this because even though I’ve always been a loner, I’ve always had the people down there...watching me, giving me a reason to keep going. I’m scared that if I leave, I won’t have that anymore.”

“You’ll have me.”

“I know. That’s why part of me thinks I might be ready, after this.”

Leyla leaned forward and pressed her lips against Kenny’s. He returned the kiss, savoring it - in the back of his mind he found himself beginning to think of where exactly in the city of Mitras he’d find a ring.

_____________

“Make sure your gear is secure,” Kenny tugged on the straps looped around Leyla’s arms and chest. “Wouldn’t want ya’ takin’ a tumble, now would we?”

“No. It would be embarrassing, and I know you’d get yourself shot laughing at me,” Leyla huffed. She grazed her fingers across her chestplate, glancing up at Kenny as he bared his teeth in a smile. “Oh, stop it.”

“Can’t help it. Ya’ make me laugh.”

“Your cruelty knows no bounds, Kenny Ackerman.”

A thumb tilted Leyla’s chin upward. Kenny’s mouth met hers, and she immediately melted into his arms. He nipped at her lower lip when he pulled away, his breath hot against her cheek.

“Ya’ love me anyway.”

“Always.”

The sun had dipped below the walls long ago, and Mitras was now a sprawling city alight with lanterns. The Byren estate was just a pump of air away, and Leyla could see the top of the house from the roof she and Kenny were currently crouched upon. It seemed so close, yet so far at the same time.

The plan was rather simplistic in nature, but one slip up could bring the entire operation crumbling to the ground. It was Kenny’s task to take out any watchguards stationed around the estate while Leyla would soar over and squeeze through to Byren’s room on the top level. Any shootout that ensued after wouldn’t serve to alert any outdoor guards, who, from what their captee had told them, were instructed to signal for backup using flares. They’d come from all over Mitras along with the MP’s, something they - especially Kenny - couldn’t risk.

Byren was still in the dark about Kenny. Their captee had also informed them that, while Byren had his suspicions, he hadn’t seen nor heard Kenny during the initial attack.

Bold. That was the only word for the plan.

“See ya’ on the other side,” Kenny said playfully. He shot his hooks into the adjacent building, gas projecting him forward and out of sight, leaving Leyla utterly alone with only the cool night air to soothe her.

“Showtime,” she murmured. Mimicking Kenny’s actions from earlier, she shot a projectile into the building opposite of her, letting the gas launch her into the sky. Her mind was hyper focused on remembering her training - how to duck, move her body so the gas sent her careening one way, and then the other, then the other...Leyla had the rhythm down. She approached the Byren estate with careful ease, pulling herself onto the rooftop, right where she and Kenny had planned.

The area was dead silent. The lanterns were lit, but then was an eerie stillness to the mansion that sent chills down Leyla’s spine. She peered over the edge of the roof, locating the window where she knew, beyond, Byren resided. She prepared herself, making sure her guns were loaded, before swinging down from above and bursting through the glass. The entire thing was messy, loud, and sudden - if Kenny had finished with his task, there would be no guards alerted.

Byren was right where Leyla had anticipated he’d be, curled up in bed with some woman Leyla didn’t recognize. At the sound of breaking glass, he rolled from bed - Leyla could see him begin to fumble for something in the drawer of his bedside table, and as quickly as she could, she aimed a shot directly above the headboard. The resounding crack, and the impact, caused Byren to pause the search for his weapon and for the woman in his bed to scream and cover her ears.

Byren sunk to his knees at the foot of his bed. He looked up at Leyla, expression blank.

“I knew you were more than just a whore. Look at you - so brave-”

“Don’t fucking move,” Leyla hissed. She pointed the gun directly at Byren, waiting - as if on cue, Kenny burst through the bedroom door. He was panting, breastplate speckled with blood.

“Hope I didn’t miss anything,” he tipped his hat in Byren’s direction. “Bedroom is secure?”

“As secure as it can be,” Leyla replied. She looked Byren up and down - she could see that his right hand was wrapped in tight gauze, his fingers having been reduced down to nubs from where Kenny had all but vaporized the limb. His face was pallid, and he had dark circles beneath his eyes. There was still that crazed look Leyla had seen when he’d killed Marissa. It hadn’t been stomped out.

Leyla wondered what look he’d given her parents when he’d had them killed.

“I should have known,” Byren gave a breathless, struggling laugh. “You and I never saw eye to eye, Kenny. A shame it had to come to this.”

“This little lady here was far kinder to me than you ever were. Her cause was far more noble than anything you ever employed me for,” Kenny waved his gun dismissively. “It’s a damn shame, but as we all know, this world is cruel. Damn cruel.”

“You could have been anything, Kenny. I always admired you,” Byren bared his teeth. “Your unforgiving ferocity. You could have been like me - we were built for this, Kenny. Inside these walls, where there’s no Titans - people like us are the inheritors of everything.”

“I have my own damn dreams, and they certainly don’t involve whatever fucked up operation you’ve got goin’ on here,” Kenny growled. “Leyla?”

Rolling her shoulders, Leyla’s first matter of business was getting rid of the cowering, shivering prostitute in Byren’s bed. The woman had uncovered her ears and had been listening to their discussion with interest, finally having realized that they weren’t here for her. Her eyes fell across Leyla, and she seemed as if she desperately wanted to speak, but fear was choking her into silence.

So, Leyla spoke to her directly, making sure to soften her tone. “There are more girls here. Where are they?”

“Don’t-” Byren began, but Kenny had his gun aimed before he could make a move towards the woman.

“Downstairs, in the main room.”

“Thank you. Get out of here - take what you need on the way out.”

The woman nodded. She pulled a coat on over her flimsy nightdress, donned a pair of slippers, and ran out the door. There was a moment of silence before Leyla decided to speak again, but her words were interrupted by the sound of hooves against cobblestone, rough voices, and shadows passing through the door and across the wall from outside.

Kenny’s eyes snapped to the source of the sound, and Byren began laughing.

“You’re both idiots. You, especially,” Vibro Byren sent Leyla a death-glare. “Trying to take me on because you're bitter that I blew your parent’s brains out.”

Several things happened at one time. The door to the bedroom burst open, and Byren made a break for it. Leyla fired off a shot that missed and tore through the goose father pillows on his bed, sending tendrils of white flying. Kenny popped off a series of double-shots that embedded themselves in the two guards who were just raising their guns to fire -

As they fell, Byren barrelled past them and disappeared down the hallway.

“Ah, SHIT,” Kenny’s curse was booming. He looked at Leyla for direction, gesturing wildly. “New plan?”

“Go after Byren. Kill him,” Leyla began backtracking towards the busted window. “I’m hitting the lower level and grabbing the girls. We’ll regroup in the courtyard.”

Kenny nodded. He took off after Byren, and Leyla catapulted herself from the window. As she fell, wind tearing at her hair, she shot a hook into the ledge and used her gas to allow herself to float smoothly down to the first floor. The front doors to the estate were abandoned, and two corpses littered the stone stairs. Leyla stepped past them, pushing her way into the building. The great room was just ahead, and she could hear voices - she pressed herself against the wall, peering around the corner.

Leyla recognized Presley immediately. The older teenager had always greeted Leyla with a hug when she’d come to the orphanage - she had a fiery personality and had, on more than one occasion, begged for Leyla to take her on raids.

She was here, now, clad in flimsy lingerie and arguing furiously with one of the guards. Her face was red and Leyla could see a bruise on the side of her face - behind her, four other, younger girls were huddled.

“Sit the fuck down! Byren should be down here in a minute,” one of the men brandished his handgun threateningly. “Don’t make me hit you again!”

Presley reared back and spat a globule of saliva onto the man’s face. His response was immediate, and he swung his gun like a club, catching Presley in the cheek and knocking her flat on the floor.

Leyla broke from cover. She counted three other guards meandering around the room - two by the kitchen, one by the fireplace, and the other, standing over a downed Presley with a sneer on his face. Killing the single guard by Presley was easy, and as her shot hit home, she sent one hook into the throat of the guard closest to the kitchen, using her gas to launch her forward and towards his companion.

Blood gushed onto the hardwood as the hook tore past flesh and cartilage. The man gave a wet, gurgling cry and toppled, accidentally discharging his gun and shattering the lights of the chandelier above. Another buckshot whizzed past Leyla’s face, but her focus was on man still standing and fumbling with his weapon. A single shot was all it took to kill him.

“LEYLA!” Presley’s shriek was urgent, guttural - it screamed danger.

Leyla turned. The remaining guard, the one by the fireplace, had his gun raised towards the girls. A switch went off inside Leyla, and Kenny’s training hit her like a wave - push, click, reload. Kenny would have been proud of her speed, she mused, letting the steaming barrel of her gun hit the floor, the remaining piece slipping into a new barrel with rhythmic precision. She moved before she fired, tossing herself with the aid of the gas in between the guard and the huddled, terrified girls. She wasn’t sure who fired their gun first, her, or the guard, but Leyla’s shot hit home.

As did his.

As the guards head erupted in a spray of crimson, Leyla felt the projectile tear through her. Instead of landing on her feet, like she’d intended, she fell on her side and slid a few yards before coming to a stop against the side of the couch. The impact jostled her, and she felt blood begin to pour from her mouth and nose. She could barely breathe. It felt as if a heavy hand were pressing against her lungs from the inside, twisting and squeezing.

“Fuck.”

____________

Byren was fast, but Kenny was faster.

He’d opted to take a left instead of heading towards the lower floor, bounding down yet another long hallway where more of his men were waiting - the bloodbath had been glorious. The walls were painted with streaks of red, now, and Byren was struggling to stem the flow of blood from the bullet wound Kenny had blasted through his thigh.

Half a dozen corpses littered the floor. Kenny stepped over each, sighing deeply as Byren continued to try and crawl away.

“All your men are dead, Vibro, including the pathetic backup you brought. Give it up,” Kenny couldn’t hold the exasperation from his tone. Byren was all talk and no bite. He’d made one pathetic swipe at Kenny with a knife before a bullet had put him on the floor - utterly hopeless, propped up only by his sadistic demeanor towards those less fortunate. It was why he probably aimed for young prostitutes, Kenny mused.

“She must have gotten into your brain,” Byren threw back his head and laughed, tears brimming in the corner of his eyes from the pain of the hole in his leg. “Is she that good in bed, Kenny? I know she used to be a whore. I could tell the moment she shoved her tongue down my throat.”

Kenny felt something stir in his chest, and he rolled his eyes. He stomped forward and slammed his heel into Byren’s wounded leg, dragging a scream past the man’s lips. It was satisfying, and now, it was Kenny’s turn to laugh.

“You really are good for nothin’,” Kenny raised his gun. “She gave me permission to kill ya’. For her parents.”

“I hope all of this was worth it.”

“For her? Yeah,” Kenny let out a sigh. He locked eyes with Byren, not wanting to drag this out any further.

A single gunshot was all it took.

Byren lay dead with his men. Kenny surveyed the wrecked hallway, and the estate had finally fallen silent. Whatever backup Byren had managed to pull together had been nothing more than a few mooks. No MP’s, though Kenny was beginning to wonder if their absence had been deliberate, somehow. It was rare that they wouldn’t come to the aid of some sniveling noble, especially one as relevant as Byren.

Kenny went and picked his hat up from where it had fallen during the scuffle. Sheathing his guns, he made his way down the stairs and towards the great room.

“...lift her up. No, not like that - keep her head elevated so she can breathe…”

Kenny’s heart began to drop a million miles a second.

Five girls were huddled around Leyla’s motionless body. Their state of sparse dress barely phased Kenny. All he could focus on was Leyla, and how her body was so still, save for the occasional twitch of her fingers and her eyes, which were open and staring and locking onto his own as he sank to his knees next to her.

Her shirt was sticky with blood, so much of it that it caused the fabric to cling to her flesh. The girls had removed her breastplate, and one, the oldest looking of the group, was pressing what looked to be a hand towel against the wound.

Kenny had gauged many, many wounds in his life as a squad leader and serial killer. No amount of medical attention in the world could save her.

Hopeless.

“...Kenny?”

The girls stepped away as Kenny moved closer. They were silent, watching with their heads ducked as Kenny took Leyla’s trembling hand in his own. Glassy eyes searched his face.

“I’m right here, sweetheart. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize. Ya’ don’t have to,” Kenny let out a ragged breath. He couldn’t cry in front of these girls. It was some code, some unbroken vow he’d made to himself. With a furious wave, he shooed the girls away - the oldest teenager seemed reluctant to go.

“Is...is she going to be okay?”

“No. You girls don’t need to be here to see the aftermath. Go home, back to the orphanage,” Kenny said briskly. When they didn’t move, he barked, “Go!”

They obeyed. When the sounds of their feet had finally faded away, Kenny broke - he leaned down to rest his forehead against Leyla’s, feeling her feebly lift another hand to rest against the side of his face. His tears were wet and hot and his cries were muffled. When he pulled away, there was a smile on her lips.

“This is bullshit,” Leyla gave a wet chuckle. “I wish...I wish we had more time, but I m-made my choice. I...”

“You didn’t waste your life,” Kenny said quickly. “You didn’t.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Kenny looked towards the staircase leading to the upper floor. “It’s done.”

Leyla gave a soft hum of contentment, and the noise damn near broke Kenny’s heart for good. It was the same hum she’d give in the morning, when she’d be trying to wrestle Kenny from bed. The fact that he’d never hear that noise again wasn’t something ready to accept.

She had to live. She couldn’t leave him. She couldn’t -

“Don’t sulk,” Leyla said. “Don’t you d-dare fucking sulk. You have...dreams to pursue, Kenny.”

“I understand,” Kenny raised the bloody hand in his palm and kissed it fervently. “Shit, I just…”

There’s so much I want to say to you.

“I know,” Leyla breathed.

____________

He buried her in the cemetery next to her parents.

Kenny dug the hole himself. It took several hours, and by the end of it, he felt no different. He’d thought doing the act would bring him some closure, a feeling of relief.

Putting her in that hole only brought him more grief, though he’d done a good, good job of shutting it in a box and tossing away the key.

Having Leyla violently ripped away from him had only worked to make the self-hate he had for himself resurface tenfold. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling like shit, even though he knew he was shit - he’d always been shit. Kuchel had always been the good one, not him. He’d always believed that Kuchel should have been the one to survive, not him.

He’d walked away from Levi on his own accord. Uri had been taken due to circumstances out of his control. Leyla’s death had been on her own volition, she’d made it very clear that Kenny wasn’t to blame, but if only Kenny had been better. Stronger, smarter, faster.

He had to be better. He would be better in the future.

But now, right now, all he could think about was the fact that Leyla was a cold corpse wrapped in sheets and he was alone.

He slammed the shovel into the ground. The rectangle was big and deep enough, and for a moment, he could only stand awkwardly and shift back and forth on his feet. It was a funeral of one, he realized.

After a while, he placed Leyla in the dirt and began covering her. That task took half as long but was no more painful, no more agonizing. The tombstone he made was wooden, created using floorboards from the shop. He’d simply sketched her name - no birthdate, no last name. Leyla had never told him the first, and he wondered if she even had the latter.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Kenny turned. It was Mika - the older woman had a small bouquet of flowers in one hand. She was bundled up in a jacket, and despite the circumstance, she had a small smile on her face.

“Come to pay your respects?”

“I wasn’t sure who was going to bury her. News from the orphanage spreads fast,” Mika stepped forward, placing the flowers in front of Kenny’s pathetic little headstone. “She’d told me, many, many times, that this was how she’d die. I just...wasn’t exactly prepared for it to happen.”

“I tried to get her to stop. She wouldn’t. Stubborn bitch,” Kenny snorted. Mika just stared down at the grave, lips pressed into an unassuming line. “She would go on and on about how much this town meant to her. I never got it.”

“She saved so many of us. I wanted her to stop, too,” Mika said somberly. “Even though I don’t think a lot of us would have made it…”

“It’s shit, what they do to you down here.”

“Us,” Mika glanced up at him. “I know you lived down here. I’ve heard the stories - Leyla told me who you are.”

“I’m nobody.”

“Everyone is somebody,” Mika reached out and patted Kenny’s dirty arm. “If you ever need a place to stay, my home is open to you. It’s what she would have wanted.”

Mika turned and left. It was the last time Kenny would probably ever see her again.

He stood by Leyla’s grave for a while, before visiting the spot where Kuchel was buried for the first time in almost a decade. Her grave was just as pathetic as Leyla’s, though hers sported a much more impressive headstone.

When he resurfaced and found himself in Mitras. He threw himself into his squad work, ignoring soft inquiries from Traute. The heaviness in his heart did not dissipate, but he wouldn’t let it affect his work - he couldn’t. He had to honor Leyla’s instructions. Honor her by inching closer and closer to his goals.

Two months passed without incident. It was mid-spring when he was called in to speak with Laurens about a potential squad mission. The short, middle-aged man was utterly reprehensible to Kenny, but he was the buffer between the nobility and the interior MP’s - he held an enormous amount of power, but had always respected Kenny’s autonomy, most likely out of fear. Kenny did what he asked, but only when he wanted to.

“I’m very happy that you took care of Vibro,” Laurens snickered and lifted his whiskey to his lips. “I don’t care how you did it, I’m just glad you did something about that menace.”

“I felt like taking the initiative, considering how he’s been a thorn in your side,” Kenny lied. He kept his face neutral, but he’d realized that the absence of MP’s and Traute’s...insistence that she help had, most likely, all been organized. Byren had far less allies than he’d bragged about.

“His sadism was getting out of hand and making us look bad. What’s done is done. I have a new job for you,” Laurens emptied his glass and ran a hand through his thin, balding hair. “There’s been reports of more thieves - five of them, specifically. Doing the same thing as that man or woman from before.”

“Thieves?” Kenny’s eyebrows shifted ever so slightly.

“Dressed in all black, nabbing rations from the MP’s. Even stole a horse - probably sold it off in the market,” Laurens waved a hand. “I want your whole squad on it. Catch them and kill them-”

“No,” Kenny said.

“Pardon?”

“I haven’t heard any reports of thieves. Things go missing all the time - hell, half the time, it’s the damn MP’s themselves stealing or misplacing rations,” Kenny leaned forward, baring his teeth in a sickeningly sweet smile. Laurens response was just as he’d anticipated; a shuddering gulp, and a raising of both hands. “Come back to me with something less boring. You’re seeing ghosts, Laurens, and nothin’ more.”

“You never say no to a job, Kenny-”

“I’m saying no today,” Kenny slammed a wad of cash onto the table, excusing himself. He began to light a cigarette, letting it hang between his teeth as he spoke. “Drinks are on me. You’re welcome.”

He left Laurens, who remained sitting in disbelief, to go take a stroll through the streets of Mitras.

End

#kenny ackerman x reader #kenny ackerman/reader #kenny ackerman #snk fanfiction #aot fanfiction #snk #attack on titan #shingeki no kyoujin

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tempestaslokni · 10 months ago

Text

What the hell is that supposed to mean? 'It's gonna take more than some camouflage shorts for you to stay unnoticed,' What- so I gotta' cover myself in mud or something?!" Lokni blurted out, nostrils flared in a fit of confused umbrage. He didn't really know what to take from this pretty boy doubting his stealth abilities. "I know I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I can hunt just fine." Lokni found that he was stammering like a fool, words flying from his mouth like bullets out of a pistol, but he just couldn't seem to stop. Alex's expression was one of amusement and interest, like a cat that found a particularly fat mouse to throw around.

Lokni was just about to start up again when Alex caught him off guard, talkin' about 'tropical bugs,' 'sawgrass,' 'melanin,' and whatnot. It took a moment for Lokni to realize that this guy knew what he was talking about. So the camouflage shorts are a bad idea, Lokni mentally fumed, but swallowed down his pride. Alex had tossed both shirts over Lokni's shoulder, and Lokni saw the way his muscles flexed and relaxed with the ease of the movement. This guy wasn't all just talk, even if he looked like a city slicker. Alex might as well be a rattler coiled in the middle of Hollywood for all Lokni knew.

Even though he said that this was 'second nature,' there was a skeptical part within Lokni that just wouldn't lie still. He had always assumed that those survival shows were kind of a hoax, not really as dramatic as they were made to seem. Yet, there was Alex, making perfectly reasonable and practical assessments. That, and Lokni had no experience with tropical weather, flora, and fauna. This was a whole 'nother rodeo, and Lokni was quickly coming to realize that; like it or not, he needed Alex.

Holding Alex's gaze, Lokni raised an eyebrow as he slowly allowed the Hawaiin shirt to be removed from him, the brush of Alex's fingertips on his skin causing his breath to hitch in his throat. Trying to ignore the strange, foreign sensations as well as the proximity, Lokni permitted Alex to help him get dressed. He slung his other arm into the vest. "Like this?" Lokni murmured, a little unsure if he was wearing it properly. This was clothing that was worn by Indigenous people, but he had never been able to afford stuff of this caliber. Even what he wore to Pow Wows was mostly secondhand or borrowed from other people so that he could participate properly. Lokni was always ashamed of that. He felt like an eagle that had lost its feathers.

Alex complimented him, talking about morale boosts and how amazing Lokni was gonna' look. That last part Lokni still severely doubted, but it still brought color and heat to his face. Enough that he looked away from Alex, unable to meet his gaze, grateful for the curtain of dark hair that he could hide his face behind. "You're right," Lokni cleared his dry throat, "it is a natural warning signal."

We are the Survivors? Lokni mentally noted, wracking his brain to see if it rang any bells. He was just about to give up when something did bloom within his memories. "Yeah actually, now that you mention it, my mother enjoyed watching that show. That and- what was it called, Romance Island?" Lokni's mother often watched stuff like that, reality tv shows and the like. The only ones that she convinced Lokni to watch with her were Heartland and Below Deck. Even though he didn't get a lot of the drama, and found it very frustrating at times, he still enjoyed the time spent with his mother drinking spiced apple cider and laughing together.

"Well, 'just Alex,' if you're looking for stuff around the ship, or the island in general, maybe we could work together. I've been gathering some things as well- a cache of sorts. Not that I'm trying to hoard the good stuff for myself, just- I can't really help the others well if I can't help myself to begin with, if that makes any sense. What about you, got some sort of survival plan in the making?" Lokni added with a dismissive wave of his hand. He knew plenty well that a lot of what he thought and said didn't make sense. Trying to put ideas into words only pointed out his own lack of intellect, in his opinion at least.

Alex instinctively stooped to start collecting the scattered items as well, taking note particularly of that bracelet with the butterfly on it -- too small for handsome Lokni to wear, so it was likely intended for somebody else and not an androgynous fashion sense -- but it seemed Lokni had it all under control. Which was just fine in Alex's opinion, since it meant he could straighten up again and just admire the sight of tall dark and gorgeous bent over scooping up his belongings.

He hid a smile when Lokni was discombobulated enough to actually bump into and marginally shove a piece of furniture. "Oh, I have news for you, honey," Alex murmured, his delighted gaze fixed on Lokni's face. "It's gonna take more than some camouflage shorts for you to stay unnoticed."

And still, Lokni was being demure and only choosing one of the shirts that Alex had offered up, although he did get points for choosing the sexier mesh instead of the more covered-up one. "You'll want both," Alex said, bundling them together and throwing them over one of Lokni's broad shoulders as he picked up the embroidered vest again. "The mesh is good, ventilation and all that, but there's gonna be times when you want the full coverage. If you're making your way through sawgrass or if you're somewhere marshy so you don't get eaten alive by bugs, or if you're in direct sunlight for a long time. This kind of tropical sun can burn even skin like yours and mine with a little melanin."

Alex was about to insist that Lokni take off that Hawai'ian shirt and try on the vest -- only partially for his own satisfaction, he was sure it would come in useful for the other man -- when Lokni asked a few possibly pertinent questions, and he paused. Clearly his name and face hadn't rung any bells for Lokni, which was a disappointment, but one that Alex could move past.

"I'm just Alex," he said, offering a bright smile in return. "I came back on the ship to scout around for anything that might be useful on land, no point letting things go to waste out here when they could be making our lives better, huh?" Alex moved forward and took the shirts from Lokni's shoulder, taking that opportunity to start to gently but insistently divest him of the aloha shirt as well. "I was on a television show called We The Survivors, you might have heard of it? It was a survivor show. So this is kind of second nature to me."

Slinging the vest halfway onto Lokni, Alex lifted his chin to indicate the other man should assist in getting it on properly. "Come on. This is gonna look amazing on you, and a bit of a morale boost is just as important as blending in with the scenery. In fact, lots of animals are gonna read this patch of red as a reason to steer clear of you!" Alex nodded wisely. "Natural warning signal, bright colour."

#panopticon rpg #lokni hughes #alex [001]

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aellynera · 5 years ago

Text

Restrained (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x Reader)

RESTRAINED

(i just do what my brain tells me to, guys. it wouldn’t shut up until i wrote this.)

Word Count: 2660

Summary: Santiago issues a challenge. Purely innocent of course. But to be fair, those should not have been in the supply closet.

Warnings: Little bit o’ language.

(with prompts: “do it. i dare you.”; “how about a hug, hm?”; “is this your first time?”)

Santiago Garcia walked back into the munitions room with two more canvas duffel bags and threw them on the small counter. “Hey, got more bags.”

“Thanks,” you replied, turning around to grab one. You almost bumped into him in the close quarters. “You load ammo, I’ll check and load the weapons?”

He nodded in agreement, grabbed the other bag and started packing it. You worked in a comfortable silence.

It was more of a closet than a room, really, but it had all the fun toys you needed for your next mission. So here you were in over 100 degree heat, in a teeny room, getting things ready to go. You puffed a piece of stray hair off your forehead and wondered if the temperature in the small room wasn’t just being caused by the brilliant sunshine outside.

You side-eyed your partner, noting (not for the first time) that it wasn’t fair for him to look that good in fatigue pants, dark grey tank, and combat boots. The thin sheen of sweat on his brow as he worked only added to the effect. You felt the tips of your ears start to color and turned back to concentrate on the rack of artillery in front of you.

Pope was giving you some side-eye too, but he was equally subtle about it. You were dressed the same as he was, only your tank was olive green and he thought you wore it better. He turned his attention back to the ammo crates next to him.

You had worked together for two years, after both being assigned to operations in Colombia. One semi-drunken night not long after you’d arrived at base, you had bonded with the group you fondly called The Boys, Pope in particular. You just had an easy-going back-and-forth, he was easy to talk to, and you’d had some similar experiences in both your families that helped to deepen your connection. You considered him your best friend; he felt the same.

The Boys, much to your annoyance, had a bet going on how long it would take you and Pope to get together. It was no secret they all thought you would make the perfect couple, or at least the perfect hookup. Both of you laughed it off. It was not a time to even consider having a relationship, much less with your best friend.

Not that you hadn’t actually considered it. More than once. Okay, maybe a lot. And neither of you would even consider that the other might have done the same. You were best friends.

Suddenly his short, sharp laugh broke the silence. “What in the hell?”

You looked over and saw him holding up something silver. Definitely not a weapon or ammo. You squinted, huffing that damn piece of hair out of your eyes again.

“Are those...handcuffs?”

Pope sounded a mix between amused and surprised. “Um, yeah.”

“Santi,” you tilted your head. “Why do you have a pair of handcuffs?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. They were just here in the ammo crate.”

“That’s incredibly odd,” you chuckled. “Why would we have any use for handcuffs?”

Pope laughed full-on at that. You reached over and swatted at him. “That’s not what I meant, you ass. I know what handcuffs are for.” Okay, so you really were trying to get your work done, but you couldn’t help joking with him. It was just what you did.

He looked at the handcuffs in his hand, then up at you. One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk and he raised an eyebrow.

You took a step back and pursed your lips. You knew that look. That look was never good. That look meant trouble and shenanigans when you were not inside a munitions closet, and probably meant exactly the same thing inside one, knowing how Santiago worked. And you knew how he worked. He might be a master tactician and an exceptional soldier, but his sense of humor and penchant for mischief was definitely off-kilter and somewhat juvenile at times. You could almost see the thoughts forming in his head.

“Seriously, Pope? We need to finish packing this shit up and get it loaded. We leave in two hours. Put the cuffs down and get back to it,” you said sternly.

He paused a second, but his expression didn’t change. “What if…”

Your heart suddenly vaulted up into your throat. The room was getting warmer.

“What if we make a bet? I bet you can’t finish packing that bag in less than five minutes if you’re cuffed.”

Now your heart was almost oozing out of your ears. You put on the blankest expression you could muster. “I’m sorry...what?”

“You can’t pack that bag in less than five minutes while you’re cuffed,” Pope repeated, more of a challenge this time. He took a step closer.

“What’s the wager?” you asked, trying to sound normal. It was...sort of working.

Pope thought for a moment. He pulled his bottom lip with his teeth as he did so. “Okay, if you win, then I pick up your KP for a month. If I win...I take you into town for dinner and dancing next time we have leave.”

Your jaw dropped. You weren’t sure which was more unsettling right now: the fact that you were almost one hundred percent certain you could actually do it, how much shit you could give Pope for having to cover KP, or the fact that your best friend wanted to put handcuffs on you and watch you try. Or maybe it was that you were one hundred percent sure you were going to let him. And on top of all that...did he just ask you out on a date? By challenging you to do tricks while handcuffed? Well, if that’s the game he wanted to play...before you could stop yourself, the words flew out of your mouth.

“Do it...I dare you.”

A strangled sound echoed throughout the room as Pope nearly choked on his tongue. He did not expect you to actually agree. But he quickly recovered and in an instant he had closed the few steps between you and slapped one of the rings around your right wrist. He was about to put the other one on you but you grabbed his hand. You had just thought of something.

Your eyes narrowed. “Do you even have the key for these?”

He shrugged and you noticed that mischievous flash spark in his eyes again. “Nope. But don’t worry, honey, I can pick the lock.”

He almost had time to catch the matching glint in your eyes before you moved your hand in a flash, grabbed the metal ring, and locked the second cuff around his wrist.

“You do not play fair,” he snapped, eyes glued to your now-joined wrists.

You couldn’t help the wry grin that broke out on your face. “You’re the one who wanted to put these on me and have me pack a weapons cache!”

He bobbed his head from side to side slightly and smirked back. “Fine, fine, points to you. But, um, how are we getting out of this now?”

“Pope! You said you could pick the lock!”

“I can,” he shot back, “but the tools I need to do it are over there and we have one small problem.”

As if being handcuffed to your extremely attractive best friend in a supply closet wasn’t a problem.

He lifted his left wrist and grabbed the support pole that was between you.

Oh. That small problem. The pole basically split the worktable in two, and it was only about an inch away from the wall. Which was fine except you hadn’t noticed the handcuffs had somehow gotten threaded behind the pole before you attached yourself to Pope. There was no way for either of you to maneuver around the pole, and the tools were definitely out of reach. Just out of reach, of course. You had been so distracted by him and his newly-acquired apparatus and you silently cursed yourself and Pope for this major oversight.

You were stuck.

“Damn it, Pope!”

“It’s not my fault!”

“How did you even get the cuffs around the pole?!”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t cuffed me!”

“This would have happened at all if you weren’t so...so…”

“So...what?”

Before you knew what happened, you were only inches apart from each other. The room was definitely getting warmer. A lot warmer. Both of you stared at each other, breathing hard and not speaking for what seemed like forever.

Your eye contact broke first. You couldn’t look at him anymore. You were too close, too sweaty, too nervous, too fucking handcuffed to Santiago Garcia.

“Hey,” he said suddenly, as he placed his index finger under your chin so you looked back up at him. His eyes had lost the up-to-trouble spark, and now he looked like he might be worried that you might actually be mad at him. But, being Pope, he only let that show for a second. “Is this your first time?”

“My...what?” your lips curled in confusion and you just...stared...at him.

“Is this your first time in handcuffs?” He tried to keep a straight face. He really did. But it was so hot in the room and the ridiculousness of the situation had really started to dawn on him. So did the idea that this was a chance he did not want to waste. His face refused to cooperate and the bastard was laughing.

You punched him in the shoulder with your free hand, a bit harder than you intended.

“Ow!” he yelped as you muttered “Sorry” and tried to look away again. He didn’t let you.

Pope raised an eyebrow and you couldn’t help it, you started to smile back. Might as well keep playing the game. You could still win. “No,” you replied.

“No?” There was no way Pope could hide the amusement in his voice now. Not just amusement, he thought. Definitely not just amusement.

“Nope,” you sighed as you reached your free hand up towards the strap of his tank. “Just the first time in handcuffs with you.” The inflection in your response made it abundantly clear that...oh god, your brain screamed at itself. What were you doing.

“Mmhmm,” Pope hummed as he pulled you as close as possible, what with two of your hands stuck around a pole. His eyes darkened and you thought his voice sounded more raspy but at this point your brain wasn’t exactly firing on all cylinders so you just kept your stare focused on his. And also his lips.

He looked at your lips, too. Despite the way your nerves were suddenly misfiring, you were very aware that Pope stared at your lips. He did that damn thing where he stuck the tip of his tongue out over his bottom lip and then pulled his lip with his teeth.

You shuddered ever so slightly.

You were now even more aware that his lips were centimeters from yours.

“How about a hug, hm?” he practically whispered, that stupid grin still on his face. His hand moved to brush that rogue strand of hair off your sweaty face.

“Just a hug?” you whispered back.

Your breath hitched and you both felt your hearts beat faster and faster and the room got even hotter and you swore the walls were actually shrinking as made the barest movement towards each other…

“Oh! That’s where I left those! I’ve been looking for them everywhere.” Frankie’s voice rang out in the room.

You and Pope quickly pulled away from each other and swung your heads to the doorway in surprise. Frankie stood there, hands in his pockets. He looked between the two of you.

“Aren’t you supposed to be packing for a mission?” he asked, nonchalance radiating off him.

Pope ran his free hand over his jaw. “Frankie. What are you talking about?”

“My handcuffs. I’ve been looking for them.” Frankie made it sound like it was the most obvious explanation in the world.

You and Pope exchanged a confused look and Pope sighed. “Why do you have handcuffs and why were they in...you know what? Never mind. I don’t even want to know.”

Frankie wagged his finger between you and Pope. It seemed like he had just noticed your predicament. “I’m not sure I want to know either.”

You rolled your eyes. Of all the people who had to show up. “Fish, trust me when I say I don’t want to know either, and never mind how this happened, but...”

Frankie giggled. You ignored it and continued. “Anyway, do you happen to, I don’t know, maybe have the goddamn key?”

“Of course I have the key,” Frankie replied, as if it was perfectly normal to lose a set of handcuffs and also just happen to have the key in his back pocket. He pulled the key out and walked over. “How long have you two been stuck like this, anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Pope replied, stealing a glance at you. Not long enough.

“Can you just let us go so we can get back to prep?” you asked sweetly, stealing a glance at Pope. Not long enough.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Frankie said and unlocked the cuffs first from you, then from Pope. He put the cuffs and keys in his back pocket and passed a suspicious look between the two of you. “You know, you really should stop fucking around in the munitions closet.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

Pope closed his eyes. “Frankie, you had a pair of handcuffs in here.”

“Didn’t say anything about me and the munitions closet.” He ducked Pope’s hand and ran out of the room. His laughter cackled down the hallway as he went and you heard him shout, “Benny! You’re never gonna guess what just happened and you owe me $10, fucker!”

Pope looked up at the ceiling like he was praying for strength.

You turned back to the abandoned weapons bag and started to pack it up again. Pope turned back to the ammo bag and did the same. You worked in an awkward silence for several minutes, until you zipped up your bag and turned towards the door.

“I could have done it in less than four.”

Pope didn’t turn his head to look at you, but the corners of the eye you could see crinkled deeply. “I know you could have.”

“Were you going to...” A light bulb went off in your head. “You were going to cuff me to the pole the whole time, just so you could win the bet, weren’t you.” Your lips twitched as you leaned on the door and fixed him with a stare. Was Pope blushing? He would probably argue that it was just really, really hot in this little room...but you knew better.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at you. He just cleared his throat and kept packing the bag.

“Santiago Garcia, you could have just asked me. I would have said yes.”

He looked up quickly. “Really?” That was the answer he had hoped for. It was not the answer he actually expected, but definitely hoped.

“Really. There’s that cantina down by the water. I want enyucado when we get back,” you gave him a sweet smile before you turned and left the room to pack your bag into the transport.

A moment later, you head poked back into the doorway. “Oh, and Santi?”

“Yeah?” he asked, a somewhat dumbfounded grin still on his face.

“If you wanted to have me in handcuffs that badly...I would have said yes to that too.”

Santiago’s jaw hit the floor as he watched your retreating form. He finished packing his bag in a daze and followed a few moments later. Oh, he was definitely going to take you up on that offer.

~end~

#oscar isaac #oscar isaac character #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia #triple frontier #prompt fic #fanfic #spicy fluff #is it hot in here or is it just me #santi santi santi #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you

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echo-three-one · 4 years ago

Text

Whatever It Takes

Alex relives the old days as he single-handedly embarks on a mission to help local German Militia regain their village from the hands of Augustus. But he seemed a little distracted. I wonder why.

Previous Chapter : Roach - A Walk to Remember

Chapter 7 to another story made by Ray (echo-three-one) Comments and Reviews appreciated! I hope you enjoy! Love you all ❤️

"Just Like Old Times"

"Alex"

Task Force 141

1 km East of A Local Militia Settlement, Germany

"Guten Morgen. Hallo." Alex muttered as the plane slowly descended toward his drop off area. He was readying his accent for the negotiation. A few more walks and he'll be on potential enemy territory or ally territory, depending how well he seals the deal. For the whole duration of the flight, he cleared his head on Samantha, how she has no clue about him, and focused on his new task. He was confident he'd get this one right, as this was his playing field. The CIA days were almost nostalgic as he plopped his metal foot on the ground and signaled the chopper goodbye.

Leading small armies to help create forces to counter terrorism. That was his role in the Special Activities Division of the CIA. He was Kate Laswell's favorite when it comes to these kinds of activities and he's confident enough that he could convince them to fight.

The walk was long and quiet, no one was around, most of Alex's trails were just forest upon forest upon forest. He started heading to the sound of the water, and immediately spotted four men, armed and possibly his ticket inside the settlement. Taking a deep breath he emerged from the forest and greeted the gentlemen.

"Hello. Does anyone here know anyone named Blitz?" Alex asked in fluent german. The four of them pointed their guns directly at him and he quickly dropped his bag and raised his hands showing surrender.

"No no. I'm here to help." He kicked the bag as it started to pour out heavy grenadier weapons and bullets. One of them grabbed a radio and called the base.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Call me Alex." he replied with a grin. The next thing he knew is that he was being tied and escorted to the village. He didn't mind, it's always normal for them to be cautious, especially when facing an unknown person.

They trod the dense forestry until they got to a small settlement buzzing with activity.

Alex found himself seated on a small wooden table, his bag of weapons in front of him while Blitz slowly stepped out of the shadows. Blitz was the leader of the said settlement. He has a pale white skin and almost bald hair, his brethren surrounded him, guns pointed at Alex.

"What brings you to this little town, Alex?" he asked.

"Augustus." he replied confidently, all the other brothers whispered with each other.

"Shhh!" he silenced the group. "What about him?"

"I want answers from him and I need your help."

Alex took a sip of their popular soup recipe, they were all gathered by the campfire outside but Blitz wanted to talk to him in private.

"Augustus, has done a lot of bad things in our village. He has slaughtered our animals, stolen some of our men and worst of all, he took away our village." he frowned.

"My wife and kids, they are still there… He's using them as shields so your heavy weapons have no use to win them back." he pushed the bag back to him.

"I still have friends who can help. If you're willing to lend us your strength." Blitz looked concerned at Alex's eagerness.

"Tell me, why do you want this Augustus man so bad?" he asked, his eyes reflected the little burn they had on their campfire.

"He's our only hope to save a lot of people," he replied.

"Good. Join us later for our plans. If we are able to evacuate my people, we can have time to play with your toys." he smiled and Alex nodded. Tomorrow, the 141 is going to have Augustus for interrogation.

"Don't get your hopes too high, Alex. I don't want to live waiting for uncertainty. I'm done with that." Samantha's words hit him like a brick. Alex peeked at the scope and took a general sweep of the view looking for possible hostiles. It's been months since they last met and if she's true to her word and lives a normal life, she must have someone else looking for her right now, someone else she currently loves and he just had to suck it up when his suspicions were to be true.

He had his chance to tell her everything back at the infirmary but seeing her smile like that made him hesitate. Bringing back memories of him would just cause him pain, like what Maxine felt when she heard her name. And he didn't want her hurt, he just wanted her back.

He started to crumple her letter as he fished it from his pocket. It was inside the ziploc he had to protect from the rain, but now he just wanted to forget. He had been hurt many times in the past days that he couldn't handle facing her anymore. The feeling that he isn't reciprocated the way he expected was pushing him down.

'Don't you dare forget about me.' he sighed.

He wished it would be the same as last time. She rejected him at first but convinced herself to give him a chance the next day, but even with Maxine badgering her about him, it didn't seem to work.

"There they go Alex. The 6 am supply drop." Blitz whispered over comms. The plan was easy: Augustus supplies a lot of boxes to the base. They contain food and weapons stolen from farms or delivered to them from their higher leaders. This is the opening where most of their forces carry boxes, Anja, Blitz's wife, would lead all their members to a small tunnel they built in cases of invasion. Once everyone is out and accounted for, we will barge in and surround them, taking back what's rightfully theirs.

It's also important that most forces will focus on the northern ridge as that was the place where they came from before they invaded, and Blitz believes that a bigger base is situated there. Alex quickly relays this intel to the Task Force and reconnaissance has since begun.

"Ready, Alex?" Blitz asked one last time, holding their guns.

"Let's go." he said as they slowly creeped towards the entrance.

Alex's fingers gently felt the trigger through his gloves, he was alone with new found friends and he's not going to let Augustus slide past his hands. This has to end now. For Samantha.

For Samantha, who doesn't recognize him anymore, those days in Brazil were Alex's best days as a normal person. He got to experience living full of love for a while and he got into it. He liked the idea.

One huge explosion on an open area inside the settlement. They were smart, they're reclaiming the base so they didn't destroy anything in there. They just set out a warning.

"Alex! These weapons are top-notch!" One of the soldiers he's with roared, dashing across the field and started firing rounds.

Alex quickly covered himself by an empty barrel, peeking with his sights and firing at the tangos who were defending, slowly pressing themselves inward onto the base.

"Brothers! Let's take back what's rightfully ours!" Blitz yelled in their language, followed by a collective "Ja!" from the men.

Enemies scattered, those with weapons slung on their shoulders immediately retaliated while some of them retreated far back into the village. Alex took note of this and shot runners when he could.

"Brothers, they're going to reinforce themselves with weapons!" Blitz yelled, commanding the rest of the forces to flank, putting pressure on the back exit where most of them could retreat.

"Alex, come with me. Let's get Augustus." The leader commanded and Alex nodded, fighting their way inside the central tent. It was heavily guarded and the duo cautiously made their way in shooting hostiles one barrage of bullets at a time. By the time they made it in a huge chunk of metal caught their attention, it had some sort of satellite components and it hummed dangerously.

Alex and Blitz successfully entered the base but it was Augustus-less, more bad news were reported as their weapons cache was already empty.

"Scheisse!!" Blitz cursed loudly as the village fell quiet. They had won their fight back, but at what cost? Alex consoled the leader and turned to the machine which hummed louder.

"We gotta get out of here!" he yelled, escorting Blitz to the door. But it was too late, the machine whirred and released some sort of small scale EMP blast, forcing their comms to ring in static followed by a loud side effect of ear ringing and minor dizziness.

Alex felt himself drop on the floor, trying his hardest to remove his earpiece. The feeling was mind bending, the ringing didn't stop and it felt piercing straight to the brain, unlike standard military EMP grenades, these lasted longer and rang louder. Whatever this contraption was, he needed it to be destroyed.

With the last of his strength, Alex covered his already bleeding ears and dragged Blitz outside the tent, threw a grenade and hid to safety. It was a slow and steady action but as soon as the machine blasted into pieces, the ringing stopped and everyone started to recover.

The group slowly recovered and got up. Some of Blitz's men began puking as their minds were assaulted by the big machine. If this is one of Nero's big plans, then the team must prepare. Alex still pondered how these blasts weren't familiar on his previous mission and how they could potentially tie to the missing person cases that continued to spread across America.

Alex was afraid of what this thing is capable of and he must report this immediately to the rest of the squad, who he thinks is making their way inside Augustus' base just beyond the mountains behind them.

Next Chapter : Experiment 001

@enderio

@samatedeansbroccoli

@whimsywispsblog

@smokeywhalee

@beemybee

@ricinbach

NOTIFICATION SQUAD, MY BELOVED

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strrawberrii · 5 years ago

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wildflower {four}

What happens when you start to fall out of love with your husband? What happens when that husband is Kim Namjoon?

pairing: idol husband Namjoon x reader

tag / warnings: none really, just minor mentions of alcohol and drinking

author note: thank you for the continued support!! <3

I wasn’t sure what was worse; living in a fever dream of a marriage or living in a silent one. Since the night Namjoon found out truly how I had been feeling and that I believed we no longer should be together anymore, our daily lives had started to shift and it really was starting to bother me in a way I wasn’t quite sure why. I still put Yumi’s needs before everything - stuck to my routine of cleaning, cooking and caring for my daughter practically alone - but now the days dragged on even longer than they ever had before and Namjoon would not talk to me.

It wasn’t that I’d overtly tried to talk to him either, but it was very clear that he was avoiding me at all costs. In the past month I’d maybe caught a glimpse of his face a handful of times but only in passing and it was making me uneasy which only bothered me more.

Wasn’t this exactly what I wanted?

Why did it suddenly feel like I was even more isolated than before?

The mornings were early and the nights were late and on the days where Namjoon couldn’t be at the label, the studio door was kept locked tightly shut with him hunkered down inside. He never came to bed after that confession and instead resolved to sleep either at one of the boys' places or in the studio if they forced him to go home. I only knew of that fact because, despite the ever growing abyss that was sucking me and my husband down into it, I still was on fairly good terms with the rest of the men in my life.

“You know,” Yoongi said after we’d just gotten coffee at our favorite spot. The cafe, Cafe Cache, was only known to those who had stumbled upon it. If you didn’t know it was there you never would have even seen it since it was tucked beneath an overhang of ivy, the faded green door blended in so smoothly it was as if it wasn’t even there at all. We’d stumbled upon it one day after Yoongi and I decided to try every coffee spot in town to decipher which pot would ultimately win and be dubbed the best. It had been a happy accident of myself tripping over a root in the tree blocking the front of the shop and stumbling into the worn in door. We’d been going there ever since his late debut days to the point the shopkeeper knew our orders by heart.

I had not been all that surprised to see Yoongi’s name pop up on my phone a few weeks into Namjoon’s late night charade and I begrudgingly answered despite the fact that I knew he was going to force me out of my cocoon of solitude to talk. “You really should just have an actual conversation with him.” He continued as we soaked up the warmth of the cafe. The bitter air outside was matching my attitude toward this entire conversation and the fact that Yoongi was making me face the very things I had been worried about facing was making it even worse.

“Been there, done that.” I rolled my eyes as I waved him off and Yoongi frowned at me in his signature pouty style. Despite Namjoon’s insistent need to keep everyone away from me, he’d always liked how close I was with some of the members of the group. I’d known them all for as long as I could remember since I’d been with Namjoon for just about longer than that. Particularly Yoongi and I had gotten the closest out of the bunch for his love of my homemade japchae during the later part of their trainee days when I would send some back to the dorm with Namjoon and for our sarcastic tendencies when around all the members. Because of our close relationship he knew he didn’t have to mince words with me, he could tell it to me straight and he, above all else, could be trusted to have my best interests at heart.

“You know what I mean.” He retorted back, never missing a beat. Yoongi could always be counted on to pull me out of my head and make me actually talk about things for a change. He was one of the people I held most dear in my life for so many reasons but mostly because, aside from what Namjoon used to be, he was my best friend. “Quit the cat and mouse game. Just go and talk to him. Really talk to him.” Being as blunt as ever, I couldn’t help but sigh at his response. I knew he was right and it pissed me off.

“Yoongi, I tried. Literally just that. And it didn’t work.” We found ourselves at the counter bar, mixing our drinks to their desired taste, and I immediately grabbed a handful of sugar packets, my ever growing sweet tooth taking over the better part of my brain. My hands were slightly shaking as Yoongi began to talk, sighing as he stirred a small amount of milk into his black coffee. It wasn’t that I didn’t want his advice but the more we talked about Namjoon the more I was starting to really lose it and could feel myself getting more and more frustrated at the situation I had created for myself.

It wasn’t as if my feelings had suddenly changed again and it wasn’t as if I was having a change of heart, but the more and more Namjoon avoided me the more and more lonely and frustrated I felt. If I thought him being away was bad, having him right down the hall was even worse. Especially when it was all radio silence; static that was making me go crazy.

“No, you both are being foolish and full of emotion. Be more pragmatic about the issue.” He paused to sip his coffee and to avoid my eyes as he continued. “You know, whatever that issue may be.” He shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal, as if this whole situation wasn’t making me completely feel like a dying star caving in on itself.

“Oh please,” Stirring the seventh packet of sugar into my cup, I couldn’t help but frown looking back down at my cream colored liquid. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what was said. I know he tells you just about everything.”

“Then,” He swatted my hand from grabbing the next packet of sugar and really looked at me. It was still odd and a little jarring to see him so genuinely interested in a topic that involved my love life to this day since most thought Yoongi was cold and calculated in every situation but that wasn’t necessarily the case. At least, not with the people he cared about. “You know that I’m right.”

I let out a sigh I didn’t know I had been holding as I contemplated his words. “Why can’t he come and talk to me then? Huh? You know all this is his fault.” I retorted, sullen and mad that Yoongi was trying to get me to go to Namjoon when what I really wanted was for him to come to me. Why was this so hard? Why would my husband not talk to me? Despite the fact of the words that were exchanged, I wanted to feel like he wanted to fight for me at least. Especially after the words that were said, how he begged me not to leave and I did just that - stayed. Why wasn’t Namjoon fighting for his family?

“All this fault? Please. You’re smarter than this.” He ticked disapprovingly at me while he shook his inky haired head and we began to exit the tiny cafe, avoiding all the tree roots in the process. “You could have spoken up more about how you were feeling. Don’t solely put the blame on one person. To me, the way I see it, is you both are just being hard headed. You both clearly love each other otherwise you still wouldn’t be at the apartment. You’d be at your parents house in Mokpo and Namjoon would be selling the apartment to get rid of the memories. But,” He continued as we walked, the bitter cold making the warmth from the coffee cure our shivers. “You both are still there for the most part. You both are still being stubborn. And you both,” He sighed, clearly done. “Are annoying the shit out of me.”

“Hey,” I laughed a bit as we came to a stop on the side of the street to rest on a park bench. “You’re the one that dragged me out of a perfectly good solace thank you very much.”

We had been walking for a few minutes to our favorite park and as we sat down so many memories were flooding back. I couldn’t help but relive the details of Yoongi and myself discovering this bench the first time we’d decided it would be a good idea to gorge ourselves on all you could eat gogi and the mess we’d gotten ourselves into, it seemed, after we’d eaten so much to the point we were both sick. This bench had seen everything; from me crying on his shoulder when I found out Namjoon would be leaving for the better part of two years, when I found out I was pregnant and was too scared to tell anyone other than Yoongi, when we’d been so drunk we couldn’t walk and kept laughing over the dumbest of things, almost puking behind it before calling a taxi to go home. It appeared that, with everything going on, I’d been in much more of a hazy and fogged state than I had realized with all the dusty memories deciding to resurface lately. It seemed that no matter how much I wanted to forget so many things from the past and move on, they were going to catch up to me no matter what.

It was still so odd to be sitting there with him despite the fact that I felt total comfort at the same time. I hadn’t seen him in so long and I forgot that Yoongi had this way about him that always made me feel welcome which used to shock the other members since he never really showed an interest in any of the girls the members brought home over the many years. I was different though, he had said, and that made my heart soar every time we were around each other. It was also quite jarring that Namjoon supported our close friendship. He didn’t mind that we would talk on the phone, texted constantly, and would go on outings like this where we just talked about life.

“Eh I wanted to check in. You know,” He sighed deeply this time and studied my face before offering a gummy smile that made my insides thaw. “Namjoon isn’t my only friend. You’re my friend too.”

“Aww, how sentimental. Are you growing soft on me Yoongs?” He rolled his eyes at me before the smile on his face disappeared into his deadpanned one.

“Shut up and drink your diabetes in a cup.” The banter continued like that for sometime while we sat on the bench long after the sunset like two old men on a porch swing; staring into the silent lives of all the people that passed us, contemplating who was going where, what they were doing and who, we wondered, were they going to meet.

Later, when Yoongi was called away to deal with his own life and I’d sat on the bench much longer than intended, I stalked home begrudgingly. It was odd, the sensation I had in the pit of my stomach as I trekked down the hallway towards the studio door only to find it open. It was as if butterflies were trying to use their fluttering wings to cut through my stomach lining. Where was Namjoon lurking if not in the studio? I was finding myself too nervous to find out when I heard something from within the apartment.

“Hyung, what am I supposed to do?” The voice startled me since it had been four weeks since I had heard it and I jumped unknowingly as my body continued to betray me.

“You know what you’re supposed to do Namjoon, why are you asking me?”

“Because...because I still love her and she wants nothing to do with me.”

“Aish,” I heard Seokjin say under his breath. I would know that voice anywhere and it appeared that Namjoon was residing in the kitchen with him. “You are so frustrating. Just go and talk to your wife.”

“But she wants nothing to do with me! She made that very clear. What is there even to say? Oh let’s get divorced? No, absolutely not. I won’t accept it. I will not talk to her because that is what she’s going to say and I don’t want that.” Something irked inside of me at the mention of divorce. It loomed over my head like a rain cloud out of nowhere and it really bothered me in a way that made me nervous. What was wrong with me?

“Have you ever even considered that this isn’t about what you want?” Seokjin sighed again, exasperated. “What did she tell you, huh? That she didn’t know herself. That she couldn’t be with you because you are always gone and you feel like a stranger to her. She didn’t mention divorce.”

“But she did say we shouldn’t be together.”

“And look,” He paused slightly. It sounded as if he was stuffing his face full of some kind of food. “She’s still here isn’t she? And besides, if you actually love her then get off your ass and go and talk to her. Fix this issue. You don’t want to be a stranger to her? Then don’t be. It’s pretty simple really. Now,” He paused. “Pass me that kimbap.”

Feeling as though I had just heard a very private conversation I tried my best to sneak past the kitchen unseen but, as luck would have it, I failed tripping over one of Yumi’s forgotten toys.

“Look who it is!” Seokjin yelled, making me jump in the process as he clapped his hands together. My eyes met Namjoon briefly and I could tell from across the room that his face was flushed a light crimson color as if I’d just pounced in on their conversation which he was flustered about. Which, despite the fact that I unintentionally did, was jarring to me. Who was Namjoon becoming that he got so easily embarrassed by my presence? “Come and eat!”

“It’s okay,” I tried. “I don’t want to impose-”

“Don’t be like that. I haven’t seen you in a year, get in here.” Truth dripped from his mouth in a way that made me feel so sullen that I entered the kitchen despite not wanting to necessarily be around Namjoon. They were sitting opposite each other at our kitchen table and gorging themselves on a variety of foods it seemed; laughing and talking before things got serious I could tell since there were soju bottles lining the edge of the table.

“I forgot how loud you could be.” I meant to think it but instead it came out of my mouth a bit louder than I would have liked and Seokjin nearly spit out his drink everywhere from laughing. I had forgotten how exuberant he could be, especially when slightly intoxicated, and it made me smile. Namjoon was looking dead at me as this all occurred and it made those pesky little butterflied kick back up at full speed. Being in the same room with him after so long of not even seeing his face was making me overheat and I felt flushed for some odd reason.

What was happening to me? I thought I didn’t want anything to do with him and yet, after seeing Yoongi and now Seokjin, my mind could only process one thing: how good it felt to have them all back around me.

“What are you guys eating?” I asked timidly.

“My homemade kimbap and some kimchi my family sent me. Now,” He patted the spot next to him that was across from Namjoon as he pushed a bunch of empty snack bags out of the way. Shaky and nervous I made my way towards him. “Sit next to me. Let’s drink!”

It didn’t slip by me when I sat down that Seokjin shot Namjoon with a knowing look before jerking his head in my direction. If I was a different person, maybe I would have initiated some kind of conversation, but with Namjoon and Seokjin both looking now in my direction it left me speechless.

“Hey,” Namjoon started, grabbing a bottle of my favorite flavor soju and cracking it open. I watched as he grabbed an empty cup, pouring it full to the brim before handing it over to me. I took it without hesitation, figuring getting a little drunk might take the edge off, and shivered slightly as our fingertips brushed. He was blushing again I could see and I was mostly certain it wasn’t just from the alcohol.

“Excuse me guys, duty calls.” Seokjin interrupted lifting himself up from the table and walking down the hall and towards the bathroom. I waited until he was fully gone, hearing the click of the door for good measure, before I mustered up the courage to look directly at Namjoon. He was sitting there, face unshaven and scruffy, hair a total mess, a stain on a white tee he was wearing that showed off his newly acquired arm muscles and, my God, did he look so unbelievably attractive.

“Hey,” I managed back a beat too late. Namjoon just scratched the back of his head before he pushed the plate of kimbap towards me.

“Please eat.” He said quietly. “It’s delicious.”

“I bet.” The small talk, as few words spoken as we both could manage, was already killing me. Being in this proximity of him was heating my face and body to a degree that was making me squirm underneath his stare. I took a shot of my drink before looking up at Namjoon again. The liquid hit me like fire and I was hoping it would give me the courage I needed to get through the rest of this interaction.

“Jin helped me put Yumi to bed.” I nodded, chewing the newly acquired food without thought. “She went down really easy.”

“That’s good. Maybe she’ll actually sleep tonight.” Bitterness set back in as I looked at him. Earlier I had dropped Yumi off at her school before going out with Yoongi, only sending Namjoon a simple text informing him that he would be responsible for picking up our daughter since I had plans. He hadn’t responded which only made my furry grow more. Lately it felt very much of the same. It was as if Namjoon was a completely different person living in our apartment and entirely separate from our family. He didn’t eat with us, he didn’t play with Yumi and he certainly didn’t put her to sleep. It was as if I was still a single parent even though I had a husband who was just down the hall.

“I’m sorry,” Namjoon admitted, looking down at the empty tin foil that sat in front of him. I couldn’t help but tilt my head to the side as if confused by his sudden confession until he continued. “I know I haven’t exactly been the best of help lately.”

No you haven’t, I wanted to say. Instead I just shrugged. “I’m used to it.” I didn’t miss when he winced at my words but I also wasn’t sorry I said them. It was just simply a fact.

“How was your outing with Yoongi?” He changed the subject when he realized that talking about our daughter was only going to result in a fight. When it came to her I couldn’t help myself; I was extremely overprotective. Having taken care of her by myself for all these years had really ingrained that in me whether I wanted to be or not.

“Good,” I nodded; my lips widening at the thought. “I missed him.” I confessed just now letting it hit me just how much I had missed him. The year had been so lonely and even though we would message, Yoongi was very busy and couldn’t always get back to me. It would be pretty safe to say I’d slipped in and out of my depressive episodes and would ignore my phone for weeks. Perhaps that’s why I’d gravitated towards Sujin at first; out of loneliness. We’d become easy friends out of convenience at first and it blossomed from there. He was filling the void in me that I didn’t know I needed filled until he was there, answering my calls late at night, letting me vent about my marriage, letting me just be me with my daughter without the pressures of having an idol husband and friends.

“I’m glad you could see him then.” He was smiling at me in a way that made my stomach and insides churn with thoughts I was trying my best to suppress. I watched as he took another shot of his drink and I followed suit, downing the whole mass of liquid. I reached for the bottle, filing my glass again before downing the whole thing one more time. I needed this. I needed to get these words out of my mouth.

“Namjoon,” I tried, picking at my hands again as I started to change the subject.Thanks to the flavorful liquid I finally had found some burst of courage and I wasn’t about to let it slip by me. The small talk was killing me to the point I couldn’t take it anymore and all I wanted was answers. I could feel his eyes on me as I continued to pick my hands but Namjoon made no motions to try and stop me this time. “Do you think this is working?”

“Is what working?” He asked slightly puzzled, hands knotting together as he looked at me.

“Us.” There was a long pause in which the quiet hum of the air purifier filled the silence that came from him until he finally spoke.

“If I’m being totally honest,” He sighed, running his hands through his hair. He looked so beaten down and tired that I was starting to wonder just how many sleepless nights he’d had since my confession. “No.”

“So you understand then? What I said? About how I was feeling?” I could feel myself holding my breath.

“Not fully at first...but I guess I understand a little bit more now.” Of course you do, I wanted to say. It was, after all, thanks to your group mates who had intervened to mediate a different trajectory of an outcome. Instead I just nodded. “Look I won’t pretend that I’m blameless but,” He sighed. “I don’t think I’m fully to blame either.” I sat there for a long moment, considering Yoongi’s words from earlier, before I let myself look back at him.

“I...agree. I’ll admit that I could have been more...outspoken about some things. But Namjoon, you have to agree that we aren’t exactly...close anymore. That we haven’t been. For a while-”

“Babe,” He tried, slightly interrupting my train of thought to reach out to touch me. “Please stop. You’re starting to bleed again.” And there he was, with those long fingers of his touching mine ever so gently that I could feel everything in me buzzing alive once more. The sweet Namjoon that I’d missed for so long had returned in that light touch that it felt like an electric shock had been jolted into my system. The pesky butterflies were back, going at full speed now, and I was shaking slightly due to his warmth. He was leaning over the table, so close to me that I could feel the heat alight my face like a lit flame.

When I looked up, I could see that Namjoon was blushing a deep shade of crimson but, despite the fact that he seemed to be just as jittery as me, he didn’t back down. Instead, his eyes were focused on just me, his hands were on top of my hands and his lips, the ones that were parted ever so slightly, were moving forward towards me in just a way that I was just about to let them.

“Yah, why are you guys so quiet?” It was Seokjin’s boisterous voice that broke me of the spell of Namjoon and we quickly jerked back from each other. What the hell had almost just happened? “You better have saved me some food!” When Seokjin entered the kitchen we were back in our normal positions; Namjoon sitting quietly in his seat flushed with me picking at my hands while I stuffed my face full of gimbap and he just sighed when he saw us.

“Momma?” A small voice broke out and instantly all eyes turned towards the door of the kitchen.

“Yumi, what are you doing awake love?” I spoke through a mouthful of food, brows knitting together as I started to rise out of my seat. Motherly instinct was taking over again and I didn’t hesitate even once to see if Namjoon would get up to see what was the matter.

“I had a bad dream.” She yawned widely looking half dazed.

“Don’t get up, I got her.” I watched as Seokjin scooped her up in his arms and trekked back towards her bedroom, bouncing her along the way as she wrapped her arms around his neck, nestling her tiny head into his shoulder as he soothed her. I wanted to scream at Namjoon, tell him that’s how he should be acting, but instead I sat back down and swallowed my food as I avoided his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” He sputtered a beat later. “I’m just...really sorry. To be honest, I’m struggling here.” He breathed out a deep sigh. “I don’t know what to do. All I know is I don’t want to let go of you but I want to give you your space at the same time. Please,” He was begging. “Tell me what to do.”

“Namjoon,” I sighed, beaten down at this point and a little drunk. This day had been really long and, quite frankly, draining. While it was nice to have seen Yoongi and spent some time with him, I had to admit that the activity of actually leaving the house for myself was way more draining than I had thought it would be. Especially since all we did was talk about my love life. Coming home to find Seokjin and Namjoon drinking in our kitchen was another surprise on top of my ever changing mood and, with Namjoon having been so close only moments prior, my head was spinning. What was even going on anymore? My life was such a mess. “Do whatever you want.” And with that, in the mere seconds it took for me to stand up and for him to get out of his chair and be at my side, he was leaning in to kiss me.

tag list: @amordesiempre01 @namucries

#bts namjoon #bts kim namjoon #bts #bts x reader #kim namjoon #kim namjoon x reader #bts fanfic #wildflower #strrawberrii #namjoon x reader

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1dffchallenges · 5 years ago

Photo

It’s All Happening

Written By: @luminescencefics

Characters: Frankie/Harry

Summary: If Frankie Goodhart had one secret in her life, it would be that she spent her summer writing album reviews to Rolling Stone, hoping one day they’d give her a shot. If she had a second secret in her life, it would be that she was constantly chasing love, never knowing what it felt like to be truly immersed in another person. She blames this on her ever-growing record collection filled with love songs.

Harry Styles had a lot of secrets in his life, but if he had to share one, it would be that he was trying his hardest to balance his life while being on the road with his band. Just as he’s starting to feel like he’s begun to balance the ever-shifting scales of his life, Frankie shows up, and suddenly he doesn’t want to keep his secrets hidden any longer.

Well, except one.

Inspired by Almost Famous, a 70s au about a girl whose job required her to ask the hard-hitting questions and a boy who did everything he could to avoid them.

March 1973 - entry no. 1

Most mornings in the Goodhart household typically started with some sort of screaming match between Frankie’s mother and her older sister, Mary. You see, Mary had a penchant for rebellious behavior, or so their mother believed. She liked listening to rock music and kissing her boyfriend Greg outside in his Chevrolet Nova past curfew. Mary graduated high school four years before Frankie did, and her mother had begged her to go to college. But instead, Mary took that time to “find herself,” and put off enrolling into schools on the west coast in favor of finding her own place in the world.

Cynthia Goodhart had a lot of rules in their household, but two that stood out the most (and practically ruined Mary’s life) were: no rock music and no popular culture influences. Cynthia believed that her children did not need those things to rot their brain, and instead played classical music and watched films that she had seen numerous times before to ensure they were censored appropriately and recently introduced soy to their diets.

“This is why dad left you!” Mary would say whenever their mother would find a hidden record that went against her arbitrary rules.

“You’re so ungrateful, I didn’t raise you to be so cruel!” Her mother would respond, and Frankie would sit on the top of the carpeted stairs and watch it all unravel below her.

Truth is, Frankie didn’t know why their dad left. She was too young to remember what life was like with him around, but Mary always told her that it was their mother who drove him away with her incessant rules and authoritative outlook on life.

“I’m never going to end up like her, Frankie,” Mary would say after their fight, squeezed beside her little sister in her twin bed. Frankie would just hold her hand tightly and agree, even though she didn’t really think her mother was all that bad.

A few weeks later when Mary announces that she’s leaving Santa Monica and going to San Francisco to become a stewardess, Frankie isn’t all that surprised. It was only a matter of time until Mary left. Their mother didn’t take this well, of course. She wanted Mary to go to college and find a nice boy to start a family with. She didn’t want her running off to San Francisco with Greg to travel a world so far from what she had known.

Before the Chevrolet Nova skids out of the driveway and Frankie never sees her sister again, Mary runs up to her and gives her the tightest hug she could muster. Frankie holds her with all of her grip, wishing that she didn’t feel that she had to run away in order to be her own person. But it was out of Frankie’s control, so she could only wish the best for her older sister.

“Frankie,” Mary whispers in her ear, “look under my bed. That suitcase is yours. Everything you’ve ever wanted to know, every question you have, the answers are there. I love you. I always have.”

After Mary is long gone and her mother has cried out all of her tears, Frankie slips into her sister’s room and lifts up the ruffled bedskirt to find an old brown leather suitcase. She opens it and inside is Mary’s secret cache of rock albums spanning decades. Frankie heaves it into her room and plucks Tommy by The Who on her record player and plays it softly, and in that moment she feels as if her life is finally starting.

***

May 1973 - entry no. 2

Frankie was sitting in her bedroom listening to

Exile on Main St.

by the Rolling Stones trying to clear her head. She was suffering from a bit of writer’s block, and she was feeling a bit uninspired at the moment.

During the middle of “Torn and Frayed,” Frankie hears the landline start ringing from the kitchen downstairs. Her mother was currently in the shower, and deeming the call to be rather important as it was after dinner time, Frankie trudges downstairs to answer before the ringing has ceased.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Lester Bangs here. Is this Frankie Goodhart?” A deep voice says on the other line.

Frankie pauses, scrolling through the rolodex in her brain trying to remember if she knew anybody with that name. Suddenly, Frankie sucks in a breath, realization dawning on her.

“Hello? Do I have the wrong number or something?” The voice repeated, clearly losing patience. Frankie was currently speaking to the Lester Bangs, top music editor at Rolling Stone magazine. Also known as, the name she had scribbled on the past fifteen manilla envelopes she sent out to the magazine up in San Francisco.

“Er, yes. Hi, this is she,” Frankie mutters, trying to sound sophisticated.

“Awesome. I work at Rolling Stone and we just came across your review for Bowie’s Aladdin Sane record. Ace work,” Lester says quickly, and Frankie can feel her heartbeat in her throat.

“Oh cool. Thank you,” Frankie replies, quietly jumping up and down on the tile flooring of her kitchen.

“Are you currently writing for any other publication? Please don’t tell me those bastards over at Creem snatched you up,” Lester asks.

“No, uh, nothing like that. Just freelancing, at the, er, current moment,” Frankie says. She lowers her voice an octave so she doesn’t sound like the eighteen year old high school graduate she clearly was. She was sure that Rolling Stone would want nothing to do with her if they knew the truth.

“Good to hear. On the envelope in front of me it says you're based out in Santa Monica. Tonight there’s a show at The Troubadour. The Nocturnals are performing and if you’re up for it, we’ll give you fifty dollars to write a review on it. Eight hundred words.” Lester spoke so quickly that Frankie couldn’t even discern what he was actually saying to her.

The Troubadour. A live show. The Nocturnals. Fifty dollars.

The words replayed over and over in her mind like a broken record. She had no idea that this could even happen to her. Before she could reply, Lester spoke again.

“Fine. Seventy dollars, but I can’t go any higher,” he sounded exasperated with a hint of desperation laced in between.

Just as Frankie was about to respond with a resonant yes, she hears her mother’s voice on the other telephone from her bedroom through the tinny speakers.

“Francine? Who on earth are you speaking to at this time?”

Frankie’s heart drops.

“Uh… Hello?” Lester asks, completely confused as to why there were two voices on the line. Before her mother could blow her cover, Frankie drops the receiver onto the kitchen counter and sprints upstairs to her mother’s bedroom, slamming her fingers on the lever to end the call.

“It’s a friend from school. Sorry it’s a late call, I’ll get off the phone in a minute,” Frankie rushes out, before turning back on her heel and grabbing the other telephone in the kitchen.

“Hi Lester, sorry, that was my, uh, assistant. Yeah. She’s sort of new at answering the phones and such,” Frankie shoots out quickly, lying straight through her teeth.

She needed this phone call to end immediately.

“No worries. I’ll expect a review mailed over by tomorrow so it’s on my desk by Monday morning. Any questions?” Lester asks in a way that sounded like he really didn’t have the time to answer.

“Nope. Sounds good,” Frankie says sounding completely out of breath.

“Expect to hear from me on Monday. Good luck,” Lester says, hanging up before Frankie could even consider responding.

Frankie’s first reaction was to start squealing in excitement. The second was, shit, what am I supposed to say to my mother?

***

Somehow, Frankie convinces her mother to drive her down Sunset Strip towards The Troubadour for the live show. If there’s one thing Frankie Goodhart could never do in this world, it would be to hurt her mother. Granted, she knows her rules are a bit obscene and that she can be a bit overbearing at times, but at the end of the day, she was her mother. And that was the main difference between Frankie and Mary—Mary thought running away was the answer to everything whereas Frankie believed honesty was most important.

Which is why Frankie was currently sitting in the front seat of her mother’s baby blue Lincoln Continental parked illegally across the street from the concert venue. She had spilled the beans about her writing cohorts to Rolling Stone, and even though her mother didn’t like the idea of it, she appreciated the fact that Frankie was trying to make something of herself. And there’s no denying that seventy dollars was a lot of money for any eighteen-year-old.

“Please make good choices. I’ll be here to pick you up at ten on the dot,” her mother says, staring at Frankie sharply.

“I will, mom.” Frankie makes a move for the door handle, watching as the crowd of teenagers and twenty-somethings huddle towards the front entrance. It’s loud and she can smell cigarette smoke and marijuana in the air. She knows her mother can too, and she knows that she’s about two minutes away from a full-blown heart attack, so before she can escape the confines of the car, she gives her mother a gentle reassuring squeeze.

With her tape recorder in one hand and her pocket-sized notebook in the other, Frankie starts walking towards the front entrance. Before she can get too far, she hears her mother bark out one last order.

“And Francine? NO DRUGS!”

Frankie feels her cheeks burn up as the people in front of her turn around and snicker at her mother’s frame hanging out of the Continental. They jokingly repeat her mother’s warning, with some even holding up a lit joint at her, cackling away.

If there was a hole in the pavement, Frankie would admittedly jump into it.

She makes her way to the front entrance with no luck. The show was sold out, and she didn’t have a ticket. Before Frankie can start to panic, she reassess the venue and sees that around the back there was some sort of loading dock. She turns the corner and is situated at the top of a ramp, with a group of three girls at the bottom giggling to themselves near a steel door.

“Are you new?” Frankie hears a voice from behind her.

She turns and is face to face with one of the most beautiful girls she’s ever seen in her life. Her blonde hair is long and curly, cascading over her shoulders and down her back effortlessly, ending just above two hollow dimples. The girl towers over Frankie, and when she looks down at her glittery go-go boots she understands why. Her long legs are toned and smooth underneath her leather mini skirt. She’s wearing a silver halter top that is so sheer Frankie can see her nipples through the thin layer of material. Over top is a pink velvet trench coat with frills on the lining, a garment completely inappropriate for the California heat in the beginning of summer.

That doesn’t matter though, because this girl emits confidence that is almost palpable. Frankie compares her own outfit to this girl’s, her long ivory legs and knobby knees hidden beneath her flared denim bell bottoms, her pointed boots with the small heel making her seem taller than she actually was. Her white cropped t-shirt is almost childlike compared to this girl’s daring choice, and when Frankie looks up she’s a bit embarrassed to be seen with her.

“Uh, I guess. I’m supposed to be writing an article about The Nocturnals for Rolling Stone, but I found out a bit late and I don’t have a ticket,” Frankie explains, holding up her tape recorder lamely. She really wishes she thought this entire thing through.

“Ooh, a journalist,” the girl echoes, reaching into her translucent plastic purse to grab a cigarette. She’s effortlessly cool in a way that should be intimidating to Frankie, but for some unknown reason she emits warmth.

“Cherry!” Frankie hears from down below the ramp. Suddenly the squealing trio starts running up the pavement and Frankie watches as the curly blonde skips down to meet them in a group hug. They’re all wearing some sort of sequinned ensemble, and Frankie can only assume that they’re groupies.

“Who’s this, Cherry?” A girl with jet-black hair and deep brown eyes asks, pointing at Frankie. Her long fingers are covered in jeweled rings and she has a fair amount of kohl liner surrounding her eyes. She’s wearing leather and is not as warm as the blonde girl.

“I’m not sure. I think she’s new, girls,” the blonde girl, presumably Cherry, says. She sounds much older than she looks and it’s almost obvious that she’s the ring leader of this troupe of glittery girls.

“I’m a journalist. I’m not a, uh, grou…” the words fall out of Frankie’s lips before she can finish the sentence. The girls in front of her hang their mouths open in shock, and Frankie feels as if she has said the wrong thing. The blonde girl has a hint of a smile on her face, as if the whole interaction is amusing to her.

“Don’t you dare say groupie!” The black-haired girl shrieks, practically jumping out of her skin.

Frankie feels bad, suddenly.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, I mean I just—”

“—Assumed?” Cherry finishes for her.

Frankie shrugs her shoulders because she isn’t sure what to say. She feels bad for assuming the worst out of these girls, but she really couldn’t blame herself considering they were standing at a back entrance wearing far too much eye makeup than they should be. Frankie hated to judge people, because she didn’t deem it fair. But, she genuinely didn’t know any better. And she really didn’t think that these girls would be offended.

“You’re talking to Cherry Bomb here. She changed the groupie way of life forever. Before Cherry, girls were just throwing themselves at rockstars and sleeping with them just for the hell of it. Cherry here inspires people, man. They write songs about her! It’s much deeper than just sex, honey,” the girl with black hair says, pointing at Cherry as if she was a fine painting in a museum that you weren’t allowed to touch.

In some ways, she sort of was like that.

Cherry just smiles. “It’s about the connection. You’ll see,” she says.

Before Frankie could apologize again and leave, the large steel door opens and another pretty girl with brown hair and shiny pants comes out, holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cluster of backstage passes in the other. The girls all start running towards the door, and Frankie is about to turn around in defeat before she feels a small hand latch onto her forearm.

“Aren’t you coming?” Cherry asks with a grin.

Before she could respond, Cherry tugs on her arm and the two girls are running through the steel door into the large venue. The other four girls start walking ahead, sharing sips from the large bottle of champagne, but Cherry hangs back, slowing her strides so she’s matching Frankie’s slow gait.

“So, what do I call you?” Cherry asks as they continue walking down a long hallway.

“Frankie,” she responds, looking up into Cherry’s silver eyes. “What do I call you?”

Cherry laughs. “Cherry should be fine,” she says, her words twisting as if they were a riddle.

Before Frankie could respond, they’re suddenly being thrust into a much smaller room. The air is stale with cigarette smoke and the effervescent scent of boy. Inside the makeshift dressing room, Frankie recognizes the girls from outside lounging around men of different ages. They’re laughing and drinking straight liquor from the bottle and Frankie tries her hardest to conceal her uneasiness.

Because in front of her were The Nocturnals, and she had a job to do.

She notices the drummer and the bassist, Jett and Rod, sitting on a torn up leather couch sharing a joint between the two all while entertaining Cherry’s friends. A girl with hair as dark as coals sits in front of a mirror applying red lipstick and Frankie recognizes her as the keyboardist and backing vocalist, Veronica—the only female in the band. A man with dark green eyes and long brown hair looks up and smiles when Cherry walks into the room, and Frankie realizes that he is Eddie, the lead guitarist.

Frankie did her research.

Before she could start conducting her interviews, a husky voice from the other side of the room calls out, stopping Frankie dead in her tracks.

“Cher, who’s your friend?” he asks.

Frankie’s head snaps up and immediately her blue eyes latch onto a pair of green. They’re much lighter than Eddie’s, and if Frankie was standing closer, she would be able to see the turquoise ring that outlined his pupil. His hair is shorter than the rest of the men in the band, albeit still curling around the tops of his ears. He’s the only member of The Nocturnals with a bare face, sans facial hair, and Frankie is taken aback by his youthful features. He’s wearing white wide-legged trousers and a bright pink shirt tucked under the waistband, barely buttoned up, showcasing his toned stomach and chest. His sleeves are rolled up and Frankie can almost make out the shapes of his tattoos, but before she can inspect them further, she’s completely aware that she’s been staring at him far too long.

Him, also known as Harry Styles, the lead singer of The Nocturnals.

Cherry hasn’t said anything, but with one look in her silver eyes, she’s said an entire string of words to Frankie without even opening her mouth.

Frankie suddenly feels a fire start to grow in her stomach.

“Harry, this is my friend Frankie. She’s a journalist,” Cherry announces loud enough for the rest of the room to hear over the beginning riffs of the opening band’s first song.

“A journalist?! Who let her in? She’s the enemy!” Eddie yells over from the couch. It’s clear that the rest of the band feel the same way about having a reporter around, and Frankie’s confidence suddenly starts wavering.

“Oi, calm down Eddie. She looks harmless enough,” Harry says slowly, suddenly appearing right in front of her. His voice is low and his eyes have a twinkle to them and Frankie’s throat has become increasingly dry.

“Hi Frankie, I’m Harry. Nice to meet you,” he says, towering above her from his stance.

Frankie shoots her arm out for a handshake. “Hi Harry. Nice to meet you, too.” His hands feel warm in her grasp and she’s shaking his so hard that the bangles on her wrists clang together like tambourines.

“If you have the time, I’d love to ask you a few questions before you—”

“—Five minutes!” A voice interrupts. Instantly, the band starts standing up and running around the room, grabbing various instruments and beginning to tune them accordingly. Roadies come in to grab amplifiers and microphone stands, and everything starts twirling together like a whirlwind and Frankie is losing grasp on what she’s supposed to be doing here in the first place.

The band starts walking towards the stage and Cherry grabs Frankie’s arm again, giggling a bit to herself. They catch up to Jett, and Frankie can see through his red-rimmed eyes and his glazed over stare that he’s stoned out of his mind, but he smiles at her and gives her a small nod, and Frankie feels a bit more welcomed.

“So who do you write for?” he asks, grabbing his drumsticks from the back pocket of his blue jeans and running his fingers over the shiny wood.

“Rolling Stone,” Frankie replies quickly.

He stops walking for a moment and looks up with wide eyes. “No shit? I’ll come find you after the show. Give ya a real interview,” he says excitedly, before giving her one last parting nod and approaching the rest of the band.

Frankie feels a bit out of sorts, but Cherry is still standing by her side and she feels an odd sense of comfort in that. The band is doing some sort of pre-show ritual and Frankie starts scribbling it all down in her notebook because it seems like the right thing to do. She watches the huddle break apart in front of her, and the band starts walking out onto the dimly lit stage.

She can hear the roars of the crowd, can practically feel them vibrating through the thick leather of her boots. And just before Harry steps on stage, he looks over his shoulder and gives her a wink, and the fire inside Frankie’s stomach turns into a full-blown blaze.

***

The show is everything and more. Frankie started by lingering in the background, letting the rest of the friends of the band stand closer to the side stage viewing area. After their first song was over and the crowd was cheering louder than anything Frankie had ever heard before, she feels Cherry drag her towards the front where she can get a better view of the band.

“How are you supposed to write an article standing all the way back there?” Cherry asks with a grin. They’re standing so close together that Frankie can feel the frills on her jacket tickling her cheekbones, but she doesn’t mind.

“Good evening, everybody,” Harry says after they’ve finished their first song of the night. He’s nothing but confident up there, a true frontman, and Frankie is a little bit in awe of him. “We’re The Nocturnals. I hope you like this next one,” he says and the crowd cheers. He looks over towards Eddie with a nod and he starts picking at the fret, playing a loud solo before the drums crash in and the second song starts.

It’s the third single off of their album and Frankie isn’t ashamed that she knows all the words. She would be lying if she didn’t think it was a good album. She remembers running to the other end of the boulevard into Tower Records before they closed to purchase it. Frankie must have played it for a week straight on the record player in her room.

Frankie starts scribbling in her journal, balancing on one foot while her knee is raised in a ninety degree angle acting as a makeshift desk. Her head is darting up, down, making sure not to miss a moment, but also making sure she’s capturing it all for the article.

“Enough of that, Frankie. Just watch,” Cherry says, whispering in her ear. Her small hands put pressure on the notebook over Frankie’s thigh, pressing down so her boot-clad feet touch the ground again.

“But I have to—”

“—Just watch. It’s the best way to experience the music.”

And Frankie does just that.

***

The show finishes with an encore of their number one hit single, “Too Much.” It’s electrifying and Frankie is glad that she listened to Cherry’s advice and watched the entire thing with wide eyes, remembering every moment of it. She could feel everything—the thumping of the bass, the rattling of the cymbals, the zing of the keyboards. But Harry’s voice—that was something she couldn’t wait to write about.

Frankie’s raking through the thesaurus in her mind trying to think of other words to describe his voice. She scribbles down guttural and gravelly, grating and gruff, throaty and raspy before she’s hearing it right in front of her.

“Did you enjoy the show?” he asks, and Frankie is trying her best not to stare at the sweat dripping down the sides of his forehead, past his cheekbone, and pooling at his deep collarbones.

She blinks.

“It was amazing. Perfect, almost,” she replies.

“Almost?” Harry repeats, tilting his head downwards. Frankie watches as a bead of sweat travels down the bridge of his nose and she feels the warmest she’s ever felt this entire night.

Frankie reaches out to grab her tape recorder. Just as her finger is hovering over the record button, Harry shakes his head, tutting in disapproval.

“Not now.” And with that he walks away.

Frankie searches around for Jett, remembering that he promised her an interview after the show. Surprisingly, it goes a lot better than her attempt with Harry, and not long after, Rod decides to pitch in and add some remarks about the performance. Reapplying her makeup from the vanity behind the group, Veronica agrees to speak to Frankie and somehow she’s surprised that this group of people who once called her the enemy suddenly have an inkling to speak to her.

Harry reemerges suddenly, swapping out his pink dress shirt for a black one. It still isn’t buttoned appropriately, and he’s still looking at her with a twinkle in his emerald eyes that Frankie has never seen before. She watches as one of Cherry’s friends tries to give him attention, but his eyes are locked on Frankie’s, and she knows that this is the moment she needs to get his interview before the clock strikes ten.

“Do you have time to talk?” Frankie asks, approaching the pair cautiously.

The auburn haired girl rolls her eyes, but Harry just nods, shooing her away. Frankie feels bad.

They sit in the farthest corner of the room, her notepad and pen at the ready, her finger hovering over the record button. Harry’s watching her intently, inspecting her close enough that he can see the nervous shake of her hand, the small quiver of her lip.

“So, what has inspired you to make music?” Frankie asks, wasting no time.

Harry blows out a breath. “That’s the first question you ask me?” He reaches his hand out for the bottle of whiskey on the table, slugging it without pouring it into a glass.

“Well, on your debut album your song ‘1969’ clearly comes from personal—”

“—What inspired you to write?” Harry asks, completely ignoring Frankie’s question.

“Excuse me?” She says, completely thrown off guard.

Harry just shrugs his shoulders, smirking at her from his position on the leather seat. He takes another swig from the bottle and Frankie tries not to stare at his bottom lip that has become shinier from the liquor.

“I’m the one meant to be interviewing you, Harry,” Frankie says shyly.

“What if I want to know more about you, Franks?” His gaze is unwavering and Frankie is sure he can see the flush working its way up her neck, before settling over her freckled cheeks.

Before she could respond or even begin to pry into the mysterious mind of the frontman of The Nocturnals, Frankie chances a glance over at the clock and sees that it’s 9:58.

Shit. Her mother.

“What?” Harry asks with a chuckle.

Shit. Frankie said that outloud.

“Nothing. I just have to go,” she says quickly, closing her notebook and tucking her pencil behind her right ear. She presses the pause button on her tape recorder, holding it tightly in her hand until her knuckles turn white.

“You have to leave? Already?” Harry’s eyes are wide at Frankie’s fumbling, and for once he’s actually confused that a girl who looks like her isn’t throwing herself at him.

“Yeah. Thanks for the interview, even though I can probably only quote a few words,” Frankie says offhandedly. She stands up and Harry follows suit. She’s not sure what type of parting she should give him, so she settles with an awkward wave, before running out of the dressing room and back through the steel door.

She can hear the honking of the Continental from the same illegal parking spot, and Frankie sighs as she starts picking up her speed on the loading dock, knowing that the longer she takes to reach her mother, the more frantic the honking will become.

“Frankie! Wait up!”

Frankie turns around and sees that Cherry and her wild blonde hair are running up to her. Frankie looks at Cherry’s hands, wondering if she had left something backstage. But when she’s standing in front of her, she is empty handed. Cherry reaches a small hand out and grabs the pencil behind Frankie’s ear, before stealing her notebook from her hand and flipping open to an empty page.

“You need to call me,” Cherry announces once she’s done scribbling her phone number down. She returns all of Frankie’s items back to their original place.

“Really?” Frankie asks, completely shocked. She couldn’t picture a world where a girl like Cherry would ever even consider being her friend.

“I need a new crowd,” Cherry says with a shrug.

Frankie just smiles, nodding her head with a promise to call her. She hears the Continental honking again but chooses to ignore it. Instead she watches Cherry walk backwards down the loading dock, giving Frankie the most infectious smile she’s ever seen.

“Can’t you feel it, Frankie?! It’s all happening!” Cherry’s arms are outstretched and she starts twirling around, before giving one last wink and walking through the steel door once again.

Frankie can feel it. It’s all happening.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 3

On Monday morning Frankie receives a call from Lester Bangs praising her for her review about The Nocturnals show. It went so well that Lester and the other music editors at Rolling Stone wanted to send Frankie on their West Coast tour for a month. They wanted her to follow the band on the road and write a featured article piece about the mysterious new British rock band that was taking over the industry by storm. It was scheduled to be printed in the middle of the magazine, spanning over three pages.

And they wanted Frankie to write it.

“How are you going to pay for it? Who will you stay with? Is it even safe?” Her mother asks after Frankie gets off the phone with Lester. He still didn’t know that she was an eighteen-year-old girl living with her mother. And her mother didn’t know that Lester offered to pay an eighteen-year-old girl still living with her mother a lot of money to write this piece.

It was just easier that way.

“The magazine will cover my hotel expenses. I’d obviously stay with the band, but in my own room. It’ll be safe, you know me—I stay out of trouble,” Frankie says, answering each of her mother’s questions one by one.

“But, Francine, how will you—”

“—It’s my dream, mom.” Cynthia Goodhart purses her lips. She’s thinking so hard that Frankie can practically hear the wheels turning in her head. After a few moments, her mother walks over and hugs her tight.

“You better call me every night. I want to know where you are and know that you’re safe. And for the love of god please—”

“—No drugs,” Frankie finishes for her mother. She hugs her back even tighter.

Three days later, Frankie’s mother has just dropped her off at Long Beach Arena in Los Angeles. Her duffle bag is swung over her shoulder, and for the first time in her eighteen years of living, Frankie Goodhart is alone.

And she’s shocked at how excited she is.

The Nocturnals are scheduled to play a gig at the arena tonight, and Frankie remembers her instructions. She’s meant to seek out their manager, Bryan Greenberg, and retrieve her all access pass for the next month. Then, he’ll show her the hotel accommodations, give her a room key, and she’s off to start her assignment.

The band has been informed of her role. She remembers Lester telling her that a few of them were not keen on the idea of having a journalist follow them around for a month, but after hearing that they were going to be featured in the next publication of the magazine, their outlook immediately changed.

“Rockstars,” Lester said over the phone, “They’ll do anything for some decent fuckin’ press.”

On her way into the arena, Frankie bypasses a behemoth of a vehicle. It’s monstrous and gunmetal grey and looks like it’s about to fall apart at any moment, and when she squints she can make out the lettering spelling BERNIE on the side near the door. It reeks of marijuana and booze and she can only assume that this is their tour bus.

Before she can continue to walk by, she hears her voice.

“Frankie!” It’s Cherry and Frankie is surprised that she’s actually happy to see the tall blonde girl. She’s wearing another outrageous assortment of clothing, full of frilly layers and white patent leather. Her lips are stained red and she’s wearing opaque pink sunglasses and when she wraps her thin arms around Frankie’s neck, she instantly hugs her back.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Cherry says, and Frankie’s glad too.

When they untangle themselves, Cherry grabs onto Frankie’s arm and drags her towards the arena, mumbling something about the lingering smell of sex inside of Bernie. Frankie doesn’t bother to ask her what she means, instead allows Cherry to drag her inside the venue.

Frankie tells her that she has to find Bryan and Cherry just shakes her head, explaining to her that Bryan isn’t any fun before five o’clock. Frankie takes her word for it, and not long after have the two entered a backstage area filled with tables and chairs and an assortment of food. Various crew members lounge about eating craft services, and as her eyes sweep over the room, she sees the band in the far corner.

“The enemy is approaching,” Frankie hears Eddie call out ominously from the table. Veronica and Rod snicker beside him, and Frankie tries not to let their words affect her.

She has a job to do.

Cherry shushes them before sitting next to Rod, running her fingers through his long blonde hair that falls past his shoulders. Frankie watches them, fully aware that the only reason Cherry is here is because she’s sleeping with the bassist. But then she remembers her conversation with Cherry’s friends outside of The Troubadour, and she pushes those feelings deep down, only hoping for Cherry’s sake that Rod cares about her the same way she cares about him, even though he has a rumored fiancée back home.

Frankie is trying not to judge.

Before she can say anything, she hears shuffling behind her. She feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up because in front of her is four-fifths of the band, so that only leaves Harry, who has suddenly appeared behind her. Frankie hates that she can feel his presence before she can actually see him, and when he gives her a throaty hello, she can practically see the goosebumps prickling her skin.

“Heard you were comin’. Glad you’re here, Franks.” Frankie is fully aware that Cherry’s eyes are on her, and all she can do is stare at her new friend, completely out of her own element.

“Hi, Harry,” Frankie offers shyly, finally allowing him to enter her frame.

Before she could examine him fully, another man approaches the table. He’s shorter than Harry, a stocky little man with a permanent frown etched onto his face. His hair is thinning, practically balding in some spots, and he looks utterly exhausted.

“You the journalist?” He asks Frankie. His accent is high-pitched and squeaky, and Frankie blinks once, twice, before realizing that he’s actually addressing her.

“Yeah, hi. Frankie Goodhart.” She extends her arm even though he makes no effort to try and shake it. Frankie suddenly feels small, even though she’s taller than the man in front of her. His eyes are raking up and down her body, and Frankie squirms under his gaze.

“Christ, Rolling Stone hires kids now?” He chuckles to himself and Frankie really wishes the ground would swallow her up right then and there.

“Enough Bryan. They wouldn’t have sent her if she wasn’t good, right?” Harry comments, finally taking the spotlight off of Frankie. She’s grateful that the attention is off of her now. All she wants to do is start gathering quotes for her piece.

If only things could be that easy.

***

The show was once again incredible. Frankie watched from backstage, standing on Cherry’s side. She followed her advice again, only jotting down pivotal moments in her notebook. Most of the show, she spent mouthing along to the lyrics.

She didn’t want to admit that she was a fan.

“You can’t let them know you’re into their stuff,” Lester told her on the phone three days earlier. “They’re gonna want to buy you shit, be your friend. All of that. You can’t let that happen. Once they’ve got you, you’re fucked.”

After the show is over, the backstage area of the arena is buzzing with people. Cherry’s friends showed up right after the opening act was finished, and currently they were traipsing around the green room as if they owned the place. Jett sat sandwiched between two of them, sharing a joint and sips of champagne right from the bottle. Frankie had just finished talking to Veronica, who surprisingly was a vessel of knowledge. Before she could finish making her rounds, Rod storms in angrily, with an annoyed Harry trailing behind him.

“You really had to stay out on stage the longest when we were giving our bows, Harry?” Rod asks, and suddenly the entire room begins to grow quiet.

“What’s going on?” Bryan asks.

“Fuckin’ Harry’s out here craving all the attention, that’s what’s going on! And you’re so far up his ass you can’t even see it!” Rod’s full on screaming now, and all Frankie can do is just sit and watch.

“Everybody says ‘oh look, it’s Harry’s band! Look how talented Harry’s band is! As if we’re not a fuckin’ unit!” Frankie watches as Harry’s eyes grow darker. Bryan is trying to calm Rod down, but it’s no use. He’s completely uncaged.

Before he can say anything else, his eyes suddenly fall onto Frankie’s.

“I’m not sayin’ anything else with the enemy around.” It’s final, absolute. The words resonate in her brain and for the first time since arriving, Frankie’s second-guessing taking this job in the first place.

Rod storms out after that, and Frankie tries to ignore the green eyes trying to search for hers. She doesn't want the attention right now. What she wants is to retreat back into her hotel room and reevaluate how the next month of her life will go.

While everybody else heads back to the hotel, Frankie notices that Harry stays back, choosing to spend the night in the bus.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 4

The entire bus ride to Tempe, Arizona is uncomfortable.

Tensions are still high from Rod and Harry’s fight after the show in Long Beach last night, and Frankie watches as they sit on opposite sides of the bus, eyes covered in sunglasses facing the windows.

Eddie sits close to Harry, automatically taking his side because he’s his older brother. It makes sense, and Frankie watches it all unravel in her seat beside Cherry. She’s thankful that the blonde girl has decided to sit with her instead of Rod, because Frankie is still struggling with fitting in. This whole enemy ordeal is really starting to make things difficult for her.

Once they hit a rest stop, Jett offers Frankie some of his potato chips and for the rest of the ride he talks to her about music and the process of recording their first album. Veronica joins in, recounting the story of how she joined the band after watching them play a show in Phoenix.

“They were decent,” she tells Frankie, her American accent standing out.

“She makes us better,” Jett says, nodding at Veronica appreciatively.

In the dressing room before the Tempe show, battle lines are drawn up. Harry and Eddie stand on one side, chain-smoking cigarettes and keeping to themselves. Rod and Cherry sit on the other side, and Frankie watches as Cherry soothes Rod’s anger by running her small fingers down his back. Veronica and Jett play the roles of peacemakers, alternating between each side, trying to get everybody in the mindset for a great show.

And as Frankie watches from the sidelines, she’s shocked that it is in fact a great show.

During their last song, Frankie watches Harry grab the water bottle resting on the riser where Jett’s drum set was. She almost misses the dramatic eye roll Rod gives him, seemingly annoyed at whatever Harry was planning on doing. As the lights are dimmed low and Eddie starts playing a riff, Frankie watches Harry fill his cheeks with water.

He can feel her gaze on him. As soon as Jett starts hitting the kick drum, Harry’s green eyes meet Frankie’s. He gives her a quick wink before turning over towards the crowd, leaning back on his legs and spitting the water up into the air as the instruments all clash together.

Frankie tries to ignore the tingling beneath her skin.

After the post-show adrenaline rush has worn off, The Nocturnals retreat back to their pre-show state. Eddie tries to entertain Harry while the rest of the band keep Rod as far away from him as possible. Frankie just observes, scribbling notes down in her journal, before Cherry approaches her cautiously.

“Do you think you could do me a favor, Frankie?” Cherry asks. Her voice is soft and her eyes show a little bit of apprehension, and Frankie immediately snaps her journal shut.

“Of course. Everything okay, Cherry?” Frankie is concerned because for the first time since being introduced to Cherry, she’s asking Frankie for help.

“Could you talk to Harry, maybe? He seems to be fond of you. Maybe you can get through to him about the whole Rod situation.” Frankie suddenly understands that the only reason Cherry is concerned about Harry is because Rod is involved.

“Uh, I don’t know if I’m really the best person—”

“—The thing is, they’re both alphas. Harry takes control and Rod doesn’t know how to function without it. They need each other, Frankie. The band needs them. Sometimes it’s tough getting through to Harry, but do you think you could try it just this time? For me?”

Frankie doesn’t know how to say no to people. Which is why she finds herself approaching Harry outside of the hotel while the rest of the band grab beers from Bryan’s cooler and stretch out around the pool outside of the building.

“I don’t want to do the interview right now, Franks,” Harry says quietly once he realizes that Frankie has stayed back to chat with him.

“We can just talk. Completely off the record,” Frankie says, throwing her journal and tape recorder deep into the depths of her messenger bag around her body.

Harry looks at her with his eyebrows raised. “Oh yeah? So what, we’re just gonna talk as friends?” He’s teasing her now and Frankie just rolls her eyes.

“If that’s what you’d like, sure. Friends,” Frankie agrees, surprisingly meaning every word.

“Alright. Come with me.” Harry leads them to a quieter area away from the pool. It’s a makeshift smoking area, and when Harry reaches into his denim pocket for his pack of Winstons and offers one to Frankie, she shakes her head no. Harry gives her another long look before shrugging his shoulders and lighting the stick between his cherry lips.

“Are you here to try and make me feel better?” Harry asks smugly.

Frankie shakes her head, growing annoyed. “No. Cherry just asked if I could—”

“—Oh so Cher put you up to this?” Harry interrupts, and Frankie has decided that this is just something she has to get used to around him. The constant interrupting, constant avoidance of questions, constant staring.

Frankie just sighs. She’s not quite sure why Cherry thinks Harry is fond of her, considering they can barely get through a conversation without him ignoring her questions and directing them towards Frankie instead.

They’re quiet for a few minutes. Harry finishes his cigarette, stubbing it out with the sole of his boots before Frankie opens her mouth.

“Why do you put up with it?” It’s quiet and she’s not sure if she should have even asked him that in the first place, but she’s curious.

“I thought this wasn’t an interview?”

“It’s not. Off the record, strictly.”

Harry stands up straighter, no longer leaning on the fence surrounding the smoking area. His shoulders turn so he’s standing directly in front of Frankie, eyes falling past her uncovered shoulders to her thin yellow tank top, before falling down the lengths of her ivory legs under her jean shorts. She screams of innocence and Harry suddenly feels like he can drop his rockstar façade and finally be truthful for once in his life.

“I do it because I have to,” Harry says slowly.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Harry,” Frankie replies, blue eyes staring deep into green.

Harry just laughs to himself quietly, shaking his head.

“Sometimes you have to do things because they’re expected of you. Like love, for instance.” He’s speaking as if he has all of the answers in the world and Frankie can’t quite fathom how that could possibly be true.

”What do you mean?”

“Well. You’re expected to love your boyfriend, right?” Harry’s asking her in a way that doesn’t come across as fishing for information. Frankie suddenly wonders if he thought she was the type of girl that would have a boyfriend. That she was capable of enthralling the other sex.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Frankie’s suddenly shy, and Harry looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time.

“Well, any of your boyfriends. You were expected to love them.” Harry doesn’t need Frankie to tell her that she actually has never had a boyfriend in her entire life. Her silence tells him more than he needs to know, and Frankie hopes he can’t see her fidgeting under the moonlight.

“I wouldn’t know.” Frankie says it so quietly that Harry almost missed the words leaving her lips. He suddenly feels his age for the first time—twenty-three and hyperaware of the pretty girl with freckles on her face who has never been in love before.

“You’ve never been in love?” He sounds shocked, and Frankie starts wondering if there’s something wrong with that. Sure, she’s had a few opportunities to try and fall in love, and sure, she was almost close to it with her prom date a few months prior, but the truth still stands. It’s a feeling that Frankie’s heard endless times play over in the songs on her record player.

It’s the one question that she’s never found the answer to in Mary’s collection.

“Not truly, no. I mean, every song I’ve ever heard has talked about love as if it’s supposed to be this monumental explosion of feelings. It’s supposed to be all-encompassing. We’re supposed to crave it, chase after it, live for it. So when you say that you’re expected to love another person, I don’t know what you mean. Because you shouldn’t be expected to do something that’s supposed to consume you.”

Frankie chances a look over towards Harry and finds that his eyes aren’t set on hers. Instead, they’re looking over her head, fixated on the trees behind her. He has a distant look in his eyes as if he understands exactly what Frankie is telling him.

Suddenly, his eyes lock back on hers. But this time, the glint is gone. Instead he looks sad almost, nodding absently at whatever Frankie had just said.

Frankie has another sleepless night.

***

June 1973 - entry no. 5

Frankie began to grow quite fond of Bernie on the drive from Tempe to Las Vegas.

Somehow, The Nocturnals had a strong affinity for the nearly broken down grey touring bus they’ve been sequestered to for the past few months. Jett proclaimed that Bernadette had magical powers, and they preferred to travel to each venue by bus because they performed much better after sitting in the bristling heat for hours on end.

Frankie thinks that Jett needs to lay off the weed.

Each band member had their own little corner of the bus. Eddie always preferred the middle so he could jump from conversation to conversation wherever he was needed. He didn’t like feeling left out. Veronica was happy towards the front as long as she always had a window. She always said her lack of a penis allowed her prime window seating. Nobody disagreed.

Rod liked the back of the bus because that was where he could sneak off and make out with Cherry without anybody else watching. Sometimes he would sneak his hand down her skirt and Cherry would giggle as if he was telling her the funniest joke in the world. Harry on the other hand always chose to sit in the front seat behind Bryan who was always driving. It was an unwritten rule that nobody else could sit there. It was also an unwritten rule that Harry always needed to be close to Bryan.

That is where Frankie finds him when they’re about twenty minutes away from the Las Vegas Convention Center. His long body is taking up two seats with his head leaning against the glass window. He has his black sunglasses on but Frankie can see that his eyes are open through the tinted frames.

“Starin’ is impolite, Franks,” Harry says after a few moments.

Frankie blushes, looking down at the floor. “I’m still waiting for your interview, Harry.”

He shuffles a bit while he’s mulling this over. In the two week span of Frankie’s time on tour with the band, she’s gotten one on one interviews with everybody but Harry. Whenever she attempts to reach out to him, he always wanders off. Lately, he’s been switching the roles and asking her questions instead.

She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable around him.

And with her deadline approaching soon and the final three shows looming in the distance, Frankie was starting to grow impatient.

“After the show. I promise,” Harry says, before turning his attention back out towards the window.

Frankie ignores Cherry’s gaze as she slinks into the seat in the back left of the bus. But Cherry is anything but adamant, and not even ten seconds later, Frankie can feel the tips of her blonde curly hair grazing Frankie’s exposed shoulders.

“He’s making this extremely difficult,” Frankie admits, slumping down further into the seat.

Cherry nods. “Give him time, Frankie. He’ll come around eventually.”

Frankie only wishes that were true.

***

The show in Vegas is nothing short of a disaster.

Frankie notices the mistakes more so than the audience members mainly because she’s been watching The Nocturnals perform the same show for two weeks now. From the second they walked onto the stage, there was a disconnect amongst the band members. Jett and Veronica did the best they could trying to appease both Harry and Rod, but it began to crumble halfway through their set. Rod began to overdue his solos, throwing the timing off for Harry. The worst part was when he started oversinging the backing vocals, almost making Harry sing the wrong lyrics.

The dressing room was quiet after the show. And for the first time since touring with the band, Frankie had no desire to ask anybody questions.

“Well guys, that was—”

“—A fuckin’ shitshow,” Harry says, interrupting Bryan.

Eddie stands closer to Harry, trying to calm his little brother down. Everybody knows that it was bound to happen, because Eddie always puts Harry first. But this seemed to spur Rod on, because immediately after Eddie puts an arm around Harry, Rod flies out of his seat and points an accusatory finger at the both of them.

“I’m so fuckin’ sick of you two. Every time there’s a disagreement, Harry is never at fault in your eyes, Ed. It’s about fuckin’ time you realize that your brother is singlehandedly ruining this band.” Rod’s words are venomous and Frankie practically flinches with each syllable.

“Well, maybe if you stopped being so jealous of H, we wouldn’t have this problem!” Eddie retorts, stepping in front of Harry and squaring his shoulders towards Rod.

“Jealous?! Of that prick? That’s fuckin’ rich.”

The rest of the argument seems to blow up in front of Frankie, but for some unknown reason, she chooses not to stare at Rod and Eddie yelling at each other in the middle of the room. Instead, her blue eyes fall onto Harry, who hasn’t said a word throughout this entire exchange. He looks as if he wants to be anywhere but here, and as if he can feel the heat of Frankie’s gaze on him, he tilts his head towards her and stares right back.

“If you don’t get your ego in line, Harry, I’m fuckin’ walking,” Rod says. Frankie watches Harry’s eyes snap back towards the bassist, and instead of responding, he just shakes his head slowly. Suddenly, Harry starts careening towards the exit, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and Frankie in the other.

“Harry…” Frankie says, but it’s useless. He’s walking so quickly and swallowing back whiskey so fiercely that Frankie has no choice but to hold onto his hand tighter and allow him to lead her out of the arena, past Bernie, and down a few roads until the flashing lights are fading into the distance and the honking of vehicles has practically ceased.

Frankie isn’t sure what to say because up until this point she hadn’t really considered her and Harry friends. Their conversation in Tempe only made Frankie more confused, and every time Cherry tells her of Harry’s fondness of her, she thinks that her friend is seeing things.

But now, standing hand in hand with him, Frankie begins to think differently.

His hands are shaking when he drops hers, and instead of speaking, he just takes another swig of the bottle. His cheeks are flushed and Frankie isn’t sure if it’s from the alcohol or something else, and then before she can dissect him any further, he stops abruptly and turns to face her.

“Do you ever feel like you need to get away? Like things are just happenin’ too quickly?” He’s back to asking her questions again, and Frankie isn’t sure how to respond.

“Shit, I shouldn’t be tellin’ you any of this.” He suddenly runs the hand that used to hold hers through his curly hair out of frustration. Harry starts pacing back and forth in front of Frankie, and she’s very aware that they are far from the venue.

“It’s fine, I won’t—” Frankie cuts herself off because she isn’t quite sure what she’s trying to tell him. She already promised to talk to him off the record back in Tempe, and deep down she really wants to tell him this again. But she’s losing focus on her assignment, and she’s doing everything that Lester Bangs told her not to do.

Harry’s green eyes are back on hers and he’s suddenly a lot closer to her than he was previously. But before he could say anything, a car pulls up and his eyes shift from blue to the approaching vehicle.

“Whoa, you’re Harry Styles!” A boy with straight blonde hair says. He’s driving a car and looks to be a few years younger than Frankie, and the rest of his friends seem to be as shell-shocked as the driver.

“Just Harry, s’fine,” Harry replies, stepping away from Frankie and smiling at the group of boys.

“Would you wanna come to a party? My parents are out of town and my house is down the street,” the blonde kid offers. Immediately, Frankie starts to shake her head, expecting Harry to follow suit. Instead, she bafflingly watches as Harry grins at the group before jumping into the backseat of the car.

“Harry!” Frankie shoots out, beginning to chastise him.

“C’mon Franks, let’s have some fun,” Harry says, grabbing her from the sidewalk and pulling her into the van. The group of boys cheer and begin asking Harry a million questions, but it might as well be white noise because Frankie’s eyes are looking into green and she finds herself agreeing to this ridiculous plan because she’s found that she can’t say no to Harry no matter how hard she tries.

And when he hands her the whiskey bottle and promises that she’ll like it, she drinks it without even thinking, smiling back at Harry when his eyes go wide.

***

A few hours later, Frankie finds that Harry is impossibly drunk. He’s stumbling throughout a high school party, fluttering from the living room to the kitchen and back. The teenagers are handing him plastic cups filled with a concoction of various liquors, and while Frankie has only had one cup, it was enough to make her feel warm and light, so she stopped after that.

She has just walked out of the bathroom when she realizes that Harry is not where she had left him. Nervously, Frankie begins checking each room in the house, praying that she didn’t just lose the frontman of The Nocturnals at a high school party in Las Vegas. Once she rounds the stairs, she hears his laugh from the first door to her left, and when she walks in she finds him sitting on a desk chair surrounded by a group of kids with glazed eyes and a bong sitting in the middle of a circle.

“And that is why you shouldn’t mix acid with vodka. It’s just—Franks! There you are! Thought I lost ya.” Harry blindly reaches out for Frankie’s hand, pulling her towards the group. She stumbles until she’s sitting right beside him, and he’s grinning at her with a mischievous look in his eyes.

“I made new friends,” he says softly, gesturing towards the group of stoned teenagers on the floor below him.

“I can see that,” Frankie responds, seemingly unaware of their close proximity. Harry’s arm is resting lightly around her shoulders, and if she leans in just an inch more, she could smell the whiskey on his lips.

“Maybe I’ll start a band with them. What d’ya think? They’d probably be more fun, anyways,” he mumbles, his slurred words meshing together.

Frankie isn’t sure what to say, so instead she just drunkenly laughs, standing up when Harry grabs her arm and leads her out of the room and into the backyard.

They walk further until they’re sitting at the top of a hill under a mesquite tree. The party is barrelling on below them, and when Frankie looks up at the sky and notices that the inky night has turned into a deep blue, she can assume that it’s the early morning.

Harry sighs contentedly beside her, sitting down close enough that their sides are touching. Frankie can feel his hip rest with hers, her shoulder pressed against his bicep, their thighs touching. The warmth from the alcohol flowing through her body suddenly becomes warmer, and Frankie can feel the flush on her neck begin to creep upwards.

“I never get to do this,” Harry says after a few minutes of silence.

“Do what?” Frankie asks.

“Act like a kid. Drink with my mates in our parents house. Be young, I guess.” Frankie cocks her head to the side and acknowledges the sadness on his features. She’s suddenly aware of the fact that Harry is the youngest in the band but never gets to feel like it because he’s constantly on the road, working with people much older than him, arguing about ridiculous things that shouldn’t matter in the long run.

She begins to feel bad for the rockstar who she believed had everything.

“You really didn’t miss much,” Frankie says, nodding her head towards the group of high school students surrounding a keg.

“No? Isn’t high school supposed to be the best years of your life or summat?” Harry asks, genuine curiosity dripping from his mouth.

Frankie just shrugs. “I sure hope not.”

Harry shifts his position and Frankie misses the warmth when she can no longer feel his body pressed against hers. His big hands reach out towards her forearms and pull so that she twists to the side, their knees knocking together. Harry’s sitting in front of her and his eyes are twinkling brighter than the stars and Frankie isn’t sure where else to look.

“Why are you so different from every other girl I’ve met?” Harry asks. Frankie tilts her head down, trying to hide the blush forming on her cheeks. She feels Harry squeeze her forearms, and she’s suddenly aware that his hands haven’t left hers.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Frankie says shyly.

His hand reaches out towards her chin, tilting it up so that she’s no longer hiding from him. Frankie watches his heels dig into the grass, allowing him to heave himself forward so that their legs are slotting, his knees surrounding hers. They’re much closer now, and she can see the glint in his eyes has turned into adoration and she suddenly feels frozen.

“Frankie Goodhart,” he whispers, “That would make for a good song.”

His fingers drop from her chin and Frankie can feel him getting closer. He’s angling his torso towards her and his shiny lips are getting closer to hers and she’s instantly panicking because shit, she thinks, this shouldn’t be happening.

And just before his mouth can close around hers, she backs away, and the look in Harry’s eyes fades. Instead, he’s staring at her, dull green eyes and all, and she suddenly feels empty inside. He stands up abruptly and begins walking down the hill back towards the street. Even in his drunken stupor, Harry somehow remembers how to get back to the carpark where Bernie is waiting with the rest of the band. They’re silent as they walk into the bus, the yellows and purples of sunrise filtering through the windows.

Harry chooses to sit near Rod, a sign of a truce. Frankie sits in the back, ignoring the looks Cherry gives her. For once, she just wants to be alone.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 6

Everybody besides Frankie seemed to be in high spirits on the journey to the San Jose Civic Center. The feud between Harry and Rod seemed to be an anecdote, something they could joke about during the long drive. Frankie watches from the back of the bus, a permanent scowl on her face, completely confused at the last ten hours of her life.

She was confused by the almost kiss, for starters. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss Harry, because of course she wanted to. But when his mouth was inching closer towards hers and his irises were so wide all she could see was mossy green, the only thing running through her mind were Lester’s warnings.

“Don’t get lost in the madness of it all. They’re gonna eat you alive if they know that you’re a fan. They’re gonna want to be your friend, lure you into their world. Stand your ground. The second they hear you write for Rolling Stone they’re gonna shit their pants. Don’t let us down.”

So she panicked. And when Frankie saw the frown on his face, she could feel her heart fall towards her feet inside her body. Frankie was never the type of girl that boys chased after, especially boys that have the world at their fingertips with blonde/auburn/black haired beauties throwing themselves at him. What would Harry want with a freckled-face eighteen year old high school graduate who had little to no experience with the opposite sex? It would be utterly laughable for the two of them to end up together.

But she would be lying if she hadn’t been kicking herself the entire journey to San Jose, regretting ever pulling away from him.

“Why are you so pouty?” Cherry asks from beside her. She opted to sit with Frankie mainly because Rod and Harry were rekindling their friendship with inside jokes and bottles of beer, and Frankie wasn’t all that mad that she was a second option.

“I’m not,” Frankie lies, sinking her head against the cool window. She needed her brain to stop replaying this morning's events over and over whenever her eyelids closed.

Cherry just hums beside her, knowing fully well that Frankie is lying. “I’m assuming it has something to do with Harry. He’s been looking at you like a lost puppy ever since we turned onto the freeway hours ago.”

Frankie ignores her friend the same way she’s been ignoring the warm heat of Harry’s gaze from the front of the bus.

She needs the silence to remember why she was even here in the first place. But there’s no denying that she’s so close to losing the point in the first place—feet dangling at the edge of the mountain, practically about to freefall below.

***

The San Jose show was the best one Frankie had seen yet, even better than the first night at The Troubadour three weeks earlier. The energy radiating from the stage was tangible, a thrumming of excitement Frankie could feel from the tips of her toes all the way up to the roots of her light brown hair. If she reached out to touch the handle of the steel door leading to the green room, she was convinced she would feel a zap of electricity from what The Nocturnals left out on the stage.

Harry was the best she had seen him yet. His voice was unmatchable, a perfect concoction of rasp and grit with a beautiful falsetto. Frankie was in awe, to be fair. Normally she takes turns watching each member of the band, but tonight, her blue eyes refused to move from his body.

Harry could feel her gaze. With Frankie’s eyes locked on him, he knew that he had to put on the best show of his life. He made sure to interact with the crowd, singing in a different octave so he could hear the gasps from the audience, leaning against Rod and Eddie with his head thrown back, shaking his hips to the pounding of Jett’s kick drum. Frankie’s hot gaze on Harry gave him a newfound sense of confidence, and it was palpable throughout the entire arena.

“What a fuckin’ show!” Bryan hollers from the doorway of the green room. Frankie watches as he interacts with each member of the band, even offering to take a hit of the joint Jett extends towards him. Rod even gives him a hug, and Frankie is just as confused as ever.

“Let’s celebrate!” Rod agrees, grabbing Cherry by her hips and bringing her towards his front. He drowns her giggles with a bottle of whiskey.

The band convenes in the middle of the green room, passing around a whiskey bottle and planning on throwing an after party in their hotel rooms. Eddie asks Bryan to upgrade their rooms so they can fit more people, and Jett agrees, telling Cherry’s friends to invite anybody in the area they know. Frankie ultimately feels like an outsider, having no desire to go out and drink with people who barely even wanted her around in the first place.

As she begins to gather her belongings and throw them into her tattered messenger bag to retreat to her own hotel room for the night, Frankie sees the tips of black leather shoes touch her white sneakers. She looks up slowly, her breath practically catching in her throat when she notices Harry peering down at her, a faint trace of a smile on his lips.

“Fancy that interview, Franks?” Harry says softly, and Frankie suddenly is at a loss for words. She’s unsure if it’s from his close proximity to her face, or the fact that he actually is ready to allow her to interview him, but she just nods slowly.

“You don’t want to party? I think you earned it,” Frankie mutters back, offering him an out.

Harry doesn’t take it though. “Nah, let’s get out of here,” and with that, he loops her messenger bag around his broad shoulder and places a large hand at the small of her back, tracing her out the door.

Frankie offers to conduct the interview inside Bernie, but Harry just shakes his head, “I’m sick of sittin’ on the bus.” When she mentions her hotel room being on a different floor than the rest of the band’s, Harry just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, “Tryin’ to take me to bed already?” Frankie just rolls her eyes, wishing her skin was a darker shade so her blush wasn’t so prominent. Harry smiles, enamored that he can get her riled up so quickly, and drags her towards a small staircase on the top floor, a sign reading NO ENTRY in bright red letters.

Frankie pauses and Harry just laughs, opening the door with his hip and grabbing her wrists with his long fingers. “Live a little, Franks,” he whispers, dragging her up the staircase and onto the roof of the hotel.

The dark sky looks so vast from the roof, and Frankie cranes her neck back to take in all of the glittering stars above. She never gets to see the constellations through the LA smog, so from this vantage point, Frankie doesn’t hesitate to take it all in, her hair shining in the moonlight.

Harry doesn’t hesitate to take Frankie in, either.

“Ready, Franks?” Harry’s voice bursts Frankie’s imaginary bubble, and she fumbles around trying to grab her notebook and recorder before sitting across from Harry over a skylight. She doesn’t meet his eyes because she’s scared that if she does, she’ll forget everything she wanted to ask him.

“So, Harry. Why music?”

And it’s as if a dam has broken, split completely in half, and Harry’s words are the water that flows from the cracks. He tells Frankie that he started the band with his brother in small town Manchester, England, and they were shit at first. Tells her how the idea of a band came from the 1961 Ice Blue Fender Musicmaster their dad left behind when he left his mother when Harry was a boy. How the first few songs he wrote were about his fear of abandonment, and when he lost his virginity, all he could write about were girls and hearts and lips and feelings. He tells her things that Frankie didn’t even need to pry from him, instead, he willingly tells her how he was nervous to have five members in a band, nervous to leave England, nervous to be the frontman of a group when he was the youngest one. And when they were sat on the forty-fifth floor of a high-rise building with walls of windows in New York City, signing their recording contracts, Harry never felt more out of control in his life.

“You seem to be so confident on stage though, so in control. I mean, you just look so cool up there,” Frankie mumbles, realizing that she isn’t asking a question anymore. Instead she’s prodding for more information that she isn’t sure Harry feels comfortable doting out to her.

“I promise you, I’m entirely uncool. It’s all an act. I’m far too in my head most of the time,” Harry says with a chuckle, shifting his body closer to Frankie’s. “Sometimes, I think you’re the only person in this world who’s seen me properly. I’m just as uncool as you.”

Frankie feels herself shifting closer, too. Her finger unknowingly hovering over the STOP button on her tape recorder.

Harry notices just like he notices everything about her. He can feel the shift in their conversation, and he turns his body closer towards Frankie, asking her the question that’s been on the tip of his tongue the entire day.

“Why didn’t you let me kiss you?”

His voice is uncharacteristically shy. Frankie’s never seen this version of him—so quiet, so unsure. It startles her.

“Um,” she pauses, pressing her finger down on the button, her mind suddenly confuddled. “I’m technically not supposed to.”

“Franks,” Harry shakes his head, his mouth practically inches from hers. “When are you gonna realize life is more fun when you do the things you aren’t supposed to?”

With his mouth so close to hers, Frankie feels like she can’t breathe. His eyes are sincere and she can feel her heart beating so loudly she’s sure her ribs are bruised. And for the first time in forever, Frankie doesn’t want to follow the rules anymore.

She wants to break them.

Specifically, she wants to break them with Harry.

Frankie brazenly drops the tape recorder into her messenger bag at her feet and wraps her hands around Harry’s neck, bringing his lips to hers. He stills at first, not entirely sure if this is actually happening or he’s just imagining her kissing him. But then she starts to nibble at his lower lip and he finally reacts, wrapping one hand into her brown hair and another around her stomach, fingers spread over the ivory skin uncovered by her cropped shirt.

Frankie shudders when Harry whines at the contact, and when he feels like he needs more more more, he drags her legs and hoists them over his thighs so she’s straddling his lap. Their teeth knock together hungrily and it’s literally better than anything Harry’s ever had, and he’s had almost everything there is. Harry feels dehydrated, and Frankie’s lips are the only thing quenching his thirst. He’s never been so enraptured by another person before, and just having her body wrapped around his is practically careening him towards the edge.

When Harry’s hand in her hair pulls back exposing her neck towards him, she moans when his lips lick a thick strip from her sternum towards her chin. She tries to think of love songs that explain how she’s feeling, and when her mind becomes blank, she figures that they can write their own song, fuelled by pink lips and hungry bites and satisfied breaths.

“Jesus, Franks. You’re everything,” Harry mumbles against her lips. Frankie just nods, her hands pushing open his unbuttoned shirt and fanning against his chest. When his head falls back in a blissful sigh, Frankie marks the part of his skin where his shoulder meets his neck, and she can feel it too. That this is everything.

When Harry tries to take her shirt off and lower his hands into the waistband of her jeans, she stops, fully aware that this is her first time ever having somebody this close to her. Of having somebody want to get this close to her, to feel her, to have her in every sense of the word. And she’s terrified.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Franks. I blacked out, I forgot. You’re just—fuck. Can’t fuckin’ think straight when you’re lookin’ at me like that with your mouth all pouty and your hair all messed up. I’m losin’ it,” Harry says hurriedly, his forehead falling against her clavicle. He’s completely breathless and Frankie is in awe that she brought him to this point.

When she feels his hands running a comforting line down her back, she’s fully aware that she wants nothing more than to feel closer to Harry. It’s inevitable at this point—all of the lingering gazes, the interrupting questions, the way he can feel her gaze on him when he’s performing, the way she doesn’t want to look anywhere else. He wants to tell her his secrets. And she wants to keep them, hidden away from the world, just for her to hold.

So she reaches down and places her hand over Harry’s, dragging it down her chest and stomach, over her stomach, against the button of her pants. Harry sucks in a breath and Frankie can feel it against her neck, his lips pursing in shock.

“Frankie, it’s okay, we don’t—”

He’s silenced by her popping the button open and unzipping her jeans. His head shoots up, eyes latched onto hers, arms wrapped around her hips protectively.

Frankie shushes him with a gentle kiss. “It’s okay. You’re everything.”

And with that, Harry reaches inside of her pants, and the both of them fall apart, seeing stars that rival the constellations twinkling above them.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 7

Frankie spends the next day trying to quell the butterflies fluttering in her stomach.

After her night with Harry on the rooftop, she feels as if she’s floating through thin air. She can’t stop the grin growing on her face whenever Harry is in a five foot radius of her, and she can practically feel his smirk from a distance. When they leave San Jose and travel to Palo Alto, Frankie practically forces her body to the back of the bus, trying to put as much space between them as possible.

Because if he was any closer, she wasn’t sure if she could keep her hands to herself.

Frankie has never felt like this. She feels as if Harry is her newest addiction, and no matter how hard she tries, she just can’t fucking stop thinking about him. It’s infuriating and infatuating at the same time, incredible and unknown and so new that she’s practically shaking in her seat from the excitement whenever his green eyes find hers.

Harry feels like he’s sixteen again. He feels so light and bubbly and giggly and the whole thing is reminiscent of a first crush, that he doesn’t even recognize who he is anymore. The most surprising aspect of it all is that he actually likes it. He feels his heart swell with every longing gaze, every secret smile, every phantom touch. He can’t get enough of her. Just one taste of Frankie wasn’t enough to soothe his ever-growing appetite, and he’s not sure if he can contain himself any longer.

After an entire day of almost touching her skin, Harry feels like he’s about to burst. Twenty minutes before the show, while the rest of the band is warming up, Harry finds himself sneaking off to find Frankie. She’s on her way back from the bathroom and when he sees her he practically jumps out of his skin, wrapping his arms around her waist and dragging her into a utility closet across the hallway.

Harry quiets her shrieks with a mouth-watering kiss, and he practically implodes at the feeling of it. He’s been waiting for this moment all day, and he would be lying if he didn’t admit that it was the best kiss of his life.

His hands are everywhere and Frankie feels overwhelmed, but in the best possible way. She’s breathing him in and feeling every inch of his skin on hers and it’s crazy to think that in her eighteen years of life she waited this long to experience this feeling.

She’s just so happy she’s experiencing it with Harry.

When they hear Bryan give the five minute call, Frankie breaks away breathlessly, laughing when Harry whines at the loss of her lips on his.

“Just one more kiss please Franks,” Harry begs, wrapping his hands through her hair and pulling her closer to his mouth.

She obliges but only momentarily, before pushing him back towards the door.

“Go,” she whispers, biting her lower lip to conceal her giggles.

Harry just groans, holding onto her for dear life. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Franks.”

She watches him walk away, blowing him a kiss and laughing when he catches it and tucks it into the pocket of his trousers.

When Frankie goes to claim her spot sidestage, she’s interrupted by Cherry grabbing onto her shoulders. She can see the band rustling around in the background, grabbing their instruments and getting mic'd up, but Frankie can’t focus. Because Cherry’s eyes are blown out and she’s holding onto her so tightly and Frankie knows that whatever is about to come out of Cherry’s lips next is either going to be monumental or devastating.

“Frankie! I need to tell you something,” Cherry whispers through her brightening grin.

“What is it Cherry? Are you okay?” Frankie is worried.

“I’m amazing. Better than amazing, actually. I’m gonna tell Rod that I love him after the show. I’m gonna jump into his arms, tell him that he’s the only one for me, and that I’m so far in love with him that I can’t even breathe.”

Frankie sighs. It’s devastating.

“But… Cherry. What about his fiancée? Kids? Did you think this through?” Frankie asks, watching as her friend’s eyes fall and her mouth form a straight line. Frankie hasn’t seen this look on Cherry’s face since the night she almost called her a groupie. Immediately, Frankie feels the twisting feeling of guilt in her gut.

“He’s leaving them for me. He told me last night.” Cherry’s voice is so low that Frankie isn’t sure if she’s trying to convince her, or herself.

Frankie just shakes her head. “Cherry, you can’t think like that. How could he promise you something like that? You can’t just—”

“—I can’t just what, Frankie? What are you even trying to say? I love him! That should be enough! It’s always been enough!” Before Frankie could even get another word in, Cherry just shakes her head, stepping away from her. “I don’t even know why I bothered telling you. You wouldn’t even know what love is if it slapped you right in the face.”

Frankie pauses, mouth falling slack. “What are you even talking about?”

Cherry laughs, and for the first time, Frankie hates the sound of it. “Because you don’t even give it a chance. I see the way Harry looks at you, and all you do is keep your head down, ignoring the entire thing. All you care about is your stupid article. Well ya know what? At least I let Rod close enough to give love a chance.”

Frankie isn’t sure what to say. Part of her wants to tell Cherry about the night she had with Harry on the rooftop, or the words he spoke to her, or the way he grabbed her no less than five minutes ago. But she doesn’t. Because saying them in an argument makes it less genuine.

“Cherry, I’m just trying to help. You deserve better than Rod,” Frankie says, reaching for Cherry’s hands to squeeze in reassurance.

But Cherry just jumps back as if Frankie’s hands are scorching. “You know what, maybe you and Harry are perfect for each other. Both lonely and selfish.”

And with that, Cherry walks away, and Frankie hangs behind the crowd sidestage, feeling her chest constrict in anger. Cherry couldn’t be more wrong about Harry. He let her in, he told her things he promised he would never tell anybody else. Frankie would never let him near her if he acted the way Cherry just described.

So when the show is over and Frankie feels herself retreating back into the hotel without a word to anybody else, she practically combusts when Harry shows up at her room. His eyes are blown wide and he has concern written all across his face, because all he wanted to see after the show was her. Just as he’s about to ask if she was okay, Frankie grabs him by the back of his neck and drags him through the doorway, crashing her lips onto his.

“Franks, wait, babe, what’s goin’ on?” Harry asks between kisses, and Frankie just sighs, noticing the way her head clears and her heart feels lighter whenever he is close to her.

“I just don’t want to think right now. I need you,” Frankie says, and Harry practically drops through the floor when she utters those last three words.

I need you is the closest thing to I love you Harry has ever felt. Love to him always felt compulsory, a feeling that was expected between two people. He never had to work for it, and whenever he said the words, they never meant anything to him before.

So when he hears I need you fall from Frankie’s chapped lips, he’s floored at the way those words feel inside his chest. If words were tangible, they would be pumping the blood through his chest cavity, propelling his heart up up up until it was lodged into his throat.

He never thought I need you would mean more to him than I love you.

Not until now.

“I need you all the time,” Harry responds, grabbing Frankie and pulling her onto the bed. They kiss until they’re both only wearing their undergarments, Harry clad in tight white boxer briefs and Frankie wearing a boring nude bra and matching cheeky panties. They make her feel childlike, and she wishes that she owned something black and lacy and sexy.

But Harry could care less what she’s wearing. Just the fact that she’s laying next to him, completely opening him up until he could feel like he was properly breathing for the first time in three years is enough for him. And when they kiss until their lips feel bruised, Frankie just lays her head on his chest, revelling in the feeling of his warmth.

“Thank you,” Frankie whispers against his skin.

“For what?” Harry asks, running a finger absentmindedly through her hair. Just one touch is never enough for him.

“Being here. Being you.” It’s trivial and shouldn’t really mean much, but to Harry it means everything, and he sighs blissfully at the thought that just being himself was more than enough for this beautiful girl.

“God, Franks,” Harry says slowly, resting his chin against the top of Frankie’s head. “I feel like I’ve known you my entire life.”

And when she’s wrapped around Harry in every sense of the word, she can’t help but think that if this is how she were to spend the rest of her nights, she wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

July 1973 - entry no. 8

The term bittersweet comes to mind when Bernie rolls into the Fillmore in San Francisco.

Bitter because it’s her last show with The Nocturnals. Bitter because Cherry hasn’t looked at her in two hours, and she doesn’t want to leave with her friendship falling to pieces in front of her. Bitter because she feels like she’s truly found herself, and she doesn’t want this feeling to escape when she arrives back in Santa Monica. Bitter because she won’t be spending her nights wrapped with Harry anymore.

The sweet part is all Harry, Frankie hates to admit. His sweet smile, the taste of his sweet lips, the way his hands feel sweetly wrapped around Frankie’s middle, the way she won’t hear him say her sweet nickname Franks.

Frankie looks over towards her right and smiles at his sleeping frame tucked next to hers. Her heart practically stilled when he chose to sit near her in the back of the bus instead of his usual spot behind Bryan in the front. If anybody felt a certain way about it, nobody mentioned it, which made Frankie relax into the ripped leather seat. When Harry’s warm hand latched onto her thigh, Frankie’s heart almost stopped beating.

“Franks, ‘m tired. Can I use you as a pillow?” Harry asks, his voice thick with sleep.

Before Frankie could reply, Harry’s head was already resting in the crook of her neck, his chestnut curls ticking the underside of her chin. Frankie just smiles, knowing that this would probably be the last spare moment they have together before she has to leave after the show to write her piece for Rolling Stone.

“So soft. You’re the sweetest, Franks,” Harry mumbles before drifting off into sleep.

The hotel is conveniently across the street from the Fillmore, so while the band unloads their instruments, Frankie slinks into her hotel room to deposit her duffle bag and sort through the endless notes she had taken during her summer with the band. Most of them are scribbled in her notebook that was practically ripping from overuse, but the most important tidbits, the ones that Frankie didn’t want to forget, were written on bar napkins and setlist pages. On room service menus and gas station receipts. Frankie makes sure to stuff those into her folder, making sure they stay with her forever.

On her way back to the concert venue, Frankie hears screaming from the room Cherry and Rod share. Part of her wants to knock and make sure that her friend is okay, but after their last conversation, Frankie’s convinced that she’s probably the last person Cherry wants to see anyways. So she saunters back to the Fillmore, rushing to try and find Harry to lift her spirits once again.

But what she sees does the complete opposite.

Bleach blonde hair. Pretty red dress. Deep hazel eyes. Brand new patent leather pumps. A handbag that definitely cost more than the entire ensemble. Matching red lips.

Red lips that were attached to Harry’s.

Frankie freezes. She can feel her heart burst, but not in the way that it has been used to doing the past few days. Instead, it’s a painful burst. She can feel shards slice through her beating flesh, ripping her open and spluttering on the concrete flooring.

Suddenly green eyes are latched onto hers.

And suddenly, they’re the last thing she wants to see.

“Oh, hello! You must be the reporter everybody has been telling me about. Frankie, right? It’s so great to meet you! This is such a great opportunity for everybody,” the pretty girl is saying, but Frankie isn’t registering anything.

All she’s registering is Harry’s hands jumping away from the girl’s waist. His green eyes wide and pleading. His uncomfortable shuffling behind her.

Frankie snaps her mouth shut, trying her hardest to pull herself together. “Hi, yes. I’m Frankie. Nice to meet you, er…”

“Roslyn. I’m Harry’s girlfriend.”

Frankie tries her hardest to keep a straight face, but she’s practically breaking at the seams. She doesn’t even register two sets of feet stopping short behind her, doesn’t even acknowledge her shaky hand slipping into Roslyn’s, doesn’t even feel the heat of Harry’s eyes on hers, of everybody’s eyes on hers.

She feels like the biggest idiot in the world.

Before she could sink into the floor, Frankie feels a small hand settle on her back, blonde ringlets falling onto her bare shoulder. She shuffles back, feeling the warmth of Cherry’s embrace behind her. She knows that Cherry’s heard everything, and with one look into Frankie’s eyes, Cherry can see her reflection through the tears that threaten to fall.

“Frankie, did you bring the necklace you borrowed from me last night?” Cherry asks. It’s an out, an excuse to drag her away from the absolute nightmare unfolding in front of her. Frankie can barely shake her head back, instead she’s gripping onto her friend for dear life, feeling that if she wasn’t anchoring her into the cement flooring she’d be sinking.

“Wait, Cher! Franks, I—”

“—Don’t. We’ll see you after the show,” Cherry says. And for the first time since knowing her, Frankie shivers at the coldness dripping from her mouth.

The two girls don’t bother to hear a response. Instead, Cherry whips through the exit door of the venue and drags Frankie back into the comfort of her hotel room. Once she’s sitting on her flimsy mattress and the door is deadbolted, Frankie finally cries, painful sobs ripping through her chest. She hunches over, feeling her chest constrict at the lack of oxygen rushing through her respiratory system. But she doesn’t care. The hurt she felt watching Harry kiss another girl feels worse than this.

“Frankie, shush, it’s going to be okay,” Cherry says sadly, wrapping a thin arm around Frankie’s shoulders.

“It’s not going to be okay. Cherry, I can’t breathe. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Wait, I should be apologizing, Cherry I—” Frankie’s rambles are cut off by Cherry kneeling in front of her, holding her glistening face in the small palms of her hands. Cherry smiles, and when Frankie looks hard enough, she can see that it doesn’t meet her eyes. And she instantly knows that something is wrong.

“Wait, Cherry what’s wrong. Did something happen?” Frankie whimpers, holding her hands on top of Cherry’s, trying to squeeze the truth out of her friend.

“I think we should get out of here. What do you think? Let’s get away from it all,” Cherry says, gesturing at the front door where Frankie’s duffle lays untouched. Frankie feels herself nodding, grabbing Cherry in one hand and her bag in the other, walking outside of the hotel with a shattered heart.

Before they can get too far, she hears his voice. And that’s all it takes for her to feel the shards rip through her skin again.

“Franks! Please you’ve got to listen to me, please!” He’s pleading and Frankie feels disgusted that he’s calling out for her when his beautiful blonde-haired girlfriend is waiting for him inside just as she’s been waiting for him at home while he’s been wasting his time with Frankie.

“Cher, please let me talk to her, I’ve gotta—”

“—Goodbye Harry,” Frankie says softly. It’s final. Absolute.

She’s not sure who’s heart is breaking more, and honestly, she can’t bring herself to care. All she knows is that she feels as if Harry had shown her a world unlike any other—bright and unknowing and enticing and full of new wonders and surprises. But at the same time, he introduced her to heartbreak and pain and suffering and emptiness.

Frankie doesn’t look back as Cherry drags her towards the street, hailing a taxi and shoving them both into it. She doesn’t look out the window when the tires peel from the pavement, falling into traffic on the motorway. If she did, she would see Harry’s heart crumpling into the ground, his chest heaving in pain, his eyes watering.

Because they were both the closest to love they had ever felt in their lives. And Harry had ruined it. And the worst part of it all?

Frankie should have known better.

***

Inside the departures terminal in San Francisco Airport, Frankie finally wipes all of the water from her eyes. She’s pretty convinced that she’s cried all of the tears her body could produce, so with one last shaky inhale, she lifts her head from the crook of Cherry’s neck, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

“Thank you, Cherry,” Frankie whispers to a girl she never thought she would ever call a friend.

“I should be the one thanking you, Frankie,” Cherry admits, laughing softly to herself. It isn’t genuine, and Frankie can see the pain hidden behind her silver eyes.

“What happened?”

“You were right.” Cherry doesn’t need to explain more, but Frankie feels her heart aching for her friend. She feels horrible about their fight, but she feels even worse at the fact that Rod hurt Cherry.

“Why doesn’t he love me?” Cherry asks, and Frankie wonders how the two of them had gotten to this point. Both broken and scarred over two men who couldn’t love them the way that they needed to.

“I don’t know the answer to that, Cherry. But I do know that you never needed his love. Because love doesn’t feel like this. Love is supposed to be the thing that people write songs about, and you’ll find it one day. We’ll both find it one day.”

Cherry just nods at her brown-haired friend she’s grown to love in the span of three weeks. She hugs her tightly, hoping that this embrace will help heal their shattered hearts. Because even though they didn’t find love with Rod and Harry, they found love between each other. And that’s something worth remembering.

“Thank you,” Cherry mumbles against Frankie’s hair.

“Of course. I’ll always be here for you, Cherry,” Frankie replies, squeezing her friend a little tighter.

“I know that, and I will too.” Cherry stands up, grabbing Frankie’s hand one last time. Her suitcase is in the other, and she has a distant look in her silver eyes. “I just can’t do it here.”

Frankie smiles, knowing all along that Cherry was too good for this place. “I know. I hope you find what you’re looking for,” she says with a promise.

Before Cherry runs off to purchase a one-way ticket to a city far away from California, she turns back around, her eyes glistening. She reaches down to grab Frankie’s hand one last time.

“Aubrey Lennox,” she whispers.

“What?”

“My name,” Cherry replies with her infamous grin. “Is Aubrey Lennox. I’ll call you when I’ve found a place.” And with that, Aubrey walks off, giving Frankie one last parting glance.

An hour later when the hollowness inside Frankie seems to slowly start dissipating, she sees Mary in her stewardess outfit, a million questions at the tip of her tongue. With one look at her little sister, Mary knows something is wrong, and when she tells her that she’ll take her anywhere she wants to go, Frankie only has one place in mind.

She wants to go home.

***

August 1973 - entry no. 9

Frankie writes the Rolling Stone article the night Mary finds her in the airport in San Francisco. After promising her little sister that she’ll bring her home after she checks in with Greg and feeds their cat, Frankie stays up all night, clacking away on her sister’s old Smith Corona Classic 12 typewriter, writing three thousand words about her time with The Nocturnals.

She writes about their origin. She writes about their dazzling stage presence, the way they build off of each other, the way they trust each other wholeheartedly throughout each show. She writes about their growing tension. She writes about their poor management. She writes about how they’re debut album was incredible, chart-stopping, and the main reason why they’ve been successful. She writes about the promise of their second album being better than the first, and how she couldn’t imagine them breaking up any time soon, and how their music is for all the uncool people in the world.

It’s amazing and honest and truthful, void of spite or hatred or bias. She tells their story the way it should be told—open and honest and real. When she delivers it to Rolling Stone, they tell Frankie it’s going to be on the front page. They love the way she portrays The Nocturnals as normal people, chasing the high they provide for those who pay to watch their show.

But when they make out the call to fact check her piece, they deny everything.

“Did you talk to Harry Styles?” Frankie asks, growing frantic. She figured the least he owed her was to be honest and allow her to write their story.

“He was the one who denied everything.”

After that phone call, Frankie returns home with Mary. Once she’s opened the door and said hello to her mother, she locks herself in her room for three days and doesn’t leave.

Frankie didn’t think her heart could withstand any more pain, but she was wrong. She feels a bone-aching tiredness shiver through her body, the hollowness making her feel as if she was just barely there on most days. She can’t sleep because her pillow isn’t the rising and falling of Harry’s bare chest, the soft snoring from his mouth, the gentle caress of his hands over her arms.

Her anger overrides her feeling of emptiness in regards to her heart. She’s crushed at the fact that Harry lied to her about Roslyn, but even more so, he continued to lie when he denied her story from Rolling Stone. She hates him in these days, wishing she could tell him how much of a coward he was to his face.

And when she can’t sleep at night, she hears Lester’s words reverberating through her brain, don’t get too close, don’t get too close, don’t get too close.

Frankie wishes she just fucking listened.

***

The next morning, Frankie is lathering a thin layer of butter over her charred toast when the doorbell rings. She doesn’t make a move to answer it, and when Mary approaches the kitchen with a twinkle in her eyes, Frankie knows that whoever is at the door is waiting for her.

“Mary, no—”

“—Go answer it, Frankie.”

Frankie gulps her dry toast down her throat, letting it fall onto a paper towel with a soft thud. She walks slowly to the front door, hoping that whoever it is could see the state of disarray she was in and would presumptively leave her alone.

Once she reaches the foyer, she hears a gruff laugh, a noise she’s never heard before.

“Holy shit, you’re a fuckin’ kid.”

When she looks up, it’s no other than Lester Bangs in the doorway. His long hair is parted to one side, brown eyes covered in black wayfarer sunglasses. His brown leather jacket hangs off his arms, and she’s shocked that he would come all the way from San Francisco to talk to her.

“Cat’s out the bag,” Frankie shrugs, realizing that she’s too tired and too hurt to keep up her adult façade. She’s fully aware that her plaid pajama bottoms and high school t-shirt give away the fact that she is actually eighteen years old.

But somehow, Lester doesn’t seem to mind.

“Had a feeling. You write like you’re experiencing shit for the first time in your life.” Frankie tries to ignore the truthfulness to his words.

“Yeah, well… What are you exactly doing here, Lester?” Frankie asks.

Lester holds up his left hand and clutched inside is the August edition of Rolling Stone’s magazine. On the front cover is a picture of The Nocturnals: Harry, Eddie, Veronica, Jett, and Rod, posing in front of a red backdrop. On the left hand column reads THE NOCTURNALS: Sex, Drugs, and Life on the Road. And right under that, in glossy red print, reads Written by: Frankie Goodhart.

Frankie starts to feel the hollowness inside of her fill up.

“Harry Styles called and told us that everything you said was true. And that he’s sorry, for some reason,” Lester says, holding out the publication for her to keep. She runs her fingers over the words, smiling for the first time in a week.

“Wow, uh, I don’t know what to say,” Frankie says, floored.

Lester laughs and produces a second copy, holding out a Sharpie in the other. “Mind if you sign mine? Figured it’ll be worth a lot once you make it big, kid.”

Frankie laughs, before shakily reaching out and signing her name in big swoopy letters. Before Lester leaves, he tells her to keep sending him her album reviews, and that whenever she figures out what she wants to do with her life, he’ll always be waiting for her call.

A few days later, the hollowness doesn’t feel as painful anymore. Frankie distracts herself by hanging out with her sister, spending time with her mother, listening to new records, telling Mary the in’s and out’s of her time on the road. She leaves out a certain curly-haired boy with green eyes that broke her heart, but Mary knows that Frankie will tell her over time, once she’s finished mending the scars he left her with.

When Mary announces that she’s heading back to San Francisco, her departure isn’t as sad as the first time. Cynthia and her daughter seemed to have found common ground with Mary’s outlook on life, and with a promise to be back for Thanksgiving, Frankie starts to feel like the ground isn’t as shaky as it was a month earlier.

“Want to go to Tower Records with me? One last time before I go, for old time’s sake,” Mary whispers in her sister’s ear when their mother is busy making lunch.

Frankie nods, and the two girls set off across the boardwalk.

The sun warms Frankie to her core, and she suddenly starts to feel the weight being lifted from her shoulders. She feels more in control of her life now than ever before, and walking side by side with her sister, she no longer feels hollow. Instead, she feels excited. Excited for her future. Excited for the idea of endless possibilities and newness.

“You should come with me to San Francisco, Frankie! I can get you a stewardess position and we can travel the world together. Live like we never have before. What do you say, kiddo?” Mary asks, rifling through the “M” section of the new releases in the record store.

Before, Frankie would have done anything to be closer to her sister. But now, in the after, she feels a new sense of home in Santa Monica.

“I think I’m gonna stay here. Go to college at UCLA. Probably study English, if they’ll let me,” Frankie announces. And for once, she actually means what she’s saying.

Mary smiles at her sister, her thumbs crossing over towards the “N” category.

“Whatever you end up doing Frankie, just remember that you’re doing it for yourself. And that no matter what, I’m in your corner. Always have, always will.”

Frankie reaches an arm around her sister, holding her close. She hopes that Mary can feel the love she has for her through her embrace, and when Mary smiles, she knows she can feel it.

“Oh, I haven’t seen this before,” Mary says, coming to a stop on a record in the middle of the “N” bin.

Frankie watches as her sister pulls out a black vinyl wrapped in a pink and blue sleeve. The band she spent weeks on the road with is written on the top, with the picture from the Rolling Stone cover in the middle. When Frankie’s eyes scroll towards the bottom of the record, she can feel her breath catch in her throat when she reads the name of the title.

GOOD HEART.

#1dff #movies challenge #harry

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foxtophat · 4 years ago

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hello hello hello

i got thrown off my groove for a month there doing irl shit but i finally sat down and posted this piece of mercy fic that i’ve been sitting on for like a month. it’s all about john and kim hanging out and bonding so that’s fun!!!

i have a couple of ideas for stories but i’m not QUITE SURE how many of them are going to actually get posted. i might do like a yearly synopsis and put it in the series, writing out what happens between stories and stuff so when i reference shit it isn’t out of the blue, BUT ALSO i am lazy and it’s a miracle mercyverse has gotten this much from me, so lets not try to rock the boat huh???

anyway this is a story about john and kim falling into a cave. it’s like a bottle episode except the bottle is like a large intestine. i hope you like it!!! if you do, consider reblogging this post, or sharing the link, or kudosing or commenting or liking or subscribing or SMASHING THAT BELL

as usual, the story is under the cut for those of you who want to stay on tumblr for some godforsaken reason

Kim had thought that she was doing Nick and John a favor when she first offered to go cache-hunting with them. After all, Grace and Carmina had their hands full working on the yard's shooting range, and there hadn't been anything better to do than dig a couple of holes out in the woods. She'd figured, why not? An extra set of hands could speed things up, and she could keep them focused on digging instead of bickering.

Of course, now that she's out here with them, she regrets ever having offered. As it turns out, their method of cache-hunting involves incessantly goading one another into a fight, trading places between aggressive pessimism and irritatingly fake optimism whenever it might serve to piss the other off more. She's given up on trying to stop it; after all, it's not too much worse than what they say while mending fences and hauling scrap. It's just that the distance between them means that they're arguing at a headache-inducing level.

At the very least, Kim had hoped for some kind of method they could fall back on, but at three hours in, they've all but given up. She supposes the first two caches had been pretty easy to find, being in areas where the terrain hasn't changed much — but this neck of the woods has definitely seen some shifting. Between the rock slides and massive knots of collapsed trees, the steep hillside looks more like a beaver dam than the picturesque hiking trail it probably used to be.

"I'm starting to think that Jacob was full of shit," Nick says, as if he hasn't been reiterating the sentiment for the last thirty minutes. "There's no way we're gonna find anything out here."

Nick might be right, but Kim isn't about to gang up on John right now. She's been mostly staying out of it as the two of them argue about Jacob's map coordinates; why get involved now?

She ignores them and instead picks her way up the hillside towards one of the many uprooted trees nearby. Just like the last dozen trees she's checked, this one doesn't hold a barrel in its roots, nor do any of them have any damn sign indicating where they should be looking. Whatever marker Jacob might've left, paranoid bastard that he was, it's definitely been destroyed by the apocalypse.

"I told you that this wasn't going to be easy," John says. "There's half a mile of trail to search, and there's only three of us. This isn't some pasture outside town —"

"When I asked you if we should bring Grace and Carmina along, you said they would just get in the way! Now here you are, telling me we need more people!"

"If they were here, who do you think Grace would blame if Carmina got a goddamn splinter or scraped her knee? How do you still not get that she is actively looking for a reason to shoot me?"

"At this point, I'm looking for a reason, so I don't know what you're expecting!"

Kim has to admit, they're both making pretty good points. She just wishes they wouldn't make it sound like the start of a fistfight.

John's sigh is especially theatrical, and Kim hears the leaves crunch underfoot as he begins to stalk up the hill after her. He's probably going to try passing her, just to get space from Nick, but he really shouldn't bother. They should at least stop for something to eat and some water, and then they can figure out whether or not expanding the search zone is a good idea. They should probably reconsider their current "poke around and hope" method, too.

Setting her sights on a stout, dead tree with its roots partially torn up, Kim decides to make that the last straw. If she's got any luck at all, the cache will be tangled up in the tree's roots, and she'll be able to gloat about finding it for the rest of forever.

"Don't get too excited," John says, catching up to her as he runs away from Nick.

"Too late for that," Kim teases. "My hopes are at an all-time high. I'm about to be crushed by the disappointment."

"Fantastic," John grunts, rolling his eyes.

He lets her take the first approach on the tree, which juts awkwardly out of the ground at an acute angle. Its scraggly branches are covered in dry needles, and the partially exposed root system seems to have rotted from rain. There are no other trees for a good couple of yards in any direction, so this tree must've gotten the brunt of the worst nuclear weather.

"We should take a break," Nick shouts from halfway down the hill. "I need a goddamn drink!"

"I told him this would be a waste of time," John grumbles. "We could have taken any other location, even the one at the goddamn compound, and had better luck than out here."

"Well, we're here now," Kim replies. "Come on, maybe the cache is tangled up in the roots or something."

John reluctantly follows Kim as she tests the spongier, damp soil around the rotting tree's base. It's clear he's already given up, but that only makes Kim more determined to find something worth the trip out here — at the very least, so that she can rub it in John's pessimistic face. He can't be a sour bastard forever.

No barrel in the root system, of course. All Kim finds is molding wood and the flash of exposed rock. It's just muddy enough that Kim's going to have to scrub her boots when they get back. From here, she can see the slope of the hillside, and the trees that slump with their tops pointed in her direction. It's like they're telling her, go back!

"Please talk Nick into giving this up," John insists, lingering right behind her and scowling at the roots that have betrayed both of them.

"I mean, we've only been out here for two hours. There's plenty of time to find something." Kim crouches down to check the rocky substrate for anything interesting. "Look on the bright side, at least we don't have to dig."

"I think you two are blinded by that bright side of yours." John sighs, leaning against the tree and glaring down in Nick's direction. "You know that the interstate is only a half-day hike from here, right? This is the exact sort of place Jacob would've stashed passports, money — bug-out kits to abandon the county, that kind of thing. It's not like he buried more coffee and rice out here."

"So is that your new theory? Jacob was planning escape routes for you guys?"

John frowns. "It's one of them."

Kim stands and comes around to join him by the trunk. She debates on invoking Jacob's memory any more than she already has; he seems to have a habit of upsetting John even from the grave. She gives the tree trunk a little kick as she considers pressing him, knocking some mud from her boot tread.

Her curiosity takes a backseat as the world lurches uncomfortably beneath them. She catches herself against the trunk and looks towards Nick, who's picking his way up towards them. Only now does she notice that the trees in this direction also lean inwards, towards the lone tree they're currently beside.

John catches on at the same time, hissing under his breath before hollering a warning. "It's a goddamn sinkhole, Nick, watch out!"

The inconvenience turns into real fear as Kim considers the terrain. With all the caves littering the mountains around here, there's no telling how deep the void beneath their feet might be — five feet, twenty? Or, God help them, more?

Kim struggles not to panic as Nick makes no effort to hide his own. "Come on, you guys," Nick calls from between two jutting evergreens, "Just cut across before the whole damn thing gives out!"

There's not a second to spare, but even as Kim starts to move she knows it's too late. She gets one last look at Nick's horrified expression before she, John, and the dead tree crash down into the empty space below.

Kim lands hard on her side, her arm taking the brunt of the blow and blossoming in radiant, white-hot pain. The world around her, suddenly dark and unfamiliar, tunnels alarmingly out of her vision, her blood rushing into her ears until she can only vaguely hear her own pained crying. Trying to move only causes daggers of pain to shoot right up her arm and into her brain, but she only finds that out as she rolls off of her definitely broken arm. At least, Kim's pretty sure it's broken. She's terrified of looking over and seeing her bone poking out, or something even worse — she knows that she won't be able to stand it, that she'll pass out, and she can't do that down here in this goddamn cavern!

Vague, warped voices vibrate through her as John appears abruptly by her side. The left side of his face is covered in a smear of blood from a deep wound scored over his brow. His mouth moves like he's trying to speak to her. God, her fucking arm!

"Take a deep breath," John commands once again, and this time Kim hears him and abides. The pain doesn't subside, but at least the panic that comes with it is softened as she struggles to calm down. As she does, the background noises begin to come into focus; the crumbling rubble settling, the sharp, birdless silence of the air, and most importantly, Nick hysterically shouting her name from above.

John puts a hand on the shoulder not currently delivering mountains of pain. "Another one," he says, and Kim obeys. It's while she's trying to catch her breath that John steps away, cupping his hands to his mouth and shouting up, "Kim's broken her arm!"

"God damn it, what happened — never mind, just —! Stay put! I'll go get help!" Nick's voice cracks as he realizes aloud, "Shit, there's nobody to get help from!"

Kim sucks in a deep breath. There's no way that John is going to be able to handle Nick's mounting panic by himself, and so she steels herself and tries to steady her voice. "It's gonna be okay!" she shouts. "I'm fine!"

"Bullshit you're fine, that looks like a two-story drop from here!"

John swears under his breath. "I don't have time for this."

"He's going to try and jump down if we don't talk him out of it," Kim hisses, closing her eyes as a wave of painful pins and needles washes up her arm. She keeps accidentally moving it, and the feeling of the bone scraping is enough to make her want to vomit.

John clearly decides she's right, changing tactics as Kim desperately tries not to start sobbing again. "It isn't bad, Nick!" he shouts, "But I need rope if I'm going to splint it! Get the cord from the glove box!"

Nick is quiet for a moment. "Y-Yeah," he calls down shakily, "I... I guess you got plenty to work with — hold on!"

Kim lets out a breath she hadn't meant to hold, then bites back the scream that threatens to rip from her throat. "Please tell me you can do this," she moans as John crouches down beside her broken arm. "I can't look — is there bone?"

"There's no bone," John replies. His voice is tight and unhappy, but at least he isn't lacking in confidence when he tells her, "I know what I'm doing. Try to stay conscious, and don't move. The last thing I need is to be stuck alone with Nick."

"Excuse him for worrying," she groans, staring up at the sky through the fifteen-foot-wide hole above her. She counts down the seconds until Nick gets back, if only to focus on something other than the pain.

John leaves her to it, making his way over to the tree that's joined them here in the cavern. There isn't much else down here besides them and the vegetation that came down with them; the sinkhole must have joined with a cavern somewhere along the way. The rock here probably hasn't seen daylight before — when she glances around, she spots a dark crack in the wall that implies there might be more, unlit caves to explore beyond.

Boy, she really does not want to go into that creepy tunnel, and she especially doesn't want to do it with a broken arm. Thankfully, Nick returns before that worry turns to panic.

"Everything okay? Actually, never mind — look, I got the rope, and the first-aid kit!"

Anything Nick decides to throw down is going to stay down here, and so Kim quickly stops him. "You keep that, Nick! If you get hurt up there, you'll need it!"

"We need it more," John points out, returning to her with a few branches that he clearly intends to use as a splint. He's not wrong about the medkit; the cut over his eye is a nasty one, and Kim could use all of those expired painkillers about now. Not to mention, there might be more injuries they've missed.

Still. "I'm not leaving Nick without supplies," she says.

John doesn't reply, but his scowl speaks volumes.

After a minute or so, Nick is ready to throw the cord down. They coordinate the hand-off just fine without her, which is great, because Kim needs to reserve all of her strength for what's to come.

Nick's bundled a few of the medical supplies into his worn-out flannel, along with the crank flashlight and one of the ultra-dry military rations, all tied off with the paracord. Kim is both touched at the thought and horrified at the idea that they might be here long enough to get hungry.

"This is good, Nick," John calls. "We're in a cave — there's got to be another way out nearby!"

"I'll go look for a way in!"

"No," Kim shouts, her voice cracking, "You might get hurt, Nick!"

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do, Kim! I'm not gonna leave you down there!"

Kim has never in her life imagined that she would say her next words, but that doesn't mean she doesn't mean it. "I'm going to be okay! John's down here with me, I'll be fine!"

John doesn't seem to have expected her to say that, either, boggling at her with open confusion. But... well, come on! If John can trust her enough to gun down Peggies trying to kidnap him, then she can at least trust him to help her limp out of one of Hope County's many caves. Sure, it's not an ideal situation by any means, but Kim's just happy not to be stuck looking for a way out by herself.

"Are you sure you can even walk?" Nick calls uneasily.

"I can handle it, Nick," John replies for her. "We'll look for a way out — if we don't find anything in an hour, we'll come back here and try something else!"

"What the hell do you want me to do!"

John pauses long enough to look at Kim, but since he seems to have more ideas than she does, she defers to his judgment. "Circle west around the hill and look for any entrances to call from! There's going to be a cave opening somewhere nearby!"

"I don't like any of this, Kim!"

John pinches the bridge of his nose, leaving Kim to answer, "It's the only plan we've got!"

The silence from above stretches out. "We don't have time for this," John mutters, abandoning his attempts to reassure Nick. "There's no telling where a way out might be, and I'm not wasting more time because Nick can't trust me."

"It's not about trust," Kim snipes in return. "He's trying not to panic."

John only grunts in return, settling on his knees next to her as he prepares to do the hard part for her. That leaves it up to Kim to encourage Nick to get a move on; she really doesn't want him sticking around for the painful part. "Nick, be careful, I don't want you to fall in another sinkhole! We'll be okay!"

Nick is frustratingly silent for another moment, but eventually, he relents. "Okay, fine! Remember to mark your path! And don't trust any ropes or ladders you see! And stay outta any water you find, you don't know how deep it is!"

"Jesus Christ," John mutters.

"Oh, shut up," Kim tells him, lifting her strained voice to call back. "Alright, Nick! We'll be careful! We'll see you soon!"

Kim makes John wait another minute after Nick leaves before she lets him at her arm. Despite his sour expression, John manages to be nothing more than stern, and surprisingly gentle. "Careful," he tells her, as if she needs a warning as he adjusts her broken arm. She's unable to decide if the burning sensation or the stabbing sensation is worse, but they're both vying for the spot as John examines the fracture. God, she hopes he knows what he's doing. She hopes it heals clean. She doesn't know what she'll do if she loses the thing.

John jostles her a little too abruptly, and a gasp of pain tears her from her downward spiral of worst possible outcomes. If John notices, he doesn't comment.

"It's not so bad," he says, although Kim's still not sure if she trusts his judgment on the matter. "It seems like a single fracture. I'll splint it, and... Well, there's somebody in town with medical experience, isn't there?"

"I don't know," Kim gasps, head reeling, "Maybe?"

John sighs. "Well, at least you'll survive."

"You better hope so," Kim jokes, or tries to anyway.

John rolls his eyes, but thankfully he's not in a vindictive mood as he prepares to set her arm. "You'll want to scream," he tells her. "Try breathing through your nose instead."

He sure isn't wrong. Kim can't think straight for a minute after he's finished, her face wet as the pain forces her to tears, but John is utterly detached and methodical as he binds her arm to one of the branches. It's reassuring at first, but Kim can't help but wonder just how many people suffered broken bones and serious trauma at his hands, only to see the same dispassionate bedside manner afterward? God, assuming they even survived what he put them through.

"Catch your breath," John tells her once he's done, standing and turning back to further investigate the tree. "The cave systems go on for miles down here, but there are dozens of openings in the hills. As long as we stick to the larger tunnels, we should be able to find one of them."

Kim watches him pick through the tree, sizing out larger branches and dismissing them one by one.

"I'm surprised you're not more freaked out," she says as he picks out a four-foot branch. "You know, being underground and everything."

John furiously breaks the branch from the trunk, then roughly cleans it of dead sprigs and foliage. "Thank you for reminding me."

"Sorry, I just meant —"

"I know what you meant," he says. "It's fine. I'm not... Like I said, these tunnels are hardly inescapable." He strikes the branch against the ground and seems satisfied by the sound. "I spent a lot of time studying the cave systems out here. We considered using them for passage between the gates, but that plan never went anywhere. It left me with enough useless knowledge that I'm not prone to panic down here."

"Useless until now," Kim points out. "Now help me up and let's get the hell out of here."

John helps her to her feet with her good arm, careful not to jostle the splint as she tests her balance. The world heaves for an uncomfortable second or two before righting itself, although it's mostly shock and adrenaline keeping her moving. She's not sure how long that's going to last, but she sure hopes it's long enough to reunite with Nick.

"I should probably lead," John says, looking unhappy about her tentatively upright position.

"Yeah, I don't think I'm in the position to trail-blaze."

"You're barely in the position to walk," he replies. Casting one last look around the sunlit cavern, John turns towards the dark crack in the wall that leads further into the system. "Try not to pass out."

"No promises," she says, staggering her way to their only exit.

She can feel the cool, musty air from here, oddly relieving against her sweaty face. She wishes she hadn't watched The Descent so many times before the apocalypse, because that is really coloring her perception of this situation. Of course, they're more likely to run into a wolverine or bear den than they are to be hunted by a pack of cave-dwelling mutants, but that doesn't stop her from considering it.

John starts forward. Kim, anxious and trembling in pain, tries to joke. "Just avoid stepping on any weird symbols carved into the ground, okay?"

"Christ," John groans, the same way he does every time somebody tries to rope him in with a pop-culture reference. He winds the flashlight up and the beam of light cuts a sharp swath across the dark tunnel "Will you two please let that Hollywood bullshit die already?"

"Oh, relax," she replies. "Tropes are older than L.A. and you know it. They aren't going to disappear just because civilization got nuked."

"One can dream," John snipes dryly in return.

Of course, even with the attitude, John keeps close to Kim, sticking to her uninjured side. Kim imagines her slow pace must be irritating the crap out of him, but he impressively manages not to sigh or stomp like a passive-aggressive toddler. He's been getting a lot better about letting his exasperation get to him, although she bets it's got a lot to do with exhaustion and survival instinct right now.

The silence stretches for a time between them. Kim imagines John is lost in his thoughts, but she's been hyper-aware of every distant sound of rubble shifting or oddly-shaped rock formations that are easy to mistake for humanoid shapes in the dark. The tunnel is only about eight feet across and somewhat taller than that, but that's plenty of room for Kim's imagination to play tricks on her.

"I always thought your anti-Hollywood thing was some kind of shtick," she admits. "Maybe you got scorned on a screenplay or something, I dunno. But you really believe that all of the entertainment industry deserved to get firebombed out of existence?"

"It deserved a reckoning," John replies.

"You mean something like nuclear annihilation?"

John's frown deepens. "Maybe," he says stiffly.

Normally, Kim would try to dig into that more, but she's not in a position to make much sense of it right now. Honestly, the conversation is irrelevant — she just needs something to keep her from fantasizing about monsters in the dark. Or, you know, passing out. Whichever would be worse.

"So I guess you don't have a desert island five, then."

John huffs loudly at that. "I wouldn't be able to remember it."

That just tells Kim that he does have one. She bets American Psycho or Fight Club was on it. Maybe Fear and Loathing?

"Okay, well... say you had to pick a movie to watch as soon as we got home. What would it be?"

Even without looking, Kim knows he's rolling his eyes. "Seriously? Is this really the time?"

"Humor me."

He groans in annoyance, but Kim doesn't miss the short stretch of silence that follows as he thinks it over.

"I don't know," he finally grumbles.

"Come on, you've got to have something."

"I only ever saw a handful of movies growing up, and I lost interest in the medium in college."

"God, you must have been a pretentious bastard."

Despite himself, John chuckles at the jab. "Oh, you have no idea," he replies.

The conversation dies, just like John had probably hoped it would. Kim tries to find something else to distract her, but there's really not much to look at. They've only found one offshoot that John had been able to fit in, but it had ended only a few yards in. They've been exploring for maybe fifteen minutes, though; there's still time for a miracle. Until then, she's got moss to look at, and the distant trickle of water from somewhere far away. With the way the land's shifted, there may be a new river forming somewhere up on the surface. In a few decades, it could swallow these caverns entirely.

"How does your arm feel?" John asks, his voice bouncing off the walls and breaking the silence.

"Not... great," she admits, still trying not to focus on the numb agony of her arm. "I wouldn't mind lying down and sleeping for a few weeks right about now, but I think I can keep it together until we find a way out."

She hopes, anyway.

"Good." John takes a moment to crank the flashlight before it can go out, then picks up the conversation as though Kim weren't even there. "There's nobody in town that I know of that has serious medical experience. With the gates destroyed, there's no telling where the experts we'd vetted for the Project wound up. Dead, probably. Or worse, still involved with Joseph. Hell, even a vet would be better than nothing."

He's definitely more anxious than he wants to let on. Kim doesn't believe for a second that being in this endless, dark tunnel is any better than being trapped in a bunker, save for maybe the space. At least in a bunker, you know which way is out, and you know what's going to kill you.

Now Kim is the one who starts to ramble. "I mean, there's got to be an eagle scout out there somewhere. And there were a couple of doctors still working when I had Carmina — one of them might've survived, right? Somebody out there will know enough to check your handiwork. For the record, though, I think you did a pretty good job for a guy stuck in a pit."

John shakes his head. "I've set plenty of broken limbs." There's a weird sort of challenge in his voice as he says, "Of course, I was the one who broke most of them."

"And I think you feel pretty shitty about it, so I don't know why you sound so smug."

"I'm just reminding you of who you're trying to compliment."

Kim rolls her eyes, her exasperation carrying over in her voice. "I know exactly who you are, John. Quit trying to rile me up like you do with Nick, it isn't going to work."

He huffs. "Sure," he says, then promptly shuts up. Of course he does. No wonder he only ever wants to talk to Nick — it's like he doesn't know how to hold a conversation without trying to start a fight.

Well, Kim needs something to distract her, so she'll carry on with it herself. "I've sprained my ankle a couple of times, but the only time I've ever broken a bone was in soccer camp when I was... thirteen, I think? It was my big toe, and the humiliation was way worse than the pain."

"I can't imagine," John drawls, distinctly unenthusiastic.

Kim opens her mouth to ask the obvious question, then catches herself. Asking about John's past is essentially opening Pandora's box; every time Kim has gone digging, she comes away with something new she wishes she could forget about. The breadcrumbs of information he's given her over the past year or so have honestly kept her up some nights. She probably doesn't want to know anything about the number of broken bones John's had. She definitely doesn't want to know how.

John looks over at her, daring her to ask. It's only when Kim manages to contain her curiosity that he parts with a few terse details. "The first time was when I was eleven. It was a powerful learning experience. One I... try not to revisit."

"Sure," she says. It sounds reasonable enough, anyway.

The flashlight's beam cuts across the wall further ahead, revealing the first major fork that they've come across. They're forced to take an impromptu break as John tries to determine their best way forward. John scowls at the darkness in either direction, but it doesn't seem to help make a decision. Meanwhile, Kim takes the opportunity to rest against the cold stone, swallowing down the nausea that's starting to build. It's a miracle that she's made it this far without fainting, but she doesn't think John's in the mood to hear that.

Frowning, John turns the flashlight back the way they came, sweeping the light down the forking path. "Strange," he mutters.

"What?"

"It's nothing," he says, sweeping the light down the way they came. "Except... see this?"

He steps closer to highlight a uniformly rectangular notch in the wall, just about hip-level. Moving the light reveals more, equally spaced notches, continuing along the wall of the newest fork in their road.

"There were guide ropes installed at one point or another. It doesn't seem to be an active mine, though — it must've been for dumb tourists, just in case of lawsuits."

"I hate to tell you, John, but right now, we're the dumb tourists."

"Unfortunately so. I guess that means we should take the left."

It's smaller, and it looks just as untouched as the rest of the cave has so far, but John's made a compelling point about the seemingly man-made notches.

"You're the expert," Kim says, "I'll take your word for it."

"Alright," he says, not as enthusiastic as Kim would have hoped for. He eyes her somewhat critically, then asks, "How are you doing?"

It's probably the pain making her delirious, but she's surprised at John's concern for her wellbeing. She really shouldn't be. Of course he cares; even if he weren't actively trying to be less awful, he's too smart to leave Kim down here and risk Nick finding out. But still. She's pain-addled enough to be touched by the sentiment.

That doesn't mean she's in the mood to sugarcoat the truth. "I'm surprised I'm still standing," she says. "Let's just hope we find Nick before I pass out."

"I'm sure he'd enjoy seeing me carrying your limp body out of the abandoned mine."

Kim laughs, regretting it as it sends an ache jolting through her body. "Oh, I bet. Just don't be surprised if I tap out at some point."

"You're stronger than that," John remarks. "Follow me."

Now, following John Seed through a dark cave tunnel with a broken arm seems like it would be a bad time. If this were ten, eleven years ago, Kim's sure she would be hunting for a weapon or looking for her own escape route. That is, of course, assuming he hadn't left her to die down here. No doubt that her survival would've banked on how much he would have needed her.

She's glad that's not the case now. John is a reliable navigator, slow-going and cautious as he leads the way, testing suspect rock formations and ducking into narrow crags that don't go anywhere. Honestly, he's probably being more cautious than they need to be. It's already been a half-hour or so, and they're going to need to turn back before much longer.

John has other concerns to bother him, though. "I wonder what happened to the anchors," he says at one point. "You'd think we would have found one by now."

"Maybe they took the rope down before the Collapse," Kim points out. "Lots of tourist traps weren't exactly up to code. Earl probably got here way before we did, back when he was trying to crack down on these kinds of things."

John frowns thoughtfully. "Maybe."

"It's not like people are down here renovating for the next season."

"We don't know that," he points out grimly. "Survivors might've hidden from the radiation down here. Or maybe some angels got lost after Faith was killed."

"Come on, John," she groans.

"Nick's always wondering where the mutants are. Maybe we'll be the ones to find them."

Kim side-eyes John just in time to catch the remnants of a smirk on his face, and she can't help but elbow him with her good arm. She tries to admonish him, telling him, "Knock it off," but she can't help laughing as she does.

"You're probably right about the code violations," John chuckles at last, lifting the light to check the ceiling ahead as it dips low enough for them to need to duck. "Not a lot of these cave systems were what I'd call safe. It's one of the reasons we decided against using them as tunnels. The work involved was too expensive, and the chance of cave-ins was too high. And, as we've found out, they weren't guaranteed to stay underground."

"So, what was going to happen instead? Were you guys going to rely on radios, or what?"

"It doesn't matter what we decided," John points out, more weary of the conversation than irritated. "The gates were barely finished before the Deputy destroyed them, and we never got to find out what might've happened."

They follow the notches through two more forks, and Kim starts to worry that they're only going deeper into the old attraction. Well, at least they're taking the easy way. With a smooth floor and a ceiling that rarely drops lower than eight feet, Kim gets the impression that they're in a manufactured mine, and not an organic one. For all they know, some crazy prepper dug this tunnel out to make a quick buck for his bunker-building hobby. Of course, if that's the case, it's a miracle that nothing's caved in yet.

They pass underneath a lower segment of the ceiling, and the tunnel abruptly opens up into a massive cavern. Defunct light rigs are scattered amongst the stalagmites, with several hanging stalactites covered in chipped fluorescent paint. The rest of the rock outcroppings are covered in lichen, which disappointingly fails to glow in the dark. As John sweeps the flashlight across the large, empty space, Kim gets a good idea of the cheap edu-tainment that was offered on short hikes through the mines. Somewhere in here, there's probably a storage closet full of Halloween decor waiting to liven up the otherwise boring cavern.

"Well, this wasn't worth the twenty dollars it cost to get in," John grouses.

"Don't forget the thirty-dollar iron-on tee-shirts they print off at home," Kim reminds him with a laugh. It's enough to make her lightheaded, and she doesn't quite regain her balance, even after she braces herself against the wall.

"We can only rest a minute," he warns her, sweeping the light in the direction they need to go. Any more huffing and puffing on his part is diminished as the light glints off the rounded edge of something metallic. When John refocuses the light on the object, neither of them really know what to say.

Lying amongst the rocks, battered and dirty, is one of the dark green bliss containers they've been looking for. Kim looks up, but the ceiling is rooted in darkness, and she can't see any sign of another cave-in or sinkhole. The idea that Jacob might've come this far himself crosses her mind, but if that were the case, why is it sitting out in the open like that?

"John, wait," Kim calls as John steps off the path. Suddenly, all her jokes about booby traps seem tasteless, especially with John charging into the unknown like he is.

Of course, this isn't Indiana Jones, and there's no pit of spikes or tripwire to trigger. John doesn't wind up with a face-full of poison darts as he picks up the dented canister; the only thing he's forced to sacrifice is a good grip on the flashlight, which shines at an awkward angle and only illuminates a useless part of the floor. His slow pace and the bad lighting leave Kim to imagine what he's found inside — remnants of supplies, or a dead animal? Indications that something chewed through the rubber sealant, maybe?

John drops the barrel between them, the clanging metal causing Kim to jump. John doesn't notice as he reorients the light, leaning over to illuminate the barrel's contents. The interior is flaked with rust, and whatever sealant had been used is all but completely worn away. The only thing left inside is an empty, smashed bottle of liquor and a few wrapped, moldy packages of cigarettes.

"I don't know if I'm disappointed or not," Kim says.

"I know I am," John replies, grimly reaching into the empty barrel to check for a false bottom. The screech of metal rises up into the cavern, bouncing off the far ceiling and turning into an ugly birdsong. Kim leans back against the wall; if she keeps looking down, she's going to end up toppling over like a broken Weeble-Wobble. John glances her way after a moment, before lifting a clump of wet paper out from the depths of the barrel.

"Of course he buried documents here," John mutters. Kim can't quite pin down whether he's upset or resigned to the bad luck at this point.

"Anything salvageable?" she asks.

"Doubtful. I'll... bring these along, I guess." He checks again, digging out what he can. Other than the loose papers, there's a water-logged manila envelope and an equally soaked box of ammunition. John tucks the box away in his front pocket, holding the papers uncomfortably in his hand. "We'll worry about what these are once we're out of here."

Despite the pain in her arm giving her full-body tremors and John's dismal mood, Kim is nearly upbeat as they exit the cavern. They're still in civilization, after all, even if it's a defunct tourist trap, and the knowledge that they're clearly on their way out is the main thing keeping her moving. If they're lucky, they aren't too far from the truck — if they're really lucky, Nick will have found the entrance before them.

They eventually find a few anchors that are still moored to the walls, a knotted bit of rope still attached, and Kim breathes a sigh of relief. The sigh quickly turns to a groan of pain as she rattles her arm, but at least it isn't enough to knock her off her feet.

John hesitates in front of her, slowing just enough so that he can offer his arm to her. "We can't stop now," he tells her.

"I know," she pants, wiping sweat from her forehead that she hadn't realized was gathering. "Okay. We're nearly there."

She gives up on pretending entirely, leaning heavily against John as they continue forward. Lying down and resting for, oh, a hundred years or so sounds great right now, but first, she needs to make sure Nick hasn't had a heart attack waiting for them. He's probably convinced himself that they've gotten killed somehow, and John isn't going to be able to talk him down on his own.

They approach what will hopefully be the last fork in the tunnel, only to find that both directions have anchors. The newest offshoot seems to curve pretty severely downwards, though; it's clear even as they stop that they should stick to the path they've been on.

"I don't like this," John says, looking first behind them and then ahead, down the new path.

"Fine," Kim groans, "You can choose the next tourist trap we get stuck in."

"I'm serious, Kim." John turns the flashlight down the new path. The air coming from that direction is thick and stagnate — Kim's imagination unhelpfully supplies a few images of killer clowns and deformed mutants to lurk down in the dark that way. God, why did she have to like horror movies so much? Why couldn't she have enjoyed normal, safe entertainment that wouldn't have filled her imagination with monsters and a deep-rooted fear of the unexplored dark?

It certainly doesn't help as John says, "I keep getting the feeling that we're being watched."

"Okay, that's it," Kim snaps, desperately trying to bury the surge of fear the suggestion fills her with. "I'm done being creeped out."

"I'm not trying to scare you —"

"Well, you're naturally gifted, okay? Look, let's just — we know that's the way out," she says, nodding towards the safer route. "Let's just go that way. The sooner we get out of here, the better."

"Agreed," John grunts.

John adopts a brisk walk that Kim has some trouble keeping up with, but she's not interested in slowing down for anything. She feels vindicated by their choice of exit as they pass a faded safety sign lying on the ground, as well as the decidedly fresher air coming in from what Kim expects to be the exit. There are a few moments where John has to resist breaking out into a jog; Kim can't exactly blame him, but his jitters are amping up her own anxiety, and now she's trying desperately to listen for chasing footsteps behind them. It's hard to hear much of anything over the blood pounding in her ears.

It's a massive relief when John finally slows down. "It must have been an animal," he says at last, casting one last look behind them. "God, I fucking hate being underground."

"Well, let's hope we aren't leading the mutants to the surface world," Kim jokes. It probably would land better if she didn't sound completely wiped.

John frowns at her, but the dark makes it hard to pin down his expression. "We're almost there," he says, which sounds alarming like a reassurance.

Her spirits lift as they pass an overturned rail barricade, but the wind is immediately taken out of her sails as they find the path blocked by a chained and padlocked gate. The thick gauge chain-link fence has been welded to brackets on the wall; the bottom has been bent outwards, likely from some angry animal forcing its way through. Unfortunately, it's too small for either of them to get through.

"For fuck's sake," John hisses between gritted teeth.

They're not going anywhere, and Kim's nausea forces her to find something more solid than John for support. She manages to stagger to the nearest wall before falling against it, but it's enough to make her regret moving at all.

At least she manages a weak thumbs up when John anxiously asks, "Are you alright?"

"Just — giving you room to work," she gurgles, staggering a few feet back down the path before throwing up.

John swears under his breath as Kim tries to coax her headache back to something more manageable. She can hear him tearing at the gate behind her; if she weren't feeling so miserable, she'd probably be flipping out on it, too. As it is, she takes her sweet time to turn around and start back for the fence, watching as John tries to widen the gap left behind by some tenacious wolverine. It's going to wreck her arm to try and weasel through the hole, but Kim is willing to try anything at this point.

"How far are we from the truck?" Kim rasps. "Maybe Nick can hear us?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" John snaps, well past the end of his rope. Kim has to admit, she's surprised he made it this far. "God damn it, I don't know where we are any better than you!"

"Okay, point taken," Kim says — after all, she's in no position to argue with him. As it is, it's taking most of her focus to keep from sinking to the ground. As soon as she's sitting, she's going to pass out, and she's not in any position to be doing that yet.

Thankfully, Nick's voice reaches them before she can give up. A tidal wave of relief floods Kim at the sound of him calling her name; she staggers forward, gripping the chain-link with her good arm.

"Nick!" she shouts. The sound of her own voice bouncing off the walls only amplifies her pounding headache, but it doesn't stop her from shouting his name a few more times in desperation.

John grabs her good shoulder. "Careful," he says, "Take it easy."

"You take it easy," Kim snaps as Nick's voice bounces off the far-away cave entrance. Trying to glare at John is a mistake, as vertigo nearly sends her to the floor. The only thing that keeps her upright is John's grip on her arm, easing her back until she finds the wall for support.

"Let me handle it," he says.

Kim has no choice but to follow his orders, reeling against the wall as he picks up the impromptu game of Marco Polo. She's not sure how much time passes between her slow, long blinks, but all that matters is the moment that she sees Nick appear with the lantern held high. It's enough to bring her to tears — well, that and the dizzying pain — and from Nick's tearful shout, it's having the same effect on him.

"Oh, thank Christ," he gasps as he reaches the gate, rattling it with his free hand as if he could just pry it back. "Kim, you're alive! Are you okay?" He turns the full force of his relief on John, concern furrowing his brow. "Jesus, John, are you okay? We needa get that cut looked at."

"It's fine," John says. "You didn't see any keys anywhere, did you?"

"Let me go check the ticket booth," Nick replies. "Don't worry, you guys — I'm not about to let a goddamn padlock stop me."

Nick jogs back down the tunnel and Kim finally sags, sliding to the ground with a tired groan.

"Okay, John," she sighs, "Mission accomplished. Wake me up when we get home."

"Kim, hold on," John replies, but frankly there's no stopping her now. This was as far as she'd hoped to get on her own two feet, and honestly, she's surprised that she made it that far.

She does rouse briefly as Nick begins wailing on the padlock with a steel pipe, but that's something the boys can handle without her. Here and there, she registers hands on her, and dappled light flashes over her face as they finally escape the caves. The fresh air brings her back long enough to help Nick get her settled in the truck, but she's already dozing off by the time John and Nick start arguing again. The rest of the trip, for better or worse, is completely lost on her.

————

When Kim finally comes to, she's immediately met by the familiar sight of her room at home. She can't tell what time it is, only that it's late enough for the lamp to be lit. Judging by the voices downstairs, everyone is still awake — and going by the sling and bandages, they've had some company since she was last conscious. She allows herself to imagine the whole thing was all a horrible nightmare, just for a second, but the throbbing in her arm is already reminding her of the unfortunate truth. At least she can check "escape mutants in a tunnel" off of her bucket list.

She doesn't have long to focus on the slowly returning pain; it's not even a minute later that she hears boots on the stairs, and Nick pokes his head in not long after.

"Hey," is about all she can muster up before she has to clear her throat, but it's enough.

"Christ, Kim!" he exclaims, throwing open the door as he rushes to her side. The worry breaks on his face as he crouches beside her, careful not to jostle her broken arm. "Are you okay? How do you feel?"

"Uh... not awesome," she admits, shifting in an attempt to sit up. Nick hurries to help her, and she can't help but smile at him as he piles the pillows behind her. "Better now, though."

"That's what I'm here for," Nick laughs, "That and making everybody else uncomfortable. They kept tellin' me not to worry, but you know how hard that is."

"They?"

"Well, John mostly, until Jerome and Grace showed up. Then I had to keep it together for Carmina, so that helped. Uh. How much do you remember about gettin' back here?"

"Not much," Kim says. Now that she's more conscious, she's able to discern the late evening light for what it is; it's been hours since she was last aware of where she was. "I... remember getting into the truck, I think? And then... Nothing. Why? What did I miss?"

Nick shakes his head, smiling fondly at her. "Nothing much, honest. Most of the ride back was me and John arguing about what to do. He radioed Jerome for help while I got you up here and settled in, then I called up Grace so she could keep Carmina busy until Jerome showed up with some help. I guess Winona, y'know, down at the Eagle? She was getting her nursing degree, or license, or whatever, so Jerome brought her over here to help out. She said it looked like a clean enough break, and John did a good job setting it, so we just had to make sure you wouldn't be accidentally moving in your sleep." He chuckles. "You know, real exciting stuff."

"Oh, boy," Kim groans, "I bet I scared the crap out of Carmina. Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine. Worried about you, obviously, but Grace gave her a pep talk and we kept her busy downstairs. Figured you oughta be awake before she came to see you."

"Good call." Kim briefly debates whether or not getting out of bed is worth it, but she quickly decides against it. Even if she weren't wiped out, Nick looks like he'd fall apart with worry if she tried to exert herself. "You might have to go get her, because I don't think I could move if I wanted to."

"Don't even think about it," Nick says, pointing at her as he gets back to his feet. "You're on bed rest until tomorrow at least. I'll be right back."

Kim dozes for the few minutes that stretch between Nick leaving and Carmina coming up the stairs. It's impossible to fall back asleep, but the rest is good enough on its own. She makes sure to perk up when she hears Carmina coming up the stairs, smiling wide as her daughter enters the doorway.

"Hey, honey," she says, her voice rougher than she'd expected it to be.

"Mom!" Carmina exclaims, careful to avoid jostling Kim as she climbs into the bed on her good side. "I was so worried!"

Kim folds her arm around Carmina's shoulders and gives her a squeeze. "I know, sweetheart. I didn't mean to spook you."

"What happened? Dad said you and John fell into a cave!"

"That's pretty much it," Kim laughs. "We fell through a sinkhole into an old cave system. It used to be a place people could visit, though, so it wasn't hard to find our way out."

Carmina frowns, picking at a loose thread in the comforter. "But it was probably really dark. And your arm was broken, and John busted his head open, and..."

"First of all, his head wasn't busted open," Kim says, reaching up to ruffle Carmina's hair. "He probably needed a few stitches, sure, but he knew what he was doing, and we both made it out okay. And your dad got the flashlight to us, so we had plenty of light to see by."

Obviously, Kim never wants to go back to that awful place, but she needs her daughter to learn not to panic now, in case she ever has to go into those tunnels herself. There's no summer camp to enroll her in that will teach her how to be mindful of caves, so Kim's going to have to do it herself... She just wishes she'd gotten to it before she'd had her own scary experience.

Carmina huffs, frowning briefly at the door. "You were lucky John was there," she says.

Kim bites back on her knee-jerk reaction to scoff at the idea. "You're right," she admits, a little more reluctant to do so than she really should be.

"Nobody else thinks so," Carmina grumbles. "Grace got mad dad left you two down there and then Jerome got mad at John for getting you hurt and Winona was really mad that she had to give John stitches. I wanted to say something but dad wouldn't let me."

"That's because they have good reasons not to trust him," Kim points out, although that excuse is starting to wear a little thin, even with her. "They just need time."

Carmina groans. "I guess. I'm... just really glad you're okay."

Kim squeezes Carmina's shoulder. "Me too."

Carmina sighs. "So... what was it like?" she asks, unable to resist her curiosity any longer.

That's okay by Kim — she could use the distraction. "Well... it was dark, and chilly. It was really quiet — the only thing we could hear was water dripping on the walls and our footsteps. The tunnel wasn't very interesting... but there was a big cavern in the middle where we found the cache, covered in stalactites and stalagmites. You could see where they used to have lights rigged up, and they'd painted some of the rocks to glow in the dark."

"You didn't see any animals?" Carmina frowns. "I always thought animals would hide in the caves."

Kim absolutely will not be telling her daughter about John's creepy sense of danger, thanks. "You know, we didn't. There isn't a lot of food for rabbits or cougars in there, though. I think they usually prefer little caves, not big ones."

There are plenty more questions for Carmina to ask that Kim only barely knows the answers to. Thankfully, geography and natural history are easy to teach hands-on; while she's not about to go back to the cave they just escaped, there are a couple of old attractions she remembers visiting that might do the trick. Places with good gift shops and little museums and educational plaques everywhere to help Kim explain how basic geology works.

"If you want, we can do some cave exploring of our own one day," Kim offers. "I'll need some time to get better, first. And I'll have to find the right place. But when we have some free time..."

"That sounds fun," Carmina says. "Just don't fall into another one first?"

"I'll do my best. We'll, uh, teach you what to look for so you don't make the same mistake."

They talk for a little while longer about the cave systems that litter Hope County, but it's not exactly Kim's favorite topic right now. It's a relief when Carmina declares that she needs water; even more so when she offers to bring some up to Kim. She considers asking Carmina to relay her thanks to John, but it can honestly wait until morning. Hopefully by then, she'll have adjusted to the makeshift cast, although she suspects she'll have plenty of time to get used to it. How long does it take a broken bone to heal, she wonders? Probably a few months, at least. She's really going to have to take it easy, and hope that nothing catastrophic happens while she's down one working arm.

#far cry 5 #fc5 #fcnd #new dawn #john seed #nick rye #kim rye #far cry fanfic #my fic #mercyverse

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seizethecarpe · 4 years ago

Text

Shift Happens || Nicole and Dave

Timing: Current Parties: @nicsalazar @seizethecarpe Summary: Dave and Nicole narrowly escape a mauling from a “wolf” Warnings: some gore/body horror

The sun was almost set, dim light filtering through dense trees as Nicole ventured deeper into unknown territory. The night was upon her and she hadn’t been able to spot a hiking trail for almost an hour. Getting lost in the woods wasn’t a common occurrence for her. Exploring the vast forest White Crest had to offer was only possible if she strayed from the established limits set for humans. But she always found her way back to civilization. There was no need to panic yet, despite the night threatening to fall soon. She’d find her way back, she always did. Her steps halted, an exasperated breath escaping her lips. She stood and listened to what the forest had to say. The ominous whispers of the wind, the light, scurrying steps of small creatures looking for shelter from night predators, the chirping of insects. And then, at the distance, the faint splash of a waterfall. Possibly a creek, somewhere. With that knowledge she carried on, sharp eyes darting in the shadows. She was buried in the heart of the woods when she found unexpected company. Down the field and partly hidden, was a couple. Not the smartest of dating spots, she mused. Blush crept in her cheeks at the thought of interrupting and asking for directions, but before she could walk down to them, a branch cracked behind her. She held her breath at that, moving stealthily for cover. Her nostrils flared, confused at everything she was picking up. She had to be wrong. Why did it smell like the sea so deep in the woods? And there was something else, too— something she didn't have time to process, because the shiny eyes she caught across from where she stood sent her heart racing. It seemed she wasn’t the only one who had found the couple’s sanctuary.

Dave had found himself favouring the shadows the last few days. It was his impulse to sneak around, like it would be better to ambush everyone, even the old lady with dragon’s breath who worked at the convenience store. Already tolerant of the cold, Dave had begun to seek out more cold in even in the dead of winter, his shoulders bare as he walked through the forest. He could smell so much, the decaying wood under the trees, squirrels cache’s deep under the dirt, rotting flesh up in a tree from a pixie that had been hit by hail wrong. He smelled everything, but what he really wanted was to feel everything. Thick fog let him feel everything, but he still kept pressing his cheek against trees and walls because of how much he wanted to feel. He could smell folks nearby, and before he even understood why his mind began to consider how to flank the, like they were penguins for him to ambush. Dave had never even eaten a penguin, making everything weirder. Still, as he wandered closer and closer to the sound of water, he became acutely aware of others there. Dave wrinkled his nose as he looked at the couple. There was something weird about the smell of the man, but he didn’t know what. The man was possessive in his touches, nuzzling his face into her neck. Pursing his lips, Dave began to look for a way around them. He sure as hell didn’t want any part in that.

In a beat, Nicole hid her body behind a tree, looking over her shoulder. The couple still were unaware of the company. She breathed in deeply, as quiet as possible. She could go around the trees and investigate what was on the other side. Confirm it was only an animal. Then, go down the clearing and ask for directions. Great plan, she decided, carefully stepping down from the edge and venturing in the trees again. Part of her begged her to turn the other way, find another path, do the sensible thing for once. She was possibly walking straight into danger with nothing but a bottle of water and some snacks in her backpack. Her eyes fixed on a passing shadow at the distance, heart jumping to her throat. And for a brief second her control slipped. Amber eyes flashed and her vision was nitid in the dark, making out what her brain processed as a shoulder. Eyes shot to the ground, until she was sure her vision returned to normal. She kept her head down, afraid she might have scared whatever she was chasing. Her steps were cautious as she continued to approach, quietly stalking, waiting to be perfectly sure she had the upper hand. Then, she did something equally stupid and brave. “I...I can hear you” despite the statement, her tone was laced with uncertainty. Could be an animal. More often than not, it was the case. It didn't explain the shadow, or the bare shoulder she believed she had seen. She was being paranoid. The forest was known for its deceptive shapes. “I’m not— I’m not dangerous” she spoke aimlessly, knowing it was unlikely to have the effect she wanted.

There was the smell of some kind of cat or fox or something that Dave picked up as she watched the couple, his cheek still pressed against rough bark even though it served little purpose for working out more about them. He tilted his head curiously, trying to work out what he was picking up on, whether it was a local predator or just the scent of their tabby’s fur clinging to their clothes. But he realised after a moment that it wasn’t them, that it was something bigger and far closer, but it was downwind from him, he’d caught it too late, so as he turned he heard a human voice. Dave rubbed his face in frustration, straightening up because he knew it looked like he’d been trying to sneak around. Well, he had been, but that was just because-! Dave didn’t know why he was doing it. “Well, I can barely hear you, so come out where I can see you,” Dave replied eventually, looking around. “Nor am I.” Having turned his attention away from the couple, he heard the crack of twigs as one of them began to move, but not the accompanying noise of complaint.

Nicole waited, her jaw set until the other voice came. Her judgement wasn’t the best, but at least the voice did not twist her stomach with dread. Small victories. Now what? She didn’t like it when she had to share space with other hikers, but she exhaled sharply at the request, navigating through bushes and trees until she reached the source of the voice. She wasn’t wrong, it had been a shoulder she had spotted before. And while she had more pressing questions to ask, they took the backseat to judge his appearance instead. “Jesus, aren’t you fucking cold?”. She shook her head, hoping to gain back some focus, but in the time she looked away from the couple, something went down. A scream filled the air, and the stranger in front of her was forgotten. Her head whipped down to the field. The screams continued, growing desperate, pleading. The couple was gone. It was just a woman, and a massive dark figure hovering over her. “What…” An animal? It didn’t look like a bear, and she doubted she could find any other beast as big as that in the forest. Unless— the hair on the back of her neck stood. It was all too much to process in two seconds. “What the...fuck is—” her words died, eyes widening in horror.

Dave frowned at her question, before looking down at his exposed arms and calves before shrugging with a wry smile. “Cold doesn’t bother me,” he replied, his words cut off by the scream behind him. He immediately tensed, crouching behind the tree as he smelled thick blood in the air, clogging up his nose. For a brief second, he saw the man staring at the woman in guilt, flesh dangling between his human teeth. The next, he saw a terrifying beast, It’s jaw cracking as it extended and narrowed into a maw. If Dave had had any intentions to try and save the woman they quickly faded as he realised that they weren’t dealing with any monster but a werewolf. His breath caught in his throat. He knew he had his foolhardy moments, but Dave didn’t fuck with werewolves, not ever. Considering their impressive hearing and sense of smell Dave suspected that the werewolf knew where they were already but for right now it was distracted, tearing the woman apart. If he couldn’t do anything to intervene, then Dave could at least give her the dignity of not looking away. The moment her scream ended was the loudest, but the wolf did not stop tearing into her. “We’ve got to go,” he growled at Nicole. “Now.”

Nicole closed her eyes, hoping that would erase the image etched in her brain. The blood, the screams, the horrifying beast that shouldn’t be real. She was about to be sick and the stench under her nose didn’t help. She knew werewolves existed. She heard countless stories from other rangers. It was likely she had been near some at any point in the woods, evading them by sheer luck. She knew of them, but nothing had prepared her for the viciousness of their behavior. She vaguely registered the stranger speaking to her, but it took seconds for the words to finally find its meaning. She blinked her tear filled eyes, willing herself to turn away from the gory scene. The words rushed out of her mouth, all jumbled together. “Wha— what do you mean...what do you mean go, she’s—” she stepped forward, but hesitated to jump to the clearing. Why was he talking about leaving, when there was a person dying in their proximity. Looking back to her didn’t help. Anger burned in her chest. Were they supposed to let that beast tear into her like she was nothing? Like some meaningless chew toy? No, she was somebody. Someone had to be waiting for her to come home. People who loved her. She didn't deserve to be ravaged by a monster to never be found again. She froze on the spot, the adrenaline clouding her thoughts. “N-No. We— I have...there’s gotta be a way to stop that thing”.

“Ain’t nothing we can do for her,” Dave said harshly, shifting the weight on his injured leg. “Look at me, look at me. Neither of us have a rifle with us, neither of us are equipped. Animals like that, we can’t stop them.” His eyes slid past her to the wolf tearing through the woman’s thigh, her leg jolting and jerking about as the tendons clung futilely to her bones. Skin hung off the back of the looming werewolf, dripping blood down its fur. “We gotta go.” Pointedly, he began moving himself, gesturing pointedly for her to follow.

She knew —of course— that his words were true. Nicole couldn’t fool herself. The woman had stopped screaming, and the only sounds coming from the field belonged to the wolf. She was gone. Frustration brought tears to her eyes, and she stubbornly refused to follow the man’s command. He could go if he pleased. She had to wonder why she was still considering running down and trying to stop it. Stop what? she’d only end up being the second course. His words dawned on her. Animals. Beasts. Monsters. That’s what the werewolf was. What she was too, if she were to lose control. She flinched, but forced herself to watch the beast tear the woman’s leg off. Had she done that too, when the jaguar took over? Did she have bodies count too? She clenched her jaw, angry eyes fixing on the stranger. Fuck off. An unfamiliar urge to take on him burned in her chest. But logic prevailed, and she relented from the edge of the trees. If they were lucky, the wolf was still too busy with his meal to hear her shuffling between branches. “You’re too fucking calm— too fucking calm... for someone who just watched a person get fucking—” she shook her head, furiously wiping the tear rolling down her cheek.

Once she started moving, Dave didn’t fuck around, hurriedly leading them both through the thicket. Fortunately in winter there wasn’t quite so much greenery obscuring the forest floor, following a river route, but the wet, rotten leaves left much to be desired underfoot. He saw her tears and didn’t care, couldn’t care, until he couldn’t smell blood and bone and canine in the air. She still smelled like the dozen or so cats she must have in her home, though. “I ain’t calm,” he growled, turning back on her, suddenly as angry at her as he was at the fucking nerve of the kind of werewolf that delighted in tearing people apart. Dave’s lips curled into a sneer, unable to shake the image of her skin dangling in the man’s mouth before he’d twisted into his other form. “You don’t get to accuse me of anything when you were prepared to stand there and get eaten!” He breathed in deeply, catching the hint of wolf on the wind, and gestured sharply for them to keep moving.

Nicole dragged her feet behind him, letting out shaky breaths through her mouth. An attempt to control the urge to cry harder. She only grew more frustrated when the branches kept poking at her clothes and hair as they moved closer to safety. Her reaction as he turned was swift. She stepped back out of reach, hands rising. Part apology, part defense. She swallowed the angry reply, but kept her hardened gaze on him. She would never win a verbal fight. Not without bursting into tears in the process. And would that even count as a win? She had already embarrassed herself enough. And he wasn’t wrong. Guilt sat in the pit of her stomach. She had done fuck all to help the woman. Just yell that she needed help. What good did that do? She was thankful he continued to move. The scent of the beast grew stronger, and judging the by its paws against the grass, it was headed in same direction as them. “It’s coming this way” she warned softly, eyes darting around searching for a solution. Hiding from a werewolf wouldn’t work. Taking a detour maybe, if he hadn’t sniffed them yet. Climbing? She could, but was unsure on her companion. “Any good at running?” she regretted it as soon as it left her mouth, glancing at his injured leg.

They’d followed a nearby river for as they trudged on, Dave kicking the thicket underneat out of the way as he impatiently lead Nicole through. Recent snowfall and freezes meant the river was threatening to flood its banks. The rushing of the river might just be enough to hide the sound of her sniffling as they trudged along. But he wasn’t angry at her, not even as she glared at him. Considering everything, she was doing a damn fine job of keeping herself together. Dave smelled it, thick wolf fur soaked with blood. It had delighted in its first meal, and it was plunging through the forest, still uncertain on its legs with a strange gate, searching for them. “Shit, shit.” He looked at Nicole, caught her question, and nodded, he’d deal with his pain later. “When need’s must,” Dave said, but as the gangling monstrosity thundered through the trees before them, skin dangling off its back, sinew dripping blood from between its teeth, he knew they would not be fast enough. Dave looked once at Nicole, once at the river, slung his arm around her middle, and plunged backwards into the icy river, letting the water sweep them away as he held her head above the freezing current.

They had agreed to run, and though Nicole couldn’t form any words, only managing a nod to confirm they were on the same page. Until the wolf surged among the trees. Too fast to even sense it. Although delayed, the real threat of the beast made her survival instincts finally kick in. She had to run, leave the injured behind. Maybe the man would even agree, as he’d wanted to do that with the first victim. It only remained a passing thought, as one moment later an arm wrapped around her and pulled her into the river. It seemed to happen in slow motion, sinking in the water. But it still didn’t prepare her for the cold shock response. She gasped sharply, limbs kicking in a panicked state. Something was keeping her head afloat so she wouldn't take water into her lungs. Someone, she vaguely registered. She kept fighting to release herself from the hold, her brain unable to process what was happening. She began to hyperventilate when the spasm in her leg sent another wave of panic. She was going to drown. With her heart at her throat, it was all she could think of. She had to relax, then. She knew this. She was good in water. She had to let the river take them. It was that or drowning. It felt like ages until the shock passed and she stopped resisting, the current carrying them river down, out of the wolf’s grasp. When the land seemed to narrow enough, she held onto anything she could find to push herself out of the water.

Dave let her go as they reached a river bank, heaving himself out of the water with practiced ease before offering his hand for her. Despite the frigid temperatures, he didn’t even have a shiver yet, but he was worried about her. Twice fold, considering the number of bruises she’d managed to give him while they were in the river. Dave rubbed one such bruise on his jaw ruefully, looking her over with concern. “Sorry ‘bout that, didn’t see we had much of a choice. Pretty damn sure we lost it. God help us if we didn’t. You alright?”

Refusing his helpful hand, Nicole dug into wet soil and rocks to get out of the water. She scrambled to her knees first, only to lie on her back soon after it was clear she didn’t have energy left to hold herself up. She panted, shivers rippling through her body. Teeth clattering, she held her backpack close to her chest, weakly patting her arms to create any sense of warmth. “F-fu...fuck” she let out a long, shaky groan. Her eyelids were heavy. The man’s voice came, and she craned her neck searching for him. She clenched her jaw, exhaling sharply through her nose. She couldn’t stop shaking, but breathing wasn’t so painful anymore. She reckoned she was only alive by the sheer determination to fight him once they made it to land. A fire that burned through the icy current. His words, however, subdued her almost instantly. She was too tired. A warning would’ve been nice, sure. But he acted quickly and led them to safety. If she had energy to feel, she would’ve been thankful. “Don— N-no” she tilted her head to the side, that was as much as a negative as she could offer. Her body jolted again, and she rolled to her side. Why didn’t he look terrible? It was like he took a dip at the beach. Not a shiver, not even a— “Wh- happ’n…” eyes fixed on his bruise, confused. “You ‘kay?”

“You hit me,” Dave replied wrily, looking at her on the ground critically. “Jesus, girl, you’re freezing.” But he was just as soaked as she was, his clothes wouldn’t help warm her up. “C’mon, let’s get going. Not letting you catch your death like this.” She was still shivering, which was good, but they’d need to move fast. Hell, they were a ways from his van, but maybe there was somewhere else nearby that he could help her get warm. “Need to move fast, alright? Can you do that or do I gotta call someone out here?” If it was the latter, that would be an issue. He didn’t not know where they were, but like hell could he give directions over the phone easily. He bent over to help her to her feet, his hands unusually warm. “Are you hurt?”

“Oh” The slight twitch in her eyebrows was the only clear sign of surprise in Nicole’s face. She didn’t apologize. He was ready to keep going, and she let out a grunt. How was he still in good shape? Maybe he made the habit out of jumping into cold water. He looked too adjusted to the temperature even before that. “N-no. No” at the suggestion, she managed to move her head with more energy. She’d rather be dead than call for help. Just like that, she began to warm up. “I can” she swallowed, a shiver running down her spine. She sat up. Taking his hand to help herself up, she shook her head. Trying to save energy by talking as less as possible “F-fine...just—” freezing. They could walk until they hit the road, then she could call an uber. Decent plan. She took a couple tentative steps, gauging the state she was in. Okay enough. She removed her jacket, letting more water drip. In the meantime, she took in the surrounding scents and sounds to orient herself. She dragged her feet down the path she believed would lead them to the road. “How...are you fine?” she huffed, shuddering again. It wasn’t the most pressing issue, but she couldn’t let it go.

“Alright,” Dave replied, not one to argue with someone so determined to be alright. “I’m a sailor, taken plenty of tips out of the boat. Guess I’ve built a resistance to it. Not as much practice getting away from wolves.” Dave waved his hand, walking a little unsteadily, his leg stinging like a jellyfish cloud. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, forever grateful he’d invested in such a water tight cover. “Thank fuck,” he said soon as he smelled tarmac and rubber burn - a surefire indication they were near a road. “We’re gonna have to call the police or something to let them know about that feral beast attacking that couple. I know it must’a been scary to see that.”

“Guess that explains the—” Nicole stopped, as her foot almost got caught on a protruding tree root. He did smell so much like the sea. At least that part of the puzzle was solved. She forgot where she was heading with that sentence, distracted by the mention of wolves. In the commotion and the shock, she didn’t stop to think about how fast he was to figure they were in the presence of a werewolf. She shot him a quick glance, debating her next words. It was always strange to meet people who knew of the supernatural but being unable to discuss it. Because he knew didn’t he? He did. Was he one of them too? She bit her tongue, it wasn’t the time. “Sure”. What were the police going to do about a beast like that? Just serve as the next meals. But she kept her mouth shut, unsure if she kept shaking her head because she didn’t agree with him or due to the cold. “Right” she nodded, and it took all her mental strength to not blow up over his lack of reaction again. He might as well be the reason she lived to tell the tale, she reminded herself. “More used to finding bodies already dead in the woods than—” her throat tightened again. She wasn’t sure she’d get the image off her mind any time soon. Better to move on from the topic. “Can hear the road close, no?”

“Sure isn’t the kind of thing you wanna get used to,” Dave agreed quietly, almost as an apology for how calm he’d been before, unflinching at the sight of the woman’s brutal demise. “Don’t go feeling guilty now, there was nothing you could have done for her, alright?” He wasn’t sure any of that was helping, he’d never been all too good at the comforting thing, but it needed saying, He nodded at her question, hopping over a fallen log and pushing through a bushy thicket and onto the main road.

“Yeah. If you call a car, I’ll stay with you until it gets here. Wouldn’t want that animal coming back for you without back up.” In the meantime, he’d debate back and forth, over and over, like he had for much of his life, whether this was the kind of wolf it was better to call a hunter on, or whether it was better to leave well enough alone.

Looking over at Nicole shivering, Dave had no doubt he knew what her answer would be.

No. It wasn’t. But if Nicole had to choose between finding someone already dead or watching them die, the choice couldn’t be easier. “Guess it happens when you live here”. As usual, curiosity struck in the worst moment, wondering if the man had seen it happen before. It explained his lack of reaction. While his words rang true, it didn’t ease the guilt. The pressure extending from her stomach to her chest was hard to ignore. It wasn’t just her inability to take action, but she couldn’t wrap her brain around other reasons yet. Maybe she was upset because she couldn’t get the image of the beast tearing into a human off her head. Maybe she was just hungry and tired. She thought of the human within the beast, and the breathing she had managed to steady turned erratic again. It worked as a reminder that she could never lose control over herself and risk the same thing happening.

It didn’t look like either of them were particularly good at conversations, but for once Nicole preferred that way. She didn’t think she would remember much of the night besides the wolf and the icy river anyway. When the car arrived, she glanced at him one last time. If anything, to remember his face. The ‘thank you’ was left unsaid. She wondered briefly what would happen to him, but the most pressing thoughts were those of her warm bed. She did wish for him to find his way home safely, at least.

#the hunger plot arc #para #chatzy #nicole #asdfgh so excited for this

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