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hailbop1701 · 3 years

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Curing a Rainy Day

A sort of five times Star Trek gen fic for your viewing pleasure. I mentioned I would write it but please be aware that I wrote this on my phone late at night and I has no beta. Typos and mistakes will be found. 🤣

-H❤🖖

Word Count: 2,166

Sulu:

Leonard McCoy wasn’t a huge touchy-feely type of man. Well, that’s what he really wants folks to think anyway. He was a doctor and that meant it was his oath-bound duty to cure what ails his patients. Whether it was from a physical malady or an emotional one. The first time he initiated his “Rainy Day Cure” --title courtesy of his daughter-- to one of the command crew he was surprised that it was Sulu of all people. If Len were being honest he thought it would have been Jim. Sure he had hugged the kid in the past but he always let Jim be the one to initiate contact. The reason why is complicated and a story for another time.

When he found him the young pilot was huddled alone in Observation Room Five, his shoulders hunched, his down so his eyes were hidden and mind lightyears away. Leonard had a feeling he knew where. The chaos after Khan and Marcus had caused a lot of damage, and not all of it was physical. They were all still healing even a year later. They had left Kronos not three hours ago and according to the mission report, Sulu’s younger sister was…

Not who she claimed to be. ‘Yuki,’ McCoy recalled her name lamely as he made his way loudly over to the depressed man.

She revealed that she worked for Section 31 and was determined to fix the Federation the right way. Though the term “Right way” is skewed for many folks. War was almost started, again and the Enterprise had to stop it, again. Section 31 now had the last little pebble of Red Matter and was holding it like a…” Nuclear deterrent” as the old saying goes.

Shaking his head Leonard pushed recent events to the back of his mind and continued on his own mission. Plopping down on the couch that faced the giant window of stars, McCoy leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees.

He didn’t offer his apologies or sympathies, he knew Sulu didn’t want them. So they sat in silence. Sulu just shook his head and looked up at the doctor with confusion and betrayal in his eyes. “I don’t - I” he stopped swallowing and the helmsman looked so young Leonard didn’t even think about it until after he had already done it.

He wrapped an arm over Hikaru’s shoulder and squeezed. Sulu stilled for a moment before relaxing and saying what needed to be said, a weight slowly lifting off his shoulders and his chest.

Scotty:

Leonard and Scotty were both having a terrible terrible time. The cold sucked in Leonard’s opinion and being trapped on an ice ball of a planet only confirmed his feelings. Looking over at the Enterprises Chief Engineer, Leonard had a feeling that he wasn’t alone in his thoughts and feelings.

The Scot was curled into a tight ball up against the last running console the entire ‘Fleet base had. He was shivering and muttering to himself, glaring at the distress signal he had rigged up. There was nothing they could do but wait. Rubbing his hands together to warm them Leonard moved toward the console and slid down to the floor next to Scotty. Touching shoulders with Scotty, McCoy tucked his hands under his arms and sighed. There was nothing he could really say to ease the engineer’s anxiety -- which stemmed from Delta Vega no doubt -- so he simply let his presence be enough.

Scotty glanced at Leonard to see that he was looking back at him with calm understanding. Grunting Scotty curled himself closer to the CMO and let the man wrap an arm around his shoulders. They didn’t speak a word and only moved when they heard the sounds of the rescue party on the other side of the sealed doors.

Chekov:

Pavel Chekov was the youngest of the command crew, so he was automatically protected and treated like the youngest sibling of a giant family. The navigator understood that his friends didn’t mean to and that it was just sometimes a reflex but he was getting damn tired of it. Today was his birthday, he had finally turned twenty! Chekov was so pleased to find that after the incident with Khan he was being treated like he should. There was one person who always treated him like he was young and precious.

Pavel found that he didn’t mind so much. Doctor McCoy treated almost everyone that way -- even though he wasn’t that much older than the rest of them -- in an almost fatherly manner. A true caretaker. Chekov allowed the behavior from no one but McCoy.

Leonard walked into “Rec Room Two” taking in the crowd with a softening scowl. A small wrapped parcel gripped in his hand. He looked down at the present, weighing it in his hands carefully. With a sigh, McCoy strode through the room looking for the birthday boy. Jim waved at him wildly from the other side of the room a huge grin on his face. Narrowing his eyes, Leonard saw that his captain wasn’t in fact drunk at all. Grunting in approval he smiled at Chekov who was hurrying over to greet him.

“Happy Birthday Pavel,”

Chekov grinned and his eyes widened at the present presented to him. Leonard gestured for him to open it and the young man did excitedly. The wrapping paper littered the floor a long black box in its place. Slowly opening the box the navigator knocked a silver antique pocket knife into his hands. Examining it closely he looked up at McCoy in confusion.

Leonard shifted nervously on his feet. Clearing his throat he pulled out a similar from his belt. “My daddy gave me this one to match his when I turned twenty. I know your pa wasn’t around as you grew up and so I thought…” his sentence fell into silence. For once Leonard McCoy was at a loss for words. Pavel quickly wiped a stray tear from his eye and grinned at his friend holding onto the gift tightly.

“Thank you doctor!” he said gratefully and Leonard understood that it was for more than just a knife. A small smile graced the CMO’s lips and pulled the kid in for a hug.

With anyone else, Pavel would have been annoyed. This was an exception.

Uhura:

Leonard was tired. He longed for his bed but as he looked around at all of the injured crew he pushed the longing away. There was no time for it. Rubbing the blurry fatigue from his eyes he pushed on. Triage, surgery, aftercare. He really didn’t truly stop to breathe until the middle of gamma shift when the ship was sleepy and quiet. The only noise was the soft beeps and whistles of monitors. His nurses quietly whispering and working.

Christine hours ago told him to stop worrying and to go to bed already but something in him just couldn’t. Blinking dumbly down at the PADD in his hands he sighed and signed off on the next round of Spock’s antibiotics. During the Enterprises most recent scuffle the bridge took a hit and the science station exploded sending the first officer flying, earning him a ticket to medical.

After the fight was over and things had only calmed down to a trickle of wounded instead of a flash flood, Nyota Uhura breezed through sickbay’s doors. She waited patiently and even helped where she could. When Spock came out of surgery and was placed in a private room she immediately went to his side and hasn’t moved an inch since. Jim would have been right beside her if he could afford to. But it appears the admiralty wanted words and had kept him busy since. McCoy had barely just convinced him to get some sleep saying that he would call if anything changes.

That was three hours ago.

Leonard walked -- though Nyota would say shuffled -- into Spock’s room, his eyes going straight to the monitors above the bed. The half Vulcan was resting peacefully. McCoy knew it was only a matter of time before he woke and would go into a healing trance. Something that should be monitored anyway. Leonard quietly wondered who he would grant the opportunity to slap Spock awake this time…

“Leonard!”

The sound of his name made the CMO snap his head in Uhura’s direction. Her eyes were fire, filled with frustration, exhaustion, and worry. McCoy winced, “Sorry Nyota, guess my mind wandered a bit,” he said somewhat sheepishly. Her expression softened a flash of guilt passing through her features.

“You need more rest. You’re going to run yourself into the ground at this rate,” she scolded half-heartedly. McCoy gave her a small smile and a shrug,

"I'll rest when I'm not needed." He whispered and badly covered up a yawn. The hidden meaning behind his words wasn't lost on the linguist though. She pressed her lips into a tight line deciding not to comment. Instead, she rested her gaze on Spock once more her hand inches away from his.

So deep in thought, Nyota hadn't even realized that McCoy had left and come back, a tray with a couple of hypos in his always unwavering hands. Catching her eyes he gave her another encouraging smile. He took care to tell her everything he was doing and how it would help keep infection away. Leonard knew he didn't have to explain but he felt it necessary to fill the quiet with "Illogical chatter" as Spock would surely call it.

Uhura was so tired and so frazzled that she was startled to find the CMO crouching in front of her with concern all over his face. "You need to get some rest Nyota. I can have a cot brought in if you'd like…"

Uhura, let a few tears fall before she bottled it up again. She shook her head wiping her face, "I'm alright Leo. Everything is just catching up to me…" she mumbled with a watery chuckle. Leonard snorted at the nickname she had given him,

"Just let me know darlin' "

And without truly thinking about it he pulled her into a hug. It only took Uhura a second to process what was happening before she wrapped her arms around him tightly. A genuine smile breaking across her face. The first time in hours she felt content, safe, and able to truly breathe.

Jim:

James T. Kirk was a touchy-feely type of man. Leonard supposed it may be from a less than stellar childhood. So whenever Jim would pull him into a one-armed hug or slapped his back or even leaned up against him, McCoy would let him. He would definitely bitch but only half-heartedly, Leonard needed to keep up appearances after all.

So when they found Jim partially dead, hanging from his wrists in a cave all smirks and charm…

Well, no one batted an eye when -- after he made sure that the man would live -- Leonard pulled his best friend in for a hug. Jim just laughed, laid an arm over McCoy's shoulder, and leaned into the hug.

"I only had to get tortured and offered to an alien God for you to hug me. Good to know,"

"Shut up Kid,"

Spock:

No one ever thought the words McCoy, Spock, and hug would ever be uttered but stranger things have happened on the Enterprise.

No stranger than an alien device that turned back time. In a physical sense anyway. Leonard looked down at his adolescent hands and sighed with a heavy eye roll. "Not this again," he grumbled with a shudder.

Looking around the room he saw Jim shouting at Mudd who had bought the alien weapon and decided to point it at him and Spock. McCoy tilted his head, his eyes going comically wide.

Spock!

Where was the green-blooded rugrat? Leonard looked around and sighed in relief at the sight of the first officer. He was hidden under a rickety wooden table. Crouching down Leonard gave Spock a small smile, he waved and gestured for the Vulcan to come closer. Apparently the younger you go the further your mind goes with it. Spock had a mentality of a...of well, a toddler. He couldn't have been more than two.

Spock stared at Leonard intensely before darting out and crashing into his legs. McCoy stumbled a little before he got his footing. Spock looked up at him with wide scared eyes, tears threatening to fall. 'Must have gotten all Vucan-y at four or five,' Leonard thought as he picked up his friend.

Leonard pulled Spock close, hugging him to his chest whispering softly. Spock seemed confused for only a moment before he buried his head into the young CMO's neck.

Jim of course saw it all and later under the threat of meeting his end via an airlock kept his mouth firmly shut. The only thing the Starship Captain said -- which everyone agreed-- Doctor Leonard McCoy could absolutely cure a rainy day.

Tags:

@lauraaan182, @chickadee-djarin, @cowenby2, @bluesclues-1234, @sayuri9908,

#star trek aos #leonard mccoy #leonard bones mccoy #jim kirk #james t kirk #spock #mister spick #nyota uhura #pavel chekov #hikaru sulu #montgomery scott #fanfiction #hailey the queen of typos

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yourfangirlfriend · 3 years

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It’s Nothing Serious - Chapter Three

Brought to you by: insomnia and the note that I had hurt someone with the last chapter. Also sorry I wrote this on my phone so typos.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

It’s.

Not.

Serious.

So, the next morning when you’re coming out of your apartment and you turn and see a leggy red head with her hand draped around his waist, you keep your eyes averted. You think quiet thoughts. You contemplate making a face like you forgot something so you can rush back inside and wait for them to pass. But just before you can imagine what facial expression could best convey “aw fuck, forgot my wallet” he turns and you catch his eye.

For half a second, its tense. Then, in an act that even amazes you, you smile at him, like he hadn’t just used you and your body and your fucking beer (which was expensive, by the way) as therapy nights earlier.

”Hey Javi,” you say. You pull the key from the door and stand up straight.

“Hey,” he says softly, not sure if he’s just been caught or if you really are this casual. To seal the deal, you check to make sure his date is looking up and elsewhere before you point to her and make a show of checking her out. Turning back to Javier, raise your eyebrows and hold up your hand, curling your forefinger down to your thumb in the universal sign of nice (👌). The dumbfounded look on his face makes you genuinely laugh, and you stride past the two of them with a smile.

“See you later, neighbour.” You call back without turning around. You don’t wait for a response before you let the door close behind you, and you’re stepping out into the sunshine.

You’re surprised you don’t fall asleep at your desk that day. Your neck is still aching from your sleep on the couch Sunday night, probably the second worst decision you made with your body all weekend. When you return to an empty stoop, you’re almost grateful he’s not there, sitting casually like he had just happened to choose that spot to sit and smoke. God, you really had been easy for him. One night of getting drunk and giving in and now you had to spend the rest of your tenancy pretending to be the cool girl neighbour who doesn’t care that he wallmate fucked her and chucked her.

Twice.

Its not surprising, really. Men have done this before to you, and while it sucks you should know better by now to view these kind of guys as the ones you use just as much as they use you. The only thing really hurting here, you think, is your stupid ego. It’s not even like you were going to try and date the neighbour. You didn’t really want to date anyone.

You stop in your tracks, midway up the stairs.

Yeah, actually- what were you complaining about?

You had a hot neighbour who was good in bed and showed he had no qualms about letting you crawl in with him. He wasn’t pressuring you to tell him how you felt, or dragging you out on dates you didn’t want to go on, or playing passive aggressive little mind games with you. He was just fucking you. And sharing cigarettes. Sure, maybe he came over and dropped some heavy emotional labour on your lap every once in a while, but he had paid you back for your time by making you cum so hard you honestly think you lost vision for a few seconds. And you actually did like hanging out with him on your little routine smoke breaks. Yeah. Yeah! This actually worked out really well for you, now that you thought about it critically.

Pleased with yourself, you wander over to your corner and pull a cigarette from your purse, bringing it to your lips. Just as you light it, from the corner of your eye you see a patch of blue walking your way. You look up and see Javi just as he notices you, making his way towards the steps. You smile and press the lighter into your pocket.

”Hey stranger,” you tease. His face is still a bit confused as he looks up at you once, ascending the steps.

“Hey,” he says, coming to stand beside you. He reaches into his own pocket and pulls out his pack. He pats himself down and you roll your eyes, pulling the lighter from your pocket and holding it out to him. He smiles when he sees it and takes it from your hand and, despite yourself, you smile too.

”Thanks,” he says before clicking the lighter and holding the cigarette out. He hands it back to you and the two of you stand in silence for a moment, watching the sunset across the sky.

”Some kid got glue in my hair today,” you say, taking another drag. You turn to look at him. “Lorenzo.”

“The one with the eye?”

You he told him about Lorenzo’s fake eye.

”Yeah,” you say, trying not to seem to impressed he remembered. “Took forever to get it out.”

Javier nods, taking a long drag.

“We arrested Escobar today,” he deadpans.

“ What.”

He turns back and smiles.

“I’m fucking with you.”

You smile, letting out a huff as you shake you head.

”Got me.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

You turn and see the preschool teacher - Maritza, you think - standing to your left. You had been in such a daze as you waited for the coffee machine to finish you hadn’t noticed her come and stand next to you. She was a cute, small woman with big brown eyes and severe bangs, and the way she looked at you now reminded you of a little kid waiting for their parent to give them the present behind their back.

”Probably getting drunk at home and watching bad tv,” you say, turning to face her. “What’s up?”

“A few of us are going out tonight,” she says. “We thought you’d like the join.”

You stop and think of all the reasons going out now, on a Friday night, with a group of other women, in the middle of one of the deadliest cities in the world, would be a bad idea. But you also think of the three day old arepas waiting for you at home and the empty, stale apartment air you’d be eating them in. Your last few months had fallen into such a boring routine (with obvious exceptions) that you had completely forgotten going out was even a possibility. You told yourself you would wait until you had a group of friends to go out with, just to make it safer, but the only person you had gone out with was Javier, just that once.

“Come on,” she said, her round face breaking into a cute smile.

You found yourself smiling back.

”Yeah, why not?” you say.

Maritza tells you she and her friends will catch a taxi over to yours around 8. Ridiculously, you feel giddy as you catch yourself hurrying home. While you had only had a few pleasant exchanges with Maritza over recess, she had the kind of chaotic energy that accompanies all women who voluntarily spend most of their time with children under the age of six, and in your experience those were the bitches who always got the wildest. You were negotiating with yourself how drunk you’d let yourself get when you turned and walked up the stairs, barely noticing Javi in your smoke spot before he called out to you.

”Hey hermosa,” he said. You snapped your head back up, your concentration on whether or not there was really that much of a difference in your behaviour depending on three to four drinks shot. You were just compromising with yourself that it really depending on the liquor when he had called out to you.

”Hey,” you smile, coming to a stop beside him. He holds out a cigarette to you and you take it, popping it in your mouth. Before you can ask he’s got the lighter, and you lean in for a light.

“Want to grab a drink tonight?” He asks once you’ve settled into your spot beside him. You shake your head.

”Can’t. Got plans.”

”Oh yeah?” He turns to consider you. You give him a nod, unable to suppress the smile.

”Girl’s night,” you say. “Preschool teacher asked me to join.”

”The one with the bangs?”

You had told him about her bangs.

”Yep. The popular girls noticed me.”

“Where are you going?” He asked.

You shook your head. “Nope. You are not invited.”

He smiled. “I wasn’t-”

“Oh sure,” you say.

“You should just be safe, is all.” He says. “Stay out of certain places, you know, walk home together.”

“Believe it or not, this is not my first night out of the house ever.”

He frowns. “It’s dangerous. Just be smart.”

“Thanks mom,” you take a drag and turn towards him, your arms crossed. “And what shout I tell Bobby if he wants to go all the way?”

He scoffs and you break out in a grin. Shaking his head, he tosses his filter and moves around you, making for the door.

”Fucking smart ass.”

You’re always too eager to be on time. It’s a bad habit. It always ends with you showing up to parties too early and then it’s just you and the host making small talk over the fruit salad they thought they had at least another half hour to make. Whatever. Tonight that means you just get to spend the next hour looking really hot in your own apartment.

You find yourself standing still for a moment, wondering what you should do. Sitting down and reading seems like a weird thing to do when you’re dressed like this, but neither does sitting and watching tv. You wish for a minute you had been more picky about make up or hair but everything has set and you don’t want to risk fucking with it. You make for your kitchen and pull the bottle of tequila from the cabinet, reaching to grab a glass. You take a quick shot and are about to pour another when an idea runs through your head. You walk down and across to the wall opposite of the couch and knock three times.

You hear faint movement from the other side and grin to yourself.

“Javi?” You call.

A moment later, you hear a muffled “Yeah?”

“You want a drink?” You wait for his response, but instead of answering you hear his door open and close. You smile, pulling another glass from the cabinet when there’s a knock on your door.

“It’s open,” you shout, pouring two fingers into one of the glasses. A moment later he walks in, his eyes on the floor.

“You should really lock that,” he says, turning to watch you walk down towards him with two drinks. His eyebrows raise as he looks you up and down, and even though you’re supposed to be the cool girl who is very unaffected by her hot neighbour who she just sometimes fucks, it makes swell with some pride.

“I’ll be fine, I’ve got a cop next door.” You hold out the glass for him. His eyes flick back up from your waist as he reaches out to take it, wetting his lip with a dart of his tongue.

“Can’t get over here that fast enough.” He says.

“Hm,” you walk over to the wall. “Two knocks for ‘help’, three for ‘I’m fine.’” You demonstrate.

“Or you could just lock your door,” he looks at you over the rim of his glass. You roll your eyes.

“Such a cop,” you toss back your out drink. You wipe your mouth as he watches. “My parents would kill me.”

“Drug traffickers?” He asks

“Almost. Hippies.”

He cracks a smile at that. “This when you tell me your real name is Moonbeam or something?”

“It’s Starlight, actually.” You sit on the couch and gesture for him to join you. He follows your lead, sitting in the exact spot where only a week earlier he had post coitally confided in you. You try and ignore it.

“I’m an agent,” he corrects you.

You kiss your teeth. “Even worse. They’d keel over if they found out baby Starlight fucked ‘the man’.”

“You haven’t for a while,” he says, reaching out to lay a hand on your ankle. You’re embarrassed by how the electricity shoots up you leg, directly to the apex of your thighs.

You laugh. “A week is not a while.” You kick your feet onto the floor and stand, walking back to the kitchen for more drink.

“You sure you want to go out tonight?” He turns and watches you as you pull the cork from the bottle and pour yourself a third drink. So much for that negotiation. You wonder if you can buy bread on the way there. Surely. “My offer for a drink still stands.”

“Mmm, I wonder what that’s code for.” You sit down on the other side of the couch and, feeling bold, stretch your legs out again. “Thank you, but I already told them I’d go.”

He shrugs, bringing the drink back up to his mouth. “Gonna be a boring night,”

You tap his thigh with the tip of your heel. “First I need to be safe, now it’s going to be boring?”

He shrugs again. “Just saying. When you’re disappointed later, you know where I’ll be, hermosa.”

You’re not disappointed.

You and Javier drink for a while longer, swapping stories about Texas and being an expat and dumb, innocuous work shit when you hear a cacophony of giggles followed by a rapid series of knocks at your door. You stand and grab your purse, Javier following in your step as you swing open the door and see Maritza with her two friends, tipsy and giggling on your mat.

“Heyyyyuu guapa,” Maritza says. You’re thankful you weren’t the only one drinking early. The woman behind her- tall and beautiful, you’ll learn her name is Alessa- offers you a small bottle of liquor. You raise you hand to take it as all three of their eyes flick towards the man approaching from behind you.

“Ladies,” he says, hovering behind you. You can’t see his face, but you know the smug bastard is loving every second of this. You recognise the look that flashes across their faces as their eyes flick from him to you, and you smile as you take a quick swig from the bottle.

“Javier was just leaving,” you explain, reaching back and ushering him out by the shoulder.

“Does he have to?” The third girl - Lisa - asks. Alessa gives her a quick seat on the arm.

“He does,” Javier answers, nodding. “You ladies have a good night.” His eyes meet yours for a brief second before he’s turning and walking to his apartment. The girls watch him as he disappears inside as you lock your own door, and when you turn around to tell them you’re ready, the looks on their faces are demanding answers.

Fuck it. You’re drunk.

“Yeah, I am.” You laugh, and all three of them squeal.

Fuck. You had forgotten how fun this was.

The taxi ride over had been a whirlwind of questions and much to the annoyance of the driver, you answered each and every dirty one with as little detail as to remain polite but still subtlety brag that you indeed were fucking the hot guy in your apartment. You missed having girlfriends to gossip with, to giggle over sex and boys. Alessa was married without any kids, but she turned out to be the most curious about you and Javier’s situation. Even though there wasn’t much to tell, you were high on the attention and leaned into each question, a little surge of what could only be feminine pride exploding in your chest when the women blushed at your answers and squealed in delight.

Maritza had said she knew the owner of the club( “she’s lying, she doesn’t know shit.” Lisa laughed with you as she handed you the bottle) you arrived at, and disappeared for a few minutes before reappearing at the back and waving the three of you in. Turns out the owner was actually the janitor, but the result was the same: four passes inside without having to pay. (“Not that we would,” Maritza had said. “But just in case.”). It was thrilling, sneaking through the dark hallways, each of you with their hand on another woman’s shoulder as you giggled, trying to keep quiet. You were drunk enough that you let Alessa pull you onto the dance floor as Maritza and Lisa went to the bar to get drinks. The lights and sounds were overwhelming and you felt blissfully lost in the sea of bodies that, to you, seemed to flow together. When the girls returned, some fruity concoction in their hands, you were already sweating for exertion, and felt larger, warm hands encircle your waist.

For a brief, fleeting second, you thought Javier had followed you to the club, but upon turning around you realised it was very much not Javier. This guy was younger, maybe even a few years younger than you, with big hazel eyes that somehow - alcohol? Magic? - shone through the pulsing lights of the club. Deeming him handsome enough to allow it, you turned and began to grind against him, for a few songs. Finally, during a lull in the music, he leaned forward.

“You’re a shit dancer,” he said

You laughed before reaching back up and pulling him back down to whisper in his ear. “I’ve got better rhythm on my back.”

Messy. But it got the point across.

You felt his thumb on your chin, tilting you up to face him. When he kissed you, he tasted like chapstick and cheap beer. It wasn’t warm or soft or desperate, but it was nice. And nice was enough for you tonight.

The girls behind you cheered in approval when they saw you. Blushing, you turned back to face them, grinding your ass against the growing hardness in your partner’s jeans. At some point during the night you were separated, but you quickly forgot about him when it was Lisa’s turn to pull a man. Doing your friendly duty, you cheered along with Alessa and Maritza as you watched her lead the tall stranger back to the bathrooms, only to reappear fifteen minutes later slightly rumpled but much happier. She did three shots after that.

The night continued to go well- true to you hypothesis, Maritza was a wild card. At some point she managed to crawl on the bar and convince three different men in soccer jerseys to take a shot from between her breasts, before reaching behind the bar and stealing a whole bottle of vodka while the barkeep was distracted. It was only about fifteen minutes before she had passed the bottle to every member of the soccer team when the manager finally noticed and kicked the whole group of you out.

As you stood outside, the four of you giggling and hovering around the equally drunk soccer players, you felt a hand wrap around your waist. Turning, you recognise your dance partner from earlier.

“Hey,” you say. Behind you, your new friends are busy flirt-arguing with the soccer captain.

“Hey,” he says back. “You want to get out of here?”

You give him the once over. He’s cute, toned, and he’s wearing the same jersey as the rest of the teammates. You laugh and look over to the line of taxis, wondering if you’re really about to take this guy up on his offer.

“How old are you?” You ask.

“25.”

You shake your head. “You look like trouble.”

“I am.” He smiles, and you catch those hazel eyes once again.

Fuck it.

You catch a taxi pretty easily, and once you two are in the back seat he’s all over you, pulling you against him to kiss your neck and fondle at your top. For a grown man, he acts like a boy getting to touch his first tit. You send an apologetic look to the driver when you arrive at your apartment after he pays, but quickly forget your embarrassment when he catches you around the waist and pulls you into a sloppy, messy kiss. You’re giddy off the drink and the energy of the night and kiss him back with equal finesse. After a moment you realise you’re still in the street and reach down to take his hand. You’re just outside your apartment door, shamelessly making out, when Javi’s door swings open.

Oh. Oh to be able to record the way Javier’s face falls the moment that cocky smile and planned, snide comment he had ready dies upon seeing another man draped around your back, sucking at your neck. He must have heard you return and come out to bully you into admitting it wasn’t really a fun night without him, and now he’s standing frozen, the extra cigarette you imagine was meant for you caught between his fingers. The man currently sucking a welt onto your neck looks up.

“You want a picture or something?” He asks. You swat his arm and turn, unlocking the door to your apartment quickly before they can engage in some bullshit machismo. You reach down and take your companions hand and urge him to follow you in before shooting Javier an apologetic look.

“Sorry Javi,” you say. “We’ll keep it down.”

And you shut the door behind you.

Look. You weren’t trying to get revenge. It just turns out Isaac (that’s his name) is really, really good at sex. That, or you’re really really drunk. Either way, you’re not the quiet partner you usually are. It doesn’t help that he, unlike the last person you slept with, has a young, heavily exercised back and can flip you into positions like the two of you are competing in couples ice dancing at the fucking Olympics. You even remember, in between rounds, to shove a sock between your headboard and the wall. Not that that really helps, when you’re about eight tequila drinks in and a young, stupidly ripped athlete is railing you from behind.

You also really, really didn’t think that in the morning you would be even awake enough to fuck, let alone do the breathy moaning that’s falling out of your mouth now as he hoists your leg over his side and pumps into you, flicking at your clit like he’s playing a guitar. You honestly, in your still drunk haze, forget that Javier is even on the other side of your wall.

When the two of you finally finish and Issac turns down your offer for breakfast, you throw on a sundress and walk him to the door. The two of you pause before opening the larger door outside, and he leans down to kiss you and assure you that, although it’s such a bummer his team has to go back to Cali, he had a great time with you. You play along, letting the kid have his ego stroked, and kiss him before he turns and heads out the door, into the morning and out of your life. Still smiling to yourself, you don’t realise Javier is standing in his doorway, lit cigarette dangling from his lips with his arms crossed.

“When’s the wedding?” He asks, and you know he’s trying to play it off, to be the cool guy in all of this. But you also hear that buried edge in his voice, and you know you’ve gotten under his skin.

Smiling, you saunter up to him and pluck the cigarette from his lips, holding his gaze as you take a long, large inhale.

“Oh Javi,” you sigh, exhaling. “It’s not serious.”

#javier peña x reader #javier peña #javier peña x oc #narcos #it's nothing serious #fic

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weakzen · 3 years

Note

Left on the detective’s desk, a single red rose and a note written in precise handwriting:

Alex,

What happened to you - you didn’t deserve it. You can be loved, if you let yourself.

Happy Valentine’s Day

(yolo experimental style; alex/mason, early established relationship, angst and fluff; no direct mention of abuse, just oblique circling and fatalistic thoughts; rated m for mason; also on AO3~)

Even though I didn't finish reading it, even though I hid it from sight, imprisoned it in darkness, cast it to the depths of the bottom drawer until the end of shift, when it would be possible to smuggle the thing into the break room recycle bin without risking Tina's eyes or interrogation, that stupid fucking note has somehow still managed to reach up through all those heavy files and twist my stomach into knots.

For hours.

Plucking my nerves hard enough to make my hands fucking shake too. Typos in every report, backspace key pulling overtime without pay. Not helped by eyes that won't stop stinging. Armpits that haven't fully dried either, along with a weird chill, shivers that persist despite the sweater and the cranked-up thermostat.

At least the rose is gone. Snuck it into the arrangement on Tina's desk, the one I get her every year.

It looks better surrounded by friends.

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Can still smell it perfuming the air.)

And if I could get rid of my thoughts as easily, I would. Because after half a day of chasing them in circles, I still can't figure out who the fuck sent that goddamn note, who the fuck would write something like that—say shit like that, to me—who could possibly fucking think or know or say anything about that, or that I-I, that I—

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckingfuck.

That sickly feeling wrenches again, hard enough to jerk me forward over the desk, face buried in my hands while my breathing shudders into something unsteady and vaguely gasping.

Fuck.

It can't be Tina.

It can't.

It should be, but it can't.

The writing's not loopy enough to be hers, and it's not slanted enough to be Verda's, and the damn thing isn't covered in nearly enough heart stickers to be from Felix. We all should know. Nate's been sighing nonstop for the past week, scraping them off every available surface in the Warehouse—except for the lacy pink one Felix managed to sneak right between Adam's shoulders.

And the glittery red one I pressed covertly to Mason's ass.

(Maybe not so covertly. Found a few hearts stuck to my underwear later when I slipped outta my jeans, and the secrets of how the fuck he pulled that off are still locked behind his smirk.)

A smile tries to pull at my lips, but the tightness in my gut warps it crooked.

Another shuddery breath.

It can't be from Adam either. If he had something to say to me, he'd just say it, preferably after he finished laying me out on the mats, all sweaty and sucking down air from another session of his gentle ass-kicking. Nate, however, would write a note to me. Has written a note to me. Has written many notes to me and still not made a dent in that stack of expensive stationary, and although the card stock was silk cream, the pigment obsidian night, and the calligraphy swooping in almost a dead ringer, I know it can't be from Nate because he would never leave a rose with his words, not the ones meant for me.

But there isn't anyone else.

There's Mason

And it can't be from him.

It's not his handwriting, to start. I think. I'm pretty sure. I've never actually seen his writing, but I can't imagine it would be anything resembling neat or careful. It's gotta be complete chicken scratch. All cramped and illegible. He's left handed too, barely patient enough to sit through a stoplight, much less give ink the time to dry, so there'd be definitely be smears, and there weren't any smears. At all. Can't be him.

Not to mention he'd never do anything like this.

Don't know why he keeps coming to mind anyway. Just because we're…

Together

—for now.

Doesn't mean he'd ever say anything like that—

He already has

(He did. He said I deserved better and I believe him, but I don't, I can't.)

—only because he'd say differently if he knew.

If he really knew.

He'd say different and I'm not gonna fucking tell him and it doesn't fucking matter anyway, it doesn't. Shine's gonna wear off soon enough. Novelty, satisfied. Boredom, returning. And at least the conversation won't be awkward, just… blunt. To the point. A first for us both, in topic, if not style.

I've never been dumped before, at least not in a romantic sense.

Another breath. Another shuddery breath.

Wonder how it's gonna feel.

(It's gonna suck.)

No fucking shit.

If it can't last, why agree to it at all?

I rub hard at my eyes, grinding palms into sockets.

If it can't last, why not tell him anyway?

Because I already fucking know! Don't need to hear it from him, don't wanna hear it from—

If it can't last, why does it matter what he thinks?

“…Stupid fucking note.”

It was nice to see it on the desk this morning

(Someone took the time, wrote it, left it in here. Someone cares.)

Someone's playing a sick fucking joke, more like.

What if it's genuine?

I scoff ragged, squeezing fingers around the back of my neck.

(Tina cares. So does Verda. The whole team, so many others, I know, and I believe them all but I don't. I can't.)

What if you didn't deserve it?

I did. I stayed and I did. My fault. Fucking stupid, like he always said.

(All Mason ever speaks is care. In a thousand different ways of touch, in silence, in lingering looks, he cares.)

What if you can be loved?

What if you can?

A brittle laugh wheezes past my lips and shoots toward something hysterical, boosted by acid burn and cloying petals and that churning, churning tightness. My shoulders hunch high around my ears while the sound pitches even higher, lungs immolated and screaming along, nails digging, cutting crescents as I shake and curl tighter, smaller, compacting into stiffness hard enough to rival diamonds, every muscle verging on a cramp and my throat is stinging and my eyes are on fire, hot, wet, and the door is closed, the blinds shut, and maybe I could just— this time— if I stayed quiet, I could—

I could—

But I don't.

I swallow once, twice, suck down, blink it away, then snap upright and get back to work. There's too much shit, not enough time.

Never enough time, not for that.

For you

(Remember to eat lunch.)

I don't.

I don't really remember talking to anyone either. Or finishing paperwork. Answering email. Clearing the inbox backlog, digital and otherwise, but the stack depletes, the numbers go down, Tina gives me shit from the doorway, and soon the peripheral lights tick off overhead in the foyer, a mop bucket rattles its rounds, darkness crept into my office at some point for a visit and now it's here to stay, just its quiet company along with the monitor blasting eye strain, clacking keys, tight shoulders, a headache, and then—

A familiar ass plops down on my desk and scares the shit out of me.

I jerk back in the chair, wheels rolling, hand over heart to keep it from pounding free and Mason looms above it all, bathed in harsh blues, deep shadows, a deeper frown, and eyes that refuse to obey the rules of any ambient illumination.

Right now? They're crinkled soft, even as they scrutinize.

He looks… worried.

When did he even open my door?

“You okay, sweetheart?”

“…Yeah,” I mutter. A lie, an obvious one, but I fight the urge to glance away and dare him to call me out anyway. “You need something, sunshine?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You're late.”

“For what?”

We didn't make plans.

“Getting home.”

Fuck.

I sigh, slumping in the seat, and now I'm looking away, now I'm backing down, running a hand through my hair, mussing and tangling, just like he always does when he's uncertain.

And when the hell did I start doing that?

“Yeah, I'm still behind on shit from my vacation. I was gonna stay late tonight, try and catch up…” I explain, because Tina and I also didn't make plans this year.

(Because she's been marinating in smugness ever since I sighed and told her about the relationship. Because she dropped that shit-eating smirk earlier—that I remember, at least—dripping suggestion all over my office as she waggled her brows and winked and made obnoxious kissy faces until I shoved her out the door, but not before she told me to 'have lots of fun tonight, Alexandra.')

Sure.

“Sorry I didn't text. I… forgot.”

That tightness in my stomach does another loop, and I huff a quiet breath.

Stupid fucking note.

Mason folds his arms. “…The fuck is going on with you?”

Concern blunts the teeth of his words, not that there's any real bite. There never is, not with him, but I tense up anyway, expecting it, expecting to be ripped open.

Blood and pain.

I'd tense up no matter how he asked.

It's okay

(He's not Bobby.)

“Nothing,” I reply, folding my arms, eyes down, “just…”

It's okay

(He's not looking to hurt.)

Probably will anyway, but fuck it. I already know his answer.

Let's just get it over with.

“You didn't leave me a valentine earlier, did you?” My gaze snaps to his. “On my desk?”

Mason scoffs. “Why the hell would I do that?”

This time, it stabs instead of twists, higher up, somewhere in my chest. Something sharp instead of dull.

Disappointment? …Relief? I'm not sure.

Just that it stings.

And it's nighttime, so maybe he feels it too, and maybe that's why he unfolds his arms and shifts toward me, boot heel dangling by the bottom drawer while his voice drops to a softness that matches his accent. “What it say?”

“Nothing,” I repeat, even quieter than him. “Just someone fucking with me. It doesn't matter.”

It does

(Shouldn't lie, not to him. Don't need to. Don't want to, don't like it.)

Mason doesn't like it either, but he doesn't push it. Neither do I.

We look away from each other.

The office swelters around us, too stuffy, too small. Too silent and uncomfortable now to stay. I roll forward to save my work, then turn the computer off and Mason's already waiting for me by the door, a dark silhouette framed by distant fluorescent, my coat and bag hanging off his arms. He pulls me in while I put it all on, yanking me by lapels before abandoning them for the sweater on my lower back, the loose hair at my nape. His lips brush against mine in slow movements, soft nibbling, and he's whispering something to me with it all, with the strokes of his fingers and the circle of our chins, but I can't quite hear.

So ask

(He'll answer—and he won't lie.)

I swallow, then I do.

“…What kind of kiss was that?”

“Dunno.” He shrugs beneath my hands, breath tickling my face. “I want you to feel better.”

“Oh.”

A shadow flits behind his eyes.

“…And if he's still bothering you, I'm gonna break his fucking jaw again.”

I chuckle softly. “Pretty sure it wasn't him this time.”

“Good.” Mason nibbles another kiss, then smirks. “Might still do it anyway.”

That gets a laugh from both of us, one that sprawls into a pause, grey eyes locked to mine while our grins fade out and our breath catches on everything unspoken and nameless rushing in to take the space.

Honesty. It's what I try to speak. Trailing up from the emotional ooze, raw and sticky.

I hope he can fucking see it, hear it cry, but I wipe it off and whisper the words into shape anyway, cheeks flaming, just to be sure—

“I'm sorry, I just… I don't wanna talk about it now.”

—and he answers me with a brush of his mouth, with his tongue parting my lips, with the way he teases into me before licking deeper, the way he jerks our hips together then shoves, a knee between my thighs, my back into a wall, a door frame, a sharp corner, a low groan rumbling up his chest directly into mine and I hear it all this time, in his breathy panting at the edge of our kiss, the firmness in his fingers angling my face to his, the solid heat of his cock pressed hard against me, grinding slow while I cling tight and moan, I hear it all, but he sucks my lip in with a sharp inhale, rolls me around his mouth before releasing with a drag of teeth, and he murmurs it aloud anyway, just to be sure—

“I know, sweetheart. It's fine.”

—then he nips down hard, and it's hard not to smile, hard not to laugh, harder still not to nip that asshole right back, so I don't.

Hold back, that is.

Our lips are swollen and sore by the time the station door swings shut behind us.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc m #twc mason #mason x detective #mason #the detective #zfic #alex/mason #alexandra black

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suicidalcatz · 5 years

Text

DOG DAYS ARE OVER : CHAP 5

AN: Hello frens! Are you having a nice sunday? In this chapter we exchange some texts. But also we make fun of Josh just because. In the next chapter, things get complicated between the three of you... I hope you’ll like it. Please feel free to comment or send me prompts!

Pairing : Jake Kiszka x Reader

Genre : College AU

Previous parts : Prologue ; Chap 1 ; Chap 2 ; Chap 3 ; Chap 4

Masterlist : here

Chapter five : New number, who dis ?

Packing never made me feel weird before. It was friday afternoon so a majority of students were going home or, like me, to their parents' place for the week end. Most of the time I'd stay in my dorm with Mandy because we had so much homework there was no point coming home at all. I already knew for a fact that I'll be locked up in my room all week end painting, drawing, and cutting paper, but I promised I'd see them since it has been a while. My parents' cooking and comfy house usually made me impatient but not this time. I knew the boys were staying on campus because they lived far away, and it gave me mixed feelings. Part of me longed for Jake, and the feeling of his touch on my wrist was still so vivid I sometimes got the impression his hand was still here. On the other hand, he and Josh were big family guys, and seeing them missing their home so much while I was reluctant to see mine made me feel like a spoiled brat. That's why instead of calling to tell my parents I wasn't coming home this week end either, I went home to enjoy every bit of it.

My mom had already made my favorite dish, and dad was excitedly chatting about this new movie he saw on tv the other day. It felt good, I could allow myself to relax a little, take a bath, hang out with some friends for an hour or two after finishing an assignment.

Sitting at my desk, I dropped the pen and stretched my back, falling back onto the chair and looking at my work. I did good this week, so the teacher didn't make me redo any of my assignments, which was very fortunate because I still had a flyer design to create. I unfolded that one Jake gave to me and took a look at all the infos, preparing a draft of my first idea. Why they didn't let the Illustration department do the visual com design was a mystery. By the look of it I bet it was the Music and Architecture dudes who made it. There was a bunch of band names thrown in the middle, what looked like a pixelled stock image of a Santa hat in a corner, « with beer ! » in a really ugly comic bubble in another, and the worst was that they though Comic Sans was an acceptable font choice. Unbelievable. That's why we can't let Architecture dudes do anything.

Creating a decent design took me a solid two hours, which was way faster than I planned. Getting up, I studied it from a distance, looking for flaws. It wasn't the best I could've done but it was pretty cool and not printed with neon yellow paper. For now, I'll rest my head for a bit and see if I can sketch the few more ideas I came up with later on. Feeling proud of my work, I took a picture to send it to Jake. It was dark and quiet outside, and one glance at the clock confirmed my thoughts on how late it was already. Biting my lower lip, I struggled. Maybe he was sleeping.

I never texted him since he gave me his number. I mean he gave it to me so we could talk about the flyers, right ? I would've been uneasy using it for another reason. Pondering whether of not I should maybe wake him up, I started pacing in my room, tidying and touching things, stuff I did when I was nervous. My arm still had some black marker on it, faded shapes and symbols vaguely resembling numbers, like an old letter with smudged ink and discolored paper. At first I didn't wanted to wash it off. Mandy and I got so excited by it we cheered together right after school, and classmates seemed intrigued by it. The cold weather didn't allow me to show too much skin so it could look like a tattoo, or a hot guy gave me his number (which was technically true). It could look like I just wrote it myself, but it was totally lame so I didn't want to think about it. Although I really enjoyed that empowering feeling of being someone's interest, at least a little, I scrubbed it hard the same evening. I didn't know if Josh was aware of it and couldn't raise suspicion in case he wasn't. It looked like we were doing something bad, and maybe we were, I had no clue. Guys had that weird rule regarding friends dating brothers and according to Netflix romcoms I was walking on thin fucking ice so I wasn't taking any risks. To be honest I don't think Josh would mind us talking but Jake seemed like a secretive guys so if he told Josh then I'll talk about it and otherwise, I won't. I'll just go with the flow and follow his lead on this, it was safer.

It was almost 2AM when I sent the pic and left my room to get a nice cup of tea/coffee after all these efforts. By the time I got back I had one new message.

« Hi to you too »

I felt my heart jump a little when I saw his name at the top of the screen, and his first text made me smile. I got so pumped by all these design ideas that I forgot to tell him it was me. The picture made it clear enough, though, but maybe it was a bit rude of me. Taking a sip of hot tea/coffee before putting the mug on the night table, I sat on the bed, eyes still on my phone, thinking of an answer. It took me maybe too long because I kept on rereading it to be sure I wouldn't embarrass myself with a typo.

« Hi, sorry. So what do you think ? »

The phone was threwn on the blankets and I turned on the tv to make me think of something else than his future reply. Saying that I was confident would be half-true. The design was good or so I thought so, but then again tastes were all too subjectives and art was tricky. He had all the right to hate it, I wouldn't take it personally (well at least not a hundred percent...). Idly watching a re-run of some old sitcom, I continued to quietly empty my cup and switch channels without really paying attention when I heard my phone buzz and let everything down to grab it.

« I got to admit you were right, our flyers sucked, this one looks fantastic »

And maybe my cheeks started turning pink. Compliments on my art meant a lot, more than those on my personnality or physic. It was really rewarding to have someone enjoy something you created from your own hands. It felt better than any other flattery, so the reply came naturally.

« I'm so glad you like it. I had a few more ideas in stock just in case »

His next message came so fast this time that I didn't even put down my phone yet when I felt it vibrate in my palm.

« Thank you for this, I really appreciate it. I'll owe you one. »

His sweet personality made a smile spread across my face. I took the flyer in my hand again, studying it. The number of bands playing this day was surprisingly high. Some of them I knew because I either heard people talk about it, or knew the guys playing. One especially because they kept rehearsing their rap lyrics in the dorms for everybody to enjoy, which I didn't since they started loudly singing at three in the morning and ignored all my complaints about the noise of their boombox. But most of the bands, no, I didn't know. I continued watching intently the names of the bands playing as if I'll have an epiphany and guess which was Jake's. Giving up, I took my phone again to tap.

« Don't sweat it, I'm glad to help. So... which one are you... ? »

Again, the reply was faster than the first texts we exchanged, despite the late hour.

« You mean the band ? Guess you'll have to come and find out »

I raised an amused eyebrow at this. Getting cocky, aren't we ?

« Alright then, Mister Mysterious, I'll wait and see. »

« You won't regret it. », replied Jake, and for some reason my face started heating up again.

We didn't speak for several minutes, I didn't know what to say now that the topic was closed, and I had nothing to add to it. Switching channels and drinking tea/coffee didn't gave me much help either, at this hour it was either old re-runs, or tv shopping. My eyes looked at the digital alarm clock, and it was almost three in the morning. That's how I knew what to write next.

« I just thought about it, but didn't I wake you up ? »

He was fast as ever again this time, probably wide awake and without anything to do.

« No, don't worry. Rehearsing with my brothers. I'm taking a break until Sam and Josh stop arguing and find a compromise for the new song. Our friend Danny's being the peace keeper once again, I left him alone on the battlefield and went out for a smoke. »

The war metaphor made me chuckle lightly, causing my imagination to run wild. The thought went through my mind that I couldn't believe they would argue, but since they were brothers it was normal I guess, even if they seemed pretty close. Close enough to form a band together at least. I never saw Josh angry, but he had a very vivid temperament, so it wasn't really much of a surprise either. My mind wandered a bit, and I briefly wondered how Jake looked in a heated argument. Probably hot, but also intimidating. He had that kind of quiet aura that seemed like it could become suddenly agitated, like a spotless watercourse that got troubled by the rain or rocks that ricocheted on it. I couldn't explain it, but it was how my limited knowledge of him perceived it.

My phone buzzed again, and this time it was a picture that made me snort in the ugliest way possible. It was a very unflattering close up of a moody and clearly unamused Josh who looked like he was in the middle of scolding Jake for doing whatever he did that got him upset. More of it came, one after the other, for my greatest amusement, and by looking at them in order I could see his actions and movements, like a flipbook of ugly pictures of an angry Josh wearing a colorful dyed t shirt and ample pants that I assumed were his pajamas. The last one got me shaking with laughter, poor Josh looked awful, in a middle of what I assumed was a menacing speech for Jake to stop his bullshit, with an eye half closed and his mouth stuck the weirdest twist of the lips humanly possible. I saved this one as blackmail material, might be helpful in the future.

I didn't even know what to respond to that, they all radiated such chaotic energy it was splendid. Jake was quicker, and sent me a text this time, saying Josh threw his slipper at his face and that he was lucky he hadn't had the tambourine in his hands at that moment.

« I guess rehearsal is over for today, hopefully they'll make up their minds about the song tomorrow. Thanks again for the flyers, see you on monday, we'll print them. »

I never knew I'd be that impatient to go back to school before meeting him.

#gvf fic #gvf x reader #gvf imagine #gvf fanfic #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszka fic #jake kiszka imagine #josh kiszka fic #greta van fleet fic #greta van fleet imagine #greta van fleet #jake kiszka

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timelordthirteen · 5 years

Text

Some Other Time - Part 3

Mr. Gold/Lacey French, Explicit

Summary: College student Lacey dumps her boyfriend and needs a new apartment, it just so happens her professor, Dr. Gold, has a room to rent.

Chapter Summary: Following Gold’s post-shower, full frontal mishap, Lacey attends one of his classes and things get...suggestive.

Notes: @prissyhalliwell prompted me for Lacey flirting with Gold while he was trying to teach a class and this is what happened. Welcome to my Golden Lace roommates verse. There is probably more to come. Asks and prompts welcome. Please note the rating change and some updated tags on AO3.

I barely spellchecked this so it’s probably awful and riddled with typos. I’m sorry.

[AO3]

Gold managed to avoid Lacey for three days after the incident in the hallway.

He didn’t think he could face her again, or the inevitable disgust in her eyes when she recalled the sight of him stark naked. It was entirely possible for them to never see each other at all if she used the back stairs to leave her apartment and went out through the mudroom door to the parking pad where her car sat. As it was, he’d taken to leaving about twenty minutes earlier than usual, just so he didn’t have to say good morning as they got ready to leave.

Unfortunately, it was Wednesday, which meant he’d be forced to see her as they swapped classrooms in the middle of the afternoon. He moved briskly down the corridor, laptop and materials tucked under his arm, hoping to appear in such a rush that she wouldn’t be offended if he didn’t stay to chat as he usually did. Breezing into the room, he set his computer down and flipped open the manilla folder on top of it before he realized he hadn’t seen Lacey in the hallway as expected.

Frowning, he looked up from his lecture notes to see her sitting at the back of the room, on the top tier of the seating. The middle row was open all the way up to the desk in the middle where she sat, putting her very long legs right at his eye level. Every time he would lift his head to glance around the room he’d be distracted by her crossing and uncrossing her limbs from beneath her short leather skirt. And she’d probably be distracted by the horrible memory of his nakedness.

She grinned and gave him a little wave, which he feebly returned as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “What are you doing here?”

Lacey rolled her eyes. “Hello to you too.”

Gold shook his head. She didn’t seem disgusted, and he thought about just apologizing outright, but this was hardly the place to bring up what had happened. “Yes, right, sorry, Miss French. I just wasn’t expecting you to have taken a sudden interest in the history of the Middle Ages.”

She laughed. “Not so much. What part are you covering?”

He did his best not to look at her as he connected his laptop to the projector cable and laid out his notes. “The 9th century.”

“Ooooh,” she replied, leaning forward on her desk. “Saxon England and the reign of King Alfred. Maybe I should hang out here?”

“If you like...” he said, glancing up at her with some suspicion. She didn’t dislike history, but he knew the early history of England and Europe was far from her favorite period. “What’s the occasion?”

She sat back and shrugged. “Mal’s sick, so she offered to spot me 20 points on my final essay for Contemporary Lit and Cultural Theory if I covered her 11 o’clock, and since those points might be the difference between a very blah B or squeezing out an A minus…I accepted.”

“So...you’ll be staying?” he asked, swallowing hard as the first few students entered the room.

Lacey nodded and uncrossed her legs to twist sideways in the chair and lean her elbow on the narrow edge of the desk. The motion tugged on her skirt and made it ride higher on her thighs, and he could feel a trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.

“It made more sense to just stay put than trek halfway across campus to the library, stay for ten minutes, and then come all the way back.” Then she flashed a crooked smile at him and flipped open her notebook. “Think of it like me auditing the class.”

“Great,” Gold muttered under his breath, cuing up the presentation he had prepared as more students started to take their seats. None of them gave Lacey no more than a passing glance, and he hoped that once he got going on his lecture she would fade into the background and it would be like she wasn’t even there.

He was wrong. So very wrong.

“His death -”

Lacey scribbled something in her notebook as her lips closed around the lollipop in her hand. She’d pulled it out a few minutes ago and his concentration had immediately fled. The room had three levels of chairs and desks, but it was not a large lecture hall. The tiers were relatively narrow and crowded, making it so he could easily see the way her wrist twisted as she turned the candy in her mouth, no doubt swirling it against her tongue.

It was too easy to imagine her mouth doing the same thing to his cock, holding it, sucking it, lapping at it with her hot little tongue.

Gold coughed and slipped behind the small podium as he tried to resume teaching. “His death changed the political landscape for Alfred. There was a power vacuum among the Danes, allowing -”

A light pop could be heard as she pulled the candy out and then slurped at it with her lips. She wrote down something else, the lolli held inches away from her mouth in her other hand. As soon as she was done, her head dipped, taking it back into her mouth.

He shifted from one foot to the other and swallowed. “Allowing, um, -” His trousers were getting tight, and she looked up, meeting his eyes as she reached for the little white stick again and opened her mouth. “Allowing warlords to take Guthrum’s place, and -

She drew the candy over her tongue, holding his gaze and pushing her tongue out so he could see how pink and wet it was. Then she caught the round ball in her teeth and smiled around it.

There was a loud clattering sound and a murmur went through the room as the students looked between each other and then to Gold. His eyes were fixed on Lacey, who very nonchalantly went back to her notebook, sucker tucked into the hollow of her cheek like nothing of any consideration had happened. Someone laughed and then he looked down, ignoring the slight bulge under his belt, to see the remote for the projector on the floor, the battery cover popped off, and two triple A batteries rolling around.

He took a deep breath and fixed the class with a hard stare. “And bringing about the end of the quiet years.”

The shifting stopped and he saw Lacey watching, her eyes looking up through the fringe of hair that fell over her forehead. He looked pointed at his watch, and felt a surge of relief when he saw it was ten till the hour.

“For next time,” he said, pausing to pound the tip of his cane against the floor. The students immediately snapped back to attention, and he affected his most authoritative tone. “The Danish attacks of the 890s, and legal reform in Wessex. Read from page 387 to 450 in Wormald by Monday.”

Gold let out a slow breath as chairs and desks squeaked, and students shuffled out of the room. He busied himself with closing down his laptop and sliding his notes back into their folder, remaining behind the podium just in case.

When he was finished, he looked up to see an empty room. Lacey had left as well, taking her bag and notebook and jacket, leaving no indication that she was returning to teach a class. He frowned and looked towards the door, half expecting to see her standing there, white stick hanging out of her mouth and a smirk on her lips. But the door was closed and he was alone.

Sighing, he bent and gathered up the projector remote and batteries, reassembling it before he left. He had two hours in his office after this, and then his afternoon graduate class, which should remain blissfully free of erotic distractions.

It puzzled him why Lacey was there if she ended up not staying for the class she was supposed to cover, but he supposed Professor Mallory might have just canceled it instead. He was surprised Lacey didn’t just slip out the back, which left him with the very confusing and strange conclusion that she had stayed intentionally.

If that was the case, then were her antics with the sucker also intentional? The way she had opened her mouth and lewdly traced the candy down her tongue was - He shook his head and shifted his laptop and folder, holding it down by his belt. It was preposterous to assume she had done it on purpose, unless her intention was to make him embarrassed and uncomfortable. The alternative was that she wanted the very reaction she’d received, to arouse and tease, to taunt him with the possibility of sexual pleasure.

To show him what she might do to him.

Gold shivered and hurried down the hall, hoping to make it back to his office before his mind wandered further and his traitorous body followed.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #golden lace #golden lace fic #some other time #fic #my golden lace fic #my rumbelle fic

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terresdebrume · 6 years

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Spin Control reread: 2. Arena Talk With Flickerman

Aaand we’re back for chapter two! I’ve slept four hours ish last night (and it’s now half past 9pm) so please forgive any typo or weirdness the spellchecker doesn’t take care of ^^’ @trovia, @princess-nell, this is your call before we start :3

Also, the way I did this chapter is a little different from the others. For the prologue and chapter 1, I wrote my comments down as I read through the story but in this case I read the full chapter first and I’m going back on it now, for the simple reason that I was as confused as Finnick about the turn of events.

See, this chapter starts on the evening of Haymitch’s very public overdose, as Finnick gets ‘invited’ to participate in a talk show where Haymitch and his alcoholism are very obviously going to be the center of attention. Finnick is kind of confused as to why he’d be invited except for looking pretty ‘while other people [use] the big words’. It took me until the end of the chapter to realize it but actually, yeah, I’m pretty sure being pretty is exactly what Finnick was called for.

Because the other guests on that talk show?

Mags, an eighty-ish years old woman whose refusal to upgrade her prosthetics is already making it harder for people to understand her.

Chaff, a nearing-fifty alcoholic with a stump and a rather caustic attitude

Terence from District 6 who looks closer to Mag’s age than his actual sixty years and has a morphling addiction problem.

In other words, Caesar Flickerman now has to host a program with three walking reminders that life doesn’t stay pretty forever or for everyone (after all, you can make an argument that Mags is just old, but there’s no way you can pretend like Chaff and Terence’s lack of compliance with Capitol beauty standards aren’t linked to their games, even if most of your population is eager to pretend it is). That’s already three reminders too many for a government trying to normalize and glamourize the Hunger Games until its victims have to say thanks for being sent to the slaughterhouse and punished for it afterward. So what do you do? You throw your local sex-on-legs eye-candy in there so people have something nice to look at while other people discuss the utter mess that is Haymitch’s life. It’s brutal packaging is what it is, down to Finnick’s clothes actually:

After a remake session with Cherry, his stylist, and her team, [Finnick] was trying to get comfortable in his chair despite the excuse for a pair of pants he wore, while the studio lights burned down on him and Flickerman discussed Haymitch Abernathy’s alcoholism, which was still a disease.

Also I have to say I like that this sentence starts with Finnick’s discomfort with an outfit clearly meant for the audience more than for him, and ends with a reminder to himself that Haymitch isn’t completely lost yet. It’s like he glances at his own predicament and trauma then subconsciously steers himself back to the more pressing issue. It’s both a touching sow of solidarity and care toward Haymitch and a heartbreaking dismissal of himself...which, in turn, is an excellent and subtle reminder that it isn’t like Finnick lives in a world that will ever allow him to heal anyway.

Oh, and:

Finnick tried to avoid looking at Terence’s long sleeves, such an uncommon styling choice in a boiling hot television studio, covering up puncture wounds of Morphling needles. Before the show, Finnick had walked in on him shooting himself up in the men’s room. As far as he knew, Terence had never once sobered up since he’d won the 26th Games with a knife and a garrote.

Just in case there was any doubt left that the Capitol (specifically president Snow, but also many people who do not use their brains so they don’t have to come to accurate conclusions) cares more about the Victors’ use as narrative devices than as persons. Not that the people reading SC would have any doubt about that (or at least, they wouldn’t survive very long) but it’s still a good reminder to get. And boy do we get some more.

Chaff took control of the conversation without prompting and did what needed doing on the victors’ end to keep Haymitch alive, swiftly building on the news coverage by weaving a story of loneliness and fame and social responsibility, a term Finnick hadn’t been aware the Capitol actually ever used for anything.

You know, I said in my prologue post that Haymitch’s friends didn’t fully realize what situation he was in and I stand by that, but just because they didn’t realize doesn’t mean they didn’t care. Chaff is putting himself on the line here, subtle as it may be. Also the fic may be in Finnick’s pov, which means one of the more perceptive Victors is our guide here, but that doesn’t take away from the others’ ability to observe and/or toe the line when needed I mean:

“Well yeah, all the signs were there for me to see though and I didn’t, right?” Chaff replied. “All the signs were there, but I didn’t want to see. I didn’t realize how hard it must be for Haymitch, only victor of Twelve and all and always the only mentor for the two tributes, too. He never gets to sleep properly during the Games until they’re both out, did you know that? Probably used the alcohol to stay awake.”

After delivering that last statement with a sorrowful face as if it actually had made any sense, he paused.

Of course Chaff’s statement doesn’t make any sense: it starts with the truth and ends with a Capitol-PR-ready, ‘but of course he was only trying to serve you’ when Haymitch’s entire life at this point is basically the most long-term suicide attempt ever seen. It’s lucky Chaff isn’t the only one who cares and the others pick up the thread before it can start to unravel:

“The public often underestimates how stressful the life of a victor can become,” [Mags] said […]. “It is especially hard for victors if they are supposed to be performing as mentor but failing. It is a great honor to be a mentor, victors are always anxious to succeed. It can be too much, honestly. I have seen this playing out many times. We put ourselves under pressure. One can get overwhelmed.”

“That’s what it was like for me, too,” Terence agreed with his grainy old voice, having aged prematurely. He could as well have been Mags’ age instead of only sixty. “The responsibility was weighing down on me. Not just to the Capitol, who I owed so much, but also to my tributes.”

“We all want to be at our best during the Games,” Chaff concluded.

“What do you think, Finnick?” Flickerman addressed him with a face of rapt interest. He usually adopted that same expression when he told Finnick to get on his knees and suck him off in his dressing room, as if it was a great adventure they were undertaking together.

Okay, sorry to ruin the beautiful moment of solidarity (because even with their limited means, everyone on this side of the talk show is doing what they can to help Haymitch out) with Flickerman being a creepy douche, but considering it’s been established that the topic of Finnick using drugs was supposed to be off-limits (implicitly, but still) I can’t help but wonder if this is Flickerman deciding to toe the line just so he can have Finnick under his thumb again, and that only make him even more gross.

“I am worried about Mr. Abernathy, I am. This is going to be a difficult case,” the doctor told the camera. “As therapists, we see this every day. Yes, we can help this patient to detoxify and send him on his way. Will he have lost his attitude problem? No. He will drink again, and we cannot blame him for that. It will be almost impossible for him to not drink without undergoing extensive therapy first. It would even be so if he was a Capitol citizen, held to our higher standards of restraint. In my professional opinion, Mr. Abernathy is not fit to fulfill his duties by himself and he will not be for a long time to come. You cannot expect this man to act as the sole mentor for his district any longer.”

Okay, first of all, this doctor may have understandable reasons somewhere but he’s still participating in the vile hostage-holding of Haymitch by helping to lay out the bricks for a Capitol-issued miracle narrative, but also the sheer hypocrisy in the bolded part is astounding, even though I knew it was coming. The levels of willful blindness you have to maintain for this sentence to be even remotely acceptable are staggering, even higher than Effie’s disdain of the District Twelve tributes who didn’t know how to eat with forks and knives. It’s even worse to read after having seen the actual canon party where people puke just so they can eat again. And then they have the gall to talk about the Capitol’s higher standards of restraint. Ugh.

“So there is the pressing matter of District Twelve’s participation in this 72nd Hunger Games,” Flickerman continued when the feed was cut off […]. “There are two young tributes at the Training Center now, anxiously waiting for a mentor to prepare them for the Games as we speak. It doesn’t seem like it will be Haymitch. Furthermore, there is the matter of Haymitch handling mentorship in the future. Mags.”

“Well, there is precedence, of course,” Mags said. While she answered promptly, Finnick could see that a guarded expression had crossed her face. She wasn’t clear on what angle on this topic would most likely help the victors and Haymitch. Haymitch, who would have to step in front of a camera once the hospital released him, working with what they delivered right now and telling the public whatever Snow expected. Haymitch, who wouldn’t retire because none of them were allowed to retire. “District Twelve is special even now, it’s the only district with only one mentor. I remember a time when there would always be a district or two that would not be able to provide their own mentors at all. District Twelve was the most recent district without a district victor as mentor, actually, before Haymitch himself won the second Quarter Quell. Four years before, Twelve’s first victor, Swagger – he had died in a terrible accident, I remember…”

Oh my, I remember reading that part and taking so long to process the actual meaning of it with regards to Haymitch’s situation because I was too busy thinking ‘OKAY THIS IS IT FINNICK IS MOVING’. Which is entirely not supposed to be the only point of the scene (and it definitely isn’t as soon as you spare even a second to remove the shipping goggles) but well. It’s be untruthful to pretend like that didn’t happen ^^’

“Oh, of course.” Flickerman shook his head sadly. “He fell and broke his neck, I believe…”

“Yes,” Mags agreed with a nod of gratitude, although the way Finnick had been told the story, Shane “Swagger” March had fallen and broken his neck only insofar that he had kicked away the chair he had been standing on, a noose wrapped around said neck. “Swagger had died, so Lyra Ingram from District Two moved to Twelve as substitute…”

Okay I’d quote the entire exchange about past Victors who mentored for Twelve in a more or less temporary fashion but that would make for waaaay too big a quote-block. That being said, having Finnick’s fact-checking commentary to rely on is both painful and invaluable. It’s a much more knowledgeable pov than Katniss’ because contrary to her, Finnick has insider knowledge. He’s been doing this long enough to have learned the truth, a bullet which Katniss dodged in canon. It also works to make the reader dislike (ha) the Capitol on a much wider level than Katniss’ pov initially does. A lot of the deaths she acknowledges (or speculates about, though with very little risk of error) are abstracts at first. In her first game, Rue is the only kid Katniss really cares about aside from Peeta. Later, we start with Seneca Crane, then the old man from Eleven, and then the deaths get progressively closer to home.

But here with Finnick, they already are hitting home. Not just because every Victor who died knew Mags and/or him directly, but because every instance of this is a reminder that Finnick is only one displeased president away from being the next on the list of suicides and/or suspicious accidents.

“So was there a call for mentors and they volunteered?” It took Finnick a second to recognize his own voice, because he hadn’t known he would open his mouth before he heard himself say the words. This wasn’t really supposed to be his show. Uneasily, he sat up in his chair, the cameras all on him now, while he spoke on, the words still just tumbling out of his mouth. “How did it work? Were they just chosen?” In the corner of his eye, he could see the other victors’ eyes turning towards him briefly when they wondered about his angle.

“Now Finnick, that would be quite cruel,” Flickerman laughed. “Forcing a victor to move to another district and leave their loved ones behind just like that.”

Finnick forced an unconcerned smile on his face, shrugging it off. “Seems to me like it would be a great honor,” he replied, half automatically, following the victors’ cardinal rule – when in doubt, call it an honor. “I’m sure a lot of victors would be greedy for the opportunity.”

Look at the gears already turning in Finnick’s head! Of course he’s good at split second decisions and rapid thinking under pressure. Even Annie, who Katniss describes as having only won her games through luck (which is only true insofar as any Victor only gets there thanks to a number of favorable conditions) wouldn’t have survived the flooding of her arena if she hadn’t been able to make good decisions while swimming, and Finnick made a lot of these good decisions at fourteen, there’s no reason to think he’d have lost the ability now at twenty-one.

It hurt Finnick to see, knowing [Mags] was trying to help him out before he could do something stupid. But he didn’t want to be stopped. He suddenly really didn’t want to be stopped.

Honestly it kind of hurts to picture what could be going through Mags’ head at this moment, too. She’s got a wife and children with her in Four. She managed to build herself a family that, presumably, helped her to keep going. Most likely, several other Victors have found similar solace in their families. It makes sense for them to think Finnick’s family would have the same sort of positive impact on him, but that’s not where Finnick is coming from. And since he never told people about his problems with being in Four (and can’t very well explain it now) it makes sense that they’d be scared shitless for him when the previous victors’ moving could only have been punishments.

(Because of course it is. No one moves out of their district unless specifically instructed to, and Snow simply doesn’t do gifts, let alone gifts that would potentially allow people to form unmonitored inter-districts connections when his whole system relies heavily on keeping each district in the dark as to what its neighbors do.)

Oh course, Finnick plays the audience like a fiddle. Even in canon, if you think about it, his particularly infamous reputation as a heartthrob is already evidence that he knows how to maintain his image, and the later revelation that he ‘gets paid’ in secrets is also indicative of his knowing exactly how important presentation is...so really, it’s not that surprising, even if it takes him a couple minutes to get the audience around to his point of view.

What I am a little more surprised by is this:

Because any victor, given the chance, would have taken the opportunity to run away.

I don’t know if this is me misreading things but it sounds to me like that isn’t quite as absolutely true as Finnick makes it sound. Certainly he would take any opportunity to run away that didn’t get his family killed, but I’m not sure everyone else would, not when there’s already of history of what happens if you fail as a guest mentor—as well as what happens if you succeed too much, as well.

It was only in moments like this anymore that he felt like his body was his own, starkly aware of how it still was such a powerful weapon, how he could still use it to kill if need be even seven years after he’d won.

Very consciously, he drew a breath and released it again like he would before he attacked.

Chaff was throwing him a sharp look, his face guarded now – the expression of a tribute suspecting that his alliance was falling apart.

Oh yeah. You know how Katniss and Finnick took one look at the Capitol streets in Mockingjay and declared the 76th Hunger Games open? Yeah. This is an extension of that, in that the games never really end for anyone (in some ways, they never really start, either, you just go from a nameless pawn in Snow’s machinery to a named, visible and important piece).

It’s also the first hint we get of Finnick, in some respect, regretting his days in the arena, which doesn’t make sense until you realize Finnick (or Victors in general) never had as much control on his own fate as he did during the Games. Back then, it was up to him to figure out how to survive, to be quick enough to kill before he got killed. It’s tragic and horrible to think, but Finnick was empowered in the arena in a way that he isn’t here, because he can’t do anything without having to worry about a heap of very literally life-or-death problems.

Like I said, this is the first hint of that, and I didn’t pick up on it until later but honestly when I did it made so much sense to me, and it’s a pleasure to see the seeds of that particular thread sowed this early in the story.

“Finnick,” Mags said softly, reaching up to take his face into both of her hands. “Finnick, lad, what did you just do?”

Instead of replying, Finnick closed his eyes and turned his head away.

Never again, he thought. Mags, his parents, Keanu and Perri – his older brothers who both looked at him as if he’d gone Capitol – Coral, his kid sister who was of Reaping age now and slowly figuring out what exactly it meant when he was shown with all those movie stars and politicians on the television. All these people who meant so much to him that it hurt to think about. Soon, he would never have to look at any of them ever again. So he had become … he’d become that man, so what… at least his family wouldn’t have to see it.

They’d never learn his secrets, how fucked up he’d become. The things he thought about when he was alone at night, waking up from those dreams he’d never told anybody about.

Oh, Finnick. He’s so ashamed of his own trauma and the way it presents itself, and I mean it’s not like it’s all that surprising because trauma is an ugly beast at the best of time, filled to the brim with things that don’t make sense and illogical reactions all around...having to live with it under scrutiny, surrounded by people who don’t get it (at best) or judge you for it (at worst, though I don’t remember Finnick’s family being confirmed to go one way or the other) and don’t really have the means to help even if they want to, honestly just makes tings worse. I suppose it’s time I brought my ‘blanket burrito’ moments count up to two.

“No,” Mags replied sadly behind him. “I wish you had been allowed to be, though.”

Thanks for breaking my heart, Mags. And then, of course:

President Snow wanted a word.

#My Posts #Hunger Games #Spin Control #princess nell #trovia #Matt reads #LR: Spin Control

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adrianna-m-scovill · 6 years

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Barisi fic #2

I wrote around 1500 words of this, my second attempt at a Barba/Carisi story, at work yesterday but didn’t have time to finish it last night. I THOUGHT I would have it done shortly after getting home this afternoon. I had promised someone that I would post it this evening. But, well, several hours later it was at 5000+ words and still going. Finally finished around 10:30pm at just shy of 7000 words. I don’t even know how I let that happen, to be honest. I can’t objectively decide if it sucks or not, so I’m just going to post it. I’ll probably regret it in the morning. I just read it through once and fixed a few typos, but I’m not doing a rewrite. Some of it’s clunky - or perhaps the whole thing is clunky, but hopefully there are a few good moments.

Not explicit, although if I’d had more time...LOL

“Ah, look who’s slumming it. What brings you to our neck of the woods, Detective?”

“Who doesn’t love a Christmas party?” Carisi asked, running a hand over the front of his festive shirt. The room was filled with lawyers and judges—and some of their spouses—most in casual clothes, some in holiday garb, a few in suits. Carisi had compromised, wearing jeans—and his Christmas sweater over his shirt and tie.

“I know your squad usually meets in a bar,” the other man said.

“There’s a bar here.”

“Having a bar doesn’t make it a bar. Nice sweater.”

Carisi smiled. “Point taken. Can I get you another—”

“Don’t mind him, Carisi,” Barba said, stepping up beside the cop. “He only likes clothes that are shiny. Thinks they look more expensive.”

The other lawyer rolled his eyes. “Fashion advice from the man who wears pink shirts to court. Speaking of—isn’t this the same suit you wore to court today?”

“It is!” Barba exclaimed, grinning. “It’s very expensive, it’d be a shame to waste it.”

“At least this shirt isn’t pink,” the other man said.

“I have to say, your obsession with the color of my wardrobe is flattering,” Barba said, raising his eyebrows.

The other man made a sound somewhere between annoyance and disgust, and turned his attention back to Carisi. “You guys really screwed the pooch on the Riley case.”

Carisi bristled in spite of himself. “It’s not SVU’s fault the guy—”

“Down, boy,” Barba said, shooting him a sideways look before focusing on the other lawyer. “Sometimes Griggs just needs to talk until his brain can catch up.”

“I know you’re feeling pretty chummy with your cop buddies, lately, Barba, but remember, no matter how much they smile at you—they don’t let anyone else behind that thin blue line. Don’t forget which side you’re on.”

“We’re all on the same side, aren’t we?” Carisi asked, glancing from Barba to Griggs. “Justice, law and order, don’t we all just wanna put away the bad guys?”

“Besides, he’s not just a cop, didn’t he pass his bar exam?” a woman asked, appearing at Carisi’s other side with a smile.

“On his first try, in fact!” Barba told Griggs. He pursed his lips and tilted his head, considering. “Remind me—was it four times, or only three—”

“Alright,” Griggs said. “Nice chat.” He tipped his glass and started to turn away.

Barba called after him, “The prosecution rests.”

Griggs looked back. “If your buddies keep screwing up your cases, give the DA my name when he’s looking for your replacement.”

“Oh, trust me, he has your name,” Barba returned. “It’s in the file marked no way in Hell. But your concern for my career is sweet.” Without waiting for a response, he turned his back on Griggs and, smiling at the woman beside Carisi, said, “So, Counselor, this is Detective Carisi. I taught him everything he knows, just not everything I know. Carisi, this is Abigail Griggs, niece of that unpleasant blowhard who just left, but don’t let that deter you.”

Carisi smiled at her and held out his hand. “Call me Sonny,” he said.

“Abby,” she returned.

“He uses that line on everyone, just so you know,” Barba told her.

“If you want, I can introduce you around,” Abby said, returning Carisi’s smile. She glanced at Barba. “As long as you’re not tied to—”

“No, Ms. Griggs, he is off-leash tonight. Have at it.” Barba turned toward Carisi, clapped him on the shoulder and, leaning in so that his own shoulder brushed Carisi’s chest, said, “Don’t do anything I would.”

Carisi laughed in spite of himself, shaking his head.

With a quick pat on the arm, Barba said, “You kids have fun,” and sauntered away into the crowd, leaving Carisi and Abby alone in the middle of the room.

Carisi looked at Abby and rolled his eyes. “Sorry about him,” he said. “He’s, uh…well. You know. Barba,” he finished with a shrug and a smile.

“Oh, believe me, I know ADA Barba,” Abby laughed. “Most aspiring lawyers would kill for a chance to shadow him, but I doubt most would last as long as you have.”

“He’s the best,” Carisi said with a shrug. “No way I would’ve learned as much from anyone else, not so soon.”

“I’ve seen you two around the courthouse. He seems to ride you pretty hard—If you want to follow someone else around for a while, I can make that happen. You could get a little of the spotlight on you, for a change. We all know that nothing makes Barba happier than a press conference and a soapbox.”

“He gives credit when it’s due,” Carisi said. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure, thanks.” As they turned toward the bar, Carisi’s touch at her arm was light, and she stepped closer to his side as they wove through the groups of people. “I’d ask how you convinced him to let you observe, but I imagine he just liked the idea of a lackey to whom he could show off—”

“At first I think he was doing it as a favor to my lieutenant, actually,” Carisi said. They ordered their drinks and, while they waited, he gestured toward the room with his chin and said, “So, is this our taxpayer money at work, or what?”

“The NYPD doesn’t have their Christmas parties in a place like this?” she asked, feigning surprise.

“Not so much, no,” he laughed. He looked around. He spotted Barba—the ADA had his hand on a judge’s arm, and he was leaned in close to her ear, grinning as he said something in a low voice. She suddenly threw her head back and laughed, and her fingers brushed against Barba’s chest. Everything about their body language screamed of flirtation, but Carisi wasn’t surprised. Barba flirted with everyone. “You work at your uncle’s firm?” Carisi asked, turning his attention to Abby as they picked up their drinks and thanked the bartender.

“For now,” she answered. “But he’s alright, really. He and Barba are just…competitive.”

“Aren’t all lawyers?” he asked.

She laughed. “Touché. Really, you should come by, feel it out. Not always as high-stakes pressure as the DA’s office, maybe, but we do what we can.”

“Victims deserve justice no matter how much their face is on the news,” Carisi said.

“Ah, so you’re a purist,” she joked. “Barba hasn’t made you a cynic, yet?”

“Barba? He’s no cynic, I promise you,” Carisi answered with a laugh. They were walking, slowly, and it was no accident that her arm kept brushing against his. “No one has a stronger desire for justice.”

“No one has a bigger ego,” she countered.

“Let’s talk about something other than work,” he suggested. “Tell me about you, did you grow up in New York?”

“Pennsylvania, actually,” she said. “Here.” She put her hand at his sleeve, and he followed her lead as she turned toward a group of men and women.

“Hey, the cops are here,” one of the men joked as they approached, and Carisi smiled. The man held out a hand. “Detective…what was it? Something Italian, right?”

“Carisi, call me Sonny.”

“Trent LeBlanc.”

Shaking his hand, Carisi said, “French, huh?”

“Booyah,” a voice behind him said, and Carisi glanced over his shoulder to see Barba sauntering past, smirking. “Mr. LeBlanc went to McGill, as he’s no doubt about to tell you. Try to contain yourself,” he added, without stopping. He was on his way toward the bar.

“Mr. Barba’s right,” LeBlanc said. “I hate when that happens.” The group laughed, and LeBlanc continued, “French-Canadian. Take half a point. How’s Fordham Law’s night program, these days? I hear good things.” The group laughed again, looking to Carisi for his reaction.

“Seemed to work out pretty well for me,” Carisi said.

“Did you mention the whole passing-the-bar-on-the-first-try, thing?” Barba asked, passing by in the opposite direction, with two glasses in each hand. “Guaranteed crowd-pleaser in this place.”

“Care to explain what happened to the Riley case, Barba?” LeBlanc called after him.

“Maybe later,” Barba answered without looking back. Carisi watched him stop in front of the pretty judge and offer her a glass, before handing drinks to the two lawyers—one male, one female—who’d joined them. Barba said something in a low voice, and all three of his companions laughed.

“That case falling apart wasn’t the fault of the DA’s office,” Abby said, putting her hand inside the crook of Carisi’s elbow. “Even Barba—”

“He got cocky, and he got sloppy,” LeBlanc cut in. “But we all have to rely on a little vetting by the NYPD,” he added, turning his gaze to Carisi.

“None of us knew the witness was going to lie on the stand,” Carisi answered. “And Pierre had a good lawyer. She played the jury—”

“She’s not here, you don’t have to worry,” LeBlanc cut in. “She’s probably somewhere throwing a party of her own, celebrating the way we all do when we take Barba down a notch. In court, of course,” he added, with a toothy smile that fell short of his eyes.

“Those parties must be few and far between,” Carisi said, with a smile of his own.

The others laughed, and one of them clapped LeBlanc on the shoulder, saying, “He’s got us there, Trent.”

“Speaking of parties,” Carisi added, gesturing toward LeBlanc with his glass, “Didn’t you have the case last month with that, uh—what was his name? The party on the yacht—Anderson, the Cole Anderson trial, that was you, right? I was wondering why you didn’t use the Burke v. Young precedent to argue—”

“Didn’t apply,” LeBlanc interrupted, and it was clear that a nerve had been struck.

“Really? Barba and I both agreed—”

“Please, like any of us believe that Rafael Barba considers your opinions—or anyone’s. He’s the be-all and end-all of judicial law—in his mind, anyway.”

“I guess the highest conviction rate in five boroughs’ll do that to a guy,” Carisi shot back.”

“Ho, ho, checkmate,” one of the lawyers said, clapping LeBlanc on the shoulder, and LeBlanc forced a smile as his companions chuckled.

“Oh, Sonny, come on,” Abby said, pulling on his arm. “I want to introduce you to Judge Samuels.”

“Pleasure talking with you, Detective,” LeBlanc said.

“Likewise,” Carisi returned, nodding toward the others in the group before following Abby’s tug on his arm. “This is a tough room,” he muttered, leaning toward her ear. “What’s the deal? Barba might be…an acquired taste, but—”

“Most of the men in the room want to be him, most of the women want to sleep with him,” Abby said. “And then there’s some crossover.”

Carisi considered that in silence.

“Judge Samuels, this is Detective Sonny Carisi,” Abby said, as they stopped in front of a female judge that Carisi recognized.

“Ah, yes, you were in my courtroom last week,” Samuels said. “Please tell me you’re not going to pick up the grandstanding habits of your mentor, Mr. Barba, Detective Carisi?”

“Let’s just say his flair for the dramatic isn’t my style,” Carisi answered, but his smile felt a little sickly. He didn’t like all the jabs at Barba, not when the man wasn’t in the conversation to defend himself. Before he could say something to change the subject, the judge, seeming to read his expression, spoke again.

“Don’t get me wrong, Detective, I have the utmost respect for the ADA. His…flair for the dramatic, as you put it, might get tiring but it’s never boring, and no one could ever argue he doesn’t get results. The Riley case was a tough one for all of us to stomach, but I have complete faith that the NYPD will find another angle at that—if you’ll forgive me—son of a bitch. The SVU’s conviction rate is almost as impressive as the Manhattan DA’s, now that he’s given Barba a longer leash.”

“I appreciate that, Your Honor, we do our best. I wouldn’t bet against Lieutenant Benson.”

The judge laughed. “Nor would I,” she said. “I know Olivia—I’ve seen her in my court more often than most of the lawyers here. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, nodding across the room as someone caught her attention.

“Of course,” Carisi said, as the judge sidled past him. He looked at Abby. She’d finished her drink, although he’d barely sipped his own. He gestured toward her glass with his chin. “Refill?” he asked.

She smiled; she still had hold of his arm, and he had no complaints. She had pretty green eyes that lit up each time he smiled at her. She wore minimal makeup, just enough to accent her natural beauty, and the curve of her lips made it nearly impossible not to imagine kissing her. Her confidence was sexy, and even though she hadn’t said much, Carisi knew she was one of the smartest people in the room. He could see it in her attentive gaze, knew that she didn’t miss a thing.

“You smell nice,” he told her, leaning down to murmur it in her ear. From the corner of his eye, he saw her lips curve even further, saw the dimple peek out of her cheek, and he grinned at the pressure of her fingers on his arm.

“Yes, I could use a refill,” she said, and he laughed, straightening. “Unless you want to share?” she asked, nodding toward his glass. “Not much of a drinker?”

Before he could answer, two men stepped up to them. One, Carisi recognized; the other he didn’t.

“Judge Piro, right?” he asked, handing his drink to Abby before shaking the judge’s hand. She set her empty glass on a nearby table and sipped at Carisi’s drink.

“Sure, but it’s Christmas,” Piro said. “Call me Ted. Detective Carisi, this is Gary Fellows. We have a friendly little wager going, and need your help to settle it.”

“Glad to do what I can,” Carisi said, thinking, Please don’t be about Barba or the Riley case.

“How many doughnuts would you say your squad goes through in a week? On average?” Fellows asked.

Carisi laughed. “Never ask a cop to betray squad secrets,” he answered.

Piro leaned forward, and said, “In all seriousness, though, you guys help us all sleep a little easier at night. We see a lot, but none of us could do what you all do. Cops and lawyers—working together, they’re essential, but they’re of different species. I know you’re playing your hand at lawyer, for a bit—”

“‘So we must be careful about what we pretend to be,’” Barba said, suddenly appearing beside Carisi to flash a grin at Piro and Fellows. “Kurt Vonnegut,” he added, even though no one asked.

“Good to see you, Mr. Barba,” Piro said. “You know Gary?”

“I do,” Barba said, still smiling, his eyes twinkling as he looked at Fellows. “Delightful to see you again, as always, Mr. Fellows,” he added.

Carisi looked at Gary Fellows and realized that the man was blushing.

“And excellent ruling last week, Judge Piro,” Barba said. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

“No one talks his way around a circle quite like you, Rafael,” Piro answered, both exasperated and amused.

“‘I’m in no one’s circle. I’ve always been an outsider,’” Barba said. “Any guesses who said that?”

“Shakespeare?” Fellows muttered.

Barba laughed. “Excellent use of sarcasm, Mr. Fellows, but no—Although Shakespeare did say ‘The wheel is come full circle.’ For future reference.”

Fellows raised his glass and quickly swallowed the last of his drink.

“Can I get you another?” Barba asked, pointing at the glass. “I’m on my way there, now.”

“Uh,” Fellows said, glancing around. “I’ll walk with you.”

Barba patted Carisi on the shoulder on his way past.

“Wait, who said the thing about being an outsider?” Abby asked.

And how did you finish your other drink so quickly? Carisi wanted to ask.

“Joan Rivers,” Barba called over his shoulder, and Abby, Carisi, and Piro all grinned at each other.

“If you’ll pardon us, Judge, we’re on our way to the bar, too,” Carisi said, noting that Abby had finished his drink.

As he walked her to the bar, they passed Barba and Fellows headed in the opposite direction. Barba was carrying three drinks, this time, and Fellows was sipping his while they walked. Barba tipped Carisi a wink on their way by.

“He’s going to wear a track into the floor,” Abby said. “Maybe he should just bring his crowd to the bar.”

Looking over his shoulder, Carisi noted, “It’s a different crowd,” as Barba and Fellows joined a man and woman on the far side of the room.

“Eh,” Abby said, shrugging and pressing up closer against Carisi’s side. “A few more and he’ll be singing.”

“Singing?” Carisi asked, shooting her a confused look.

She nodded toward the piano. “If he doesn’t take off with someone, he’ll be at the piano by eleven, guaranteed.”

“Seriously?”

She laughed. “Seriously. Strap in, Sonny, you might be in for a surprise.”

Carisi walked out of the men’s room and glanced around. Abby wasn’t in sight, so he waited near the door of the women’s room. He stood with his hands in his pockets; he had his sleeves pulled up to his elbows, because the room had grown hot and stuffy. It was also getting late. He’d talked to almost every person in the room at least once. Abby had, after several drinks in quick succession, made good on her earlier promise to introduce him around. She’d grown chattier as the evening wore on, as they’d thrown themselves into more and more conversations.

The last hour had actually been pretty invigorating for Carisi. He’d been quizzed mercilessly by judges and attorneys alike, tested on his knowledge of court cases and criminal law. He’d argued his way through hypothetical scenarios and given a little insight into his daily job upon request. A few of the people, like LeBlanc and Griggs, had been less than pleasant, but most were friendly enough and ready to admit when Carisi had made a good point.

There were several times when Barba happened by, on his way to the bar or the restroom or to meet up with someone, and he always had a glib quote, or a comment on Carisi’s test scores, to toss out in response to whatever teasing or grilling Carisi was receiving.

As he waited for Abby, Carisi scanned the room, looking for Barba. He stilled, surprised, as he saw the ADA lowering himself onto the piano bench, sans suit jacket, his shirtsleeves also rolled to the elbow. Despite Abby’s prediction, Carisi had never expected the scene to actually play out. He waited, fascinated in spite of himself, unsure if he should expect a train-wreck to unfold before his eyes. He wondered if he should try to head his friend off and take him outside before he embarrassed himself.

Carisi let that thought slip away, because he didn’t think it was possible for Barba to feel embarrassment.

The notes that filled the room were slow, not what Carisi expected. Barba was several sheets to the wind, and Carisi had been preparing himself for a Jerry Lee Lewis-esque performance of banging on the keys and maybe eventually clambering up on top of the piano to belt out some karaoke. Instead, Barba started singing, his voice low and stunningly perfect: “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Carisi stood, frozen in place, staring across the room, mesmerized both by Barba’s voice and by the emotion in the man’s face.

Abby appeared by his side and took his arm, startling him. “Sorry,” she said, giving him a funny look, but his gaze was already sliding back to Barba. “Told you. Eleven o’clock, almost on the dot. He gets sappy after enough drinks.”

“He’s really good,” Carisi said.

“I never said he wasn’t,” Abby answered. “One more drink?”

Carisi gave himself a mental shake and forced his attention back to her, managing a smile. “Of course,” he said. By the time they’d reached the bar, a small group of men and women had gathered near the piano to join Barba in song. Carisi ordered a club soda, and he and Abby moved over to the wall, quietly nursing their drinks while they watched the group of carolers grow.

As soon as the song ended, Barba started another: “The Holly and the Ivy,” which surprised Carisi even more—until almost everyone in the place joined in on the chorus, filling the room with the sounds of a choir, and Carisi could see the pure joy in Barba’s expression. This was a tradition, Carisi realized: Barba played this song because of its potential for participation, and the lawyers and judges, his audience, became willing and eager participants.

Barba looked up, and his eyes met Carisi’s. For a moment, Carisi couldn’t breathe. He felt a jolt of electricity that stunned him; his body tingled with awareness, and he felt something like nervousness squirming in his belly. Barba broke eye contact first, and while the makeshift choir was singing, he played one-handed as he grabbed his glass from the piano and swallowed the last of his drink.

“Want to sit for a minute?” Abby asked, as Barba started singing the last verse.

“Sure,” Carisi said. He tried to shake off his discomfort, tried to return his focus to where it belonged. He knew that Abby could sense his distraction, which was unfair to her. They’d had a nice evening, and he knew that she’d assumed she would be invited back to his apartment. In truth, he hadn’t fully decided, although he’d considered the idea a lot. He couldn’t deny his attraction to her—physically and intellectually. They came from different worlds, though, and he couldn’t imagine the relationship surviving long in the light of day. They could spend the night together, and they would both enjoy themselves. They might even see each other a few times in the coming weeks, but eventually, whatever they had would dissolve like cotton candy on the tongue.

Carisi wasn’t averse to the idea, but he wanted something more substantial. He wanted something that he couldn’t get from Abby: someone to fall asleep with each night, to wake beside each morning, someone with whom he could share the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and the orange juice in the refrigerator. A real relationship that wouldn’t buckle under the stress of his job. A life spent with someone by his side.

He sat on a sofa in the corner with Abby beside him, and she leaned her head on his shoulder while they listened to Barba slide into a low and melancholy version of “Silent Night.” The mood around the room had changed, subtly, the carolers looking somber as they sang along.

Barba was propped against the wall, near the doorway, looking at his phone, when Carisi made his way over to him.

“I’ve never seen you wasted, before.”

Barba glanced up with a dirty look. “I am not wasted,” he said.

“If you say so,” Carisi answered. “Want me to get you a taxi?”

“I’m waiting for my Uber,” Barba said, peering at the screen of his phone.

“You texted an Uber?” Carisi asked, his forehead wrinkled.

Barba looked up. His hair was disheveled, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted. His jacket and tie were nowhere in sight, and his suspenders were hanging in loops below his hips. The top of his shirt was unbuttoned, one sleeve still rolled up.

His eyes were bright and alert, though, as he looked at Carisi. “I have no idea,” he said, sliding his phone into his pocket. “I definitely asked someone to pick me up, though.”

Carisi snorted. “I think I should put you in a cab,” he said.

“Ms. Griggs is making out with you from across the room,” Barba answered, arching an eyebrow. “You going to keep her waiting?”

With a small smile, Carisi said, “I told her I needed to see to a friend.”

Barba reached out a hand and pinched the front of Carisi’s sweater, giving it a light tug. “The sweater was a nice touch, don’t let anyone convince you otherwise,” he said. They were both looking at his hand. “I like that you’re not worried about what anyone thinks of you.”

Carisi cleared his throat into the following silence.

Barba seemed to give himself a mental shake, pulling his hand back. He looked up and made a face, waving his hand in the air. “Sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m fine. You’ve done your civic duty, now get back to your date.”

“Barba—”

“Carisi,” the lawyer cut in, his readiness to argue—as always—evident in his expression. Even after as much as he’d had to drink; Rafael Barba was never off his game. Carisi knew he shouldn’t be surprised.

“Do you at least know where your—” Carisi slid his hand up and down in the air, indicating Barba’s missing jacket and tie.

“Yes, Carisi, I can keep track of my clothes. I’m a big boy. Go,” he added, gesturing toward Abby with his chin. He pulled his phone out again and, when Carisi hesitated, glanced up and repeated, “Go.”

“Alright,” the detective finally said. He pointed at Barba, who didn’t look up. “Just do me a favor and text me when you get home, at least?”

“Sure, Dad,” Barba muttered.

Laughing, shaking his head, Carisi said, “Merry Christmas, Counselor.”

“Goodnight, Detective Carisi,” Barba answered. He looked up as Carisi made his way toward Abby. She was waiting near the bar, smiling at the cop as he approached; she had her coat and gloves on, and her purse over her arm, ready to leave, and when Carisi held out his arm she didn’t hesitate. She put her arm through his and they smiled at each other. He tipped his head down to murmur something, and she nodded.

The party had wound down, but the room was far from empty. Most of the men and women were in pairs, scattered through the room, with a few larger groups. Soon, they would all straggle out into the cold city, heading home—some alone, some together.

Barba sighed and stuffed his phone into his pocket again. He scrubbed his hands over his face and gave his head a little shake, glancing at his watch even though he’d just been looking at his phone. He made his way over to get his jacket and tie from the piano bench, smiling at the judge making eyes at him from across the room.

He hesitated, considering her unspoken offer. He was more than a little tempted, and if he’d had one more drink, he supposed he’d probably invite her back to his place. One more drink—or, perhaps, if she were a worse judge, but he had too much respect for her and her courtroom. She was tough, she was fair, and he couldn’t tell his friends in the special victims unit that one of the city’s best judges would have to recuse herself from any case they wanted him to present, recuse herself or disclose their Christmas Eve one-night stand.

Still, in spite of what he’d told Carisi, he was pretty drunk, and he really didn’t relish the idea of going home to his quiet and lonely apartment by himself. When the judge tipped her glass of wine in his direction, an acknowledgement that they both knew why they shouldn’t spend the night together, Barba nodded once in return. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and tucked his tie partway into his back pocket.

“Why’d you invite me here tonight?”

Barba froze at the sound of Carisi’s voice behind him. In spite of himself, he felt a nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed once, and said, “‘Why anything? There is no why.’”

“Yeah, yeah, trapped in amber and all that. Even drunk, you’re still quoting Vonnegut?”

Barba turned to face him. “Look who’s been reading,” he said with a crooked smile.

“It’s bull, anyway,” Carisi returned with a scowl. “You don’t do anything without a reason.”

“Then…I wanted to see if you could hold your own,” Barba suggested with a shrug, still smiling.

“Nah, see, that’s just it,” Carisi said. “You said you liked that I don’t care what anyone thinks of me, but all night these lawyers have been talking crap. And you kept showing up, like I couldn’t handle myself, like I needed you to fight my battles for me.”

“Come on, Detective, you’re smarter than that,” he said.

“Maybe not,” Carisi returned. He spread his hands in frustration, but kept his voice low as he said, “Pretend I’m dumb. Explain it to me.”

“You don’t care what they think of you, any of them,” Barba said. “You’re the one who thought you didn’t belong with them.”

“So you brought me here to, what, stroke my ego? Make sure you didn’t lose your lackey?”

Barba let out a breath. “I need another drink,” he said. “And you need…” He waved a hand in the air. “An espresso or something. You clearly can’t hold your liquor.”

“I hardly had anything to drink.”

“Where’s your date?”

“I got her a taxi,” Carisi said.

Barba tipped his head, smirking. “You do know you’re supposed to go with her, right?”

“So, what, you thought if they insulted me it’d make me feel better about myself?” Carisi asked.

Exasperated, Barba said, “Well? Didn’t it?”

Carisi opened his mouth, then closed it, his brow knitted.

“All night, these people were testing you, and all night, you rose to the challenge. Tell me you don’t feel more confident.” Barba saw realization dawn in Carisi’s face. “There ya go,” he said, pointing at the detective. “Good boy, knew you’d get there eventually. Now go home, sleep off your epiphany.”

“Then why did you—”

“Just because you don’t care what they think doesn’t mean I don’t,” Barba said, his green eyes flashing.

Thinking that maybe Barba was upset because he knew the way some of his peers talked about him behind his back, Carisi started to justify their jealousies: “Everyone here respects—” He broke off as he saw the hint of quickly-hidden emotion flit across Barba’s features, though, realizing he’d misjudged Barba’s meaning. “Oh, you didn’t mean you,” he said, quietly. “You care what they think of me.”

Adjusting his blazer on his shoulder, Barba forced a smile and said, “Hey, what are friends for? Now, seriously, get out of here. You’re killing my buzz.” He started away, having decided to have at least one more drink, after all.

“Barba,” Carisi said.

“Nope, I’m done here,” Barba answered without looking back.

“Rafael,” Carisi said, instead, and Barba paused, suppressing a sudden shiver.

“Go home,” Barba repeated, with a quick glance over his shoulder. He walked away before he could give in to his temptation to say—or do—something he might regret. He left Carisi standing alone, with a frown on the detective’s face. Halfway to the bar, however, Barba changed his mind about the drink. Suddenly, the dark loneliness of his apartment seemed fitting, and he veered away from the drinks, away from the judge, away from all of the stubborn partiers.

What he needed was for the cold New York night air to slap him in the face. It was closing in on midnight, and the city outside was painted in the colors of Christmas. Soon, church bells would be ringing in the holiday. It might even be snowing. And, after the holiday, he would throw himself back into his work; in fact, he had files he could be reviewing now, just waiting for him at home. There were plenty of distractions in the world, for a person willing to seek them out.

He stopped in his tracks, his gaze locking with Carisi’s. No distracting from that, he thought, his heart suddenly galloping in his chest. The detective was in the doorway, his arms crossed, his Christmas sweater pulled tight across his shoulders. He was scowling, and his feet were planted.

Despite his defiant posture, Barba was confident that Carisi would back down, and so he forced himself to move. He strolled toward the doorway, jacket over his shoulder, suspenders hanging loose, tie draped from his pocket, hair a mess—he strolled with all the casualness he could muster, wondering if he was fooling anyone.

“Something I can do for you, Dominick?” he asked. It was the first time he’d ever called Carisi by his given name, and doing so was a calculated tactic.

Carisi’s expression softened, which was not the reaction that Barba had been expecting. “Everyone seems to think you give me so much crap because I annoy you, because you don’t like having me around,” Carisi said.

In spite of his resolve, Barba winced. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he heard himself say.

“I don’t—I never thought that,” Carisi answered.

“Then I’m confused,” Barba said. “You, what? Want me to be nicer to you around other people? I won’t make any promises. I can be nicer to you in private,” he added. This was edging away from calculation and into desperation, now. He needed to scare Carisi off so he could get outside.

“You’re harder on me than anyone,” Carisi said.

“Double entendre is not your forte, Sonny.”

Carisi’s cheeks were darkening; Barba felt decidedly flushed, himself, and it wasn’t from the alcohol or the stuffiness of the room. “Call me Dominick,” the detective said.

Barba stepped closer, holding Carisi’s gaze. Still, Carisi didn’t back down. “Do you know what you’re doing right now?”

Carisi cleared his throat and swallowed before speaking. “I forgot to tell you how good you were. On the piano. I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Barba said, twisting his lips into a smile.

“Well, I liked it,” Carisi returned. He hesitated, then admitted, “A lot.”

Barba could scarcely remember how to breathe normally. He was trying to maintain his self-control so he could leave with a little dignity intact, but he was losing the battle with himself. He could feel the heat of the blood in his veins. He could feel the low ache of desire burning in his stomach. His fingers longed to reach out. His skin tingled, calling out for Carisi’s touch.

“You need to stop,” Barba said, and he couldn’t even say for sure if he was talking to himself or Carisi.

“Come here,” Carisi answered.

Barba licked his lips, nervously, and glanced upward. “Do you know—”

“That’s why I’m here,” Carisi cut in.

Someone—some poor, drunk schmuck hoping to con a few kisses, most likely—had taped a plastic sprig of mistletoe to the doorframe above Carisi’s head.

When Barba continued to stand, frozen in indecision, Carisi said, “I’m out on a limb, here, Rafi.”

Without any conscious decision, Barba found himself crossing the last distance between them. He was powerless to resist the vulnerability in Carisi’s expression, unable—and unwilling—to leave him mired in self-doubts. Barba reached out and pressed his palm, lightly, against Carisi’s chest, searching his stubbled, shadowy face.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Carisi said.

Barba shook his head, emotion twisting his features. He tipped his head to the side and said, “You’re not wrong.”

Carisi let out a breath. “I’ve never seen you like this. Nervous.”

“Terrified,” Barba corrected.

“You’re the most confident person I’ve ever seen,” Carisi said. “You could’ve convinced anyone in this room, male or female, to go home with you.”

“I think you overestimate my charms,” Barba said with a small smile. “Most of the people here tonight can’t stand me.”

“That’s not true. Even the straight guys want you, a little bit, they just don’t understand it.”

“Is that what this is, right now?” Barba asked. He didn’t pull his hand back. Now that he could actually feel Carisi’s heart pounding through the sweater, Barba didn’t think he’d have the strength to break away. Carisi would have to put an end to this.

Carisi shook his head. “I’m not unsure, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I have no idea what I’m asking,” Barba admitted. “I have no idea what—”

Carisi reached out, sliding his fingers into Barba’s sweaty hair, cupping the back of his head. Barba licked his dry lips, and then Carisi’s mouth was slanted over his, and the pressure that had been building inside of Barba’s chest seemed to burst, filling his ears with the roar of blood. The scent of Carisi’s aftershave—a scent that had become as familiar to Barba as his own—filled his flared nostrils and made his head spin.

He dropped his blazer to the floor and moved his hands to Carisi’s hips, holding handfuls of knitted Christmas sweater to keep himself grounded. When Carisi’s tongue met his, Barba made a strangled sound of desire and knew, in the small corner of his brain still capable of rational thought, that they needed to stop. They weren’t alone.

Barba turned his face away, breathing heavily, his head swimming. Carisi’s fingers massaged his scalp, and Barba’s groin tightened. “Dom,” he said, but his voice cracked. He bit his lip and looked up, meeting Carisi’s heavy gaze. “What do you want from me?” he asked, his voice and expression raw.

“Since I met you, you’ve made me a better person,” Carisi said.

Barba shook his head, opened his mouth to object.

Carisi cut him off: “It’s true, and I don’t just mean that I wouldn’t be a lawyer without you, or that I would’ve looked like an idiot in a room like this without everything you’ve taught me. I mean that…you always made me feel like I was…worthy.”

“By insulting you?” Barba asked.

“You weren’t insulting me, you were flirting. You flirt with everyone. It’s one of the ways you disarm people, no one does it better than you. It doesn’t always mean something. I knew you found me attractive. It was flattering. I didn’t think it meant anything. Even the fact that I was attracted to you—that didn’t have to mean anything, because everyone is attracted to you. You’re like a magnet. You draw people to you.”

“I repel people,” Barba countered, barely above a whisper.

“You draw them to you by pretending to repel them,” Carisi corrected. “I was fine with what it was, a mutual attraction we didn’t have to talk about.”

“And?”

“And then when you were singing, I felt this…God, Rafi, I can’t even explain it. I wanted you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything. I couldn’t even breathe. I pretty much forgot about Abby, which she didn’t deserve. It wasn’t just an abstract thing, like wanting something in a store window, you know, like fantasizing about something you know you’ll never have. It was a real desire. And I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t know how it could fit into our friendship.

“Then you looked at me…” he trailed off, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“And?” Barba repeated.

“And I knew. I could see it.”

“Knew what?”

“‘It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye,’” Carisi said.

Barba blinked in surprise. “Did you seriously just quote The Little Prince?”

Carisi grinned. “I’m full of surprises,” he said.

“What do you want from me?” Barba repeated. “If you want me to say it, I will, but I don’t want you to think—”

“This is uncharted territory for me, Rafael,” Carisi said. “You can help me. I’m always eager to learn from you,” he added with a small smile. “But it’s not some spur-of-the-moment decision. I know what I want.”

“How much have you had to drink, exactly?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I am,” Barba said.

“I think you’ve sobered up quite a bit,” Carisi countered.

“You’re right, I have,” Barba agreed. “You do realize that I don’t normally do long-term relationships—with anyone.”

“Not normally, no,” Carisi said.

“But you’re not the one-night stand type.”

“No. I want to share the orange juice,” he said. “I want to wake up beside the same person, every morning, for the rest of my life. I want to hold hands on the sidewalk and send cute texts all day and have dinner in front of the TV.”

“And you think that I want all those things? With you?”

“Yes.”

Barba sighed. “I thought I was hiding it pretty well,” he muttered.

“I’m in love with you, Rafael,” Carisi said. “Completely, totally in love. If you feel the same, then I need…I need for you to help me. I need for you to stop looking scared because I need you to be confident and take the lead, now.”

Barba was still holding Carisi’s sweater. Carisi’s hand was at the back of Barba’s neck. They were standing close enough for each to feel the other’s desire, but there was more than that; there was an intimacy between them that neither had felt before. Their gazes were locked, blue eyes to green, as their chests rose and fell in unison.

Slowly, deliberately, Barba raised his chin and straightened his shoulders. He steered Carisi toward the side of the door, pushing him—gently, but firmly—against the wall. He braced his feet, his thighs pressed against Carisi’s, and leaned into him, holding his stare. His kiss was slow, too; he took his time exploring Carisi’s mouth, and felt the detective’s body, all of it, straining toward him.

“Hey, guys,” someone called. “Get a room.”

Carisi made a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. With their mouths still melded together, Barba suddenly grinned.

#Barisi #SVU fanfic #Rafael Barba #Sonny Carisi #Dominick Carisi #how did i let this get this long

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hamilkilo · 7 years

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Prompt: ANONYMOUS: Request for hamilsquad x reader where one of them meets the reader at a coffee shop and kinda flirts with her asking her out and then tells her about the open relation ship a few weeks into there relationship and asked them if they would like to join them and the reader is really shy and has horrible social anxiety and is really worried about messing everything up (because this is aka me 24/7) Pairing: Mostly John Laurens X Reader, but also Poly!Hamilsquad X Reader TW: angst, drama, mild swearing, mentions of bigotry and intolerance, drama, self depreciating thoughts, social anxiety A/N: Hey guys! I’m really excited about this piece! I’m sorry for any typos; I pulled an all nighter to write this, so my brain is a bit fuzzy. I really hope y'all enjoy this! I did my best! If you want me to tag anything, please let me know! I want you to feel safe when reading my work! I love y'all so much!!!! Please enjoy! Word Count: 10755

You liked to live by your aesthetics. You went to used book stores downtown, took polaroids of old buildings, went out of your way to a quaint little coffee shop for the feel of it. After you had gone to the bookshop, it was a habit of yours to go to the coffee shop, buy a warm drink, and read your book at a table near the window. You usually made the trip on a rainy day, for the aesthetic. You used old Polaroids as bookmarks and you wrote comments or thoughts in the margins of your book with a pink pen. The light chatter of background noise was soothing as you reread one of the Jane Austen’s. It was your first copy, therefore the most beaten up. You had always been a romantic, probably for the aesthetic. Which came first? Did your aesthetics extend from your romanticism, or did the romanticism stem from your aesthetics? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you loved the idea of love. You were deeply engrossed in your book when you heard the sound of the chair across from you being pulled out. Someone sat down, but you buried your nose in the book. What would Elizabeth do? Would she accept Mr. Darcy’s love? Of course, you knew the answer, but you read the book each time like you had no idea. You just hoped that your guest would get the hint and leave you to read. “Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re reading Pride and Prejudice,” a smooth voice commented, and you glanced up at the boy. Your breath caught when you saw how cute he was with his curls and freckles. You almost shoved your nose into the spine of the book in nervousness. You knew you should probably say something, but you didn’t wanna mess it up. What if you accidentally offended him? “Um, Yeah?” You managed to squeak out, and the guy smiled. He leaned closer, as if to get a peak at your face, but you were quick to bring the book back up. You fiddled with one of your polaroids to calm yourself. “I think Mr. Darcy is a pompous prick that nowhere near deserves someone as well thought and versed as Elizabeth,” the boy stated bravely, and your switch flipped. You didn’t know how to talk to strangers about the weather, but you knew how to talk books, especially if you were defending one of your favorite romances.

“Excuse me, sir, but I’d have to disagree with you. Your judgement is clouded by main character infatuation. As readers, we have the bad habit to believe that the protagonist is the hero, a do-gooder. Elizabeth wasn’t! She was harshly judgmental of her own family and quick to damn everyone else. While she wasn’t as upfront about it as Miss Bingley, she wasn’t exactly discreet about it. You’d have to be brick stupid not to see how she and Mr. Darcy are horridly wonderful for each other. They’re both horrible, judgmental people with ridiculous prejudices and even worse pride. They were made for each other!” You narrowed your eyes at him while he stared at you. Your cheeks were bright red from your outburst, your heart hammering. You could not believe you just did that. He just shared his opinion! You didn’t have to go ahead and give him an essay! This wasn’t literature and composition! You bit your lip and slowly brought your book back up, but his hand caught the top of it. You glanced down at his hand, then back up at him. “Dare I say, but you sound like Elizabeth. Passing judgment on them would make you just the same as her, right?” He asked softly, and you scoffed. “It’s human to judge, just like its human to be ugly and horrible to each other,” you dismissed, tugging on your book to no avail. “That’s a rather dreary outlook on life. Surely not everyone is as bad? You don’t seem ugly,” he smiled at you at his last comment, and you felt your face heat. “I haven’t met anyone capable of proving me different,” you countered, and he smirked. “Darlin’,” he drawled, and you melted. “You’ve been meeting the wrong people.” You laughed out loud, “And who would you call right people?” “I dunno,” he glanced around the coffee shop, then back at you. “I know a few.” “Uh huh,” you sassed, giving up on the book and placing a Polaroid in your spot. You closed the book, almost on his hand, and he grinned at you. “There’s the little bookworm, coming out to greet the world,” he teased in a weird voice, and you crinkled your nose. “No, I can’t read when your enormous hand is covering the page and weighing down my book,” you replied with a faux annoyance. “Why read about adventures when you can live them?” The boy asked as he reclined back in his seat and gazed at you. You tugged on the end of your scarf anxiously. “Books are better than people,” you stated simply, and he shrugged. “You’ve picked up the right books and wrong people,” he restated his previous claim, and you rolled your eyes. “Well, you go out there and find the right people, write a book about it, send it to the coffee shop, and I’ll read it,” you tried to sound frigid, but the boy saw right through that. He was determined. “I think you’re afraid,” he accused casually, and you went straight into RBF. “Afraid?” Your voice was monotone. “Yeah, I think you’re afraid of the adventure out there. You’re afraid of the Miss Bingleys, Janes, and Mr. Darcys. You’re afraid to get your heart broken. You’re afraid to love and be loved,” he took a breath like was about to go on, but you interrupted. “Who do you think you are? Dr. Phil? Oprah? You don’t even know me! Don’t go psychoanalyzing me!” You were only defensive because you knew he was right. Only you weren’t afraid, you were petrified. You liked books because the dialog was there. With books, you didn’t risk saying something wrong. You didn’t risk messing anything up. Books were safe. “It’s alright, sugar. It was just a hunch. I’m sorry I got you worked up,” he reached out and patted your hand soothingly, and your breath caught. He was so cute. He was talking to you. And you yelled at him. Oh boy. How had he not flipped yet? Somehow, you still couldn’t stop yourself, “You’re worse than Mr. Darcy.” The boy paused, then began to laugh. He chortled like there was no tomorrow. It got to the point where he was downright cackling. “That may be true,” he stared once he had sobered up, “But I think you’d make a wonderful Elizabeth, and I mean that as a compliment.” Your cheeks tinged, and you reached for your book, but you bumped his hand instead, and he carefully entwined his fingers around yours. “If you want,” he murmured as he traced his thumb across your knuckles, “I could introduce you to the people I was talking about.” You bit your lip, unsure. He was nice, but he know how to get a bustle in your hedgerow. You glanced at him and remembered what he had said about fear, then you found yourself nodding. “Great! Let me get your number, and I’ll set it up!” He beamed at you, and you bit your lip. You could have just put your number into his phone, but you lived for your aesthetics, and you wrote your number on the back of a black and white Polaroid of you against a brick wall before you gave it to him. With another shy smile tossed over your shoulder at him, you hurried from the shop. Hopefully, he’d lose your number. You’d embarrassed yourself enough for a lifetime.

Sadly, he did not lose your number. A few hours later, he had texted you. “Hey, Elizabeth,” was his cheeky greeting, but despite your heated embarrassment, you found yourself grinning. You felt like a school girl. You saved his contact in your phone as Mr. Darcy, nailing down the pompous prick part of his personality. “I’m sorry for yelling at you earlier,” you began to type, but you bit your lip and reconsidered. Then, you deleted it all and typed up a different message. “Hey.” Short and simple, was it too short? You grimaced as you hit send. You were such an idiot. You wished you were half as quick witted and good with words as Elizabeth. Your phone buzzed, and you found yourself grinning when you saw it was from Mr. Darcy. “So no one is available to actually hang out until about a month from today. For some reason, Eliza likes to plan things week in advance, which also ties up her girlfriend, Maria. I figured you’d like them most. They remind me of Jane.” You rolled your eyes. If only your high school English teacher could see you now. You were doing text to world connections. She’d be so proud. Somewhat relieved that you didn’t have to meet anyone any time soon, you feigned disappointment in your text, trying not to be rude. “That sucks! I was so looking forward to meeting the right people.” Right people. Jeez, this guy was way more arrogant than Mr. Darcy could even aspire to be. But he was also wayyy cuter than any of the Mr. Darcy’s you’d ever seen in the movies. “If you want, we can hang out next Friday night. I can take you to a club my friend works at!” When you read that message, you frowned. Dang. You faked your disappointment too well. You could always fake being sick, but you didn’t want to be rude, especially since he was making so much effort to be nice. “Okay,” you replied, keeping it short. You had found that the shorter the replies, the littler room for error. He didn’t respond right away. You weren’t sure how long had passed, only that you had read another thirty pages into your book when your phone buzzed. “So when you aren’t playing English teacher with some stranger at a cafe, what are you doing?” You felt embarrassment course through you. You were so lame. He was right. Ugh, you wished the ground would swallow you up. You had probably just single handedly destroyed any chance you had with another hot guy by being a huge nerd. You knew you had to reply though. “Drugs.” Before you could stop yourself, you hit send. You turned your phone off right after, trying to stop the message from sending, to no avail. You buried your head in your hands. Cheese and rice, you were so lame! And weird! He probably thinks you’re some crazy coke whore! “Just kidding!” You quickly typed. “I’m usually reading, writing, listening to music… How about you?” Jeez, is that all you did? You really needed to get out more. His response was quick. “Drugs!” Was he teasing you? Was he making fun of how stupid you were? Maybe you should change your phone number and move to Chicago or something? Maybe Antarctica? Yeah, that sounds good. Talk to the penguins, cry, live in an igloo. That’s a good plan. “You’re cute! Actually, I’m usually hanging around my boys. It’s almost a full house here, and we’re always getting into stuff. I’ll have to introduce you to them at some point.” You quickly caught onto his personal life, and you directed the spotlight onto him. “Tell me about your boys. Are they right people?” You bit your lip as you waited, your book forgotten to the side. “Okay. There’s three of them, and we all live together. There’s Alex, who I met first. He’s always been my best friend. He’d like you a lot. He loves to argue. He’s a writer, and he always has an opinion on something. Then there’s the frenchiest fry, Marquis de Lafayette, but we all call him Laf. He’s a French foreign exchange student that just kept coming back. He’s actually on his residency here! He’s probably the best out of all of us. He has such a pure heart, always giving. Last, but definitely not least, is Herc. He actually owns a little boutique uptown. I’ll take you by there sometime, you’ll love it. He’s probably kept me out of jail a few times, tbh. All those drugs, yo.” You found yourself laughing as you read through his long text. It was odd; when he talked about his boys, he seemed so much more like a Jane than a Mr. Darcy. He was actually kinda sweet, and funny, and he made you smile. Look at you, a blushing school girl all over again. You spent the night texting him, smiling and blushing as he talked to you about all of his right people and you stuttering through your texts, typing and deleting, editing, reconsidering. But no matter what you said, he always had something funny and sweet to counter it with. You never scared him off, even though you felt like you had given him several reasons to run for the hills.

“Hey, Y/N, deep breaths, you’ve got this!” “No! I don’t! He’s so cute, and I’m such a nerd! I totally geeked in front of him! Ugh, I don’t even know his name! Why did I agree to this?!” You were pacing around your room, the phone pressed to your ear. You were supposed to meet your Mr. Darcy at the bar his friend owned in less than half an hour, but instead, you were freaking out. “You’re the cute kind of nerd! Don’t worry, it sounds like he likes you! And by the things you’ve been telling me, he sounds like he’s a huge nerd too! And besides, names are overrated! He’s going to love you. Just be yourself and give him the ol’ razzle dazzle!” “You just say that because you’re my mom,” you sighed, sitting on your bed and covering your face with your hand. “Honey, don’t worry about it, okay? Just go out and have fun! Be safe and call me when you get home! I want all the details! Now get off the phone and go live one of your books!” You tried to protest her, but she wouldn’t hear it. As soon as she hung up, your stomach twisted. You had put on one of your favorite dresses, your hair was up, your makeup was done, and you looked killer, so why did you feel so scared? You stood and smoothed your dress before taking a deep breath and leaving to meet him. You stuttered your way through a cab ride, fidgeting with the hem of your dress the entire time. When you actually made it to the club, your stomach dropped at how long the line was. There was no way you’d get in. This was a mistake. You turned to crawl back into the cab when you heard someone yelling. “Elizabeth! Wait, Miss Elizabeth!” You turned around, confused, then you realized it was Mr. Darcy. He was running towards you, trying to stop you from leaving so soon. You frowned; it was too late for you to pretend you hadn’t seen him and go on your merry way. He knew you saw him. You turned around slowly and gave him your most convincing smile. “Mr. Darcy,” you countered as he came to a stop in front of you. He grinned, somewhat out of breath. He looked rather cute with his curls pulled back smoothly, his blue sports coat, all the way down to his snazzy dress shoes. What a pompous, well dressed prick that made your heart flutter. Where were your books when you needed to hide? “You look beautiful,” he breathed, and you realized you’d been staring. Jeez, his freckles were wonderful. It was like your own galaxy to stare at. “Thanks, you do too,” you replied, half listening as you took him in. There was just so much to appreciate. It was only when you heard him giggle that you noticed your mistake. Was it even really a mistake? Beautiful. Huh. Guys were actually very beautiful, this one in particular held your fancy. “Thank you! I wish I got that compliment more often!” His smile was so enticing. You scolded yourself for being so easily distracted tonight. He held his elbow out to you. “Shall we?” You took his elbow with a shy smile, and you hesitantly followed him into the bar. He nodded at the bouncer, then carefully made his way towards the stairs at the back. “I’m taking you up to the higher level; it’s more private up there. We’ll be able to talk more. Maybe you can give me more opinions on Jane Austen,” he teased you as your heels clicked on the metal stairs. When you heard his words, you blushed and were so distracted that your heel slipped. He caught you quickly to prevent you from falling down in a fairly embarrassing manor. His hand was warm on your waist as he stabilized you, and suddenly, the air felt way too thick. “Whoa, careful there. Save the falling for when there’s a bed behind you, eh?” You scoffed and quickly pulled away, not because you were repulsed by the idea of being in bed with him, but because you weren’t repulsed by it. He laughed lightly as you took his elbow again and quickly continued up the stairs. When you got to the top, there was a door that he knocked on, and in what felt like seconds, it was opened to reveal a goddess. Cheese and rice, if you didn’t go to bed with Mr. Darcy, you might go with her. She was tall and sleek, her perfectly sculpted cheekbones and wonderfully dark skin made her look like a goddess. Her curly hair was loose around her shoulders, and her pink dress only made her look even better. Of course this guy was friends with her. Then your reader’s brain clicked. Was she his girlfriend? Was she his right person? What if it was all in your head, and you didn’t even have a chance with him to begin with? Cheese and rice, you felt ridiculous and naive. Who did you think you were? Some special little book worm that got to live their trashy fanfic dream? Wake up, y/n. This was real life. You didn’t get the dream boy or the perfect heroine. You got embarrassment for being such an optimistic idiot. “Y/N, this is my friend, Angelica. She owns the bar. She’s one of those right people I was telling you about,” Mr. Darcy explained as he led you into the room. It was better lit than the rest of the bar, the music wasn’t as obnoxious, and the seating looked way more comfortable. There was a wet bar in the corner with a few different snack bowls laid out. “Oh, is this the Elizabeth you would not shut up about?” Angelica teased as she went over to the bar and poured herself a vodka tonic. You blushed. So Mr. Darcy had talked about you? To her? An actual goddess? What did that mean? “Don’t embarrass me, Angelica!” He playfully scolded her as he sat down on the couch. You bit your lip before sitting down beside him with an ocean of space between you two. “You do that well enough on your own, Johnny,” she countered with a smirk before she threw back a shot. So his name was Johnny? John? Johnathan? Good ol’ Jimmy Jam? Why wouldn’t your brain just shut up and let you focus for two seconds tonight? “And what’ll you have, Miss Elizabeth?” She put air quotes around the name, and you smiled. Uhhh, you never really went out, especially not to a bar. The wildest place you usually went on a Friday night was to Walmart around 11 when you were craving ice cream. To be fair, Walmart past 10 pm was reasonably sketchy. You made a knee jerk reaction. You figured it was best to establish dominance. Maybe, if you intimidated them, they wouldn’t come after you. “Vodka, straight shot.” You could channel your wild college days of crying, shoveling ice cream, and swigging vodka out of the bottle with your room mates instead of working on your ten page paper due the next day while watching the Notebook. Angelica raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t question you. She just poured you a shot, poured Good Ol’ Jimmy Jam a glass of whiskey, and brought you both the drinks. As soon as your shot was in hand, you threw it back. It burned like you had just made out with an angry, firebreathing dragon. Cheese and rice, how did this not kill you in college? Were you dying right now? No matter how bad it felt, you didn’t cough. You held it together. Establish the dominance. Mr. Darcy chuckled in wonderment. “Wow, John. She might be able to hang with you and the boys shot for shot if y'all ever go out together,” Angelica mused. So his name was John. You glanced at him. That seemed fitting. He looked like a John. “I know! I was just thinking the same thing! You might even be able to keep up with Herc. Once he gets going, that guy is a machine!” John swirled his whiskey while he stared at your face. “Herc’s the one with the shop uptown, right?” You asked as you tried to remember which boy he was talking about. “Yeah! I think I’ll take you there next time!” He gushed, and he went on to say something else, but you weren’t paying attention. Did he say next time? Was he already planning on taking you out again? Why? You were probably the lamest person you’ve known. At some point, Angelica poured you another shot, and you threw it back. They had been talking about Herc’s shop uptown, a lot of stuff you didn’t get because you didn’t understand the background. “Wait, Wait, so if you’re here with John, then he probably never told you about the Taco Bell incident?” Angelica suddenly changed the topic, roping you back in. She was a really good hostess… to your dismay. “Don’t tell her about the Taco Bell incident!” John quickly protested, almost choking on his whiskey since he was in the middle of taking a swig when she brought it up. “She needs to know! Everyone needs to know-” “Angelica! Don’t! You swore you’d never tell anyone-” “Yeah, but that was before you introduced me to a girl! It’s a great party story! And besides,” she leaned close to you. She had seated herself in the arm chair adjacent to John. “It’s revenge for him talking smack about Pride and Prejudice.” You snickered at her comment, those shots of vodka already hitting you. “Angie, please,” he gave her the cutest look, and you felt your heart melt. Angelica looked unphased. “Those eyes might work on Alex, but you’ll have to work a whole lot harder than that to deter me. So anyways,” you found yourself leaning closer, eager to hear the story, while John slumped in defeat. “It was our senior year of high school and we were both in marching band. It was our last performance at our last competition, so it was kind of a big deal. Earlier that day, we stopped for lunch, and we had four separate options: Panera, McDonalds, Steak N Shake, or Taco Bell. I, like anyone with taste buds and half a brain, chose Panera, while John and Alexander chose Taco Bell. Now, I’ve known John for years, and he’s always been that kid. You know, the one that thinks it’d be a good idea to throw a hammer at a hornet’s nest, jump out of the tree house instead of taking the ladder, stuff like that. So this kid, being the genius he is, and with the encouragement from Alex, ate fifteen dollars worth of Taco Bell. So fast forward to later, our first performance is fine. We have dinner provided by the band moms; we laugh; we cry; it’s great. We’re all getting into uniform for finals, and we’re marching off to warm up, when Alex comes up to me asking if I’d seen John, and I’m like, no? He’s not even in my section! I’m a flute player! He’s a tuba! He’s not even in my jurisdiction! But Alex is worried sick, so I go off, and after half the band searching for him we find him, crying in a portapotty-” “I wasn’t crying. I was just, uh, the smell, it was making me tear up-” “Oh shut up, you were crying. We could hear your gross crying noises. Anyways, needless to say, he had to miss his last performance all because he thought $15 of Taco Bell was worth it.” Angelica was laughing towards the end, and you found yourself chuckling with her. John had his lips pressed into a thin line while you both ended up in hysterics. “Mr. Adams,” she panted through her laughter, “was so disappointed! He actually refuses to stop by Taco Bell on band trips anymore!” You roared with laughter again. “Yeah, haha, laugh it up,” John pouted, “I have stories on you, too, Angie-” He stopped talking when Angelica shot him a look. “Try it, Portapotty, I dare you!” You laughed so hard that your sides hurt.

You and Angelica were quick to become friends, and you quickly figured out that she wasn’t seeing John. You ended up actually texting her more than you had texted John, usually just nonsense and inside jokes. Yeah, you had inside jokes with her now. It had only been a few weeks, but you were already close friends. You had spent most of the night upstairs with Angelica and John, listening to funny stories and laughing until you almost passed out. It was the most fun you’d had in a long time. It was around two in the morning when Angelica had her driver take you home. John had offered to walk you home, but Angelica insisted. Angelica struck you as the mom friend. She was always there looking out for you. She went the extra distance to ensure your safety. At first, you’d thought of her as a Miss Darcy, or maybe a Jane, but neither of those did her justice. You eventually decided she was more like an Athena. As much as you hated to admit it, most books didn’t have female characters strong enough to do her justice, especially not your beloved classic novels. It was a quiet Friday night. You had been texting Angelica that day, and you had discussed your plans for that night. She was running her bar, and she invited you out, but you politely declined. You had recently bought a new book you were just dying to read. She understood. It was things like that that made it so easy to talk to her. Maybe John was right. Maybe she was right people. You missed John and her, but both of them had been busy the past few weeks, and when they weren’t, you were. It was around seven that night, and the sun had just set. You were curled up in your armchair, halfway through Pride and Prejudice instead of the book you had planned to start reading. You had been obsessed with that book more so than lately. Perhaps it had something to do with the curly haired boy that kept wandering his way back into your thoughts. You were in a pair of leggings and an old college hoodie, positively comfy. You had your blankets and your mug of tea, which was almost empty. You had it made. Suddenly, there was a knock at your door. You were confused. Was your mom visiting today? No, she was visiting on Sunday. Maybe your neighbor accidentally got some of your mail? You stuck a Polaroid in the spine of your book and went to the door. It was probably Miss Higgins, looking for her cat again. You opened the door, expecting to see the sweet little old lady and half distracted by the door mat you accidentally messed up when you opened the door. “I’m sorry, Miss Higgins, I haven’t seen Tippy today, but I’ll let you know if I do,” you answered routinely as you nudged the carpet with your socked foot. A soft laugh from whoever was in front of you alerted you that it was not your little, old neighbor lady unless she just hit puberty and her voice dropped several octaves. “Who’s Tippy? Should I be worried?” John joked with a cheeky smile. You felt yourself break out in a grin at the sight of him. He was dressed down today in a pair of jeans, a striped sweater, and a pea coat. He had a scarf hanging loosely from his neck and your inner romantic swooned at the idea of grabbing him by that scarf and yanking him in for a kiss. “Um,” you began, shaking your thoughts away as you held the door open for him. You didn’t give him your address, but logic told you that Angelica probably did. Her driver had taken you home, after all. “My neighbor is constantly losing track of her cat, Tippy.” He came into your house, pausing by you to give you a gentle peck on the cheek, and if your head wasn’t so lost in the clouds, you probably would’ve fainted. You shut the door, hiding the blush creeping it’s way down your neck. You quickly tucked a strand of hair behind your ear as he took in your apartment. John was such a Mr. Darcy that he probably had a snobbish home somewhere instead of a small apartment in the shady part of town. Luckily, you had befriended the rookie police officer, Tommy, across the hall. If he didn’t give you such reassurance in safety, you would’ve already complained to him about the noise level coming from his apartment. You got it. He had two boyfriends that knew his name, that didn’t mean they had to scream it every night when you were trying to sleep. “Did I interrupt something?” He glanced over at your extended recliner, mug of tea, scattered polaroids, and tattered book. You bit your lip. “Yeah, but it’s no big deal. It’s not like I haven’t read it before,” you shrugged it off, shifting nervously. “What brings you by?” John turned to you, running a hand over his hair with a small smile. “Well, Angie said you weren’t busy tonight, and I figured I’d surprise you. I figured I could show you around Herc’s shop, maybe go for dinner if you want?” You felt your cheeks tinge with color again as your lips stretched into another delighted smile. Damn, this boy made you smile almost as much as your books did. “Hmm, I dunno,” you teased, pretending to ponder. “I mean, I’ve been looking forward to reading my book all week… besides, isn’t dinner a little too direct for Mr. Darcy? I was actually expecting a proclamation of love before, and then a heated, fairly insulting letter meant as an apology. You wouldn’t happen to have that planned before dinner, would you? Because I need to know whether to pack a snack and some popcorn or not.” As soon as he realized you were teasing him, he broke out into a grin. “You had me worried there for a sec! I thought you were blowing me off for a book you’ve read a thousand times!” “Excuse me, sir,” you looked at him as if he had just fatally insulted you, “that’s one thousand and one times. Get your facts straight!” He laughed again, and you were suddenly aware of how close he was standing to you. Was this customary for guy friends? You weren’t really sure. You had been too caught up in your books to ever pay any attention. It was something about the way he looked at you and seemed to laugh so genuinely that distracted you from your fear of messing up, but it was also the way he looked at you that made you stutter your words all the time. “So, Herc’s? Sounds fun. Lemme just go get changed,” you stated quickly. You needed space. You were getting lost in your head with him standing that close. You quickly retreated to your bedroom, throwing clothes around in search of the right outfit. You were deep in your closet, your mind tangled in thoughts and panic as you thumped around. None of it was right. No no no. Then you grabbed a pair of jeans with rips in the knees and you tossed them on your bed. Your hands found your favorite sweater that you threw with the jeans. Your fingers laced around a cute scarf that matched, and you were set. You didn’t have time to second guess as you stripped and began to dress. You were standing in your underwear, cursing as you stumbled around the room trying to fit into your jeans, when the sore opened and John came in. “Hey, someone’s at the door and-” he stopped talking when you both made eye contact, and you froze-which was a poor move on your part when you toppled over. John moved towards you to help you up, then moved back when he remembered the predicament. “I knocked! I swear, I knocked. I am so sorry, I didn’t mean-” “John?” You interrupted as you stared up at him from the floor. His eyes were darting around the room, falling on anything but you. “Yeah?” his voice cracked nervously. “I’m still half dressed. Would you mind…?” You didn’t know how to phrase it, but he got the hint. He continued his stream of apologies as he quickly retreated and closed the door. Then you started to laugh. It was quiet at first, but then it developed into full body quakes that left you breathless. You couldn’t stop laughing. The cute boy you had a crush on that probably thought you were nuts just walked in on you half naked! At some point, your hysterical laughter turned into ugly crying when you realized that your life was a disaster. You only ever managed to embarrass yourself. John probably already left! He probably thinks you’re psychotic, and he wants nothing to do with you! You got dressed, hopeless thoughts swirling in your mind, then you finally left your room. Surprisingly, John was still there. He was flipping through your polaroids, trying extra hard not to look at you. “It was Miss Higgins,” he explained after clearing his throat a few times. “She was looking for Tippy. I told her you hadn’t seen her cat.” You nodded, heading to the door. When you turned around, you caught John staring at you, and you both blushed. “So, Herc’s?” You trailed off, and he nodded eagerly. He followed you out of your apartment and you locked the door behind you. You walked to the elevator in silence. Once in the lift, you kept the three foot friendship distance between you two, still not saying a word. It was only when the elevator stopped at the third floor and one of your creepier neighbors got on that you moved closer to John. “Hey, baby,” the guy said, and you rolled your eyes. Flippin’ Ralph. He was the scumbag that cat called you from the wall outside while he smoked through four packs. He smelled like piss and an ash tray. “Maybe later tonight, you can tell me your name so I can scream it for ya. Would you like that?” He reached out to grab you, but John was quick to wrap an arm around you. With Him by your side, you felt empowered enough to stand up for yourself. “Gee, Ralph. I knew rats in this city got big, but I didn’t know they came this big,” you gave him the disgusted once over all of the girls perfected in high school. “Honestly, the idea of even touching. You makes me wanna Ralph. Besides, with the number of packs you smoke these days, I’d be surprised if you could even get your voice above an embarrassing rasp. Besides, why would I settle for you when I’ve got a boyfriend that makes me scream instead?” Ralph had never heard you speak up before, so it was a fair reaction when he was so shocked that the cigarette fell from his mouth. You felt John shaking with quiet laughter behind you, and you stood tall. “You know what? You’re a disgusting little tramp-” there was the reaction you were waiting for. You shrank into John, waiting for the verbal onslaught, but John was ever the valiant Mr. Darcy. “You’d better watch what you say next or you’re gonna have trouble speaking with no tongue and no teeth, my friend,” John growled out as he shoved you behind him. The elevator dinged, and you all but threw a party. You cursed the cheap apartment and it’s decrepit elevators. Your grandma could navigate those stairs faster than that lift, and she’s dead. Before John could deck Ralph, you pulled him off the elevator with you and quickly out of the building. It was only when you were down the street and your breathing had calmed that things had caught up to you. Number one, you called John your boyfriend… and he totally went with it. Number two, you insinuated that you and John had really good sex… and he also totally went with it. Number three, you might need to start carrying a gun to protect yourself from Ralph. Number four, John totally stood up for you! Wow, that was actually really hot. Number five, you were still holding hands from when you dragged him off the elevator. When you looked up, you noticed he was looking down at you. “Hey, you okay?” You gave him a small smile and nodded. “I’m sorry back there. I shouldn’t have dragged you into it, and I’m sorry about the comment about our wild sex-” John cut you off by bringing your hand up to his lips and kissing your knuckles. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips tickling the skin before he slowly brought your hand down from his lips, “don’t worry about it. Any guy would be lucky to be called your boyfriend.” You felt your heart thrumming in your chest, and you were suddenly hyper aware of everything your body was doing. Was he into you? “Well, I…” your words failed. You didn’t know what to say about the entire ordeal, so you didn’t. Instead, you said, “Which way to Herc’s?” John’s lips twitched to a frown, but it was quick, and you didn’t ponder it. He didn’t drop your hand as he led you down the street. It was about ten minutes into the walk when you started shivering. You were so embarrassed by what happened in your apartment that you forgot your coat. John put his arm around you at first, holding you near him as you walked, but your teeth still chattered. He then tugged off his pea coat and quick to swaddle you with it. You protested, but he was quick to shush you. Your heart stuttered when he put his arm back around you for the rest of the walk. About thirty minutes after you left the lift, you found yourself outside of Herc’s Four Sets of Corsets and More. John opened the door for you and ushered you in. He took the coat off your shoulders and draped it on the mannequin as if he’d been here a thousand times before, which he probably had. “Herc!” He called, causally throwing his arm around you again and wandering around the shop. You heard footsteps on the staircase behind the counter and turned to find a tall, dark drink of damn son come down the stairs. Did John only know hot people? What did that make you? “Hey, babe! Who’s this lovely, little lady with you?” Herc asked as he came around and leaned against the counter, waiting for an introduction. You were confused by his pet name for John. Since when did bros start calling each other babe? Whatever, you were on board for it. “This here, is the Elizabeth from the coffee shop,” John explained. How many people had he told about you? And how many people only knew you as “The Elizabeth”? You decided to take a leap of faith, “Hi,” you said shyly as you extended your hand, “most people actually call me Y/N.” Herc shook your hand, but you felt John’s eyes on you. That’s when you realized you had never told him your actual name. You blushed in embarrassment. You’d been talking to this guy for at least a month now, and you hadn’t even bothered to properly introduce yourself! Your mama raised you better than that! “Well, I’ve heard a lot about you!” Herc beamed, and you returned the smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too!” You replied, and Herc’s face lit up. “I’m so glad John told you about us! You two must be really close now for him to mention us!” Herc wiggles his eye brows. Although you were confused, you dismissed it. Their friendship must be really tight. They did live together, after all. You carried on with light banter, and Herc gave John an occasional jab or two. You had fun, and eventually, you had Herc’s number written on a scrap of loose cloth he had tied around your wrist. Apparently, he too had an appreciation for aesthetic. Herc showed you around the shop. You noticed a mannequin without arms and complimented his Greek architectural taste, but he laughed and said it was an accident. Apparently, it was a “long story.” You ended up picking up a few items, and you were excited to purchase them, but John footed the bill. You argued, but one shared look between Herc and John ended any discussion. Herc handed you the bag, and you thanked him again. John wound his arm around you again, and you both said farewell to Herc before you left the shop, you wearing John’s pea coat again. “So, where do you wanna go for dinner?” John asked as you both moseyed down the street. You shrugged, “I dunno, I’m kinda in the mood for Italian.” John grinned down at you, and again, you were hyper aware of how close he was to you. “I know just the place.” John took you to a quaint, little place downtown called Belladona, and you were quickly seated at a table in the back. John was ever the southern gentleman, pulling your chair out for you, draping the jacket over the back of it. He was sweeter than any guy you’d ever met. You knew if you voiced that, he’d just say you were meeting the wrong guys. “So what do you recommend, Mr. Darcy?” You perched an eyebrow at him as you unfolded your menu. “Hmm,” he looked at you and thought for a minute, “you strike me more as a ravioli type…” You rolled your eyes at him with a smile, “You only know that because you saw the cans of Chef Boyardee’s ravioli sitting out on my counter from my recent grocery store trip.” He chortled, “What can I say? I’m an observant guy!” “I’m torn, now I want ravioli, but I also really want spaghetti,” you pouted at him, and he laughed. “Tell ya what, you get the ravioli, I’ll get the spaghetti, and we’ll share,” he offered, and you eagerly nodded. This guy was the gift that kept on giving. “I knew I kept you around for something,” you poked him on the nose, then you spent the proceeding twenty minutes regretting that action. He laughed in response, “What? The free food?” “Hey, you paid for the clothes, the least I can do is buy dinner,” you responded, moderately offended that he’d think you’d expect him to pay for everything. “Please, I brought you out. Let me treat you,” his smile was so kind; it drew you in. “We’ll see,” was your answer before you let your resolve dissolve. He smiled at you and your stubbornness. Maybe you were wrong before. Maybe he isn’t Mr. Darcy. You couldn’t imagine Mr. Darcy being this kind. Of course, you’d never admit that to him. “So, Y/N,” he tested the sound of your name on his tongue, and it caused your heart to falter. “What do you know of polyamorous relationships?” You were taken aback. He brought you all the way out here, to a nice restaurant, to ask you your opinion on that? “Well, I know what it is. I’m sorry, are you asking my knowledge or my opinion?” He bit his lip, then he ran a hand over his hair and toyed with his curls. “Uh, opinion?” You shrugged, “Well, I know a few people in one, and they seem to make it work really well. The only problem is that the sex is louder with more people and it keeps me up at night… I mean, I’ve never been in one, but I think I’d be open to it with the right people. It’s always been intriguing to me, but I guess I’ve never been in the position to be in one before.” You paused. “Why do you ask?” He glanced around the room nervously, then tugged at his curls once more. “Well, I… Um… Alexander would be so much better at this,” he muttered. “I mentioned earlier that I live with my boys.” He gave you a hard look, clearly trying to communicate to you. You nodded slowly, waiting for him to go on. He swallowed. “My boys,” he repeated, a bit more enunciated this time. You stared at him blankly. A few seconds of awkward silence lapsed where he waited for you to have a lightbulb moment, and you waited for further explanation. Then it clicked. “Ohhh… your boys,” you breathed, almost to yourself. You had to work quick to mask your hurt and disappointment. For some reason, you really thought you had a chance. Obviously not if he had three boyfriends. You bit your lip hard as you stared down at the table. Way to go, Y/N. You messed it up. Again. You felt your stomach churn with embarrassment and shame. No one would want you. Of course not. You were way to much of a nerd. Jeez, you were such an idiot to think someone like that would ever go for a stuttering moron like you. This is why you kept to yourself. Books wouldn’t do this to you. They wouldn’t change like this. They wouldn’t let you down like this. You just wanted to go home and read. Well, read and cry. And maybe yell a little bit. “I…. I gotta go… I think I left the stove on…” you managed to stutter through the lump in your threat. You felt foolish. Were you really going to cry over a boy you didn’t even have a chance with? “Why? Did I do something wrong?” John’s eyes searched your face, but you ducked your chin to hide. You’d kill a man for a book right now. “I’m sorry,” you whispered as you stood up and turned to leave. He stood abruptly and grabbed your wrist to stop you. “It’s me, isn’t it?” He sounded hurt, too. You couldn’t focus on that. If you looked up and met his eyes, you’d start crying in public, and you couldn’t handle that right now. “Don’t touch me!” You snapped as you tore your arm from his grasp. You turned and dashed from the restaurant as tears spilled down your cheeks. You were right. Books are better than people.

As soon as you made it back to your appartement, you put on the kettle and called your mom. It was about ten o'clock, but you figured she’d still be up. She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?” “Momma?” Your voice broke. Hearing her broke the dam, and you began to sob. “Oh, pumpkin, what happened?” Her voice was soft, and you could practically feel her wrapping her arms around you. “I’m such an… an idiot!” You sobbed, slumping down against the wall. “No, baby, you aren’t an idiot…” “Yes, I am! I was naive to think that a guy like him would ever want me. I’m such a loser, Mom!” You wiped your tears on your sleeve, but they were quickly replaced by more. “Hold on, honey, I’m on my way over. What kind of ice cream do you want?” You cried even harder. You loved your mom so much. She was always there when you needed her. You told her your favorite ice cream, and she said she’d be over as soon as possible. She hung up, but you didn’t move from the floor. You continued crying. You didn’t feel like moving. Why bother? You just wanted to lie there. At some point, the kettle went off, and you managed to pick yourself up, change into your pajamas, and go to the kitchen. Your tea was ready, but you ignored it. Instead, you went straight for the liquor. You needed something hard. You started throwing back shots. You felt like you were back in your college days. When your mom first showed up, she tried to get you to stop drinking, but quickly realized her efforts were futile. She let you drink while also making you drink plenty of water. You both are ice cream while you cried. She wrapped you in a blanket and vented with you about the stupid boy. She said he led you on, but you disagreed. You’d just read too far into it. The rest of the night blurred away when you started taking straight swigs out of the bottle.

A week had passed. Then two. Angelica and Herc had sent you texts, but after a week of you not replying, they decided to give you some space. You’d deleted John’s number from your phone. You were right about him being Mr. Darcy. He was a pompous, arrogant prick and you were the foolish Mr. Bingley. You were just some optimistic idiot blinded by emotion. You went to work. Came home. Read until your vision doubled. Passed out. Repeated. You were back to your old ways. The first week that had passed had a dreary Saturday. Before John, you would have gone to your bookshop, then the cafe. But now, you couldn’t risk seeing his face; you couldn’t do it. You stayed inside, read your books, listened to music, and watched romantic movies that made you cry. It was on a Thursday the second week that there came a knock at the door. You shuffled over and answered it to reveal Ms. Higgins. “Mornin’, dearie,” she said hoarsely. She held the elusive Tippy under her arm and an envelope in her free hand. “I got your mail again.” You forced a smile and took the small stack of junk mail from her. “Thank you.” “Are you doing alright, sugar? You look awful tired,” she seemed to lean closer to look at your face, and you looked down, ashamed. Now you had your elderly neighbor worried about you. Way to go. “Yeah, just been busy lately,” you lied. It’d be true if you counted crying as an activity. “Ahh, a broken heart makes for a busy soul,” she replied simply before she turned and went back to her apartment. You stood there for a minute, miffed, but you shrugged it off and went back inside. You stood over the trash can, absentmindedly sorting threw the mail. Junk. Junk. Junk. You tosses envelope after envelope into the bin. However, you reached back into the trash to retrieve one envelope you had skimmed over. Your stomach twisted as you opened it and pulled the letter out. “Elizabeth, I hope you are doing well. Angelica and Hercules are both worried since they haven’t heard from you. Please call them when you can to let them know you’re okay. Angelica tends to obsess about people she cares about. I’m writing because it’s the only way I’m sure you’ll get my message. I wasn’t sure if you’d blocked my number or not. I’m sorry if I disgusted you, but I assumed you’d be more open minded given that it’s 2017, not 1917. My mistake. I didn’t realize that you would find the concept of love so abhorrent. You seemed so sweet and lovable, but I guess most bigots do as well. The worst part is that I actually let you close to my heart. I liked you, but I guess that was wasted emotion, huh? I guess you were right about Elizabeth. You suit her, you know: judgmental, rude, harsh, horrid… sound familiar? I am unafraid to say that I love my boys, each and every one of them, and I don’t care if that offends you. I don’t need you in my life if you can’t accept me for who I am. I opened myself to you. I was vulnerable, but you showed me that you can’t be trusted. I’m glad I got that out of the way before things progressed any further. Maybe one day, you’ll find your Mr. Darcy-some horrid man that compliments your horridness, and you’ll go on your horrid way. You’d be perfect for each other. Maybe the reason you only saw bad in the characters was because you were looking in the mirror. News flash, it’s not that you’re meeting the wrong people, it’s that you are wrong people. I’m not going to miss you, but I will miss the idea of you. Do us both a favor and lose my number, John.” You were so angry that you couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. All you could do was sit there. Then it hit you all at once. How dare he. How dare he assume all those things! He was such a complete moron! You grabbed a piece of paper and your pink pen and you went to work. “Dear Mr. Pompous Prick, First of all, how dare you. How dare you go and assume all of those horrible things about me. I can’t even begin to comprehend where you got those opinions from? Unaccepting of your relationships? If you had listened to a word I had said, you’d actually get it through your pea sized brain that I support polyamory and I’m open to it! But no, you were to busy thinking about God only knows what to actually see what was right in front of you. I liked you! I had a crush on you! I know, ridiculous. It was absurd of me to even consider you to be my Mr. Darcy! You know, at some point, I thought I was wrong and that you were nothing like Mr. Darcy. I was right! You’re so much worse! You led me on, made me think I actually had a chance. Stupid me. Although I appreciate your honesty about your relationship, I wish I’d known before I’d been so emotionally invested. I didn’t leave because you disgusted me; I left because I realized how stupid I was to think you were into me! You have three other boyfriends, clearly I misunderstood. But sure, go ahead and assume I’m some bigoted asshole. Rip apart my character and everything I stand by if it helps you sleep at night, but know that you broke my heart, you son of a bitch. You made me think I had a chance, then you told me the truth and spit on my character. Tell Angelica and Hercules I’m fine. I’m sure they won’t miss me anyways. And don’t worry about your number. I lost it weeks ago. Thanks for nothing. Y/N.” You wanted to say more. You wanted to swear and curse at him until your fingers crumbled apart, but you couldn’t let him be right. You couldn’t let him have substantial proof to any of his claims. You couldn’t be that person he claimed you to be. You sent the letter to the return address, then went back to your books. You just wanted to forget the whole ordeal.

Weeks had passed, and your heart ached with the echo of his cruel words, but you couldn’t let it get to you. You were healing and repairing. You eventually got the nerve to go back to your bookstore on a dreary Saturday. You had stopped reading Pride and Prejudice a while ago. It reminded you of too much. You needed new books to hide your face in. After you bought a few books, you went to the cafe. You had forgotten your umbrella today, so you were sopping wet by the time you had gotten to your cafe. You dashed inside and ordered your old drink. You sat at your old table. You pulled out your old novel and a black pen. You began to read as you wrote in the margins. You wished the cafe would swallow you whole so you could live in this moment forever. “Elizabeth?” You recognized that voice and you froze. You shoved your nose deeper into your book as the chair scraped in front of you. He sat down with you. “Hey, Y/N,” a gentle hand tugged on your book, but you harshly pulled it back up. You did not want to speak to him. “Y/N, please, hear me out-” You snapped your book shut, not even worrying about marking your place. You grabbed your bag and fled the coffee shop. He called out behind you, begging you to stay. You didn’t. You dashed down the street, not caring about the pouring rain. You just needed to get away. Then you felt a hand in your wrist. You turned around to face him, anger sparking in you. “What, John? Have you come to bash my character again? Have you not done enough?” You demanded as you stared up at him. The pouring rain plastered hair to your face and blurred your vision, but it didn’t lessen your glare. “Y/N, please. I was wrong. I was ignorant, harsh, unreasonable, and a completely pompous prick. I was scared and hurt, and I lashed out at you-” “So what? You come here thinking some shitty apology will suffice? Obviously, you misunderstand me completely!” You were furious. After all he did, all he said, he thinks he can fix it with a few words. “I’m sorry, Y/N! What can I do to get you to see that?” He was exasperated, but you didn’t care. You would not let him hurt you again. “How about you get lost and never talk to me again?” You snapped at him. Why couldn’t he just leave you alone? “I can’t!” He was angry too now, which pissed you off even more. He had no right! “Why not? Isn’t it obvious? I hate you!” You shoved him away from you, trying to force him to leave, but he grabbed both of your hands. “‘In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and-’” “Don’t say it,” you whispered, tears in your eyes. “If you care about me at all, you won’t say it.” “'You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and-’” “Don’t,” your lips trembled as a tear slipped down your cheek. John cupped your face. “'How ardently I admire and love you,’” he finished, and you began to cry. He tried to pull you into his arms, but you pushed him away. “Oh, John,” you began crestfallenly, “Dont you remember? Elizabeth could never accept that proclamation, just as I cannot.” He let you slip away from his fingers as he stared at you. He wanted to reach for you, hold you, you could tell. But he didn’t. “But I do,” his voice cracked, and you shivered as more tears fell. “I wish I could believe you, John. I really do.”

Needless to say, your mom made another trip after that encounter, and it was only after speaking with her that you came to your senses. But it was too late now. You’d done your damage. “Honey,” your mom had said, “if you believe in romance at all, and if you truly live by your aesthetics and romanticism, then you will not sit idly by and be satisfied by this excuse. If you are half the girl I know you to be, you will find this boy and tell him how you really feel.” She was right. It took a few phone calls with Angelica, who was completely relieved to have heard from you, but also completely pissed off from the whole ordeal. She was delighted to help after you had explained everything. So there you were, fidgeting anxiously at the Belladona, waiting for John to show up. You were relying on all of the books you had read to aid you in this one moment. Would he show? Angelica had invited him out to dinner with her. Word on the street was that you’d left him a complete disaster. You felt horrible. This whole ordeal was your fault. Cheese and rice, you royally screwed this one up. There’s no way he’d show. Not after everything you’d done. You didn’t deserve another chance. But then you saw him. He looked beautiful, just the way you remembered him. As soon as he came in, his eyes locked on you. Would he turn to run? You prayed to anything and everything out there that he wouldn’t. And he didn’t. He slowly, hesitantly, approached your table, and you stood. You made your way over so that you were standing before him. This was the bravest thing you’d done in your life. “John, I…” and words failed you. You had nothing. You’d built everything up to this moment, and you were flatlining. You couldn’t speak. All you could do was stare at him, hoping he’d understand. “I…” Speak, Y/N! This is your last chance! “I…” Where was your fire? Your spark? Suddenly, you were back in the coffee shop the first time you’d met, and you finally found the words. “You’re my right person,” you finally managed to get out. You stared at him, waiting. He blinked. Then he blinked again. “I’ve always been afraid of saying the wrong thing, but with you, it’s like all the dialog is already there. You already know what I’m going to say before I say it. And I know I’m the wrong person, I’ve always been, but you’re my right person and I could never forgive myself if I didn’t tell you that-” you couldn’t stop talking now. You were rambling. You were losing him, you could feel it. Without warning, his lips were on yours, and he was kissing you like there was no tomorrow. He was desperate, trying to convey everything he had been holding back those past weeks into that single moment. When he pulled away, he whispered, “If I’m your right person, then you’re my right story.”

You could fill books upon books with the different aesthetics you got to wake up to now. You had dozens of polaroids filled with your boys’ faces. It had been two years since you met John at the Belladona. Your relationship had been far from fanfic material, but maybe that’s why you loved it so much. Fanfics were predictable; this was an adventure. John was right. Your boys were right people. They were everything you’d been hoping for and more. It wasn’t perfect, not by far, but that’s what made it perfect. You were happy, and you knew you would always be happy as long as you were with them. You didn’t read as much anymore. You didn’t need to. You had all the adventure you needed. It was bittersweet to watch your beaten up copy of Pride and Prejudice collect dust on the shelf, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, it was all for the aesthetic.

#hamilsquad #hamiltrash #hercules mulligan #alexander hamilton #hamilton #laurens #lafayette #marquis de lafayette #john laurens #mulligan #fanfiction #fanfic #my work #my writing

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perpetuallyphantasizing · 6 years

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North and South of Happy (Chapter 3)

Summary: There’s no point in sugar-coating it. Dan will be dead in ten months, twelve if he is lucky. Even though he may be dying that doesn’t mean Dan doesn’t want to achieve his life goals. Dan’s life goals? Fining his point of existence and falling in love.

Word Count: 4.594

Warnings: depression, disease, death

Chapter 3/? masterlist

A/N: I wrote this like 8 months ago so I’m sorry if there are any typos or if it sucks

Song: Force of Nature- Bea Miller

Dan POV

There is only one class that me and my four other friends have together and that is English, Louise and Phil’s favorite subject. Although English is quite possibly my worst subject I still enjoyed the class, partially because the books we read are always fascinating and well-written, but mainly because I have all of my closest friends sitting within an arm’s distance from me. That being said, today I feel like utter shit. As the day has been progressing I’ve begun to feel worse and worse and I started a mental countdown of the minutes until I have to rush out of the room to get sick, something I really didn’t want to do in this class. None of my friends know that I’m sick and I know that they would be worried if I spontaneously “got the flu” after a nearly unimaginable lack of flu and colds this school year.

My worries were cut short when I felt my stomach lurch before tieing a knot of my intestines. Other than the whole dying thing, the nausea that comes with this illness has to be the worst part. As the rest of the classroom continued on, unaware of the inner turmoil I was experiencing, I grabbed at my stomach and laid my head in my hands to try to make the sickening feeling go away, even if it was only temporarily. If I could just breath and focus on the dotted carpet below me, then maybe I could make it through the rest of the hour. Staring down at the patterned, filth ridded ground before me I could feel my head begin to pound against my skull until I could hardly maintain my even breathing. My brain felt as if it was a pinball bouncing from thing to thing in an arcade game. The pain in my head was becoming too much, my breathing picking up as I tried desperately to control the contents of my stomach, my concious lost all concept of time and I couldn’t tell if a minute was actually a second or an hour. My stomach did another backflip and I whimpered slightly at my predicament.

Surprising me half to death, I felt a warm hand place itself on my shoulder causing my whole body to lurch forward from the shock. Springing forward, the contents of my stomach did a somersault and I placed my hand in front of my mouth in one quick motion to keep myself from throwing up on my desk. There is no possible way that this day can turn out okay.

Of course Phil being the obviously concerned friend he normally is, replaced his hand that had previously been on my back and began rubbing small circles to soothe me. “Dan?” Phil whispered under his breath so that our teacher couldn’t hear, “Are you okay? Do you need me to take you to the nurse?”

Too focused on not vomiting in front of all my classmates as well as my friends and crush, I ignored Phil’s question and tried repeatedly to return to my regulative breathing patterns. I continued to ignore Phil’s intruding questions, scared of what would happen if I were to open my mouth. In hindsight I should have excused myself to the restroom fifteen minutes ago when I felt the nausea creeping upon me, but I haven't always been the brightest. I felt Phil remove his hand from my back, allowing me to somehow relax that he was no longer touching my shaking body, and also sigh at the loss of contact. The contents of my stomach continued to violently attack my body with not foreseeable future of a surrender.

The panic that continued to grow with every passing second refused to sway ground, my mind a relentless launcher of “what if’s?” towards my already nervous anxiety. By this point all my senses seemed muted and I was unaware of what was happening around me. The voice of my teacher sounded as if she was speaking on the other side of an insulated wall and the normal stench of the slightly moldy classroom was only a memory of my entry to the classroom. The lights in the room all seemed to be fogged around the edges, like that of looking at a street lamp through a frosty window. The only real thing that I could bring myself to focus on was the air that blew down from the vent directly above me, cooling me in my heated panic.

With minutes ticking by and my body still refusing to stand down from the attack it was conducting I had no idea what to do. At this point I had given up all hope of my stomach easing itself back into peaceful waters and staying in class, I needed to go to the nurse or to the bathroom, but the trust I have in my legs is very little. Just the thought of walking made my stomach increase its continual swirling, my insides feeling like a running washing machine.

“Dan?” I heard the soft voice and looked slightly to my right to see Chris peering down at me, his face etched with concern and pity. I blinked sluggishly at the brown haired boy and the worry deepened in the wrinkles of his face.

“Dan come on, you need to go to the nurse, I’ll take you.” Chris must have known that anything too loud would only make the situation worse because he used a soft whisper to talk, despite the fact that I didn’t think he had a whisper voice.

I reluctantly nodded my head at Chris’s statement and stood up for my friend to walk me to the nurse. I always thought it was pointless to have one kid assist another to the nurse, but as my legs wobbled under my wasteland of a torso I understood why. Once I stood up Chris could see my knees bend and my back slouch at the effort and concentration it took to stand while not puking all over the classroom. Gingerly, Chris placed his arm around my waist and began walking towards the door, giving my body a small pull to get me to move. Right before we were to exit the classroom I turned my head as far as it would go with my head pounding and saw the worried understanding on our teacher’s face, the curiosity on my peers’ faces, and of course the worry of my friends. Chris opened the door and dragged me out into the silent hall.

“Dan what is going on? Are you okay? Do you just feel like you are going to be sick?” Contrary to what I thought earlier it seemed as if Christ didn’t understand the silence I was in need of as he rattled off question after question.

“Can we just go to the nurse first?”

At my words Chris immediately nodded his head and we began our walk, or if you are me it was more of a long trek, to the nurse. My best friend continued to support me from the waist as we made our way past empty hallways and busy classrooms. Thankfully, Chris didn’t try to make any more conversation, or ask any more questions, as my head was still aching, my stomach still twisting, my breathing still uneven, and my anxiety only slightly subsiding.

The walk to the nurse’s office on the other side of the school was like a hike through a mountainous terrain and I could feel my lack of breath due to my extreme unfitness paired with my crippling anxiety. Walking into the nurse’s office, Chris sat me down on one of the cots and went on a search for the nurse. It was only after Chris walked into Mrs. Hoffman’s office and some hushed whispering that I was greeted by the smiling lady who was known for handing out an absurd amount of mints during finals week.

“So Dan, what seems to be the problem?”

I snuck a glance at Chris to see if he was planning on staying against the wall next to my cot or if he was going to go back to class, but from the looks of it he wasn’t going anywhere at all.

“I feel really nauseous and my head feels like it’s about ready to pound out of my skull.” I said, surprised by my own vivid description despite the fact that it felt like I was getting ready to die.

Mrs. Hoffman approached my cot and, without much warning, placed the back of her hand against my forehead. “You are showing signs of having a temperature, possibly even the flu, let me take your temperature.”

Had nobody told the school nursel that I was fucking dying? Is that something you are supposed to share with the school?

Just the thought of telling the nurse had my head spinning in circles, not helping the preexisting pain whatsoever. I thought through my options of what to do, considering just letting the nurse do her thing or telling her that there was no point in marking me down as having the flu, nausea and headaches just kind of come with the whole death thing.

I was broken from my train of thought as a thermometer with a cold, plastic cone piece was stuck into my ear. Silence filled the room as all three of us waited to see what the thermometer would say, only I knew that it was likely to come back as a normal body temperature. The device in my ear, tickling it every so slightly, beeped and Mrs. Hoffman pulled it out to look at it and sigh. “You don’t have a fever so you must have a minor cold or something of the sort.” The tall blonde paused for a second before asking again, “Can you think of any other reason why you might have these symptoms?”

I refused to tell the nurse about my condition to an unknowing Chris so I played dumb as a bat and shook my head no. “Can I stay here for a while though? I still feel as if I might get sick, and I’d really rather not go back to class.”

“Of course! That is completely fine!” Mrs. Hoffman exclaimed as if she was excited for the company that would be in her presence for a while, I hope she knows that I won’t exactly be up for holding a conversation. “Just let me go fill out your report and get you some ibuprofen for your headache.”

“Okay.” I responded simply.

As soon as the nurse was back in her office, with the door mostly closed, Chris came to sit down next to me on the cot, both of us leaning back against the beige wall. I could tell from the creases in his face that my friend still had some questions, he was most likely worried that the reason for my sudden downfall of health was my anxiety.

“So did you really just start feeling bad, or are you sick for some other reason?”

“I don’t really know, I guess it just happens sometimes, it’s fine though. Thanks for bringing me here by the way, I kind of needed to go the nurse, but I just felt really bad, you know?” I peered at Chris to see if he understood anything that I just said and he seemed to get the majority of what I was saying, however there remained a layer of confusion upon Chris’s features.

“So why didn’t you come to the nurse with Phil when he offered?”

“What?” I said, attempting to avoid the question. The real reason I had ignored Phil was because I didn’t want my crush to have to deal with me when I was feeling bad, but there wasn’t a good way that I could explain that to my best friend sitting next to me.

“Well Phil saw that you weren’t looking your best and offered to take you to the nurse,” Chris nodded his head towards Mrs. Hoffman’s office, “But you didn’t seem to respond to him so he asked me to talk to you.”

Rather than showing any sort of understanding of what Chris was saying I stared straight ahead at a “Effects of Drugs on the Body” poster in front of me. For some odd reason Chris’s words felt like an interrogation, and while my stomach had subsided its twisting and knotting significantly I still felt as if the truth Chris was in search for could make me vomit on the plain tiles before me.

“I don’t really know, I was just really out of it I guess.”

“Okay, as long as you are okay? Are you okay Dan?”

“Yeah I’m fine.” Lies, I was telling lies.

I heaved a sigh of relief when the nurse returned from her office with some pills and a look at Chris as if to ask “what are you still doing here?”

“Chris you should probably go back to class.” I told him with a straight face, my eyes still trained on the pale wall in front of me. “Thanks for bringing me here, and for looking after me. Tell Phil that I said thanks, and I’m sorry too please.” I said with more emotion in my voice, finally looking up to meet his hazel eyes.

“Okay I will.”

Chris gave me one final smile and left the room, the sound of a door swinging closed an indicator to his departure. After he left Mrs. Hoffman proceeded to give me the pills she was holding in her hand and a cup, she then pointed in me in the direction of the water fountain that was only about ten feet away. “Let me know if you need anything else, otherwise you can just lay down and rest on the cot.”

Once I shuffled my way over to the water fountain and then swallowed my pills I found myself standing in the wide doorway of Mrs. Hoffman’s office.

“Mrs. Hoffman can I go home please?”

Turning around in her desk chair, the nurse looked at me with a sympathetic look, “Are you feeling that bad?”

“Just trust me when I say that I need to go home.” I practically begged, “Please.”

“Okay, let me just call your parents so one of them can come pick you up.”

“Thank you.” I responded simply.

. . .

When I first heard the doorbell ring I wasn’t expecting it to be for me. While I did hang out with friends a lot of the time, very rarely did they show up unexpected with gifts of cookies and candy.

“Dan! Chris and Phil are here to see you! Is it okay if they come up?” I heard my mom shout from the bottom of the stairs.

Despite the fact that I was utterly exhausted due to the my ill feelings earlier in the day, I couldn’t exactly order my friends to go home. Even if I did ask my friends to leave I knew my mom would scold me for turning away friends, when my months left with them were numbered.

“Yeah that’s fine!” I shouted back as loud as I could with my frail voice.

From my bed I could hear the shuffling of feet inside the door and greetings from both my friends any my mother, my mom seeming very excited that the two boys had decided to come see me after I had been sent home earlier today. It was only a few short minutes later when Chris and Phil scuttled into the room. With Chris taking a seat on the floor, Phil lunged for the hammock that I had hanging from the ceiling, his favorite place to sit whenever he came over to my house. Chris allowed only a few awkward moments of silence before he cleared his throat and began the conversation.

“So are you feeling any better Dan? You looked pretty out of it today in English and at the nurse’s office.”

I could tell from the way that Chris had delivered his words that he was trying to make light of the situation, something which I was grateful for. “Haha, thanks Chris, I know that I looked like shit, I still kind of do to be honest.”

Phil perked up at my comment about myself. “You look great, you’re glowing.”

“Is he pregnant?” Asked Chris as if he was actually quite curious about my answer I was going to give.

“No I’m not pregnant, and in all seriousness I’m feeling much better.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Phil said genuinely, with his sunshine of a smile.

I turned my gaze towards Phil and took a moment to study his features. Phil truly is beautiful, from his clear, pale skin to his striking eyes, I couldn’t help but get lost in his soft features. Phil was quite honestly bright enough to be a star, always shining and twinkling for others to watch him, something entirely his own, but in the most dazzling way. I was interrupted from my star-gazing, as Phil’s pools of crystal blue met mine and I watched as he smiled delicately. I was utterly transfixed by my friend, the knowledge that Chris was saying something in the back of my mind, but unimportant due to the boy sitting in front of me. Just as I was about to turn my head, still being uncomfortable with long periods of eye contact, I caught Phil wink in my direction and then return the same smile he had been wearing just a few short seconds before. What was that about? It was so unlike Phil to wink at me, or anybody for that matter.

“Dan! Phil! Are either of you listening to me?” Chris almost yelled, seeming genuinely annoyed at Phil and I’s lack of participation in the conversation. “Can you guys pay attention to my story for Christ sakes!”

Turning our heads at the same time, Phil and I looked at each other with a look of fear and began laughing as we turned to face where Chris was sat on the floor. “Okay we’re listening, I’m sorry Chris.” I apologized, as Chris was more likely to take the apology sincerely from me than Phil.

“As I was saying, I am seriously concerned for the mental health of Mr. Lamon, he legitimately thought that penguins were mammals and this guy has a masters degree!”

“Mr. Lamon is a bit of an airhead to be honest.” Phil responded in order to keep Chris happy, something to which I was thankful.

While I loved Chris deeply I was really wishing that it was only Phil sitting in my room and telling stories. My emotional and physical health really didn’t feel adequate for forced interaction, and to be quite honest all I really wanted to do was talk to Phil about the kid in my math class who outed himself today. Incapable of forcing myself to engage in the conversation I felt myself begin to drift off towards thoughts of my friends, and if today would have been easier had they known that I’m dying. At what point do I tell my friends that next year won’t be something I get to experience? Surely if I could tell anybody I could tell my best friend, but that hardly seemed right in this situation. Even if I am to consider telling any of my four friends I couldn’t imagine which it would be easiest to tell, which one I’m closest to in order to disclose that information.

When it comes to best friends it can be difficult because between all four of my friends I feel closer to each of them in a different way. I suppose Phil was the person I always went to talk about anything that’s taboo or things regarding sexuality, considering he’s questioning his own and my other friends aren’t nearly as comfortable with the topic. I loved Phil to death, quite obviously, he is sweet, caring, funny, smart, and overall an amazing person, but yet he isn’t afraid to validate my hatred for a few select people when I need him to. Then there is PJ, who although is probably my most supportive friend, doesn’t always connect with me on my crippling social anxiety traits. PJ is such a fun person to be around and incredibly caring, but the difference between PJ and the rest of my friends is that PJ doesn’t mind meeting new people and socializing while the rest of us would rather stay in our beds than go to a party. As far as Louise, I love her more than I think I realize, I value our deep conversations and ability to talk about anything and get along to an extent that most would never understand, however there are simply some things that I can not share with Louise. Finally there is Chris, the one person I would have to call my best friend. Chris and I relate in a way that I don’t think either of us, or anybody else will ever understand, we might be considered polar opposites but we have enough in common and love each other enough to fully appreciate the other to their full potential. It’s the three am conversations, and our ability to text for the entire day without getting tired of each other, that I value so much in our friendship. I know for a fact that Chris would do anything in the world for me, and I of course would return the favor. It is the deep friendship I hold with Chris, and Chris’s saddening story of his mother that keeps me from telling my friends that I’m dying. How would somebody ever tell their best friend that the same illness that stole their mother away from them is now stealing their best friend, it seems impossible.

As if being ripped away from a movie, I felt myself flash back to reality due to a screaming Chris. “Daniel James Howell! Can you not keep a conversation?” Chris said, his face close enough to mine that I could feel the air from his words vibrating against my cheeks. Despite his antics to get me to talk I still struggled to pull myself back to reality and the room I was sitting in at the moment. In a much calmer voice this time, Chris asked, “Dan are you okay?”

It was at this point that I was able to regain control over my body and acknowledge the two friends sitting in front of me. “I’m fine, just tired to be honest.”

“Are you sure that that’s all that’s wrong?” Phil piped in. I couldn’t help but read Phil’s tone of voice as accusing, making me nervously look up at him. How in the world could Phil have found out about my nearing death?

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I jutted out defensively. Realizing my mistake, I made an attempt at compensating for the obvious anxiety in my voice, “Well I mean I kind of still have a headache so Chris’s screaming isn’t helping that at all.” Just to ease the tension in the room I shot Chris a mockingly, accusatory glare from my place on my bed.

“Sorry.” Chris said in a timid voice.

“It’s okay.”

A silence seemed to fall over the three of us as if we had all forgot about the other breathing bodies in the room. I could only imagine what was running through Phil’s mind by this point, he so clearly knows that something is wrong, Chris on the other hand seemed slightly oblivious, or at least he was a state where he didn’t see the need to intervene quite yet. While I sometimes wished that my friends would settle for a silent room, opposed to constant talking, I could feel the silence eating away at my control over my anxiety. These are my friends and yet I still felt slightly nervous about what could happen in the next few moments. The quiet of the room seemed to be soaking into the walls and the furniture around us until everything was buzzing, my ears not being able to handle the lack of sound.

“So did I miss anything important today in English?” I spoke up, being rather blunt with my words.

My bland question seemed to break my friends out of the spell that had seemed to overtaken them, and they automatically glanced at each other before nodding and their heads. Weird.

“You didn’t miss much, just something boring probably.” Phil sighed.

I looked to Chris to get a better description of the hour I had missed, but was met with him shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t look at me, I spent most of class at the nurse with you.”

“I guess you’re right, I’ll just talk to her tomorrow to see if there is anything I need to make up.”

The blanket of silence seemed to fall over the three of us again and I felt as if I might implode if somebody didn’t speak the fuck up. Thankfully Chris unlocked his phone to look at the time and seemed to make a fake gasp. “It’s nearly six o’clock and I have at least four hours of history to do, I better get going, see you later Dan, and I hope you get start feeling better.”

I snorted at Chris’ words, they were so incredibly fake and he must have known that I knew he was just putting on an act, although I knew the act was only in my interest as he could see that I am tired. “You say that as if I’m a dying relative that you don’t actually want to see.” I only stopped for a second when I realized what I had said, quickly picking my sarcasm back up so that neither of my two friends would notice my realization. “I’ll text you later tonight you dingus.”

“Okay.” Chris only chuckled as he walked out of the door and down the stairs of my home.

Phil and I both waited until we heard Dan bid farewell to my mother and close the front door to begin talking ourselves. I got up off my spot on the bed and closed the door, there was no reason that my family needed to hear me telling Phil the story of Jonathan outing himself during math today. As I was up closing the door Phil seemed to have taken it upon himself to move over the spot opposite of what I had previously been sitting on my bed. Sitting next to Phil I pulled out a blanket from the chest beside the bed and tossed it over to Phil, also pulling myself one out as well.

“You look like you have been itching to tell me something ever since I walked through your door, so spill.” Phil spoke in a commanding voice, or as commanding as Phil could sound.

“How did you know that I had gossip to share?”

“Don’t try to deny the fact that we have very intense eye conversations Daniel.”

I laughed at Phil’s statement and simply nodded my head showing my appreciation to the truth behind his statement. I tried my best to keep from halting all conversation to admire the specks of varying color in Phil’s eyes as he seemed to intently stare at my flushed features. Knowing that if I didn’t stop myself now I was going to cross the line between platonic and romantic admiration I cleared my throat and began my story about Jonathan.

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#north and south of happy #phanfiction #phan au #fanfiction #fanfic #phan #phandom #perpetuallyphantasizing #dan and phil fanfiction

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