#if a picture says a thousand words a movie bares them raw

[catiecriesalot]

If I’m talking to someone about a movie and I say I cried, thats my stamp of approval. Puss in boots the last wish? Cried. Everything Everywhere All at Once? Cried. Where the Wild Things are? Cried. Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse? Cried.

I will never apologize for feeling things fully and with abandon. Film is an emotional outlet and it must be experienced emotionally.

[alldayangst]

lovebug (Tom Holland)

GIF is from gaybuckybarnes here on Tumblr. You can access my masterlist here. This was written for @worldoftom’s lolbrosgetsicktoochallenge. The prompt I had was: ‘Tom self diagnoses himself as sick. He’s got all the symptoms. He’s speechless, over the edge and just breathless. He never thought he’d get hit by the ‘love-bug’ again’. Inspired by the song Lovebug by Jonas Brothers!

A/N: Y/N is an assistant director on Cherry in this fic. This has a lot of Cherry (the movie) references but most are explained if you haven’t seen the film. Such as, it was filmed in Cleveland and Morocco, directed by Joe and Anthony Russo. Some scenes in this fic borrow from the movie & I’ve linked clips from the film if you’d like to listen/watch along. WC: 4K.

“Yeah, Mum, I’ve just got like the sorest throat at the moment.” Nikki’s picture cuts in and out on a scrambled screen on the South side of London, her husband’s hand periodically reaching out for her, rubbing her shoulder, then leaving the frame almost as quickly as it came in. Even through the low quality, the pixels dashing about his screen, Tom can make out his mother’s brows knitting together and can’t remove the feeling of utter guilt when he sees her grow redder and redder out of anger, concern and confusion for her son. “But I’ve got Harry here with me.” Harry waves from behind his brother, his trusty mug swapped for a Phoenix Coffee Cup in his spare hand, just to get a taste of the States.

Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. He barely drinks coffee on the other side of the pond, and would bet good money that an at home PG Tips would beat America’s swankiest coffee joint any day. But now, he’s betrayed his usual routine and his body’s all out of whack and his throat is hoarse, he’s breathless even at times.

Harry shoots his mum a half smile to comfort her, but he doesn’t know what it's like to be a mother, and his and Tom’s mouth both form an ‘O’ when Nikki begins to type so hard her screen jolts and Tom swears she’s put a dent in it. “You know what? I’m going to give them a piece of my mind, Tom! They’re overworking you!” Nikki looks intensely to find her baby boy in drug-addled eyes and his jungle of curls on his newly shaven head. She guesses it becomes easier when Tom pushes his face halfway into the screen and pleads like the child he’ll always be to her, “Please, please Mum! I can’t have any days off. Under any circumstances, I need to finish this film!”

Tom turns to his younger brother for help. “Tell her, Harry!”

And as little brothers do best, Harry spills the beans as soon as Tom’s phone is in clutch. “Tom’s fallen in love with the first A.D., Y/N.”

Nikki immediately loses her frown, knowing how love can knock Tom off his feet and blow all the wind out of him. Tom’s father, Dom, re-enters the frame to match Nikki’s grin. He never misses an opportunity to tease. “Oo, caught a case of the love bug, have you?”

Harry has to whip the phone around to dodge Tom’s protesting arms reaching for it again. “Don’t listen to Harry. I’m not in love. I just like Y/N.”

“A lot.” Harry mutters. Tom’s family doesn’t budge any further, knowing how bad Tom was hurt after his last relationship. They weren't sure when the love bug would come back to bite him again. So after they all shared a knowing look, Harry handed Tom his phone back. “I’ll keep you updated. Bye, Mum.”

It all started five weeks ago. Tom, at 24, was beginning to feel like love was trudging up a high hill he couldn’t come down from, where every beat of heart was feeling like an ache on an open wound.  Tom had yet to meet a lover to prove distance makes the heart grow fonder, finding himself in six month long entanglements and illusions of love before things inevitably went sour.

He’d say, perhaps, you were the closest thing to the real deal. The problem was, he didn’t know if you liked him back.

“When life was beginning, I saw -”

“When life was-”

“When life was be-fuck!”

“When life was beginning, I saw you.”

Tom could make a picture book out of the day he first met you. He remembers how your hair looked that day, the speckles of genuinity in your eyes, how your ear-to-ear smile seemed to be a mirror because every time he saw you from then on, he brandished the same beam. He recalls how his eyes went low as he dropped his script to his lap and stared at your lips, so soft and kissable, as you repeated his words back to him: “When life was beginning, I saw you.” Then you chuckled softly as Tom waited patiently for his head and his heart to return to him.

“I’m sorry. I’m dyslexic. I have a bit of trouble reading.”

“It’s cool, I'm the first A.D. That’s what I’m here for.”

You rubbed your hands on the back of your trousers, your mic jostling in your back pocket as you attempted to rid yourself of your nervous, sweaty palms.

“I’m Y/N.” You reached out for a shake only for Tom to cough loudly into his own hand. 

“Fuck! I’m so sorry! That wasn’t me trying to get out of your handshake. I- I-.” Tom looked at his hand for it had failed him for the first time in his life. His hand that had helped him up during handstands, being his crutch through cartwheels and backflips, but had decidedly run out of luck to be on the receiving end of Tom’s monstrous cough impending a handshake with someone his eyes just couldn’t look away from.

You laugh again. Your laugh sounds like melody, Tom muses. Awestruck, he wishes he could play it again, repeat it like a radio hit and never wash himself of the feeling he got when he heard your laugh for the first time.

“It’s all good. I’ll see you around.” You disappear from his trailer, likely on a venture to your own, when Joe and Anthony block his view of you walking away.

Anthony and Joe take on the ghost of you in Tom’s room, “Tom! The man, the myth and the legend!” Joe comes behind him to rub his newly hairless head. “We’re so glad you agreed to do this movie!” 

“Bummed that you’re not coming to the Browns game tonight, though.” Anthony remarks, throwing a football at Joe who sets it in his lap.

“Harry and I, we’re British, mate. We play football with our feet.”

Joe doesn’t know it then, but his next words are the beginning of the end for Tom. He rubs on his football and looks Tom in his eye when he poses, “It’s a shame ‘cause the whole crew’s going. First day of filming celebrations.”

“The whole crew?”

Anthony mumbles an ‘mhm’ as he picks up a framed photo of Tom and RDJ sitting pretty on Tom’s dresser, posing like father and son.

Tom’s usually self assured when he’s on set, but he’s hesitant to say this next improvised line. His voice trails off as he speaks. “Including Y/N?”

“Y/N?” Joe queries, with a smile that’s half scary and half comforting, and the butterflies in Tom’s stomach are begging him not to fuck this up and suddenly every second a word is not spoken feels like hours have passed and he might have ruined things before they’ve even started, gosh he just met you and-

Tom tries to play it cool. “I don’t- they’re cool.” Tom coughs again. “I mean, I don’t really know them but Y/N seems cool I guess.”

Anthony and Joe smile at each other, scrambling to exit. “Whole crew’s going, baby!” Joe beams.

“Please don’t tell Y/N I asked!” Tom shouts before they’re out of earshot.

“Yeah, yeah. Anthony, go long!”

A few hours later, Tom was sitting next to an unamused Harry, you on his left, foam fingers pointing every which way. 

“Are you a big football fan?” Tom asked, imposter syndrome creeping up on him. He had the best seats in the house, but knew not a thing about this sport he’d come down to watch. Meanwhile, crew and crowd alike sat themselves around you guys, cheering leaving throats raw for days to come and a tussle for a foam finger between Joe and Anthony leading to hundreds of sugary popcorn shells scattered on the stadium floor.

“I mean, I wouldn’t ever turn down the option to look at Odell Beckham Jr. Are you?” you replied.

Tom looked over to his brother who sat with his chin in his hand, lips pulled into a thin straight line as his rusty curls were blown about from the wind of brown and orange flags flown from fans behind him. “We could learn to love it.” Tom flashed you a toothy grin, unsure of where to guide the conversation next. He knew for sure that he wanted to keep talking to you, but his ego began putting up a fight, eager to show himself off if you’d have him in any way. Tom sighed. “Truth is, we have no fucking clue what’s going on.” Tom could hear the commentary about a player reaching the end zone, but they were all just words that went into one ear then came straight out of the other.

You giggled. “I have no idea either. We could make up our own rules if you want.”

Tom likes the way you think. He also likes the way you speak. He loves the way you laugh.

“You have a beautiful laugh.” 

You covered your mouth. “Oh, fuck, I hate my laugh!”

“I’d make you laugh a thousand times if I could.”

You pointed to the jumbo screen as Mayfield made a touchdown, unable to stop laughing from sheer nerves as you felt Tom’s hot, burning haze on you. An advert for Cleveland’s Own Phoenix Coffee flashed on the screen as you spoke. “We’ll make our own rules. Every time we see the quarterback pick up the ball, we’ll cheer.”

By the end of the night, Tom is speechless, breathless and over the edge of his chair in faux excitement and anticipation of the quarterback receiving the ball once again. 

“Another coffee?” The service worker asked.

“Yes please!” You and Tom both say in unison, pumped as the quarterback began circling around to collect the ball in open arms.

The footage of the game is cut abruptly as the camera points to a confused, solo Harry; Anthony and Joe are seen at the edge of the frame whispering suggestively and pointing towards Tom, the camera eventually capturing the superstar who looks back up at his own reflection. Poorly green screened hearts flood the screen and the camera pans to include you in the frame too. Tom looks on in horror when he realises what’s going on and how it could be too late, and turns to you.

“I promise I didn’t know this was going on. We don’t have to.” Tom panics. 

You hear him loud and clear, that you don’t have to, but your heart and eleven thousand people are telling you to kiss him otherwise. “Oh well. We should just do it.” you murmur, the bright pink ‘KISSCAM’ logo flashing in and out.

It doesn’t take more than a moment for the gap between you and Tom to close, for your face to get lost behind his, his lips pressing against yours, eyes closed, trusting each other to share your air. This was probably the first thing that night worth cheering for, howls and whistles erupting around you. 

Tom doesn’t understand American football, but he thinks that the best seats in the house could be anywhere next to you.

Harry’s on the phone to his twin brother, Sam, when you and the rest of the crew make it back to the hotel later on. “-Yeah, and Tom spent half the night with the first A.D. cheering and screaming at fuck all.”

The Cleveland Browns lost that night, but Tom remains none the wiser. He stood in the doorway as Harry continued to relay his day to Sam. “Oh, and Tom, Mum said to give her a call, eavesdropper.” He flicks Tom’s reddening nose before closing the door.

A week and a half later, Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. He never has the time anymore to attend ‘real’ football games back home, and he actually understands the game back in Britain. But now, he’s cheered at almost every given opportunity to impress you stupidly, and his chest and voice is suffering as a consequence.

You and Tom walked onto set with your pinkies intertwined, growing closer and closer by the minute, but Tom doesn’t miss how Ciara’s boyfriend visits set every day for her, doesn’t miss how they rub their nose together in this lovey-dovey affection he wishes he could bestow upon you.

The scene wasn’t working.

The crew was beginning to grow restless and Tom silently became more frustrated as the minutes went by and he was unable to get his lines right. He remembers how a week ago, it felt so easy. You were there to correct him when he stumbled upon his lines and you picked him up so effortlessly, a twinkling smile on your face. But then? Then you were different. Your eyes were scrunched up behind the lens of the camera and you were mumbling something to Anthony about how the sun was due to go down in Ohio soon so you needed to hurry along.

“Alright.” you announced. “Take five!”

And Tom was thankful, Ciara perched upon a swing for the scene they were filming, Tom dwindling the rope of the swing under his finger as her boyfriend approached her once again. “Hey dude, are you okay?”

Ciara looked at Tom with the same concern, hands finding home in her boyfriend’s nest of hair. “Yeah, Tom, are you okay?”

Tom coughed into his hand. “Yeah, guys, I’m good.”

“I think you’re coming down with a nasty cough.” Ciara muttered.

“Yeah. It’s you guys. You’re too cute. You make me sick.” Tom laughed humourlessly for a short while, wanting to be that adorable with someone, maybe not anyone, maybe just with you someday. Then Tom shook his head, a bitter feeling in his throat as he yawned. “It’s the Browns game. I was yelling and screaming every time a quarterback got the ball. Of course I’m a little unwell. I’ll be good as new in a few days though.”

Ciara already knew Tom wasn’t playing a man with the healthiest of habits, but she worried that Tom was getting this bad this early. “Maybe you should talk to the first A.D. about reducing shoot days from five to three?”

Tom didn’t like the prospect of seeing you less. “Yeah.” Harry had a clapperboard between his hands, leading Tom’s eyebrows to furrow as his brother yelled something about it being take 13. “Maybe.” 

Harry resumed to a new position in your chair, with you taking Harry’s place right across from Tom, a coffee waiting for him when the scene was over like Harry always did. Ciara’s boyfriend left the frame to watch supportively on the sidelines.

“Lights. Camera. Action!” Anthony called. “Time is money, you guys! Let’s try to get this one right this time.” 

They’d been over this already twelve times today.

“Hey, I’m really happy you’re here.”

Ciara read her line back. “Why’s that?” 

Tom could hear whispers of the crew, the sound guy glaring at them in case they were picked up in the scene, and he knew it had something to do with the fact that he couldn’t for some reason get the next line out all day. And that reason, unbeknownst to everyone, was because Tom couldn’t say something he didn’t mean - feeling like his heart was locked in a cage for which only you had the key. He looked past his co-star, Ciara, and up at you; feeling so close but you were far away, leaving him all day without anything to say. And overcoming his speechlessness and breathlessness, even in just that moment, he ran his hand over the rope to say, “Cause I like you. A lot.”

Ciara and the rest of the crew broke into a wide smile once Tom finally spoke his next line, but the only person Tom was focused on was you, who wasn’t smiling, but mouthing his words back to him.

Ciara breathed, “Shut up.”

And Tom’s sure to look you in the eye when he says, “I really do.”

When the filming for the day is said and done, Tom makes a beeline for you across the greenery. You hand over his coffee to him, “It’s a little cold now, but a warm hand is holding it.”

Tom quirks an eyebrow. “Are you inviting me to hold your hand?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“You swapped jobs with Harry, I saw.”

“Yeah, well. It’s good he gets to grips with the job now. You know, in case anything changes.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket. “I should probably give you my number. In case anything changes.”

“Oh no, yeah. Your number is?”

“216-XXX-XXX. Speaking of changes, I heard you’re trying to get your days reduced.”

“You were eavesdropping?” Tom looks at your face that bears no trace of guilt. “You’re just like me!” He pulls you close.

“Tom, if what happened today is because you’re working too much, I’m happy to reduce your time.”

“Nah, nah.” Tom sniffles, rubbing his nose on a jacket probably worth more than your life. “I’m just a bit sick, s’all. I’ll be fine.”

Two weeks pass and Tom’s no better. With the Cleveland game nearly a month ago, Tom has nothing to blame and as first A.D., you’re obligated to reduce his hours. Tom’s on the phone with his mother when you approach his trailer. 

“Don’t listen to Harry. I’m not in love. I just like Y/N.”

“A lot. I’ll keep you updated. Bye, Mum.” 

You’re so quick to skip happily back to your trailer that you miss Harry calling out to his brother, he’s his protector now that his mother was countries apart. “Tom?” Harry starts.

Tom mumbles an ‘mhm’, hoping Harry would make it quick as he sees you FaceTiming him. If only his mother could see him like this. He’d get to call her tomorrow and tell her he’d called you for the first time yesterday, he could hardly wait to utter, 'I've finally found the missing part of me’. Harry sighs as the FaceTime ringing is relentless. Tom’s eyebrows threaten to meet in the middle of his face as he clutches onto his phone.

“Tom.” Harry begins. “Y/N is giving up assistant director.”

Tom’s really not sure where Harry gets the source of his information from, but he’s sure this isn’t true. He thinks you’d tell him before his brother if you were leaving the film behind, leaving him behind.

The film is due to move filming to Morocco soon, and Tom’s well aware that not all film crew joins them when production moves abroad, but to Tom, you’re an extension of this movie universe. And Tom refuses to leave the memories of you in this filming cycle. “How’d you know?”

“I’m taking over.” Tom’s screen lights up with the glow of your call, and as bright as it is, as bright as you are, as bright as your smile surely is on the other end of the phone call, Tom’s in his deepest darkest feelings wondering how he fooled himself into thinking romance could go right for him this time. 

He’s going to Morocco. You’re not. You’re funny, smart, promising, beautiful. You’ll find someone good for you, a better pair by the time he’s back.

“That doesn’t mean it won’t work out, man.” Tom sulks in his bed, the light from your constant calls bleeding through his bed sheets. “I just wanted to warn you.” Tom nods, screaming into his pillow. Harry decides that’s his cue to leave, a glimmer of light from outside seeping through the crack of the door as Harry escorts himself. Tom musters all his might and courage to reluctantly answer your phone, the ear-to-ear grin he knows so well greeting him once again.

Suddenly, he forgot how to speak. Hopeless, breathless, couldn’t you see that?

“Tom?” You call out his name a few times before cutting straight to the point. “Do you like me?”

Tom shifts slightly but not enough to show that he’s alarmed. “Huh? Yeah, I like you.”

He sits up, but doesn’t reciprocate the outrageous smile you wear like a heart on your sleeve. Tom’s eyes are sunken, dark circles forming under his eyes where he and his disturbed character become one. You suddenly remember why you shouldn’t have run away so fast, perhaps Tom was overworking himself. He continues, “But I’m an emotionally unavailable hopeless romantic. So I wouldn’t waste your time on me.”

Tom can’t help the hurt in his heart when he sees your smile drop so suddenly, knowing it was earnest. “Tom, what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, life is unfair. And I’m gonna quit while I’m ahead. We wouldn’t work out. And I like our friendship now. We should stay that way.”

You’re not convincing when you nod rapidly, not letting Tom see your face as you play with your fingers to avoid his gaze. “Yeah, I agree.” You’re much less convincing when the last frame Tom caught of you was a shot of tears dripping down your face, as three rings followed you. Tom’s screen went black in your absence, and Tom falls asleep with eyes even redder from crying, and he wonders when he’s gonna shake this sickness.

It’d been a few days since Tom had got his shots to allow him to go to Morocco. He sat opposite the doctor on set, a coffee cup placed on the desk between him.

Tom reckons that's why he’s sick. Shots always have their side effects, and he’d taken multiple shots in one day. And now, he specifically asked for you to hold his hand during the process, Harry branded in a glinting jaw-drop, only for you to leave directly after. 

“I’m speechless, constantly feeling over the edge, breathless.” Tom explains his symptoms to the doctor. “At first I thought it was because of that stupid football game, then all the coffee I’m drinking, now I don’t know if it’s the shots. I feel like shit, doc.”

“I know exactly what you’re dealing with.”

“What?”

“Lovebug.”

Tom stares at the doctor in utter bewilderment. “You figured that out based on my symptoms?”

“I figured that out based on the puppy dog eyes you gave for your first A.D. when they left without a word.” The doctor begins to laugh softly, but Tom is unamused. How is he supposed to shake this illness after completely ruining your relationship? How is he supposed to mend your bond after talking so recklessly, so emotionally? “Tom, I’m not here to be a fairy godmother, I’m being strictly medical. At a certain point, what you feel in your mind affects your body. So I prescribe that you talk to Y/N and say everything you need to say.”

And while that seemed easy enough, Tom’s ego was at work again, and Tom was feeling far too bruised and wounded to speak to you first. Surely if you cared enough, if you liked him back, if you were willing to be distanced, you would reach out first.

It seems Tom’s pride had forgotten that you already did.

“I heard that this is the exact shit that happened in Cleveland, and he couldn’t get the line out.” Tom hears the whisperings from behind the camera, the amount of familiar faces in the crew dwindling after the change in location. He doesn’t respond. He waits for someone to take five. And when no one throws him a bone, he asks Harry to.

“Alright, everyone take five.”

“Someone get this kid a fucking coffee, he’s always on edge.” Joe instructs.

“And you think giving a kid in twenties coffee is taking him off edge?” Anthony chuckles.

Tom doesn’t care whether or not he gets the coffee, rocking side to side. He’s got all the motion for this role, but he feels nothing. All he felt was for you.

“Here.” Harry sets a Moroccan mint tea down next to Tom, hoping it would calm him down. When Tom takes a few sips, the look in his eyes is less pleading, and everyone’s ready to rumble, this being the last scene of the day.

Harry feeds Tom the line. “Baby, are you seeing bad things?” Tom is seeing bad things. A life without love, a life without you. Unable to contain it all, Tom turns his frustration into laughter. “Why are you calling me baby for, man?” Tom has this ear-to-ear grin but even he feels it's not as innocent, as genuine as yours. He never knew a smile so wide could be so full of pain.

“I have an idea.” Harry saunters off to collect his phone. “Don’t stop rolling the cameras.”

When Harry comes back, there’s sounds of shifting erupting from his phone. “Hi, Tom.” 

Tom didn’t know it would be so bittersweet to hear your voice again. He wasn’t sure if he should put walls up again or if twice was the charm. Even if you worked out in the short term, whose to say Tom wouldn’t get hurt again? And Tom wouldn’t want to hurt you.

“Are they taking good care of you out there? I don’t think I took good care of you.” Tom doesn’t say anything on the other side of the line, so you continue. “I’m not a good A.D. if you’re always sick and tired, and I didn’t want to see you any less, which was selfish of me, so I didn’t change your schedule.” You sigh as you admit why you left. “When you asked, though, I swear I was gonna do it, but then I heard you liked me, and I got carried away. I had to remove myself from the situation to do what’s best for you. Do you understand me? I did it for you.”

“I, uh, I got a diagnosis.” Tom stumbles.

“Oh my gosh, are you seriously sick?”

“I’m speechless. Over the edge, breathless.” Tom laughed dryly, finally feeling like he can choose an ending.

“What did they say it was?”

“Lovebug.” Harry smiles softly at his brother.

Your laugh is like nectar entering Tom’s ear.

“I might just love you way too much, Y/N.”

“Are you sure you’re doin’ okay?” Tom tries his best not to sound dejected that you didn’t say it back, knowing he’s already felt the brunt of this heartache already.

“I just miss you, that’s all.”

“I miss you too. I love you.” Joe stops recording, and Harry lowly whispers ‘take.fucking.five.’ as he and the crew creep away from Tom’s new found love scene. 

“Anthony, can I borrow your phone?” Harry begins to type Nikki’s number as soon as Anthony gives over the phone. “Mum, Tom just told the first A.D. he’s in love with them so guess who’s out of a job?”

Tom knows why he’s sick. He used to feel like love was trudging up a high hill he couldn’t come down from, where every beat of heart was feeling like an ache on an open wound. Tom had yet to meet a lover to prove distance makes the heart grow fonder, finding himself in six month long entanglements and illusions of love before things inevitably went sour. But now, Tom has found you.

[courtofjurdan]

One chance part 6

Jurdan College AU - masterlist

*Feel free to tell me anything you would like to see!! I hope you enjoy!!*

Warning: Mention of nonconsensual touching, mental health issues

She woke up the next morning feeling so numb. She couldn’t even bring herself to go to her classes. This was not like Jude at all. She was the girl that everybody picked on but nobody could break. She was strong headed. She knew what she wanted when she wanted it, and how she wanted it. So when Taryn didn’t see her at school, she began to get worried. Jude would have told her she was sick, right? 

So Taryn decided to text her. 

T: Hey Jude, everything okay? 

J: Yeah

T: Why are you not at school?

J: sick

Taryn knew something was wrong. Jude didn’t just give one word answers. Jude is always thorough. 

T: Can I get you anything?

J: No

T: I’m coming to you. 

J: No 

Jude didn’t sleep much at all. They were dark circles under her eyes from the lack. She hasn’t even ate or drank anything. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She felt ashamed, but why? She just laid in the bed with tears streaking down her cheeks. 

It was around lunch time where Taryn found Jude in her bed asleep. Taryn had an extra key for her room in case of an emergency. 

Taryn quietly walked over and sat at the edge of her bed and put a hand on her shoulder. 

“Hey Jude, I’m here.”

They didn’t always get along but that didn’t stop them from loving each other. Their twins, their love never stops pouring for one another. They will always take care of each other. 

Jude just buried her head in her pillows, hiding her face. She mumbles, “Get out,”

“What’s wrong?” 

“Get out.” 

“I’m not getting out until you tell me what’s wrong.” 

Jude sat up in bed, and Taryn saw the puffy, red eyes. She saw the tear stains running down her cheeks. She saw raw Jude. The side of Jude she hides from everyone else. The so imperfect Jude. Human Jude. 

Jude thinks herself weak for doing this. Staying in bed and crying. Letting all the emotions flow from her but in reality this is all normal. But Madoc, her adoptive father, taught her to suck up the tears and move on in life. So that’s exactly what she did. She shut sobby emotions out and dwelt on anger. But this was inevitable for crying. This broke her. 

Taryn asked with a look of pity, “What happened, Jude?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

Taryn took a deep breath, “Jude, I’m here for you. No matter what qualms we find ourselves in. You're hurting. Your pain is my pain. I just want to help.”

More tears began to flow down Jude’s face, “I know you do. I’m just not ready to tell. I can’t. I just can’t.” She began to sob. 

Taryn held her in a tight embrace, rubbing circles on her back, “Ok, okay Jude. You don’t have to tell me right now. But if you need anything come and get me. Remember Jude, you're not made of steel. Forget what Madoc made you to be. Your human. It’s ok to cry.” Taryn never noticed the bruises on her arms or neck. 

Jude just nodded, her words would be too broken if she even tried to speak. 

Taryn kisses her cheek and stood up, “I have to go get some lunch and go to class. Can I get you anything before I leave?” 

“No, Taryn I’m good.” 

Taryn nodded and headed to the door. But before she could close the door, Jude said, “I love you.” 

Taryn smiled and yelled back, “I love you too.” 

Taryn was seething when she left. She knew it had to be the hated friend group. The one that included Cardan. She went and grabbed a quick lunch and waited in the hallway until she saw one particular common face. Silently, she grabbed his shirt and brought him to an empty classroom to talk privately. 

“What did you do to my sister?” Taryn said through gritted teeth.

Cardan was taken aback. “What do you mean ‘what did I do?’”

Don’t play dumb, Cardan Greenbriar. My sister is the most pain I’ve seen her in since our parents’ death. What happened?”

At that Cardan eyes went wide with confusion and worry. “Taryn I’m not joking I didn’t do anything. But I’m pretty sure Valerian and Nicasia did. She stopped me in the hallway yesterday and I assumed harsh words were given to Jude by valerian.”

“Harsh words wouldn’t hurt Jude like I saw her hurting. Or they must have said something bad.” 

“I don’t know what they did. I’ll call Jude and see if she will tell me anything.” At that Cardan started to leave but Taryn stopped him. 

“You are trying to change for her, aren’t you?” 

With a shy smile on his face, he said, “I’ve got one chance.” 

 Cardan and Taryn went to their classes and after Cardan was finished and left his last class that Jude was supposed to be at, he got in his fifty thousand dollar mustang and called her. 

And of course, it went to voicemail. 

He left a message, “Hey Jude, it’s Cardan. You weren’t at any classes today and I wanted to make sure you're okay. Call me back when you get a chance. Bye.” 

To say the least, she never called back. 

But she did get up the next day and went to class. Her eyes were swollen and the dark circles were quite noticeable now. She went in and didn’t talk or smile or give anybody a sense in the world. She just looked down. 

Her friends tried to say something when she gave them no care in the world but she didn’t say a thing. They knew she was hurting and they hated to see her that way. She was always so strong and mighty for them. But people break. 

Cardan walked in and saw Jude and he saw the dark circles, her swollen eyes, he saw her brokenness. Most people would have thought it was just a bad day for her, but Cardan knew. He has been observing her for far too long to not notice. 

He walked up to her and knelt down and carefully said, “Jude are you okay?”

“Go away.” Her words were with no emotion. Just blank. 

He stayed there for a couple of more seconds, hoping she would say something else. 

“Go away.” She said with way more bite. She looked up at him and he saw the line of tears that dare break loose from her eyes. 

He nodded and walked away. Maybe she just needed time. Maybe he reminded her of Valerian and Nicasia. She just needs time to heal, so he thought. 

So he didn’t talk to her, he let her wallow. He let her grieve whatever was missing. He let her be, no matter how hard it hurt him to. 

The days turned into weeks. It had been 4 weeks. One whole month. She went from a girl with willpower nobody could challenge, to a girl that was wasting away. He saw, as the weeks went by, her becoming much thinner. Her clothes were becoming quite baggy. 

He wanted to do something but he felt like if he did, he would make it worse. Bomb, Ghost, and Roach tried to help her, but she pushed them away. They saw the same thing Cardan did. They still tried to help her though. Taryn was worried sick about her. Jude wouldn’t let her help her. Taryn had to watch from the sidelines like everyone else. 

One day the Bomb had had enough. She missed Jude. So one day when Jude was moping in her bed, looking lifeless as ever, she barged in. 

Bomb with an annoyed look on her face said, “Okay, get up.”

“Why.” Jude barely spoke a word these days. 

“Because your friends are taking you out.”

“I’m good, thanks though.” 

“You have no option. I will bring reinforcements to get you up off that bed.”

“Okay, go get your reinforcements.”

“Boys!” The Bomb shouted. 

The Ghost and Roach step in from the hallway of the dormitory. Jude looked at her reinforcements and a small smile spread across her face. 

Bomb, with a happy attitude at the smile given, said, “Look, there’s that smile we miss so much.” 

Jude rolled her eyes. The boys went and got her shoes, put them on her feet and both grabbed an arm and pulled her off the bed. And pushed her all the way to the Bomb’s car. 

They went out to eat and took her to see a movie. And it was fun. Jude was glad the Bomb brought her reinforcements because with them, she probably wouldn’t have gone.

But reality sat back in when she stepped into that empty dorm room with nobody but her emptiness. She was just so tired of feeling nothing. So tired of feeling ashamed. 

Then she looked at her phone and saw Cardan’s name pop up and saw he had sent a text message. It contained three words. I miss you.

The tears started rolling, again. How could he miss her and do what she thinks he did. They are his friends so he had to know about it. He didn’t physically do it but he could have stopped it. Or so she thought. She was glad it was Saturday the next day so she wouldn’t have to get up or see anybody. 

Jude never responded back. And Cardan was tired of Jude ignoring him. So by Saturday’s noon, he went and knocked on the door. She went to the door and opened it. Cardan stood there with a shy smile. She saw his face and slammed the door. 

Cardan reopened the door himself, and welcomed himself in. She was angry, he could basically see the heat from it coming off of her. 

Hesitantly Cardan said, “Hey Jude.”

“Get out.” Jude said through gritted teeth. 

“I just want to talk. I want to make up whatever happened. I think my friends did something to you, said something to you, but I swear, I had no idea.” He said so gently that it broke a piece of Jude’s heart but she wasn’t going to fall in his tricks again.

“I don’t care that you want to talk. Leave!” She was shouting that by the end.

Before Cardan left, he said, “Stop blaming me for the sins my friends did. I don’t know what they did, but I didn’t do it.”

Before he could walk out the door Jude grabbed his wrist. “Then why do you still hang around them.”

“Because they are the only people that give two flips about me.”

“Do you wanna know what he did?” Cardan didn’t have to ask who “he” was. He knew it was Valerian. Jude grabbed her phone off of her bed. 

Cardan just nodded. Unsure where this was headed. 

“He locked me in the women’s bathroom on campus, and-” she began to choke up, trying to catch her breath from the tears. “He touched me. He kissed me. I was assaulted by him, Cardan. And that’s a pain that doesn’t stop.” Jude began to show him the pictures of the bruises that he left on her neck and legs and arms. “He wasn’t gentle. That’s why I have been so mad. Been so mad at everything.” 

Cardan just stood there with wide eyes and open mouth. He couldn’t believe they would go this far. He was mad. Not at Jude. No, at his friends. He saw Jude drop to her knees and sob. He’s never seen this side of Jude. She also put up a good front for him also. 

He didn’t know what to do. He got on the ground with her and scooted her to his lap, despite the defiance she gave, and he let her cry on him. He rubbed soothing circles on her back. He was speechless. Tears started to well up in his eyes from the pain he could see her in. There was nothing on earth that he could say to make this better.

She cried so hard that she ended up falling asleep on him. So he just sat there on the floor, as uncomfortable as he was, and he let her sleep for half an hour. When she started moving he spoke up, “Jude I’m so sorry he did that. If I could have done anything to stop it, I would have.”

She didn’t say anything. She got up from his lap, went to her bed and pulled the covers over her. He looked at her and left her room. Without a word. He didn’t know what they had done was this bad. 

So now he wasn’t going back to his dorm, he was going to Valerians. He knocked on his door and he answered it with a smug smile. But Cardan punched that smug smile right off his face. He punched and punched and valerian punched right back. At the end, Valerian was pretty bloody and Cardan just had few cuts and a black eye. 

Before Cardan left, he yelled out with as much venom as possible, “If I ever hear that you touch her again or any girl for that matter, it will be much worse than this.” And he left with a slam of the door. 

The next day Jude saw Valerian in the hallway. She saw the beat up face. The look of death he was giving her. All she was thinking is that he deserved it. But it wasn’t until she saw Cardan’s face that she knew what happened. She went up to him. 

“Cardan, what happened?”

“I took care of business, Jude.”

“You beat him up for me?”

“Of course I did, he ruined my one chance.”

And Cardan walked away. 

Jude was left standing there, thinking. Maybe he really did care for me to go to extents like this. Maybe I should apologize for blaming him. Maybe I should renew his one chance. 

Next chapter

Taglist:

@newwifeyy | @mi-mavencalories | @roseygirl25 | @spideygirlstuff | @afexiss | @aelin-queen-of-terrasen | 

[madmadmilk]

Return to Sender | Tom Holland x Reader

Pairing: Tom Holland x Yours Truly (You)

Summary: A letter made out of love and loyalty. It’s your choice to press post, send, delete, or save to drafts. The only thing we’ll never know is if he decides to read it or not.

Warnings: cursing, (lowkey highkey) angst, and a fair amount of delusion

Word Count: 1.8K over the character count

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How to read: First Person POV, so read this as yourself first and foremost. Then read this as his good friend, read this as someone who saw him yesterday, read this as someone you haven’t see in a long time, read this as someone who has nevermet him, read this as someone who has only known him through the lens of social media... read this as someone who has a lot to say but will never send it.

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Hey Thomas,

I must have written this over a thousand times, and I know it’ll never be just right.I just feel weird calling you Tom over this absurdly long, formal message, and Thomas kinda just looked better to me. And, blah, I know this could never change your mind, or make you see me any differently, but it doesn’t hurt to try, right?

Let’s get the hard part over with.

There’s about three things I’m absolutely positive about. First, you’re amazing. Fucking, brilliant. Second, there’s a part of you–– my wishful thinking, I suppose–– that I know, cares about me or could. And third, hah, I am unconditionally and irrevocably in love with you.

Yeah, I totally just took that from Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight, but you know what?? I gotta pay homage to how fiction and storytelling has always left a significant impression on me. Fluttery stories of love and hope and strength and cute brunettes–– all leads to you.

And I’m joking and rambling now, I know, but it doesn’t make it mean any less.

I love you.

Truthfully, I don’t even know where thatstarted. Was it when I saw you fight impossible odds during a tsunami as a boy? Or when you trained to spin webs and do back-flips and shit. Did I notice this affection through your first appearance in the MCU? The second, or even the third? Did I realize it when I found your instagram, and finally let myself follow? That time when you mistook your hair gel for toothpaste…? Or when I caught your livestream at the Right Time? When you looked right at me, and I let myself believe?

I don’t think I’ll really ever know whenthis started. I only know what I want and wish to happen now.

Through the videos, posts, movies, interviews and experience, I just… I just feel like you’ve always been there for me. You’ve always been someone I could fall back on–– look back on. I open my phone, and you’re right there. Beneath my fingertips, first in my search bar, bright on my lock screen. You’ve always been.

I look for your voice before I sleep, and I imagine the sights and sounds when I see new pictures of you. All I can do afterwards is wish I were there with you.

That’s all I want.

All I want is to leave an impression on you, to have something that lets you remember me. After that, I can let go and rest forever, if I knew I could mean anything to you.

I draw you, write about you, read about you, dedicate a whole blog to you–– and still wonder if it’s too little or too much.

(Side note: does it weird you out? Seriously, let me know and I’ll halt productions.)

Gah, it’s staggering to think that we are worlds away from one another; that we could meet tomorrow and then never again. Or how often I see your face, and never know how often you see mine––

I don’t let myself think of that most days.

You’ve brought me so much peace and happiness just knowing you.

My view is one-sided and biased and rosy. It’s limited, blurry, and lacking. There’s so much I don’t know about you, so much I wantto know about you.

And that’s what keeps this going.

The hope.

Or some shit.

I wonder if you would tell me if you had a girlfriend, or boyfriend, or someone special. I wonder how that would make me feel, or if that could make these feelings stop…. Hah, but I don’t think that would take anything away from me.

You’ll still be you.

You’ll still be that sticky boy who’s kind and generous and cute and funny and good to his family and friends.

You’ll always be that to me.

Not that I’d refuse to believe that someone else completes you or supports you better than I can, but I’ll always have the warmth you’ve given me. They could love you more than me, be closer to you than me, be better than me, and that’s alright.

Because all I want is for you to be happy.

If you are, then so am I.

And that’s love, I suppose.

It’s something selfless, it’s something that’s kind of like a hobby. You enjoy it and you endure it. You build it, you tear it down. You want to share it, but keep it to yourself. And no matter what happens, you learn and grow from it…

Oof.

I do hope you continue to share these things with me. No real pressure, of course. It’s your life to take control of. You deserve your privacy first and foremost, and time away from the public and social media. You deserve the time to recharge and reorient yourself after long trips and interviews and work hours–– we all do.

I just hope you decide to continue to share the snippets of life that you do.

It’s a lovely world to be a part of.

I love that you share so much with your family and friends. I love seeing your cute lil dog and snaps of places you call home. I love seeing how you spend your night out, and the sporadic nature of it all. I love that you can’t use instagram stories for shit. And I love that you continue to try anyway.

That’s something I’ve always really liked about you.

You don’t give up when you can’t do something. You’ll post the same thing twice to get it right. You keep your cool and roll with the jokes. You laugh at yourself when appropriate. You stand up for yourself when things go too far. You try your best while we all are watching. You try even harder even when we’re not.

I really respect that.

And I’ve gone so far off track from what I came here to say, I don’t even know if you’ve bothered to read this far. There’s just a few more things left, I promise.

I just need to say that I’m sorry for being a pest. For lurking so far up your ass and hitting the bottoms of your feeds so much. For applying more pressure than you need. For reading fakey gossip and making bold assumptions. For forgetting that you’re human just like me.

I’ve made these mistakes, and I don’t know how to make them right. I’m still out here learning too––

And what I’ve realized is that to move forward, I have to  step away.

I see your posts and fawn, and then I have to turn and leave. Suppress the urges to tease and make fun, to shout profanities, to post about what I wish I could do to you or you to me.

A well wish is all I can give you.

“Have a nice day,” and “Do your best,” is so fucking vanilla but it’s what I want you to hear from me. Something soft, loving and easy.

Something that will undoubtedly go unnoticed.

And I’m fine with that (most days).

You don’t have to acknowledge me, you don’t have to recognize me.

Because I want you, but I don’t.

I don’t know what would happen if thisbecame real. If you suddenly become realto me in my real life. Real, real, real. It’s seriously unimaginable.

Not because I’m me or anything.

But because you’re you.

I can picture myself beside you, but I doubt you could with me.

That sounds so pathetic but–– I don’t know!

I’ll never know, unless youtell me. Or I tell you and you tell me. Or we end up in one of those fanfiction slow-burn roommate!AUs. Unrealistic, but romantic.

And this is the point of it all, I guess.

I want to tell you, “hey! I love you!” because I have to know what could happen next. Not that I’m expecting anything grandiose. I’m just hoping for a chance that you’ll listen to me and accept the feelings I’m giving you.

I just want you to hear me, so I can get rid of it.

So here, take it! Here it is! Do with my heart what you will!

I’m sick of hiding behind a screen, but too scared to show you my face.

Just take this pretty moment, remember me like this, and let me know what you think in 5-7 business days.

I’ll be waiting like I always have. Never too high on my toes or too relaxed in my bed. Leave it all to chance–– Can you believe I don’thave notifications set up for you?

You don’t own me!

And now that I’ve managed to give you a hard time figuring out what to do with my feelings, I’ll move on to the last part.

Happy Birthday, Tom Holland.

I’m so happy to have seen you grow on-screen and off. I’m incredibly proud of your achievements, and baffled by your impact. Keep fucking growing, dude! This is your time to thrive. All with your bare fucking hands. Fucking wild.

I can’t even compare myself to you––

But anyway, I hope you’ve had a nice day or night or whatever the hell. Please get some good rest tonight and tomorrow night, and all the nights onward. Take time to take care of yourself and brush your teeth.

And thank you for being your being here for me.

I hope you can take my words and turn it into strength and support, no matter how you deem to view it. It’s only to remind you that someone cares, after all.

Yeah, so before I dig myself a deeper hole, I’ll end this letter here. A reply would mean the world to me, and even if you don’t, I wouldn’t hold it against you.

You’re a busy guy, I know.

Thanks, Tom.

You have all my love.

Sincerely,

Yours Truly

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-

-

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A/N: and that’s it!  really raw and kinda exposing who i am lol. You can make your own assumptions of what happened next. What perspective did you read this in? Did you actually send the letter? Did he reply? (is the reply the title of this fic?) Hahaha, I don’t really know what this is. I just felt like writing a love letter. Please let me know what you think! Did it work? Did it make sense? Thanks for reading :)

Please like, comment, reblog, subscribe and turn on bell notifications!! Haha

Peace out ✌🏼

Madmadmilk

[designsfromtime]

A Frank Conversation About Selling on Etsy:

So, you have a hobby. Your friends and family LOVE your work and advise: “You should sell your stuff!” Maybe you need some extra income and you hope you can supplement your bank account with a side hustle. So you open an Etsy store, spend hours wording your “About Me” page, upload some pictures, and then you wait for that first sale…annnd…crickets.

This is a scenario that is repeated thousands of times every day.  I hear it constantly from disappointed and angry Etsy shop owners. So what do you do?  Blame Etsy? Pay money for one of those “opportunists” who promise more sales if you buy in and follow their model with little to no success? Get angry and give up?

This isn’t a post telling you “how to be successful” on Etsy. Rather, it’s a very frank conversation to help with your “expectations” and, yeah, maybe give you a little advice.

Before you open your store answer some very frank questions:  Did you do your homework? - Did you go on Etsy and search for items similar to yours?  Is the market already saturated? – or do you have a unique item that isn’t available? If there are items similar to yours are they of better quality and workmanship? - or poorer quality than your work?  Answering these questions is ESSENTIAL and it will take total HONESTY and objectivity on your part, as well as from your friends and family who are advising you.

The first step is to self-assess your quality of work and your business model, as well as your expectations. The raw truth is, I don’t know ANYONE who has quit their day job and is supporting themselves through their Etsy store – Including ME!!

So let’s talk about each of these topics individually.

DID YOU DO YOUR HOMEWORK:

Whether it’s bath bombs or historical gowns, you have to research your target market. You cannot skip this step!

For example, my daughter recently started a side-hustle making all-natural stain-free bath bombs, sugar scrubs, body butter, and whipped soaps to help with her Bachelor’s degree. Before she began, she purchased items from the most successful company offering bath bombs and tried them out. Turns out, they weren’t the same quality as hers – just mass produced. She researched the pros and cons of bath bombs using the feedback from those in her inner circle. What did they like or dislike about the competitor’s product. The biggest complaint - - they stain the bathtub and they weren’t hydrating! So, taking that feedback she played with her recipe and came up with bath bombs that are not only moisturizing, but DON’T stain the bathtub. She also offers themes and scents inspired by books or movies such as Harry Potter. That’s her hook! That’s what makes HER product stand out.

https://www.etsy.com/shop/NightMareBathandBody?ref=pr2018_faveshops

It’s essential that you do your research before you open an Etsy store - or move to the on-line market in general.

To use historical costuming as an example. Let’s say you bought a slanted riding hat pattern and made yourself a ridding hat to wear at renfaire. You got lots of compliments on your hat and some of your fellow Rennies asked, “Where did you get your hat?” You tell them you made it, and they ask you to make them one. In consequence you decide if “so-and-so” liked my work, maybe I can parlay this into a side hustle?  But before you make that leap, have you researched how many 16th Century riding hats are available on Etsy?

Let’s say there are quite a few listings already on Etsy. Let’s say you look up the seller who has the most sales of that particular item. So, how does your work compare?  Is your fabric smooth on the base, or are their visible puckers? How is their hand-stitching? – are your stitches as small and even as your competitor? How much are they asking?  Be objective! It can be painful to compare your work, but it’s important if you want to be competitive.

Let’s say, your work is passable. Maybe it’s not exactly the same quality as your competitor, but pretty darn good in your opinion, so you decide that your way “in” is to undercut all those who are selling similar items. This is a tactic I see ALL THE TIME. But have you actually calculated your costs?  How many hats can you get out of one yard of fabric?  How many hats can you make with a yard of trim?  Are you buying your bases ready-made, or making your own?  How much does it cost for you to make your base versus buying ready-made? How much is the millinery wire you need to use? How much wire do you need to use for one hat?

All these questions are essential to calculate your TRUE costs. In addition, have you factored in the fees Etsy will charge you once a sale is made – to include the actual listing fees, as well as the cost of shipping.

When you undercut your competitors you cheat yourself, and then wonder why you aren’t making a profit! I’m not talking a few dollars. I’m talking about setting your prices so low you are barely making a profit.  You say: “But, I’ll raise my prices later after people get to know my work!”  Yeah - - I actually did that. BIG MISTAKE! I started off at a competitive price and the orders came pouring in. It felt great! I felt validated. But when I factored in all the extras I was offering that made my work stand out, and was not charging for, guess what happened?  When I started charging what my hats and headdresses were actually worth, and factoring in my actual costs, I saw a drop off in sales. Did I lower my prices again? NO! Every bead, every piece of trim, every stitch has value. So does your time!!!! Value your work and value your time. If it is quality it will stand alone among the hundreds of others being sold.

When you value your time and price your items accordingly, you will attract a caliber of customers who recognize the quality of your work. But your work needs to hold up in terms of quality. This is where you will need to be objective. That process can be painful. Trust me, I know!

I randomly run searches on Etsy to gauge what’s selling and what’s not – what’s available, and how they are similar to mine, and how much they are selling it for. What I often find are sewists selling items at ridiculously low costs. So low, in fact, I often wonder how in the world they can justify selling a gown for $200 when fabric and supplies make up 75% or more of their total listing price. I know what fabric costs. I know how many hours it takes to construct that item, and when I see shop owners selling items at ridiculously low prices the first thing I do is check where they are located. Many times they are over-seas sellers. The US dollar is worth more in many countries, but there are HUGE risks buying from over-seas vendors. I’ve heard too many horror stories, and quite frankly their work just doesn’t stand up to my standards for historical accuracy. But that’s another story for another time.  

NEVER price your items based on the lowest prices! Figure out your costs, to include your Etsy fees, and pay yourself a FAIR wage. Ignore, the bargain basement over-seas sellers. What you need to be putting your energy toward is honing your skills and making your items truly competitive. If an item is of the highest quality, people will recognize it and they will remember you.

If you cannot self-assess your work honestly and be objective and see where you need to improve, chances are you will be disappointed in the outcome of your shop. Just as important is to VALUE your work. If your work is not the same quality as your biggest competitor, you are setting yourself up to fail. Yes, there is a market for everyone’s work, but here’s the honest truth:  Just like you “get what you pay for” you attract a certain caliber of customer by what you charge!

Here’s an example for you! I have a young friend who likes to sew. She made an Outlander costume for her mother for Halloween using the American Duchess pattern. At her mother’s encouragement, she decided to open an Etsy store and she listed the costume she had made for her mother, and set her price at a ridiculously low cost, at least in comparison to mine. A woman who “claimed” to be a reporter purchased an item in January 2019. She ordered a pair of stays and a bodice and skirt. She claimed she wanted to wear it because she was going to “interview” the cast of Outlander. (I called bullsh*t, and her behavior only validated my prediction). My friend followed the same procedure I do, making the stays first and sending them to her, because you need measurements wearing your stays in order to construct the gown and have it fit properly. After multiple messages to the buyer, in which she tried to get the buyer to give her correct measurements, the buyer wasn’t responding, or was avoiding it claiming she was “too busy.” I saw my friend the following AUGUST and the woman still had not complied with her request for proper measurements!! She sent her a picture wearing her stays and expected my friend to figure out her size by the picture!!

My friend asked me for advice on how to handle the situation. With my assistance, we wrote the buyer on Etsy and explained IN DETAIL what she needed and WHY, and informed her that because she had not complied with getting her the specific measurements needed to complete the commission she would place the order on hold until the woman had time to provide her with what she needed. The woman tried to wiggle her way out of the commission after nine months by stating how busy she was in her work, and how she didn’t have a measuring tape and how inconvenient it was for her to find someone to take her measurements, and that maybe my friend should just cancel the order and refund her deposit as she didn’t want to keep “her” waiting. Yeah – Nice try, right?

Well, my friend had used the deposit to purchase fabric and supplies! – Not to mention, after NINE months it was too late to issue a refund. After 60 days PayPal won’t issue a refund.

Come October, two months after she reached out to me for help, my friend was still battling with this woman for the measurements she needed, and the hateful snit complained to Etsy, and then tried to open a dispute with PayPal! She claimed she didn’t believe her deposit had been used for supplies! I instructed my friend to send the woman the unfinished gown and ALL the supplies she’d purchased, stand her ground and NOT issue a refund, and chalk it up as a lesson learned. Bottom line? If this gal really WAS scheduled to interview the Outlander cast, she would have made more of an effort I’m here to tell you! But this client more than likely saw a seller who was just starting out, had only a couple of items in her Etsy store, purchased the costume on the cheap, and then tried to get one over on my friend.

This example is something you need to be prepared to deal with. You will need to be comfortable setting boundaries and being assertive! You need to be able to intuit when someone is trying to scam you, and you also need to know PayPal and Etsy’s policies. One of the mistakes my friend made was taking her conversation off the Etsy site and emailing this client. Communication on Etsy is a pain in the arse, but you CANNOT take your discussion off site! Doing so is against Etsy’s policies. Why? You need a paper trail, so to speak, of your communication. You need to document your conversations in an Etsy thread so that if a dispute is raised, Etsy can review your conversation. In this instance, my friend had documented her difficulties through the Etsy thread and they saw the efforts she had made to gain the client’s compliance and they ruled in my friend’s favor. But this is not always the case!

The moral of the story: If you price your work at bargain basement prices, you will more than likely attract clients JUST like this person. Now that’s not always the case. There are shady people out there, and even if you charge what you’re worth you will find clients who test your patience.

For instance, I had a client order a riding hat from me a few years back. She had a short deadline, so I went to JoAnns and purchased the silk and began construction. After two weeks she tried to cancel the order stating she found a hat to borrow and didn’t need to buy one at this time. I told her it was too late to cancel as I had already purchased fabrics and started construction, so she opened a dispute with PayPal and told them it was a fraudulent purchase! – claiming someone used her PayPal account without her permission. I supplied PayPal with documentation of our conversations, but they ruled in her favor because it fell within their 60-day deadline! It turned out I had another client who wanted a hat in the same color and was the same size, so I went ahead and issued her refund, but I told her that because of her shady behavior I would not accept any commissions from her in the future. She actually had the audacity to become highly insulted that I would refuse any future commissions and actually made ME out to be the bad guy for setting boundaries with a client who had wiggled their way out of a commission by lying!! Yeah…There are some “special” people out there, and it’s all part of working with the public, so be prepared!

I’ve also had people contact me to request I sell them one of my headdresses, but they only wanted the base. They didn’t want me to cover it and decorate it. I’m highly intuitive and I smelled a rat. I knew instinctively that what they wanted was to take my base and replicate my pattern, because I have created my pattern and it’s not for sale - anywhere! Working with the public can make you question the future of mankind, because there are some shady creeps out there with zero integrity. You will need to be prepared to bite the bullet and deal with them if you plan to work in customer service.

IS THE MARKET FLOODED:

There are a TON of historical costumes listed on Etsy.  Your first step is to evaluate what’s being offered and judge whether or not you are offering something that is actually needed. When I have an idea or find an item I want to make, the first thing I do is run a search for that item. If there are tons of the same item, here’s where you need to be objective and realistic. What’s going to attract sales to your store if there are dozens and dozens of shops offering the same thing?

I participate in some of the groups Etsy offers just for sellers. We try out new functions offered on Etsy and discuss our experiences as a seller. I hear people complain ALL the time about their items not selling. But let’s get honest. How can you expect to be competitive if your product doesn’t stand out from all the others? What makes yours unique when dozens of sellers are offering the same thing? Lowering the price isn’t a strategy that is recommended. Running sales and promotions are fine, but as we’ve already discussed selling yourself short may only be a temporary boon. It’s just not a sustainable business model. Not when you are selling your items for less than what your supplies and labor costs.  Find your niche!

If the market is already flooded, perhaps you might reconsider offering that item or reconsider opening a store all together. Chances are, if you ignore that advice, you will not see any activity in your store. That’s probably not the advice you want to hear, but wouldn’t you rather someone be honest with you?

Also, and you’re gonna hate this one as well – Your family and friends are NOT objective! It’s human nature. What might look great to them, might not attract attention in a larger market. That’s a painful truth.

ARE THE ITEMS SIMILAR TO YOURS BETTER QUALITY?

Being objective is painful, but it’s necessary.

If you’ve decided to press forward and offer items that are already being sold on Etsy, the essential next step is to assess the quality of your work. Before you enter the retail arena, take the necessary time to hone your craft. Quality is the ONLY way you will attract attention when you are offering items that are already flooding the Etsy or on-line market.  Again, undercutting costs is not a sustainable business model, so take the time – however long it takes – until your products are comparable and marketable. If your workmanship isn’t on par, then work for the next year or so to hone your skills and find people who can be kindly objective that can counsel you on where or what needs improvement. Don’t take that criticism personally. We all start somewhere.  I wish you could see some of my first corsets!  God, they were BAD. I mean – REALLY BAD!

One of the things you can do to hone your craft is to AVOID commercial patterns! These commercial patterns are not always historically based – In fact, most are not even close! Some are pretty good but DO YOUR RESEARCH. Read books on costuming. Invest and develop your reference library. Participate in historical groups on social media – hopefully you find those who are inclusive rather than snits who pick apart others’ work, and admins who DON’T participate in the petty drama. Unfortunately, that has not been my experience, so I avoid these groups. But for those who are just starting out, they can be helpful to lurk and absorb information. Ask questions if you participate in groups. BUT be prepared to deal with the costume nazis who hide behind the anonymity of the internet and are hateful and judgmental.

Rather than commercial patterns like Simplicity or McCalls, I recommend you purchase patterns that are more historical. Yes, they are expensive, but you need to invest in your craft and having the proper patterns are just as essential as your equipment. If you cannot tell the difference between Medieval, Elizabethan, Tudor, Rococo, Colonial, Regency, Victorian or Edwardian – You need to start studying! – Starting with underpinnings! There are subtle and not so subtle clothing style differences in each era. Nothing drives me more crazy than Etsy sellers or those on Ebay who buy a commercial pattern that isn’t fit for anything but a Halloween costume, and label it, “Renaissance” when it’s a mish-mosh of colonial and medieval eras.  PLEASE, take the time to read and study. Do your due diligence. I have been creating historical costumes professionally since 2012 when I retired early, but I’ve been studying historical clothing since 2001 and I learn something new ALL THE TIME! I push myself and tackle new eras to hone my craft. There will always be someone who knows more than you do. Just keep learning!

I am always available to give feedback, but actually teaching construction techniques over the internet is a challenge for me because I’m generally pressed for time. Watch You Tube tutorials, take sewing lessons, learn how to drape and draft patterns, but along with all of that…Practice…Practice…Practice. I learn something new every time I tackle a new project or venture into a different era.

MANAGE YOUR EXPECTATIONS:

I am busy all year long with commissions, but most of the time we don’t get paid until a commission is complete. I also have expenses such as fees for an upgraded Etsy store, Etsy fees to list items – plus the percentage they take from each sale, as well as website fees – all of which are necessary to get your brand out there.

Aside from operating fees, I have equipment payments – because just ONE of my embroidery machines cost me over $5,000! But you see, my niche is historical embroidery and highly embellished work. I also have material fees, and repair fees on my equipment. You will need a quality sewing machine that is gear driven, rather than belt driven in order to make corsetry and to sew through layers of heavy fabric that you use in historical costuming. I have two embroidery machines, an air threading Serge/overlock machine, and a Juki semi-professional straight stitch sewing machine, as well as a smaller Brother sewing machine that we use for shirts and thinner fabrics when we both need to do machine work. I also have a cutting table with fold out eaves and cabinets that cost me $1200!! All of these tools of the trade costs MONEY.  You will also need dress forms in various sizes for both men and women. The cheap ones that are adjustable are too flimsy to hold up to these heavy costumes. Dress forms can cost anywhere from $300 to $1000. If you plan to compete, you need the tools of the trade.

There are hundreds and hundreds of hobbyists who are attempting to use Etsy as a platform to sell historical clothing to supplement their income, but there are VERY few shops that offer quality items with quality workmanship. If your work isn’t a cut above, you will find yourself disappointed when your expectations fall short of reality.

Even though we stay busy all year long, I don’t make enough to support myself just on my costume commissions alone. After my husband passed away in 2009, I was fortunate enough that he left me and the kids financially stable. Without his retirement income (he was a police officer who died as a consequence of his job) I could not pay my monthly bills on my commission income alone. Lalana works three days a week doing hair and works three days a week with me in my design studio. We do this more for the passion and the creative outlet, than we do for the money. Neither of us are rolling in it!

I have had young mothers approach me about advising them on how to do costuming so they can stay home with their kids. First of all, costuming is production work. When you have a deadline to meet your clients aren’t going to understand when your kids are sick or when your husband wants to spend quality time with you, or your house is filthy. Self-employment is NOT the answer to staying at home and earning an income. Unless you have extra household money to invest every month to keep you afloat and purchase supplies while you’re waiting to be paid for a commission, you’ll be working at a deficit.

There is also the issue of taxes. Etsy collects sales taxes on your behalf, but they don’t collect your federal income taxes or state income taxes, if you live in a state like California. Working under the table is a risky endeavor! Do you really want to risk being audited for income you didn’t report? My advice: Just don’t do it!! It’s not worth the risk. So, be prepared to hire a tax specialist to do your taxes every year. You will need to keep good records of all your expenses and income. Every spool of thread, every yard of fabric needs to be accounted for in order for you to have a REAL picture of your profit and loss. The purchase of equipment will help, but there again, you need to be able to afford to pay the monthly payments on equipment loans.

In conclusion, there are more CONS than pros to self-employment and opening an on-line business, not just on Etsy. For me, I found Etsy to provide me more traffic in my store than a high-priced website. Unless you have a website manager that constantly monitors your Search Engine Optimization and other such tech stuff that is beyond my comprehension and skills, you won’t get enough traffic to your website to make the expense worthwhile. This is exactly why I switched my fancy-schmancy website to a “Pattern” website via Etsy. It allows me to keep my domain name, while using Etsy’s platform to funnel traffic through my page. I get about 10,000 hits per month in my Etsy store alone.

The bottom line is that Etsy has worked for me, but it may not be a platform that works for you. There are tons of variables – as I’ve addressed above.

So, before you jump into the pond, make sure you know the temperature and depth of the water! Trust me, you’ll thank me for being honest with you.

[lazywriter7]

shades of happiness

Summary: Part of the journey is the end.

Steve Rogers considers his many possible endings, and chooses one.

Warnings for major character death

It’s always been the shade that caught his eye the quickest.

In a set of pastels, blocky and chalky-soft and colour staining on his fingertips – always the pop of red towards the end that his gaze drifted to, where it lingered. The colour that could change the very way you looked at things – like when sunrise lit the tenements of Brooklyn in rose-gold-cinnabar, gleaming off bicycle pedals that used to look dusty and camouflaging the cracks in sour-cream building walls, clothes left over on the lines at night flapping gently in the wind – like filtering it all through this shade could alter reality itself.

(Reality, that makes one of six–)

Steve had a weakness for it, for red. Any time one of his paintings looked a touch too dull, like the colours had been leached of their potency, like everything was too drab, too still (too dead), his brush strayed towards the red tube of paint. A dab here and a highlight there, and it was like the painting became a new creature – vivid and kinetic, the richness of the hue enhancing the brighter shades of yellow and orange, adding depth into the darkness of browns and blacks. It was always on his palette, he couldn’t imagine picturing a world without…

“Steve.”

He shook with it, the startlement. He blinked his eyes. Peggy smiled at him from across the diner booth, chestnut-hair shining in the light and victory suit as perfectly pressed as when he’d first met her. “You were gone there, for a while.”

“I was.” Steve said, and there was something about that that wasn’t quite right. Spoken too lightly, frivolous and easy. Lacking the import that words like that deserved.

But Peggy seemed to pay that no note and only smiled wider. Steve was braced for the breathstopping, jawbreaking clench of longing the sight brought – the corners of her quirked lips, the dip of her lower lip where the skin always seemed to be chapped and flaking. The carmine slash of her lipstick.

Red.

“Nice place, isn’t it.” Peggy tilted her chin, dark eyes flitting over the light fixtures and checkered décor.

It’s very seventies, Steve wanted to say – the foreignness of the thought prickled at him. It was… it was out of place, in this picture-perfect scene, out of time, because he’d never have known to have the thought if not for pop-culture and watching movies about the seventies in the futu–

So something else escaped his tongue instead. “Sometimes, I’d think about if I was just imagining it too… too sunny. Too bright. What would’ve happened if I’d never gone down in the ice.”

A shining image, through rose-tinted glasses. There was something about that too, which rattled at the shadowy edges of his mind; tinted glasses, tinted glasses and dark eyes–

(Dark eyes, bare for the taking. “Liar.”)

“Was the end of war. Couldn’t have been all sunshine and roses.” And for all of his heartache, he’d gotten to skip that part, hadn’t he? Hadn’t had to live with the aftermath. Bombed out streets, diners that were looking a lot emptier, hollow smiles and haunted eyes, empty chairs at the kitchen table.

Except he did live with it, just not at that particular time. Steve cleared his throat, dry to the bone, something like ash lingering at the back of his tongue. “I had to… had to carry on, for five years after. At times, it was harder than the ice.”

But Peggy only smiled on, uncharacteristic, shine of white teeth like something lacquered over. “Have some water, dear, you sound parched.”

The light seeping through the windows caught in his eyes, near-blinding. Steve raised a hand to shield them – was the sun setting? “Must’ve been hard for you to go through that all alone, after the war. Don’t know how you managed it.”

When he’d blinked the spots out of his eyes, the diner seemed faded – though still bathed in coloured light. Peggy had stopped smiling, though her eyes were still kind. “I wasn’t alone.”

Of course. For all that it had gotten dimmer, the world also seemed clearer at the edges. Like a hazy picture beginning to resolve, showing all its grainy details, cracks in the wall. Steve breathed in the stillness, breathed in the dust. “How’re the husband and kids, Peg?”

Peggy blinked, dark lashes batting through the stillness. She wasn’t wearing a ring. “Steve, I don’t know what you’re–

No, the sun wasn’t setting. But the dimmed light had gone awfully red, casting shadows across Peggy’s cheekbones, creeping across the diner table that was somehow too solid and yet not enough under Steve’s numb fingers. “Peg.”

“They’re.” Peggy hitched a breath. Cast in unearthly scarlet or no, she still looked like Steve’s best dream. “It hasn’t happened yet, but… they’ll be. They’re.. doing really well.”

Behind her glossy locks, Steve could see the diner fracturing – jagged shards of light cleaving through the vinyl booths, checkered floor, white tiling on the counters. His breath was shaking along with it, sucked clean out of his chest like an asthma attack of old, fingers digging into the table– “I never stopped loving you.”

“Me neither, darling.” The words sounded thick in her throat, but Peggy wasn’t crying. She leaned forward, cupped her warm palms over his whitening fingers, “Always.”

Then why. Why did they have to, why couldn’t this be–

(“I needed you. You said ‘together’, and–”)

“You’ve worked so hard. Been… unmeasurably brave, done so much.” Peggy’s eyes glistened with the warmth of a thousand setting suns. “I couldn’t be prouder.”

“I could… I could do it again. Here.” Work at it, at belonging to this time again. It couldn’t hurt as much, couldn’t claw at his throat with the hollowness of it more than the first go around. “With you.”

“Oh, but sweetheart.” Peggy raised soft fingers, leaned enough to ghost them over the back of Steve’s neck, catching at the flyway strands of a haircut she’d never gotten to see. “You’ve already done your time someplace else.”

The light blazed, and the world winked out.

~

 The air pumped through his chest, hard and heavy, throat dry with gasping. His hands were braced on his thighs, view obscured to the gap between them – sweat-slick fringe whipping in his eyes when he bent over and tried to regain his breath.

“Sloppy, sloppy.” A voice teased – Steve jerked his head upright and saw red.

Not the long, straightened sheet of locks he’d gotten used to during D.C.; not even the braid she’d started putting her hair in in the past five years when her roots started growing out. No, Natasha’s hair was scarlet, violently red – and done in the short bob he’d grown to know when they’d first met, and when they trained the Avengers at the compound together.

Which was where they were now, maybe – there were mats under their feet and the training equipment around them looked halfway familiar; somewhere in between what had been in the SHIELD barracks and the Avengers facility gym. On the wall behind, off to the corner of his vision: the edge of a logo set into the plaster gleamed metallic under the afternoon light.

(“That’s what we do, right? The A-vengers? We lost, we–”

“You giving up on the fight, Rogers?” Natasha stretched her hands above her head, jet black leather-and-Kevlar creaking with the motion; rolled the joints in her neck, hair clinging to sweaty skin. “Misery of existence getting you down?”

It was a sharp, sharp jab – Steve heaved a breath and laughed with it, laughed till his eyes were faintly blurring and his chest hurt. Straightened up, meeting twinkling green eyes that he’d thought once upon a time, were cold and unreadable. “You’re not getting off that easy, Romanov.”

“You sure?” Natasha mocked, and the affection of it was raw salt and soothing balm all at once. “You’ve been looking pretty bummed lately. Maybe you should go back to bed, rest those old, creaky joints.”

Steve’s feet were moving – he’d fallen into the dance, the pattern, unaware of even making the first step, the two of them circling each other around the ring. How many times had they done this? He should’ve… he should’ve kept count.

“It’s always the same with you millennials. Life is hard, it always is.” Steve’s gloves creaked as he flexed his fingers, boots gleaming cherry red just at the edge of his sight. The old uniform – now that was a different touch. “Don’t know about you, but I’ve got plenty in my life to get outta bed for.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard this one before.” Natasha didn’t roll her eyes, the gesture far too pedestrian for her – and Steve knew that, now and during the course of… ten? Ten years. “The future isn’t really that bad, the internet is such a useful resource, do you know how dangerous polio used to be–”

Oh, but it was far more nuanced than that. In moments, that yawned long and crushingly heavy, the future seemed nothing more than a wasteland. And yet, here was a friend grinning at him from across the ring, and his breath shivered in his chest with the realisation, a truth sitting in his chest too simple to ignore – “I’ve got more than that.”

(“You trust me, right?”)

Natasha stilled. Behind the shield of banter, the fond, biting grin – Steve could see now that her eyes were too bright. Gleaming with a layer of something liquid and unspilled, eyes reddening – streaks crawling in from the corners, overwhelming the whites. “Yeah?”

“Chatting with Mr. Patel at the bodega three miles away. Helping Wanda control her powers.” It was like feeling the dark give way, lightness stealing in – till his vision was wrecked with it, till keeping his eyes closed was no longer an option. “Morning runs with Sam. Sparring with you.”

Natasha’s smile settled into the crinkles of her eyes, a colourless drop leaking out the side and vanishing into the curve of her cheek. Her voice was ever-so-slightly hoarse, and in that moment more tempting than any Black Widow act she’d ever put on. “You can keep this, if you want. Keep all of this.”

The Avengers logo blazed on the wall behind her head, the corner of the A obscured by her curls. It felt, for a second, that his knees might give way after all.

Steve stayed standing. “You can’t.”

There was something trickling down from Natasha’s temple – a thin line of scarlet mingling with the trail of tears. He didn’t know how close to the truth it was. He’d never gotten to see the bod– he’d never gotten to see her go. His voice cracked with the thought, a cleaving strike right down the middle, “I can’t do this without you.”

“Steve.” There was a gentleness about her, a sense of care he’d never deserved. “I did what I had to so you could.”

“Is that…” No matter how many times he cleared his throat, the rawness wouldn’t subside. An open wound, every word flecked with the pain of it, “Is that why you…”

“You already know why.” Did he? The nose of the Valkyrie, heading straight for the Arctic shelf. Natasha’s mouth curled slightly, an affectionate smirk as if she could read his mind. “Serves you right for setting such a good example, hmm?”

“Besides, I had a job.” She said the words like she said so much else, point blank and matter-of-fact – because that was who she was. Not the masks, or the deception, or even the fights. She was duty, and a commitment to it unflinchingly made. “And a debt to repay.”

A debt to repay. The words struck something, grasped for something – past the skin of his chest and aching muscle, through the defences of his ribs and right down to his unenhanced, beating heart.

(Not red this time, no. Hearts were blue, blue and white like the hottest part of a flame; heat and weight slammed down into his palm, metal burning a circle into the skin.

“Liar.”

Burning regret, and a debt that couldn’t be cast away.)

Something slipped into his hand, warm fingers working their way into his own gaps. Steve squeezed against the pressure, breath escaping just a fraction more lightly. “Did it hurt when you went down?”

“No.” Natasha said simply, and the press of her hand against his was not a lie. Reddened as they were, her eyes still looked peaceful. “It was nice. Like a warmth in my chest, of… getting to throw aside all that my life had been used for, and choosing what it was going to mean.”

It means everything. A hero, when it counted the most for everyone. A friend, when it counted the most for me.

“It didn’t feel like that for me, the ice.” The world was hazing around them again, soft and crimson. His fingers curled in harder, held on tighter. “I knew what I was doing was right, but… it didn’t feel like that.”

“Well then.” Natasha tilted her head one last time, light gleaming off the devastating line of her jaw, eyes teasing like he’d remember her best. “What’re you waiting for?”

A breath, brushing past the stillness. Like conviction finally emerging again, settling into its long-worn shoes.

The world blazed bright. Steve let go.

 ~

 When Steve came back to himself, the universe was in stasis.

It felt like he could see all of it, spanning wide, even though his eyes were only confined to this place, this instant. This battlefield, sprawling on the grounds of a compound he’d once called home.

It was all silent, all still. Ash caught in mid-air, immobile. Weapons thrown and not yet landed. Snarls on unmoving faces, bodies contorted into the fight, friends and enemies all stretching around about him. Frozen in time, and Steve a man out of it.

Something glimmered at the corner of his vision – an exhale fleeted from his lips, a solitary breath among thousands that had been paused midway. The Time Stone shone dully among the gaps of his fingers. But it was only a spark of green amidst a sea of red; the Reality Gem blazing next to it, eye-searing.

Steve could not move his fingers. They twitched a little, but stayed firmly wrapped around, entwined through the scratched-up, faded metal fingers of an Iron Man gauntlet.

Steve lifted his chin, and stared at Tony’s face, frozen inches away from his.

(It had been a split-second decision. Lying on his back, holding a broken shield, tasting the blood through his teeth; catching a glimpse of Tony’s face through the debris, as he looked at someone out of view – at Strange, maybe.

Catching a glimpse of that resolution stealing over his face, grim and ruinously beautiful. Watching the tussle between him and the Mad Titan, watching as Tony Stark outsmarted and outgritted a foe yet again.

“I…am…”

Steve’s fingers twitched. A magnetic pull, a phantom sensation of lifting something that had never felt this light before.

Mjolnir plowed through the air, smashing into gold and titanium-alloy. Tony’s face contorted in agony, breath stuttering – but it served the purpose, the weight of the hammer pulling him forward several, crucial inches. Steve could feel the dirt under his fingernails, the watery shake of his arms as he pulled himself up one last time – dragged his knees over the ground to close the gap. Reached out, and this time he wasn’t too far away. This time, he caught the hand and held it tight.

Please, he thought, fingers clammy against warm metal, Tony’s eyes wide and so close and ash dusty over those lashes, please, as his skin brushed against the warmth of the gems, scorching points of contact.

Please, as the world froze and blazed red, and reality splintered with possibilities in his mind.)

 That had been a second ago.

“Thank you.” He whispered, sound barely escaping the ash, the hoarseness, the throttling gratitude. The Reality Gem shone on like a constant, Time a quiet counterpoint to the side.

He had the time now, so he took it. Several selfish seconds, of staring at the brown eyes so inescapably close to his, the ones that had spat contempt at him and offered a home to him and widened in betrayal at his actions. Steve memorised it all, like a painting he’d never be able to put to page – the blood-crusted mess of Tony’s hair, the silver in his eyebrows, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks, the resolute tilt of his chin. The brightness of him, the tenacity, the inability to walk away – like red still lingering in the sky long after the sun had gone down.

Steve’s breath felt thick in his throat, blood and air all congealed to one. With the hand not trapped in the gauntlet, burning over the Stones – he brushed his knuckles over the warm, hard gristle of Tony’s jaw. A stolen touch, the last thing Steve would ever take from him again.

(“I will miss you Tony.”)

“Please.” Reality flickered around them. The Gem glowed, nanites stirring under Steve’s palm, like the faintest tickle, a warm breath huffed over skin. They peeled out in layers, withdrawing from Tony’s ashy skin and flowing over Steve’s hand – welcoming streams that trailed static electricity till they encased him from wrist to fingertip.

The Stones followed, five throbbing points settling below his knuckles. They still felt lighter than the phantom weight of an arc reactor, chest-warm and leaden in his palm.

Steve’s was a life mired with regrets. But in this, insular instant – the only thing he regretted was having to let go of Tony’s bare hand.

One snap, and the world came back to life.

  It was like feeling his atoms implode, the burn beginning from the tips of his fingers and scoring past muscle, sinew, nerve – the blood in his veins on fire, working up his arm and charring everything in its path. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, ground rushing up to hit his spine–

“What. What the fuck, no, no, fuck, no, Steve–”

Something gurgled at the back of his throat. Steve stared up at the sky, unseeing – until his vision was filled with something too familiar, hair and face and eyes looking down, so deeply embedded into his psyche that he couldn’t not recognise–

“T..Tony.” There was warmth at the back of his neck, warmth separate from the burn carving through the right side of his chest. Like someone was clasping his neck, bracing it – like Steve’s stolen touch did not matter, because Tony would always give everything freely away.

“I had it, I had him, why would, Steve, Steve–”

Parts of Steve could still feel the serum kicking away, fighting desperately in its last stretches – I can do this all… I can do this –

“Tony, I…I am so sorry.”

Tony’s face stared down, lips clamped down tight like his teeth were biting through the skin on the inside. There were streaks of shining moisture on his cheeks, clear tracks running down the grime. His voice rang like iron. “No. No. Not good enough, Rogers. I don’t accept this, I can’t–”

“What’s her name.” Steve whispered it on a rasping breath, and Tony’s voice broke off. “Your… daughter. Tell me her name.”

“Morgan.” More liquid, welling up at the edges of those eyes, where the laugh lines usually sat – Steve ached to reach up and brush them away.

“Thought.” The next words were unbearably hard to get out, the burn flickering at the hollow of his throat. Steve struggled through it, single-minded, like every asthma attack, every bully’s fist, every bullet and hit that had ever threatened to keep him down and never succeeded. “Thought tha… that was a… fella’s name.”

“We’re rich and eccentric, it works out.” The words flitted out heedlessly, like Tony’s lips were moving and he didn’t particularly care what came out.

We. Once upon a time, that might’ve rung hollow in Steve’s chest, a pang of longing. Now it nestled there, warm and soothing and protected from the burn.

“Steve.” Something hit Steve’s cracked lips, tingling there – if he flicked his tongue out, he might taste water and salt. “You can’t give up like this.”

But I’m not. This wasn’t like losing faith, like walking away in the middle of the journey. This was finally staggering to the summit, and seeing your destination over the horizon. This was adding that final fleck of paint, that dab of red, to make the picture all worth it.

The hold shifted from Steve’s neck to the back of shoulders that were almost insensate, another arm cupping around his waist – till Tony had hauled him right up, and pressed him close, dark hair brushing over the tip of Steve’s nose. His voice in Steve’s ear was barely above a whisper, barely a question. Maybe it wasn’t even meant for him. “Why.”

The reactor dug into Steve’s sternum, a circle of glowing warmth. It felt nice.

The world was falling away, breaths slowing and heart drifting to a stop, and it felt nothing like the ice.

“I was looking for a happy ending.”  

[punkpoemprose]

Run Away With Me -KACIJ2018

Happy Kristanna Christmas in July @lacejill!!! I’m your (slightly tardy) secret santa! I wrote you a little modern AU with socially awkward rich girl Anna and lawn care worker/ college student Kristoff and their whirlwind summer romance! It was inspired by the song “Run Away With Me” by The Spring Standards. Also I should mention I’ve literally never been to Washington state, so inconsistencies likely abound. I hope you like it!

           It was the greenest summer he’d ever seen in his entire life. The sun rose bright and warm every morning, and it only ever seemed to rain just enough for the grass to stay lively and plush beneath his feet. It was the perfect outdoor summer, made for hiking and fishing, and of course it was the first summer he’d been put in charge of jobs for his father’s lawn service, so while he spent most of it outside, it wasn’t quite as enjoyable as he’d wanted it to be.

           That didn’t mean he’d found it boring. No, he’d always found some comfort in demanding work, in keeping things in order, so when Cliff asked him to spend his last college summer running a job for one of their wealthier clients in the historic part of Artondale, Washington he was quick to jump aboard. Of course, it was just as much for the assistance it gave his father as it was for his own personal satisfaction, but what he hadn’t expected was to find the assignment to be fun. He hadn’t accounted for Anna.

           It had been all business at first. He’d gone to high school with Elsa, and she’d insisted upon using his father’s lawn service for the summer because it was the service her recently passed parents had always used. He barely knew her, she’d always kept to herself and that had never bothered him. She was a polite enough employer, and he always made sure that the work he completed was up to her standards. They never had an issue, and everything was as neat and orderly as the hedges, rose garden and exactly two-inch-high weed-less Kentucky Bluegrass. That was, of course, until Anna came back from boarding school.

           He could still remember the first time he saw her, a red head poking out an upstairs window for a split second like a ghost. He wouldn’t have even noticed it if he hadn’t looked up at just the right moment, because of course he knew that the Arendelle’s had a younger daughter but hadn’t thought that she’d be watching him from an upstairs window. Something about it made him sad, the idea of her spying instead of just coming down to say hello. He hadn’t really thought much of it at the time, but as he caught her looking again and again it had made him equal parts curious and frustrated. His only thought at the time had been that she was too good to come out and say hello, everything he knew about Elsa said that she wouldn’t agree with her sister fraternizing with the help.

           But undoubtedly fraternization was bound to happen when she kept spying on him out a window. It had been a week since he’d first spotted her staring and while he’d never considered himself the sort of man to have a temper, he also had never encountered conditions as infuriating as those on the day they first met. He’d apologized later, his Ma would have rung his neck if he hadn’t, but in the moment, he shouted up to her he had seen more red than just that of her hair.

           “Take a picture, it’ll last longer!”

           He’d been angry, after hours of convincing himself that she was up in the air-conditioned loft of her bedroom while he and his guys toiled with her hedges on the hottest day of the year. And of course, if he’d been in his right mind he wouldn’t have said anything at all, but he had been fried from the heat and sick and tired of ensuring that there were ninety-degree corners on a plant with round leaves. It had only been the background thought of his father’s reputation and a quiet voice of self-preservation that had kept him from yelling a few choice words instead.

           When she’d disappeared from the window he’d expected her sister to come out and ask him to leave. He’d stopped his work on the hedges and looked to the ground, hearing his heart beating in his ears as he came to the realization that he’d just screwed himself over, not to mention possibly lost a customer for his father. He had played a million possible outcomes over in his head of all the different ways in which six words would ruin his life and he became strangely prepared for it all within a few moments. What he hadn’t imagined in his thousands of possibilities was that when the sliding glass door opened a few minutes later he would to look up to see a sheepish young woman carrying a tray of lemonade like something out of a sitcom.

           That was the day that he truly met Anna Arendelle. That was the day that he, somewhat nervously came to the realization that she was not the annoying thirteen-year-old sister of his employer, but rather a sweet young woman of eighteen who hadn’t spoken to a man outside her ivory tower. After clumsy introductions and apologies, Kristoff realized that his week-long stalker was so much more than a flash of red and affluence in an upstairs window, she was just a lonely soul looking for companionship.

           It had been easy for him to like her. At the start she would still be a flash in a window, the little red head that watched him work, offered a few polite words, and brought out homemade lemonade to his guys. It was a comfortable way to know her, to see her smile at his compliments on the drink, to nod slightly when she had preferences for which flowers she’d like planted, and to politely make small talk when she caught him before he left in the afternoons. She was polite, and when she rambled about her thoughts on the garden he didn’t find it annoying or boring because she was also an excellent listener when he decided to say something in return.

           It was always easier to listen to her talk though. There was something in her voice, the raw excitement she had for information as simple as which plants were weeds or why he needed to change the height on the mower deck before he mowed her lawn. Her passion was strangely infectious, and soon enough he was able to find comfort in being swept up in her moods. The moments when she called him by his name and talked about her day while he weeded the garden were some of his favorite moments of the day, and he’d started to notice that when he came by after not being around for a couple days, she’d seem anxious to see him. When he realized her burgeoning attachment to him, her distaste for rainy days where he didn’t work, he began to take note of the way being around her made him feel.

           The day the feeling had become inescapable was exactly a week after she’d been told off by her sister for distracting the crew. Of course she’d come out each time just as she had before, but there was a discomfort to it, a strangeness to the way she had to sneak into her own backyard just to see him. That day in particular was no exception, but the way in which she was caught certainly made it difficult for him to deny he had feelings for her. Of course, any many would have a hard time denying their affection for a woman once she was in his arms.

           The day that Kristoff realized that he was falling for Anna Arendelle was the same day that he learned that she was terrified of snakes, the same day that she saw a garter snake, leapt into his arms and cried while shrieking loud enough to cause her sister and all the staff of the stately house to come barreling out of the house in a rush. It was also the day that he was apologized to profusely by Elsa Arendelle, and the day he extremely nervously asked Anna to join him at the county fair for a day, a date he felt was immensely beneath her, but also one that Anna enthusiastically agreed to as her sister sighed.

           It was all downhill from there. The rest of his summer was spent with Anna, teaching her about the things he did for work, telling her about his plans after he graduated with his forestry degree, and listening to all of her concerns about going off to school three states over for a program that she didn’t even want to complete. Anna Arendelle spent the summer becoming engrained in his life, his truck cab started to smell like a mixture of her perfume and the old saddle blanket she’d used for equestrian that had become their picnic and star gazing blanket, his hands became skilled at wrapping around hers, and in shy and nervous ways the nights became a classroom for them to learn the shapes of each other’s mouths.

           It was the summer of Anna. Her eyes were bluer than any of the fjords in Puget Sound. Her red hair swinging in braids rivaled any sunset, and he found the grass was greener and softer below him whenever she was laying in it beside him. Her smile outshined the sun, and as they sweated together in her backyard or on his days off up in the mountains, at local events, at concerts and in farmers markets, he found he couldn’t care less about the heat. If Anna would look at him with love in her eyes forever, he thought that he’d walk into a fire and back out again without a single complaint.

           The night they made love was the night that he’d stopped working for the Arendelle family. His father had been able to take back over, with summer turning to fall and his work becoming more and more raking and less and less mowing and gardening, so with no small amount of gratitude for the opportunity the work had given him, he’d taken Anna out to dinner and then up camping to watch the Perseid meteor shower in the mountains. He hadn’t felt worthy of her atop the pile of blankets in the bed of his truck. He’d been so nervous the whole time, kissing every inch of skin she revealed for him until she practically begged for him to be inside her. It was nothing like the movies, it was nothing like he’d imagined, and yet it was so much more because it was Anna, sweet untouched Anna who spent the entire experience caught up between virginal gentleness and the primal need to take what she wanted. Her hands gripped his shoulders as she called out his name into the heavens above them, and he spent the entire experience whispering prayers and thanks for whatever it was he could have done to deserve her.

           He tucked her beneath a blanket at his side as they watched the passage of the stars above. She had told him about making wishes, and while she probably made a million, she was strict to her promise that she would not tell him a single one until it came true.

***

           He didn’t have any packing to do. All four years of his education were easily accessible, just nineteen minutes from home at UW Tacoma. Come next summer he would be a graduate, hopefully with a job in one of the many parks in the area or with the state department of ecology. He knew that the thought should fill him with joy, but as he helped Anna pack everything she loved into a few suitcases, he couldn’t feel anything akin to happiness. He imagined it would be easier if she seemed happy at all herself, but as per the usual she was easier to read than a book.

           She didn’t shrug off his hand when she brought in to her shoulder, but instead relaxed under it. When he wrapped his arms around her, he felt as if he might be the only thing keeping her standing. After their whirlwind summer romance, how quickly he had fallen for her, he felt the same for her. Being together was the only thing that kept them from falling apart.

           “Kris,” she whispered, so soft her sister wouldn’t hear her from the next room over, “I don’t think I can do this.”

           I don’t think I want you to.

           “Sure you can,” he whispered in return, his lips in her hair, “You’re Anna Arendelle, the strongest, smartest girl I know, you can do this no problem.”

           She shook her head and he frowned as she pulled away from him. Of course, he had a feeling that the thoughts running through her head were about the same as his own, but he was trying to optimistic for her despite positivity being far more her strong suit than his own.

           Please don’t go.

           “Not school,” she started, stepping forward to place another t-shirt into her bag, this time it was printed with the words “Jane’s Canvas”, an indie folk group they’d seen in concert at an open mic night before they’d gotten serious.

           He stepped around her so that he was facing her. He could see by the way she was frowning that she was going to cry soon. She had to leave within the hour to be at the airport to catch her plane, and as the time to leave approached, she got more and more upset. He couldn’t help himself from reaching up to tuck an errant hair back behind her ear. He didn’t know how many more he’d have the pleasure of touching before winter break, so he took his time and rested his had gently on her cheek when he was done, his thumb swiping away a few drops of moisture that had already found their way out of the corner of her eye.

           “I know,” he said because it was all he could think to say.

           He wasn’t surprised when she started to cry fully in response. He hadn’t expected anything else, and he knew that wiping away the deluge would do no good. Apparently going off to school was on par with her fear of snakes, as the amount of tears was similar enough he knew the only solution was to pull her into his arms to let her cry into his chest.

           He hushed her gently, hands moving across her back, through her hair, along her shoulders as he heard her choked attempts at speaking through the pain and his embrace.

           “I don’t even want to go. I want, I want to, I want to stay here. I don’t want to study business, and the teaching program in Tacoma wanted me… I, I hate this. I hate this so much. Please Kris.”

           He didn’t know what to say, so he just held her tighter. It was all information he knew already. She’d been accepted at the business school her parents had wanted for her to attend in Arizona as well as at UW Tacoma’s education program. He knew that while Anna had wanted nothing more in life than to teach kids, her sister’s constant reminders of their parents expectations had swayed her to head out of state. He knew that she could still take Tacoma up on their offer, and he knew that there was a little house a friend was renting there that was looking for roommates.

           “I’m no good with words, but that’s nothing new,” he said, allowing himself a moment to finally let go, “but still I have to try to explain what I want to do, with you.”

           “Let me be your ride out of town,” he whispered without really thinking about it, “let me be the place that you hide, we could change our plans on the go. Anna, there’s a house on the bay…” he shook his head and pulled her closer, “expectations be damned, Anna, I’ll get a job in the city, just please…”

           He took a deep breath, but the words came out quiet despite his new found determination, “Run away with me.”

           Anna, whether though shock or sheer will, was able to reign in her control enough to look up at him and go quiet.

           “Get the car packed and throw me the key, run away with me. Anna, I have these plans, I have all these plans for our lives in Tacoma, just… accept their offer, I know this seems fast, but what else can I do? Anna, I love you. Run away with me.”

           She blinked, and Kristoff was suddenly aware of how hot he felt. He wanted to tell her that if it looked like he was sweating it was because he was, but he figured that at such a serious moment that they were both shocked into silence, it would be foolish to break it with something so silly.

           “I did.”

           “You did what?” he asked, not sure what she was referring to.

           “Tacoma. I did, I…” she took a deep breath and then smiled, “I did accept their offer, I know it was stupid, but with the other school requiring in person meetings before the semester started… oh God it was so stupid of me, but I was going to go and change my mind… I, Kris… Yes. I did, I’m going to stay in Washington. I’m going to stay in Artondale. Tacoma sounds great, and the house is something I’d like, but maybe after you graduate? Maybe we start with you driving me to campus for orientation next week? And then maybe we go to campus together? I could schedule my classes the same time and…”

           He kissed her, pulling her tight into his arms and not caring about the way his eyes were watering as he took it all in. Anna was going to stay. He’d never thought that he could need someone in the way he needed her, and now he’d gone from packing her bags to hearing that she’d not be leaving him. It was emotional whiplash, but all he could feel was happiness as he kissed her again and again until he heard a throat clear from the door way.

           Elsa, steely and professional as ever stood before them with her brow cocked. She too seemed to deflate slightly after a moment, and for the first time since Kristoff had started seeing Anna, he watched the older Arendelle sister crack a smile.

           “I guess it’s a good thing I cancelled that plane ticket a few weeks ago, huh?”

[kingcriccket]

Impulse Variability, Chapter 1

Read it on Ao3!

Stiles comes back from the station in a cloud of smoke and sulfur-- properly Biblical stuff, he thinks, very dramatic- and then his feet hit the pavement and his knees fold up like accordions, all those complex bones and tendons and muscles going awry all at once, the lazy jerks.

Stiles goes palm-down on the sidewalk and pukes his guts up. There is still the sound of horse in his ears, tack and hoof. (he remembers that running gag with Umbridge, in the Harry Potter movies, where the centaurs scared her so bad she freaked at hoofbeats forever, and Stiles's brain follows that thread for a moment, so the first thing he says to his best friends, after being pulled back into reality, is

"Man I hope I don't get like, horse trauma after this."

His voice is (ha ha) all hoarse from the puking. His face is a mess of snot and tears. Stiles looks up, slowly, from the sets sneakers all arranged around him, to the concerned faces peering down.

"Stiles?" Scott says. Not like he will, sometimes, when he isn't sure what Stiles is talking about but like.

Like a question. Like, " are you Stiles?"

"Hi," Stiles says. Tries to straighten up and just ends up on his haunches-- further away from the puke, at least.

The streets are rain-wet, all silver with it, and between that and the smoke still boiling away from wherever they pulled Stiles out of, it feels very properly horror movie.

But it's hard to feel too scared, with the pack all there around him. Their tired, dirty faces, the smile breaking across Scott's whole fucking body, and-- Lydia .

Lydia, who drops Malia's hand to step forward and help him up. Lydia who he lists into when she gets him standing.

She smells nice. She always smells nice, like perfume or something. Like girls smell.

And her cheek is all torn bloody and her hair's in tangles but her shoulder is strong, when she drapes his arm across it.

"Scott," Lydia says, "help me with him?"

And then Scott's taking Stiles's other arm, and Stiles barely has time to feel the warm fuzzies before he's passing out again.

He will remember, later, Lydia dropping Malia's hand.

Which meant she had been holding Malia's hand.

Which meant: ??

Mark that one red, for now.

Later, when Lydia saves him from the gun pressed up to his forehead in the locker room (deja vu, by the way, and so not the good kind), she will say--

She will say "I didn't say it back," her throat all raw from banshee scream.

"You didn't have to," Stiles says. Means it. He knows she loves him-- doesn't know when he realized it, only now it feels like something he's known forever, something fundamental. Right there in the marrow of him, producing blood cells and shit. Which-- okay, this metaphor’s gotten away from him, maybe, but the point is Lydia loves him. And she kisses him there, in the locker room, and this time Stiles isn't shocked and fish-lipped under her, and it feels good , and they love each other, and so that's how these things work out, isn't it?

Everything according to plan.

"I'm not saying it," Malia says. Peter is sitting on a train-station bench in front of her, reading the paper all peaceful. It's alien, really, seeing him do something so.... benign.

"Malia," Lydia says. Toes a book out of the way to step forward, put a hand on Malia's shoulder.

"I'm not!" Malia turns, this coyote-blue gleam waydeep down in her eyes. All around them, people sit and stare into middle distance and wait, as if Beacon Hills isn't collapsing in all around them.

This past month Lydia's felt like that, a little. Like she's been-- waiting for something, without quite knowing what. Waiting while the crucial infrastructure of her life all falls apart.

Stiles, she's sure. It has to be him. He loves her. And she loves him back-- of course she does. Memory or no memory. He must be what's missing. What she's waiting for.

"Malia," Lydia says, and the library/train-station shimmers all around them, the unreality of it.

Except-- she's real, isn't she?

And Malia is real. Her shoulder is warm under Lydia's hand, all her rangy coyote muscle, and she frowns at Lydia, brow creasing up the way it will when she's not quite sure how to be human. Her jaw tightens. And she puts her hand over Lydia's, for just a moment. Turns around.

"Dad." She says. Unconvincing.

"Like you mean it."

Malia turns back, again, and bares her teeth at Lydia, but Lydia knows when to be afraid of her, and this isn't one of those times. She bares her teeth back (it feels very silly, without those pointed canines). Malia rolls her eyes, and Lydia nods at Peter, unnatural calm on his bench.

Malia sighs. Squares her shoulders, like she's facing up to a fight, and Lydia sees the tension in her forearms, sees where claws threaten at her fingertips.

"Dad?" Malia's voice wobbles, in the middle, and Lydia's chest wrings out like an old washcloth.

But she has no time for the weird, tender feeling rising up in her, because Peter blinks, and stirs, and Malia says," Dad ?"

And Peter stands up and says, "Malia?" Incredulous, and then there is work, to be done.

But anyway the point is that they're friends, right, and friends feel things for each other. Right? They feel for each other.

Lydia remembers, before Alison had--

Well.

Lydia remembers Alison's little bedroom, her perfect white-washed windows and her charmingly out-of-date wallpaper. Remembers one day, in particular:

Lydia's sitting criss-cross-applesauce against Allison's headboard, absently tracing her fingers over the white-on-whiter pattern of the bedspread. Florals, she thinks. Can't identify the specifics.

She's trying her level best not to burst into the bathroom, where Allison has been barricaded for too long.

"Let me freshen up," she'd said, like a woman in an old movie. Lydia can picture the smell of perfume, heady, see the pearls tight around her throat.

She's always been good at that. At picturing people as they might be, might look-- it’s a type of problem solving. So: Allison, 'freshening up' in some smokey old restaurant. Not Allison, breaking down over the death of her mother.

It's as easy as that.

The bathroom door creaks open-- Lydia turns like her head's on a pull string. Like she'll always turn to look, for Allison, until one day--

Well. Until one day she won't.

Alison's red around the eyes, but she's put concealer over the blotchy way her cheeks get when she cries. Lydia can see a little swipe of slightly-darker peach where Allison hasn't blended, properly.

She thinks about the bedspread, white-on-white, a pattern she can't quite make out, and something goes funny in her stomach.

She holds out her hand, and Alison staggers across the space between them-- staggers . The bed dents under her weight, and Allison's face dents, too. Crumples up in the effort not to keep crying.

"Oh," Lydia says, soft, and reaches out slow as anything. Allison lets her. Leans into Lydia's hand, even, when Lydia blends the foundation in, with her fingertips.

" Lydia ," she says, voice all watery "It's just--"

"I know," Lydia says. Alison collapses forward against her chest. Collapses , and later Lydia will find black marks on her blouse, from Allison's mascara gone wet and runny on her shoulder.

"It's fucked ," Allison says.

There's not much to say, to that.

It is. It's fucked.

So Lydia just brings her arm up, and hugs Allison across her shoulders, tight as she can.

That's what she feels, looking at Malia saying the word "Dad" like it's hurting her, like the concept's scarier even than her mother, filicidal literal-monster that she is.

This weird, tender, mushy feeling, like all the vital insides Lydia knows the precise names for have stopped working like they should. Like her heart has impossibly skipped a beat, like her stomach has an impossible knot all tied up in it.

Her friends are in danger. It's how she should feel.

Lydia's had reasons enough to feel crazy, in her life, but surely this isn't one.

And this is what teenage friendships are like , she’s seen movies. She has braided hair and told secrets and this is what it is supposed to be like. She feels how she is supposed to feel.

Surely, surely.

And, anyway, it all works out, doesn't it? They save everyone, for once. Lydia is not left-behind-forgotten in a ghost town. No one dies. Not even the bad guy dies, and so they're getting better at this, apparently.

And that's good news.

Kind of unequivocally.

"Can I take you out for coffee?" Stiles says, his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

Lydia startles.

She never used to startle-- could always kind of tell when Stiles was around, but maybe un-forgetting someone isn't the same as not having forgotten them in the first place.

She closes her locker, turns. The school's last-day empty, deserted, and she has this horrible vision of it empty when the riders came through,  of the lights all hanging down from the ceiling, the creeping feeling they'd failed, and she's the last one left after all, until Malia comes out of the library and prods Lydia in the back and goes, "what are you looking at?" And the fear goes down like cough syrup. Leaves a bad taste in her mouth, but here, here's Malia helping her choke it down all the same.

"Lydia?" Stiles says, and Lydia snaps her eyes to him. Realizes she's been staring into the hallway, vacant, and she smiles as bright as she knows how (which is fucking thousand-watt, by the way).

"Yes?" She says.

"Is there-- I mean are you having like. A moment."

When he says 'a moment' he wiggles his fingers at her, like there should be spooky music alongside, and it makes Lydia laugh.

"No," she says. "Sorry. I was just thinking."

Stiles bobs his head. Tugs his backpack on all the way. "Great. No corpse to retrieve. Good news." He's gripping the straps, white-knuckled, & it makes his elbows stick out. Akimbo , Lydia thinks. It was a word on her vocabulary list in grade 6, but she never really knew what it meant until she got to know Stiles.

"So." He says.

Lydia gives him an expectant look.

"Coffee?" Stiles clears his throat. "Uh, us. Can we get coffee-- can I get a coffee, uh, for you?"

"Oh," Lydia says, and there is this weird, queasy flip in her gut. She smiles. "Sure. Saturday?"

Stiles blinks. "Uh, yeah. Yes! I can definitely-- do Saturday."

He's smiling. He has this awkward smile that makes Lydia smile, too, reflex, and she remembers kissing him and she thinks-- well, of course.

Impulse variability is when a person means to do one thing- in fact, believes that they are doing one thing- and end up doing another.

It's the cause of car crashes, sometimes. People hit the accelerator, and think they're hitting the brake, and so they go when they mean to stop. Panicking, they will press harder on what they believe to be the brake, and accelerate even faster, until-- well. They stop accelerating.

It's not negligence. These people really think- are really convinced- that their foot is on the brake, not the throttle.

Lydia Martin had never once in her life done something without meaning to, and then Peter used her to haul himself up from the grave, and everything went so fucking sideways she almost didn’t notice at first. Like something can go so completely wrong it nearly reaches ‘round to normal, again.

Lydia would go to bed and wake up the woods. She would think she was driving straight and end up making turns, circling the block till she ran out of gas.

Ever since, there's been this nagging-- well. She knows it doesn't make any sense. But ever since Peter, Lydia's had this nagging feeling like she's just being pulled along on a string.

Since before Peter, maybe, actually.

She is a pretty girl. She dates a handsome Lacrosse player. She excels in school but she isn't cocky about it. She applies to and gets into a prestigious college. And life's easy like that, isn't it? Like, lay out the track, and there she goes along it. Lydia Marten, the world's most complicated wind-up toy.

Stiles has always felt a little like that.

Inevitable.

Like no matter how things went, there they would be, together, at the end of it.

But, back when Stiles was gone, there is this:

Lydia sees the flash of Malia's long, long legs disappear around a corner, barely covered by some alarming bad-idea of an outfit. (Lydia admires that, and not in a passive aggressive, housewife-stereotype way. How she just wears whatever).

Lydia follows-- Malia's been unstable lately and Lydia wouldn't tell her this, of course, for knowledge of the bared teeth that would be her answer, but she's--

Well. She's worried.

She follows Malia down through the school, the halls bright-fluorescent, mismatched linoleum and that nagging sense of missing something.

They end up in the boiler room which-- like, okay, Lydia's watched Buffy, she knows what happens to people who end up in the boiler room.

But instead, there is Malia with one arm chained to a pipe, and she is holding the loose end of a second chain in the other hand.

"Someone used to do this for me," she says, and rattles the chained hand, and she looks at Lydia with just this complete, this absolute helplessness.

Lydia unsticks from where she's been hanging in the doorway. Crosses the room halfway and Malia growls , and then her face crumples entirely.

" Fuck ," she says. "Sorry. I don't--"

Lydia waits for Malia's teeth to pull back into their gums.

"It's okay," she says. Takes another step, and when that seems OK, she closes the distance between them.

"Here," she says, and reaches out her hand. Malia gives her the loose end of the chain.

"No-- Malia."

Malia tugs her chained hand as close to her chest as she can. Her eyes are huge-- are enormous, they are impossible not to see. They are welling up, wet, with tears. Such a pretty colour , Lydia thinks. Thanks god Malia doesn’t wear makeup, because with mascara Lydia wouldn’t- no one would- be able to look away from those eyes of hers.

"You can't," Malia says, and yanks at the chain. Lydia startles out of her tangent. "You can't . I don't want to--"

"You won't." Lydia means to reach for the chain but she sort of gets Malia's hand, instead, ends up with her fingers over Malia's fingers over Malia's heart, the manacle pressing up cold against her skin. "Malia, you won't hurt anyone."

And Malia takes this deep breath, shaky, and she says, "I was going to say you."

Lydia frowns.

"I don't want to hurt you ."

And-- well, what is there to do, with that? Lydia slams shut the door that opens up in her, stems whatever soppiness might've come leaking out.

“You won’t,” Lydia says. “Let me undo this.”

Malia looks at her a long time-- takes a deep breath, and the tension goes out of her forearm. Lydia feels it, the unflexing of muscle. Malia lets Lydia coax her hand away from her chest. Lets her unlock the manacle.

And then her legs kind of fold up under her, and Lydia goes down with her, so they’re both crouching there, on the cold and gritty concrete, some basement-dampness soaking through the knees of Lydia’s leggings.

Malia’s hand is still in Lydia’s, and her wrist is all ringed in blood, a bracelet carved in by the manacle.

“I hate this,” Malia says. Her voice has the edge, just the very edge, of a growl, and Lydia’s legs are bracketing hers, and Malia’s head is hanging forward, hair tickling Lydia’s collarbones, and it is all--

It’s very strange.

They never used to hang out, Lydia thinks. Just the two of them. She knows there was someone else, but when she tries to grab that thought it skates out of reach. It’s-- h mm. she’s not really used to not knowing things, to be honest. Or, rather, not really used to not being able to find something out, when she needs to.

“Me too,” she says to Malia. The concrete is digging divots into Lydia’s one hand, where she’s leaning on it, and it makes clear to her only how warm Malia’s skin is, in comparison.

[ritebeforeyoureyes]

Struggling

I don’t really like this piece but hey, it’s a mix of angst and fluff as requested! And to those who are asking about a Haunt update, I am currently in the process of writing the next chapter x

Masterlist – Plot: Tom and Zendaya struggle in more ways than one.

Struggling (One-Shot)

Zendaya grew more and more upset as the months went on. Her and Tom had been struggling for almost a year and a half now, the memories of those first few days still taunting her nightmares.

Tom had been shooting a movie in Canada when it had happened. During their two-month absence from each other, Zendaya had had a little scare – one that had changed everything. She’d been in the shower when she’d felt a lump near her breast. Her fingers had pressed the area until a sharp pain shot through her body, a sign that was far from good. Zendaya’s first thought had been to panic and then, she thought of Tom. The tears that fell from her eyes intermingled with the water coming out of the showerhead; her heart desperately yearning for Tom to come and comfort her. She wanted him to tell her that everything was going to be okay and that she’d make it through whatever this was. But after much deliberation, Zendaya knew telling Tom wasn’t wise, especially not until she’d seen a specialist. She didn’t want to worry him unnecessarily and so, she’d booked an appointment with a doctor and gathered the courage to face her biggest fears on her own.

However, her plans had back fired when paparazzi caught her at the cancer clinic. She’d been in there for hours, doing test after test just to be one hundred per cent certain and by the time she was out, the news was plastered on every gossip column in the country.

“Baby,” As soon as Zendaya dialled Tom’s number in a panic, she heard his sob resonate over the line.  The sound broke her heart, stimulating her own onset of tears. “Please, please tell me it’s not true. You’re okay, right? You have to be-“

“Tom-“

“You … Why didn’t you say anything?” Tom, who had been ushered off set by his assistant, had been shown article after article and felt his heart stop. She had looked perfect when he’d left her, healthy and now, suddenly, she looked gaunt and pale. And those pictures of Zendaya walking into an Oncology Centre screamed a thousand words, loud and clear – Tom couldn’t lose her. “Z, babe, say something, anything-“

“I’m okay.” Zendaya said with a finality that had quickly silenced a frantic Tom. “I’m okay.”

“Tell me what happened.” After a pregnant pause, Tom had spoken again, his mind a mess of images of Zendaya lying in a hospital bed, pipes penetrating her delicately soft skin. He envisioned going to premieres by himself and returning to an empty home, Zendaya’s whole life merely a ghost in his painstakingly long one. Zendaya was the woman he had always pictured settling down with and he’d made that a reality. They had a beautiful home together; Tessa and Noon by their side, careers that neither of them had dreamt of. With the loss of a better word, Tom’s life was perfect because Zendaya was in it and he knew nothing would change that, cancer included.

So, in a matter of hours, Tom had flown back home to spend time with his beloved. That night, Tom had laid in bed with Zendaya’s hair splayed out across his stomach, his fingers running through the brunette’s curly hair. They had spent the entire evening glued to each other’s side, dancing around potential possibilities of treatment if Zendaya’s tests detected something. They had to wait a couple of days before her results came in but, it didn’t matter. Tom did everything in his power to make Zendaya feel comfortable during that time. He brought her ice cream by the pound and ordered every type of pizza under the Pizza Hut menu.

“If you’re worried about your hair, I’ll shave mine too.” Tom had caught her staring at herself in the mirror moments before they were scheduled to head to the doctor’s office to discuss the impending news.

“No.” Zendaya just lifted her head so that they were looking at each other in the mirror, the tears evidently gleaming in her eyes. A small smile graced her lips and she shook her head. “You need all those curls to balance out that eyebrow fluff.” Even in the hardest of times, Zendaya could make jokes and Tom was flabbergasted by her courage. He admired her strength and he showed it by enveloping her in a hug that he needed more than she did.

“What’s going on in that pretty lil’ head of yours?”

“I’m scared.” Zendaya chocked, her sobs drowning in the conjunction between his neck and shoulder. “I haven’t lived life, you know what I mean? I want to start a family and see our children grow -“ Truth was, earlier, Zendaya had been staring at herself in the mirror because she was trying to visualise what her and Tom’s child would look like. She had always wanted children but the thought of actually having children had only really hit her when she considered her days on Earth to be numbered. If her tests results came back positive she would never know what it would feel like to have her belly swell with her child. She’d never hear her child cry or see them take their first steps. “If the results are positive-“

“Hey, listen,” Tom grabbed Zendaya’s face with his hands. Looking at her, sobbing and broken, Tom was certain that he was going to spend the rest of his life giving this girl the world. If she wanted a family, he was going to give her it, if she wanted to see the world, he would do it with her. Nothing really mattered so long as Zendaya was by his side through it all. “We just have to stay positive, okay? And if we do, I’ll do my best to make sure a different kinda test is positive.”

“Okay.” After trying to keep her spirits lifted in her unfortunate situation, Zendaya had wearily agreed - they would think about starting a family if her tests came back clear.

But, that had been a year ago and here they were, still trying for a baby.

Initially, the whole process was new and exciting. The moment the doctor told Zendaya she was healthy and that there was nothing to worry about, Tom was making love to her in the backseat of her Range Rover.

“Fuck, Tom.” In the car, there was no holding back, it shook violently with their movements, Tom indulging in Zendaya’s body like it was the last bit of water in an endless desert. He kissed every inch of her exposed body, every fibre of his being thanking the universe for making her okay.

“I love you, so god-damned much, Z.” Tom had hissed in her ear, her nails racking up and down his bare back. Their two rounds of love making in the car embodied how deeply they felt for each other and how now, more than ever, was the perfect time to think about having children. Their sex had been fun and loving, both teasing and treasurable.

These were the memories that haunted Zendaya the most, because as time went on, all the love seemed to disappear. Zendaya’s patience was growing thin and with Tom overwhelmed with yet another movie, sex soon became a chore. Zendaya would track her ovulation on a pretty uniform app and rather crudely say “put a baby in me.” There was no foreplay or build up, it was raw, purposeful sex with one function – fertilisation.

However, with Tom on set all the time and Zendaya left at home with her thoughts, the more she considered it, the more she convinced herself that having children wasn’t a wise idea. They’d been trying to conceive for months, to no avail, and now that excitement of wanting to have children had worn off. With Tom constantly working and Zendaya slowly wallowing away in an abyss of childless depression, Zendaya’s doubts regarding children grew stronger. She felt distanced from her boyfriend and that didn’t comfort her when she thought of adding a child to the mix. She felt like her and Tom hadn’t had a proper conversation in weeks and that frightened her more than any cancer scare ever could.

But they say, things always happen for a reason. Since she could remember, Zendaya thought that phrase was an excuse for one to make themselves feel better when shit hit the fan. But as she thought about it, her period late and a boxed test in her hand, she found a newfound appreciation for the rose-tinted saying. She had sat here, on the bathroom floor, plenty of times. At first, Tom had sat by her side, his eyes glistening with an excitement that always seemed to be taken away too quickly. After all this time of negative results, Zendaya didn’t even bother telling Tom that she was taking a pregnancy test. The answers were always disappointing and one disappointed person was better than two.

Following her previous cancer scare, doctors’ visits and the concept of peeing in a cup wasn’t strange to Zendaya. She went about the routine of taking a pregnancy test like she was familiar with. It always seemed to go - pee, wait, cry. And, today was like no other.

That was how Tom found her when he returned from work, curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, weeping her eyes out.

“Zendaya?” He questioned reluctantly, his heart surging into instant panic mode. “Are you okay?” Tom walked to her cautiously before wrapping his arms around her now scarily small frame.

“Yeah.” Zendaya jumped at the sound of a voice, Tom’s accent breaking her out of her pounding train of thought.

“Z?” Usually, at this point, Zendaya would be crying at would could have been. After taking a test she would cry and conjure up a fantasy of it being positive. She would fantasise about telling Tom that she was pregnant in the most extravagant of ways; a big pregnancy reveal that consisted of elaborate planning. On the contrary, now that the moment was here, truly here, Zendaya couldn’t even process everything properly. “Is that-“

She nodded. The smile that illuminated Tom’s face was enough for all worries to fly out of Zendaya’s brain. The hesitancy and the doubts about her and Tom’s relationship was gone. The moment that they had been desperately praying for was here.

“I’m-“

“Pregnant.”

If you enjoyed this piece and would like to help further me and my work, please support me whilst I get through university. The money you donate will go towards assisting me in my student fees. It is one hundred per cent a voluntary pursuit and greatly appreciated, however, your lovely comments and votes are always welcomed too. Thank you for being the greatest: https://ko-fi.com/D1D072V0

[maximumsuckage]

Dreamscape, part 2

Link to Part 1: https://maximumsuckage.tumblr.com/post/167175722147/dreamscape 

Description: Sam, Dean, and Jack discuss the Norse death goddess Hela.  Across the country, a werewolf child turns up dead.

Word Count: 3125

A/n: I am so so so sorry if I ruin this by adding more, but tis the season of NaNoWriMo and this is the closest thing I've had to a plot in ages, so I don't care if it's fanfic and not original.  lemme know if anyone is interested enough to be tagged in updates, no worries if nah

  “So lemme get this straight.”  Dean wrapped his fingers around the coffee mug as he looked down at the book Sam had dropped in front of him.  “You have a dream about our old dead buddy the Trickster, only he’s a giant crazy monster, and he tells you some crap and sends you on a quest to find his freaky death goddess daughter to be the Jedi Master to your freaky angel padawan?”

Sam let out a slow breath.  “No, Dean.  I mean, yeah, but you’re ignoring the point here.  Jack isn’t the first archangel offspring.  It makes sense… we knew Gabe was Loki.  I just never realized he was Loki.  Like, the actual god.  He had a whole life outside of Heaven…”  He trailed off, looking down at the book, not for the first time wondering at how little they actually knew.  “And he wasn’t a giant crazy monster.  He was an archangel.  Without the vessel.”

Dean waved a dismissive hand and sipped his coffee.  “Whatever.  So monster Gabe wants you to find his freaky death goddess daughter.  And what, exactly?  We don’t exactly have a great record with pagan gods.”

“Yeah, but Dean, this could be an opportunity.”  This was pointless.  They were going in circles, still, like they had been for forty minutes already.  “I know that it’s a risk, but-”

“But nothing.”  Dean gestured with the mug of coffee.  “We’ve already dealt with Death himself.  We’re not getting the attention of one of his death god lackeys too.  Mr. Miyagi the kid yourself, fine.  But if we get her attention and she gets pissed…”

“Then we take her out too.”  Sam stood.  “We’ve taken out stronger things than-”

“Than an archangel Nephilim?  An archangel Nephilim who’s had thousands of years to hone her powers?”  Dean raised an eyebrow and sipped his coffee.  “Look, I get it.  The kid’s not all bad.  Might grow up to be a superhero.  Who knows?  But we do know that a goddess named Hell is not someone we want to tussle with.”

“Hel with one L, not two.”  Sam pointed.  “Or Hela, in this translation.”

“Hela then.”  Dean paused. “Wait, wasn’t that the bad guy in that new Thor movie?”

“Well-”

“That settles it.  No.  If she scares Thor, then I don’t want to deal with it.  Wherever she’s holed up, she can stay there.”  He downed the rest of his coffee, made a face at the dregs, and got up.  “Come on.  We’ve got a werewolf to catch.”  Without letting Sam have time for another word, he left the kitchen, heading back towards his own room. 

“I have a cousin?”

Sam jumped at the voice.  Jack definitely shared that little trait with Castiel.  He glanced at the direction Dean had vanished in, and sighed.  He had no idea how long Jack had been listening, and lying would only upset him.  “We’re not sure,” he decided on, sitting down and pushing the book towards him.  “I had a dream about Gabriel- your uncle- and he told me to look for this goddess, who, according to the lore, is his oldest daughter.”

Jack pulled the book closer and studied it, his eyebrows creased together.  “Gabriel,” he said slowly.  “He was in the Bible.  He told Elizabeth and Mary that they were pregnant.  He is good.”  He glanced up at Sam, worried.  “Right?”

“Yeah.  Yeah, he was good.”  Sam decided that they didn’t need to get into the semantics of good when it involved the Trickster.  He’d come over to their side in the end; right now, that was what mattered. 

“Was?”  Jack caught the past tense, head tilting in that painfully familiar way. 

“Lucifer killed him.”  He decided not to sugar-coat it, just ripping off the metaphorical Band-Aid.  “Gabriel was stalling so we could save people.  He knew he was going to be killed.”  He paused, figuring somebody didn’t go through the work of filming a pornographic suicide note if they didn’t know they were going to die.  “He loved your father to the end, I think.  He attacked Lucifer, but now that I think about it, I don’t think he could have killed him, even if he had the ability to.”

Jack looked back down at the book, considering the information, filing it away in what he knew of the world.  “But, he had children.  This goddess is my cousin.”  He touched the picture, running his finger down the sketch.  One side of her was a young lady, lovely if stern, while the other side was a garish image of rot and desiccation.  That didn’t seem to bother Jack, whose impression of the world was still fresh and new.   

It had, however, bothered Dean, who, when Sam had first set the book down, made a comment along the lines of, “this zombie freak your new girlfriend?”

“We don’t know that for sure yet,” Sam was quick to point out.  “Gabriel didn’t give me anymore information…”  Because he was too busy trying to bite my lips off, but Dean and Jack don’t need to know that and why the hell was he doing that anyways I’m not into him I’m straight straighter than Dean anyways like maybe we were friends at the end but only barely and… “and we don’t even know if she’s alive, or good or evil, or if she’s even his daughter.  Sometimes the lore gets mixed up over time, and things aren’t usually that accurate.”

Jack tilted his head.  “But it says here that she was.”

“Yeah, but that was written by humans.”  Sam settled in for a lecture on mythology, which could either go very smoothly or would throw Jack into a mental tailspin.  “A lot of the lore we have is based on old stories.  A long time ago, they were just told word of mouth.  Like… like I’m telling you right now.  And to keep people’s interests, storytellers would exaggerate.”

“Exaggerate.  A small lie.  To make it bigger than it really is.” 

Sam made a small agreeing gesture in his direction, not sure if Jack had read the dictionary or if Dean had covered that particular lesson.  Probably Dean, exaggerating away all the carbs he was drinking to hide the still-raw grief.  “So if every storyteller exaggerates the story a little bit, and then the inflated version gets written down…”

“It might be completely different from the truth?”  Jack looked up at Sam, hopeful, and Sam found himself smiling. 

“Yeah.  Exactly.”

Jack nodded and looked down at the picture again, considering it through this new lens.  “But Gabriel is my uncle.  That’s not exaggerated.  And he does know her, because he told you to find her in a dream.”  He looked up at Sam, hopeful.  “How hard would it be to find her?”

“Well, I don’t know, and Dean’s scared of her.  He doesn’t want us to find her and then it turn out that she’s the bad guy.”

“Why would my uncle be friends with a bad guy?”

Sam really did not want to get into the gray morals that seemed to permeate Gabriel’s pagan lifestyle, and thankfully, he was saved by Dean’s walking in.  “Case,” he said pointedly.  “Wolf clan.  New York.”  He looked over at the book, then pointed at the image.  “Bad guy,” he said to Jack, like that settled it.  “You guys ready to go?”

Jack nodded, hopping up, eager to please Dean.  “Yes.  I had my bag packed last night.  And I didn’t forget extra underwear and socks this time.”

Dean frowned.  “Extra?  You had extra last time.” 

Jack grinned, pleased.  “Yes, for myself.  But I packed for you both as well.  When you wear the same pair of socks every day, it gets-”

“We get it.”  Dean rolled his eyes and headed for the car. 

Sam, for lack of a better response, patted Jack on the shoulder.  “Thanks, bud.  What would we do without you?”

“Probably stink,” he said, dead serious, and followed Dean, a spring in his step at being useful to his guardians, like a puppy.  A wolf puppy, Sam reminded himself, one that was loyal, but could bite. 

A week previous

Fairpoint, New York, was a pleasant little tourist trap in the Adirondacks, somewhere beyond Old Forge.  A main road led visitors to a plethora of family owned motels and campgrounds, winding through little shops owned by kindly retired folk or kids in their twenties irritated at being forced to take over the family business.  A lake nearby allowed for swimming or sailing, though it was quiet now that the season was beginning to turn.  This time of year, the draw was the beautiful shades of red and yellow and gold that graced the ancient trees, and hiking trails winding through the surrounding mountains allowed tourists the opportunity ample opportunities to soak in the autumn aesthetic. 

The only issue was the werewolves.  Those townsfolk who had lived there for more than a generation knew about them- the clan out in the woods, who feasted on deer and moose and bear and avoided civilization like the plague.  That was the original purpose of the village, after all.  Keep the werewolves in the wilderness, away from the more human haunts.  For a long while, the wolves had been quiet, and only the occasional foray into town for medicine or booze by one of their runners told the old folk that they were still active. 

But that had all changed when a child turned up dead. 

He was not one of Fairpoint’s- he was branded by the mark of the wolves, a symbol like four claw marks slashing the shoulder, and he was thin and gaunt, buried in a shallow grave that was unearthed by the excessive rains.  It would have been ignored by the local cops, who, as a rule, kept only to Fairpoint business, except for the fact that it was a clear murder: his heart had been ripped from his chest cavity.  The organ was missing. 

It had to be a wolf, because no fox or coyote or bear would simply take the heart and run, and besides, attacks by wild predators were excessively rare, saved generally for foolhardy hunters (real hunters, with deer and stuff- they had no idea about Winchester-type hunters) who got between Mom-bear and cub.  The thinness was a problem as well- though many wild populations were thinning, white-tailed deer refused to stop breeding, and their population boom allowed not only food for ticks, but for the wolves as well.  Any children glimpsed traipsing through the woods were well-fed, bordering on chubby if not for all the running and playing they did, so a dead child whose ribs were clearly visible?

That was foul play, for sure. 

So, it was with a great deal of nerves that Sheriff Harry Baldwin found himself hiking through the woods, sweating despite the autumnal chill, cop car left behind at the deepest hunting cabin he could drive to.  His twelve-gauge was slung over his shoulder, heavy now that he had to hike with it, and shot shells clinked in the pockets of his jacket.  The gun was only for protection from bears though.  He didn’t fear the wolves.  His family had been there for ages, and he had the feeling there had been a bit of interbreeding- every time the full moon rolled around, he felt peckish for bloody burgers.  It was a craving he didn’t share with anybody, but a very real craving nonetheless, and he liked to imagine the wolf blood in him (even if it was imaginary) made him a better cop. 

There was a stitch in his side by the time he heard a howl that clearly came from a human throat and not a coyote, and he leaned against a tree, panting.  “Hey,” he called out to the trees, knowing one of the wolves was there, even if he couldn’t see them.  “It’s me. Sheriff Baldwin. I need to talk to Alpha Melissa."

A wolf warrior stepped out.  She was a pretty girl, curvy with big eyes and an easy smile, wearing a deerskin jacket over a Doctor Who t-shirt and skinny jeans.  “Officer Baldwin!  Hi!  If we knew you were coming, we would have sent a truck out for you.  What’s up?”  Before he had time to respond, she darted off, and then returned with a bottle of water that she offered out.

He took it gratefully, draining it in a few moments, and then wiped his mouth.  “I’m here on business, Charlotte.  I need to talk to Melissa.”

Charlotte nodded.  “Yeah, of course.  I’ll call a ride to town.  Seriously, next time you need to come out here, just call one of us.”

A few minutes later, Harry was on the back of an ATV, clinging desperately to the waist of Travis, another wolf warrior who was a few ranks higher than Charlotte.  Harry wasn’t exactly sure how the ranking worked here, as the wolves were an independent nation it seemed, yet still had access to ATVs and Poland Spring and, apparently, Doctor Who.  Harry never asked.  He figured, that was their business and his business was Fairpoint. 

The town itself blended into the surrounding forest, log cabins trailing wood smoke into the sky.  A group of barefoot kids were playing soccer in a clearing that served as the town square, laughing and occasionally snarling at each other with teeth too long and sharp for a normal child’s mouth.  Occasionally, there would be a splash of blood on the hard-packed earthen ground, but that only drew more laughter.  Several deer were hanging from a pole, blood dripping into buckets on the ground.  Their glassy eyes seemed to watch Harry as he dismounted the ATV, waiting for the warrior to lead him to the pack leader. 

“Wait here,” Travis said sharply, and disappeared into the largest of the cabins. 

Harry obeyed, but it was with a frown.  He had spoken to Melissa many times.  She was older, a calm leader, giving off the vibe of a Victorian era queen rather than a werewolf pack leader roughing it in the woods.  Never had she kept him waiting. When he became sheriff, she had arrived in Fairpoint for the ceremony herself, congratulating him personally, and after that they had struck up a professional relationship that seemed to border on more than friendly (or at least, so Harry hoped.  He may have had a teensy crush on the pack leader). 

But never before had he been commanded to wait for an audience.

One of the children was on the ground, crying. Somebody had yanked one of her pigtails too hard, and now a few of the boys were jeering at her.  Harry took a step closer to break it up, but then the smallest of the girls snarled as she intervened first, her face twisting, hackles raising, hands twisting and breaking into claws with an audible snapping of bones.  The boys raised a laugh at her as well, but then the beast-child leapt forward, throwing the biggest boy to the ground with a thump.  He tried to change as well, but she slashed him across the face, and he stayed down. 

Harry stood, frozen, watching as the smallest hopped off the largest and walked over to the bullied girl to pull her to her feet.  The boy on the ground sat up, the scratches on his face already healing, and snarled at her, but it was weak and small and ignored.  The girl was alpha, and both knew it.

“I’m goalie!” she declared, human again, sprinting towards the two sticks that comprised the goal.  With that, the fight was forgotten, and the game was back on.     

“Sheriff Baldwin?” 

Harry turned away from the kids to the familiar voice of Melissa, the pack leader.  Middle aged, with a few scars across her face suggesting old triumphs, she exuded the aura of a warrior, despite her torn jeans and sky-blue sweater.  Harry always felt a little subpar next to her, aware that maybe he should put in some time at the gym and maybe avoid the pastries Sally Parr, the town administrator, brought in every morning.  “Yeah.  What’s going on?”

She gave him a thin-lipped smile and gestured for him to come inside.  He followed, grateful to get off his aching feet. 

“Whiskey?” she asked once he had been seated in front of her desk, which was little more than a homemade table.

He waved it off.  “I’m on the clock.  I’m here to talk about a murder.  A child, about ten, was found a few miles outside of town by a hunter.  Poor kid was starving before he died.  Heart ripped out of the body.  Coroner hasn’t told us whether it was taken out before or after he passed.”

Melissa’s brow creased as she turned back to the desk, a small glass of whiskey in her own hands.  That was new.  Harry had never seen her touch a drop of alcohol in all the time that he knew her.  Although, granted, it was more phone conversations than anything else. 

“Shit,” she said, and all hope that she didn’t know about the murder flew from Harry’s mind.  He hoped they weren’t going dark.  He had no idea what they were supposed to do if the wolves went dark.  That was on him, but half of Fairpoint didn’t even know about the wolves, so how would they fight-

Melissa drained the whiskey like it was water.  “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” she murmured, gazing at the golden drops clinging to the side of the empty glass.  “I prayed that it wouldn’t come to this.”

“Come to what?”  Harry leaned forward.  “Melissa, if any of your guys did this, you know I can’t protect you.  This whole settlement is already illegal.  If there’s murder too…”

She stood, slamming fingers that broke and twisted into claws into the wood of the table.  Splinters of wood flew to the floor.  “They are not my guys.  Not anymore.”

“Mel?”  He tested out the nickname cautiously.  “Something’s going on.  Tell me what’s going on so we can prevent anyone else from turning up dead.”

Now her teeth were elongating, and her voice dropped to a growl that resonated within Harry’s chest.  “A strange wolf came.  He corrupted some of our youth- now they wish to summon him.” 

“Him who?”  Harry sat back a little, trying to remain calm in the face of the half changed alpha in front of him.  “Mel, calm down, okay?  We’re friends here.  I want to help.”

She glared at him, normal cocoa-brown eyes now feral yellow, and then took a breath.  “Him,” she repeated, forcing her voice back to its normal register.  “The original Wolf.  Fenrir himself.”

[baker-mayfield]

Just Keep Breathing - Seth Rollins

A/N: Hi, yes. I was bored. Like totally bored and I figured I should give the imagine writing life a try. So here is my first ever imagine and i hope that it doesn't suck. I honestly wrote this in the middle of the night because Rollins got me all bothered and he's 100% yummy.  I recommend him to everyone. If enough people like it, I'll probably continue it because.... Why not? I'm honestly sorry for any errors and rambles....Oh, and for how fucking long this is....

WORDS: 2.4K

WARNINGS: angst, cheating, and maybe swearing?

I was happy in NXT. Honestly, I could have retired there and I would have been perfectly fine. After two years of seeing my friends come and go, and moving onto bigger and not so bigger things on the main shows- anyone would think that I would be ready to move on.

 To have my time in the spotlight. It seemed like that’s what the fans were waiting for. But somehow, Vince never felt I was ready to be called up. I liked to think that they didn’t know what to do with me. I was a smaller girl. Almost as small as Alexa Bliss. I started out as an announcer backstage, then I moved onto be a valet… Then, they finally gave me a chance to work in the right. Being a WWE wrestler was everything I dreamed of. I wanted to be like Lita but as loved as Trish Stratus. I wanted to make history like Mae Young. Because of my small size, it was hard for them to know what to do with me. That’s why they haven’t moved me to the main roster. I just knew it. They already have Alexa Bliss as the small girl on RAW, they didn’t need another shorty on the main show.

…. Okay, I’m lying. Not about my beginnings, but why I haven’t moved up. They’ve begged me to come to the main show. Even before Alexa Bliss was drafted to Smackdown. Each time, I would tell them, “No. I wasn’t ready” or “No, I really want to fight with the new girl”. Every time they asked, I had a new lie. It wasn’t my fault, it was because of him. He was the man that ran the place, and he was the one man I couldn’t go face to face with. I haven’t seen him in close to five years. Crazy, I know. I stayed in NXT that long because of a guy. I think Hunter knew the reason, but he had always danced around it. To avoid me breaking down as usual. As far as everyone was concerned, I was happy on NXT and I was happy putting over the new talent that came in the busy.

I’ve had Sasha, Charlotte, Becky and even Bailey try to convince me to join them on the main roster. I’ve been there for years, they’ll say. There was nothing left to accomplish. Well, that was right. But as long as The Man was there, I was never going to the main show full time. The closest I got to the main show was when Seth was gone with his first injury. I made my main show debut just enough to help Sasha Banks when she needed to even the playing field with the Bella Twins. Luckily that only lasted from December until April. As soon as the storyline was done, I begged to go back to NXT. It didn’t matter what Dean or Roman would say- I was ready to go back to where I knew I was safe

Now, you’re probably asking why ‘why do I not like Seth Rollins?’ You’re wrong. I don’t dislike Seth Rollins, I hated him 

I was ready for the ride to the top with him. In a few years, he was going to be WWE World Heavyweight Champion and I would be the Women’s Champion. We had it all planned out. I couldn’t tell you how we started to date. It started with friendly competitions in his hotel room. I would play him in Madden, WWE games, poker. You name it. We even traveled together, and it go to the point where people thought we were dating before we were actually dating. He was my best friend. It was HIS idea to try out a relationship. Everyone was ‘for’ the idea of us being official. The way we followed each other around backstage and joked, we neither to bang or something. Our relationship survived a lot. He was being an NXT champion and I was going from job to job backstage because Hunter was clueless as to where I would be the right fit. It survived when The Shield debut and it survived when Seth turned on Roman and Dean.

No matter where I was, I was always the supportive girlfriend. Not supportive enough at least.

Seth had won the WWE World Heavyweight Championship and he had changed. I didn’t notice it, but everyone else did. He was way more self centered. I didn’t notice the change. As caring as Seth was, he was always the cockiest guy ever. When we finally had time to spend time together, it felt like he was miles away. The conversation would feel dry. During my ‘congrats’ dinner for becoming the NXT Women’s Champion, he was way more interested in his phone. I figured it was my fault that he didn’t care. I was still in NXT and he was in the big league. It was like he was out of my league. Which he was. He was fighting in front of thousands on a weekly basis and I was fighting… Well, I was fighting at Full Sail University. He never said anything, so I never suspected anything.

Boy was I wrong. I was so so so SO wrong about us and our situation. I had some time to spend with him. He promised to make it up to me since he was being distant. I thought maybe this was our chance to fix everything that have went wrong. After all, we’ve been dating for close to three years. We debuted in NXT around the same time. We’ve been through thick and thin while we were on the show. It sounded stupid that our relationship could handle a little space just because I was on NXT and he was always on the main event of Raw.

I got my hair done just the way that he liked it. I even made sure to pack the lingerie that he loved. Hell, I packed his favorite perfume. All just for a good time with my boyfriend. I was stupid to think my boyfriend could be main eventing on Raw and wait around for his girlfriend who was on NXT.

We had dinner plans that night. A nice romantic dinner. Seth was in the shower as I was sliding on my dress. His favorite dress, may I add. I have received his attention so many times in this dress. I was sure I could do it again tonight. Then his phone vibrated. He had never told me that I couldn’t look at his phone. There was barely anything to look at. It was just the picture of us kissing. The picture was taken minutes after he had become Mr. Money in the Bank. Then there were his usual boring notifications. Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, Emails… and when I looked at the most recent notification, it was a text message from an unknown sender. It wasn’t the fact that the person wasn’t saved in his contact that freaked me out… Seth had a habit of waiting until the last moment to add people to his contacts. It was the fact that the only notification was that the person had texted him. There was no text preview. That should’ve been a sign to look away.

Yet, I couldn’t stop looking. He never hid his text previews. Not even from me. Since I heard the water in the shower still running, I typed in his passcode to his phone. I was biting nervously on my lip as I went to his text messages. I clicked on the number and read what the person had to say.

“Am I seeing you tonight? You don’t have to see your girlfriend. We both know that I’m more than enough company for you.”

“Does she know that you don’t love her anymore?”

“I bet you she doesn’t treat you the way that a champion should be treated. She’s so below you, she’s a total waste of your time.”

My heart dropped and I had to call Becky, who was my best friend. When she didn’t answer, I felt my whole world collapse. Maybe I was reading too much into it. Who am I kidding, I was reading exactly what Seth had felt about me.

As I scrolled up, the conversation have been going on a few months after he had won the WWE World Heavyweight Championship. Just when he sent her why he was sticking with me, the messages scrolled all the way back to the bottom. She had sent him a nude. Just then, I wanted to puke. She was gorgeous. Tall, beautiful, and blonde. I looked down at myself and had to fight back the tears. I didn’t look like her. Seth didn’t love me. All those times, he thought I was beautiful- he was lying.

It felt like years has went by. His phone was hot in my hands and my eyes were both burning and blurry from the tears. I didn’t hear Seth get out of the shower either. He was blasting whatever the band of the day was and he was singing along. I didn’t snap out of it until he called my name. I was frozen. I would’ve been one of those girls that would’ve went through their nights acting like nothing was wrong, but that would’ve hurt. I probably would kill him because the texts and her would be going through my mind all during dinner.

Seth called my name again and I just let the water works go. There was a huge lump in my throat and I couldn’t talk. He stepped closer to me and saw what I was looking at. It was quiet for a moment until he talked.

“Y/N…..” Seth said softly as he grabbed his phone from me. Well, he tried to. I was holding onto it too tightly.

“No, Seth. I get it. I’m just wasting your time when you could be with anyone else in this goddamn world.” I finally let go of his phone and I just looked at him. “I can’t believe you’re mad at me because I’m living my dream in NXT and you’re on RAW. That’s not fair! I wanted to make it there myself, not because I’m sleeping with Seth freakin’ Rollins.” I cried out while wiping a tear. It was scary having this argument with him.

We argued before but it was over stupid things. Stupid things like where to go to dinner, who’s turn is it to pick a movie, who’s turn is it to drive…. It was stuff that can be settled in minutes. This couldn’t be handled in minutes and it couldn’t be handled in hours. It could barely be settled in months. He was cheating, and he couldn’t lie and say that he wasn’t.

“I… I didn’t mean to. I get lonely on the road and-“ he kept going on and on with his excuses. Like an idiot, I nodded my head. I listened to him, hoping to find some truth in there and I couldn’t. I knew that he thought she was hotter than me. I saw it in the texts. I knew that he wasn’t happy with me, once again- I saw it in the texts. There was nothing he could say to exactly ease my mind.

I stood up and left his house. I haven’t looked back since. I only came back when I knew he was gone and that was just to get the things that I held dear to my heart and my clothes. I didn’t want him to have any memory of me or any of my stuff. He broke my heart, and he didn’t deserve to look at my things.

That was almost two years ago. To this day, I wanted nothing to do with the main roster. I avoided all call ups. It was to the point that I was wondering why exactly they begging for me to be called up. Each time, I was going to say no. Seth have tried to call and text me. He even called and texted Becky. Becky was a good friend and told him that I didn’t want to talk to him. If I did want to talk to him, she promised him that I will call him. Have I called him? Nope, never. I had no intent.

It was minutes after Takeover: Brooklyn III.  I had just lost my NXT Women’s Championship and if no one could tell, I was frustrated. Actually, I wanted to cry. But after crying for months because of Seth, I didn’t have enough tears in me anymore. I was over him, but crying for months on end took a lot of work

I had grabbed a towel to dry my face off with… That’s when Hunter approached me and congratulated on a good match. I looked at him weirdly while listening to him compliment my skills. That’s when I knew where this was heading.

“No, I’m not getting moved up to the main roster. Nope. I have to get my title back and I have a rematch clause. You can’t just-” I was speaking at 100 words per minute. But Hunter stopped me.

Triple H sighed and he knew exactly where this was going. But instead of walking away this time, he just stood there. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and patiently tried to put the words together. “You don’t have a choice this time. Vince wants you. It’s either go to the main roster or be fired.” Hunter explained to me and my mouth dropped. Vince was actually willing to fire me just because I didn’t want to go to the main roster? I was hurt. But I nodded my head and I agreed to go. Not that I had much of a choice this time. “Thank you. But I have to tell you… You’re going to RAW.” And with that, I would have rather be fired than work on RAW. I stomped my foot and walked away. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t going to cry. I insisted as I got back to my locker room.

I’m going to RAW, I thought. It didn’t feel like it was real. I wish I wasn’t. But I had 24 hours to prepare myself for the run in that was going to change my life. I was going to make my debut at Summerslam. Great. Of all damn places. If it wasn’t a mixed show, I wouldn’t have been nervous. Hell, if Seth wasn’t there- I would’ve felt better. But, he was going to be there. There wasn’t enough places in the Barclay Arena to hide from him in. I didn’t plan on this happening. Hell, going to Smackdown would be 100% better. But no. I have to prepare myself all over again.

[p-artsypants]

The North Tower- New Enemies

FF.net | AO3

Previous 

After staring at books for the last three days, Astrid decided she needed a break. She took the time to do things that are a necessity for a millennial who works from home to do that a ghost from the 1st century wouldn’t know how to do.

Set up technology. The cable went up fairly simple, considering that Finn had cable at one point. But she would have to have a man from the cable company set up the internet. The castle gravely needed wifi, an essential in this era. Especially if Astrid wanted those 5 star reviews. And she wanted them badly. More good reviews, more guests, more money. It was a healthy cycle.

She turned on the flat screen TV in the main room to a game of rugby. She didn’t particularly like the sport, but it was the closest thing to American Football there was here. She supposed she’d get used to it.

When she turned around, couch was occupied by several ghosts, all entranced by the screen.

She was almost startled.

Gobber looked at her with a gleam in his eye. “Finn had a television, but not one as glorious as this.”

“I wouldn’t think so. This is state of the art.” She patted the side of the screen. It stood on top of a wooden bureau, as wires peaked out the sides. Hopefully when the cable guy came, maybe he’d make it look nicer.

The front doorknob jiggled. The ghosts in the room turned invisible.

A tall man, with broad shoulders and an even broader chin stepped in, and suddenly made eye contact with Astrid. “You must be Finn’s niece.” He said with a smile.

“I am,” she replied. “And you are?”

A specter rushed passed her and threw a pair of ghostly arms around him. “Eret! My love!” Cried Ruffnut.

“It’s nice to see you, too.” He said, somewhat resigned. He looked back at Astrid, “Eret, the groundskeeper.”

Astrid grinned, “I guess you’re acquainted with the…permanent guests of the house.”

Ruffnut climbed over Eret and clung to his muscly back like a koala bear.

“Uh, yeah. I grew up here, with my dad and my grandfather. It wasn’t until I was a teenager that I met the ghosts. The day of my 18th birthday, my dad sat me down and said, ‘Son, now that you’re a man, you have to know the great secret of the castle.’ And before he could say anything else, Ruffnut leapt on me from out of nowhere, and has haunted me ever since. This vacation was my chance to get away.”

“Why did you leave me for so long!?” Ruffnut moaned, “It wasn’t the same without you!!”

Eret shrugged. “I have to get out and about sometimes.”

“What about me?!?!” She howled.

Astrid watched the exchange with a smile, glad to see that the ghosts had a little bit of human company. Hiccup appeared next to her. “The children that are raised here really have the raw end of the deal.” He spoke quietly.

“Why’s that?” Astrid watched as Eret fanned his arm through Ruff, like he was wafting a bad order away.

“The castle itself has an evil that persists even if the door is locked.”

“You mean nightmares?” She wondered allowed.

“So you’ve had them too?” He sighed. “I had hoped…that being in the same room as you, that knowing I was there, if that would make them go away. But I guess not.”

Eret finally walked outside, as Ruff stood with her arms reaching out for him. He was just getting another suitcase.

“There’s always something about the unknown in them. Like, last nights, I was on a slide, and I could hear a buzzsaw in the distance, but I couldn’t find where it was coming from.”

“Finn used to have them. As well as every Hofferson before him. It appears there’s no rest for the wicked.”

“Good thing I have NyQuil.” Astrid laughed emptily. “What’s some bad nightmares, anyway?”

“There’s more than just nightmares though, there’s also—“

“Hey Astrid!” Eret called, “did you need to get any groceries? The Tesco’s like 20 minutes from here, if you wanted to come with.”

“Hold that thought, Hiccup.” She smiled, “yeah! I do. My parents are coming tomorrow. They’re going to help me prepare for guests. Although, they were going to help clean, but as you can see, I got plenty of help in that regard.”

Eret nodded. “How do you think Finn did it without any hired help?”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. Really, besides Eret who did work outside, she couldn’t remember anyone working in the castle during the several times she visited as a child. “I guess I never really thought about it.”

“Well, now you know.”

Astrid glanced over to the ghosts all piled up on the couch. “Alright Hiccup, you’re in charge until we get back. Is there anything you want from the store? I know you can’t eat or drink anything…”

Hiccup’s eyes widened slightly, before he smiled. “No, thank you, Astrid. I’m fine.”

Eret rested his suitcases by the East Tower entrance. “Now Ruff, don’t go snooping through my stuff while I’m gone.” He reprimanded, like she was a dog.

“Oh, of course not.” She assured. “Why would I do that?” Her glance darted over to the suitcase and back to him with a smile.

Eret shook his head then looked at Astrid, “Ready?”

She prepared the affirmative, but then stopped with realization. “The internet guy!” She almost shouted.

“What about him?”

“He’s coming in like an hour, I have to be here for him…can you wait to go? Oh, what time does the store close?” Looking at her phone, she found it was 3 o’clock.

“It closes at 6.” Provided Eret.

“Crap…”  

Hiccup came up beside her. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll take care of him. Go get the groceries.”

“What do you mean, you’ll take care of him…?”

“I’ll make sure he gets let in and finds everything he needs.”

Astrid looked at him skeptically. “Fine, but don’t do anything that would put my business in jeopardy before it even opens.”

“Oh of course, Milady.”  

—

The ride into town was pleasant and quiet. Navigating the winding roads of the town was still new to Astrid, and she allowed her new friend to drive.

“So, how do you like the castle?” He asked, as they headed into town.

“It’s nice,” she said amicably, “big. Very fancy. Mysterious.”

“Yep, I’ve lived there my whole life, and there’s just so much I don’t understand myself.”

“Have you ever been to the North Tower?” It was a stupid question.

“I met Toothless once in my life, if that’s what you meant. He was waiting for me as soon as I opened the door.”

“And you didn’t run screaming?”

“I never said that,” he laughed. “That was…terrifying. To be sure. What about you? I’m assuming you did, since the gang was out and about. Last I knew, Finn had locked them all away.”

“The first night I was here, I saw a light on in the tower, and wondered if it was an intruder. Turns out it was just a bunch of really really old men playing Rummy.”

Eret snorted. “Must have been scary.”  

“I…don’t know. I don’t remember that night all that well. It was only a few days ago, but some of details were fuzzy.”

“Probably from shock.”

“Probably.” She agreed. “I didn’t really accept that the castle was haunted until the next day…I still don’t know. Like, Hiccup and Gobber and the others…they act so normal. They just look…transparent. In every ghost movie I’ve seen, the ghosts are invisible and they’re stacking chairs and stuff. Not…helping you clean to make room for guests.”

“What did you think of Stoick?”

“Never met him. Hiccup said he left a few days ago.”

Eret was quiet before uttering a gentle, “oh.”

“Yeah.”

“How many are left? Do you know?”

“Um…I think I met most of them. So, Hiccup and Gobber, Fishlegs, Ruff and Tuff and Snotlout. That’s six.” She counted on her hand. “Gothi, Agnar, uh…Gust, Cleftjaw, Gunnar, Silent Sven…that’s 12.”

“Spitelout?”

“Nope, he’s gone.”

“Uh…Jorgen? Lars?”

“That’s 14.”

“Oh, Bucket and Mulch!”

“Both gone.”

Eret gave her sad sideways glance. “Really?”

“Hmm…” She hummed. “And Magnus. I think that’s it.”

“Only 15 left?”

“Well, there was 19 when I moved in.” She winced, “to be fair, I’m mixing a lot of them up in my head.”

“It’s okay. You’ll figure it out eventually.”

Astrid shifted in his truck uncomfortably. He was still a stranger, and a man at that. This situation should rightfully make her squirm, just a little.

“What’s it like?” He finally asked.

“What?”

“The North Tower. Finn…never talked to me about it. No matter how much I asked. He just said I was a child and what was in there was not for children. You don’t need to tell me every detail…I’m just curious.”

“I’m sure you would be…” She assessed. “Well, it’s kind of like…if you took the West or East Towers, and stripped them bare and let them stagnate for a thousand years.”

Eret huffed. “That’s a vivid picture.”

“But the bottom level goes really…really far down.”

He looked sideways at her. “What’s down there?”

“No idea. I went down a few floors with Hiccup, when Bucket left…but that’s as far as I got. Honestly, I never want to go anywhere near there again.”

“Why? Was it just sad?”

“Sad and…I don’t know. I felt like I was being watched.” She carefully left out the part about the figure with the long bony fingers.

Eret made a sound like ‘yech’ deep in his throat. “Well, that solves my curiosity.”

“Really? Just a few words from me, and that’s it?”

“I mean, I still wonder what’s deep deep down…but if the water level from the lake is anything to go by, it’s probably like the Berkley Pit down there.”

“The what?”

“You know, The Berkley Pit? The armpit of America?”

“The armpit of America is New Jersey.” She corrected.

“I guess you would know,” he chuckled. “You’re from the US, right? Or is that not an American accent?”

“I’m from Michigan, by Chicago. What’s this pit?”

“Oh, it’s a pit. In Butte Montana. It used to be an old copper mine, but it flooded and now the water is black and so toxic that anything that touches it instantly dies.”

“Ew gross. I think that’s more like the butthole of America.”

“Butthole in Butte.” He chuckled.

“How do you know about that? Since, well I wouldn’t take you for an American tourist.”

He grinned at her. “I’m a landscaper. I study the pH balance of soil for fun.”

“Weird.”

“And you rent out your Uncle’s haunted castle for fun. We all have our kicks.”

“I don’t do it for fun!” Astrid argued back. “It’s my lively hood!” She crossed her arms. “I study the history of the ghosts for fun.”

“I rest my case.”

—

Back at the castle, a rotund man in a large white van pulled up the drive. He looked at the castle in excitement. Rumors were that the building was haunted, and he had never serviced a haunted house before. He knocked on the door, “Spectrum Internet!” he called.

It was a moment before the big door unlatched and creaked open. No one was there.

“Hello…?” He called out. “My name’s Ioan, I’m here to set up your box?” He took a few steps inside. “Astrid Hofferson? You called this morning?”

The door suddenly slammed shut and locked behind him.

He gulped heavily, definitely considering the possibility of these so called ghosts.

A clanking sound made it’s way to him from under the stairs in front of him. It got louder and louder until a suit of armor was marching towards him.

Poor Ioan dropped his toolbox in fear, and stood frozen in place, his knees knocking together.

“You’re the internet guy?” The armor spoke, his voice echoing with a hallow ring.

“Uh yes, sir.” Ioan nodded.

“Great!” The armor clapped with a clink. “What do you need from me?”

“Uh…there should be a place where the cable connects to the outside, it’s called a drop spot. Do you know where it is?”

“It’s probably in the library, come with me.”

So poor, terrified, confused Ioan followed the suit of armor into the East Tower and down the stairs. In the south corner, there was a cable line hooked up to a splitter.

“Uh, thanks…” said Ioan, as he got to work. “Where do you want the modem? In here?”

“The closer we can get to the South Tower would be the most beneficial, I think.”

Ioan scratched his head. “Well, I could do that, but these walls are solid stone. You’d have to get a contractor in here to drill a hole to run the line.”

“If I got someone to drill the hole right now, could you run it?”

Ioan looked at him like he was crazy. “I…guess.”

“Okay, give me just a second. You do what you can right now.”

And the suit of armor left the room, clanking all the way.

“I need a vacation…” Ioan whispered to himself.      

—

The shopping trip had proved to be a good bonding experience for Astrid and Eret, and she was now relaxed at the prospect of sharing a tower with him.

Astrid quietly shamed herself. Here, she was nervous around a young professional male, while she had willingly fallen asleep twice in front of a male ghost. She should have been more comfortable around Eret, since he had skin.

But there was just something about Hiccup that set her mind at ease. His voice, maybe the way he spoke? Maybe the wisdom of a thousand years? Or maybe it simply was shock.

Either way, she now had two guys she could depend on in this strange new life. Not that she really needed them, but it was a nice idea.

When she and Eret returned, a police car, as well as an internet van, were sitting in the driveway.

“Oh no…” Astrid muttered to herself.

“Did you lock the door?” Eret whispered.

“I think so…I’m pretty sure…” Astrid jumped out of the truck quickly and hurried up to the door. Pulling on the handle, she found that it was still locked.

“Good afternoon.” A deep voice spoke from around the corner. A familiar face came around.

“You’re…the officer from the other night.”

“Viggo Ryker,” the man held out his hand. “Sorry for startling you.”

“Is everything alright?” She asked, nervously.

Eret, not bothered, had began bringing bags of groceries over and setting them by the door.

“Yes, I think so,” responded the policeman. “I was just coming to check on things. I wanted to make sure that home invader situation was handled.”

All her life, Astrid had trusted the police. Her uncle was a policeman back home, as well. But this man…he was not to be trusted. There was something about him…that just didn’t sit right in her gut.

“Oh yeah. My Uncle had a generator to that part of the castle. It’s a storage unit. There was a motion detector light up there. There must have been a mouse or something. It turned off not long after you left.”

The Officer Ryker didn’t look convinced. But he chose not to say anything. “Well, that’s good to know.” He took a notebook out of his pocket and started jotting down some information. “If there’s ever any sort of problem that requires someone to be escorted off the premises, please don’t hesitate to call this non-emergency number.” He handed her the piece of paper. “But of course, 999 is still appropriate for life threatening situations.”

“I—uh, thank you.” She responded.

Eret had finished bring the collection of food over, and waited to unlock the door.

“Have a nice day, Miss Hofferson.” He nodded with a tip of his cap. Then he wandered back to his squad car.

“Hmm…” she pulled out her phone as Eret watched him leave. “This number he gave me…”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not the emergency number that Mala gave me.”

Eret was quiet a moment. “Does it matter?”

Astrid considered, “It probably doesn’t. But, he rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Ditto, that’s why I didn’t unlock the door.”

“You are one smart cookie.”

Eret unlocked the door and stared ahead at the strangest sight he’d ever seen.

One normal portly man was poised on a latter, and screwed fasteners into the wooden molding around the ceiling. He was surrounded by three suits of armor, all helping him in various positions, either holding up the cable or the ladder.

“Oh, Astrid, Eret, you’re home!” Hiccup spoke from one of the suits. “Internet is almost up. We’re going to put a modem on the table right beneath the stairs.”

Eret covered his mouth with a fist, trying in vain to hold in his laughter. Astrid smiled, and shook her head. “I should have never doubted you when you said you had this covered.”

“Are you Miss Hofferson?” Ioan asked, coming down the ladder.

“Yep,” she smiled. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Oh it was no trouble at all! You’re staff here is so helpful! I wish I had help like this at all my jobs!”

“Well, we’re vacant right now, so they have nothing better to do.” Astrid laughed.

Ioan came a little closer. “You can be honest, are there actual people in the suits?”

Astrid laughed. “If you want to think so, go ahead.”

“Are you going to fasten this line or not? I’m not going to stand here all day!” Called Gobber, from another ladder.

—

At night, Astrid curled up in bed with her laptop, and made sure the Castle had a Facebook page. Tomorrow, she’d take pictures and make sure everything was ready to start taking reservations.

Hiccup floated in, and sat cross-legged by her feet. “Was that okay?”

“Hmmm?” She looked up at him.

“What we did with the armor? I know you don’t want us to be known to everyone…”

“I think it was fine. What do you think? Do you want people to know you?”

He was quiet for a while. “Hiding for a thousand years can make you want a lot of things.”

Astrid closed her computer and set it aside. “How old were you when you were cursed?”

“20.” He answered simply. “How old are you?”

“21. I was only asking because you look about my age. Well, when you’re in the North Tower, you do.”

He hummed slightly. “I’m glad I look human at least a little.”

“Yeah, now that I think about it, but is it that you have a body there, but not out in the castle?”

“I don’t,” he said simply. “The form I take in the tower is tangible, but it’s still not whole. If you wanted to, you could walk through me even in there.”

“Oh…I just assumed…”

“It’s alright. Looks can be deceiving.” He shrugged.

“Are you always this chummy with the Hofferson’s, or am I special?”

He leaned back on his arms, considering. “At first, when this whole thing happened, I was pretty upset. I spent that first lifetime by myself…really, I was the first one to leave.”

Her eyes widened.

“My whole outlook on life was my freedom. Growing up, I was the smallest in the tribe and I would do anything to belong. After I lost my leg, I came to realize that I would always be different, and there was nothing I could do about it. So I embraced it. Then I came to realize that I had a chiefly duty to my people, so I tried to balance my solitary life and helping the tribe.”

“It must have been suffocating.” She sighed.

“It still is. There’s days where I wander through the North Tower just to get away. But it’s never enough.” He met her eyes and then blushed, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just unload that on you.”

“It’s alright,” she assured. “But the question still stands, do you treat all the Castle Masters like this?”

He smirked. “Not usually this close. I just think you’re cute.”

Astrid burned red. “I—I that is, I’m flattered…”

He chuckled. “Sorry, we are kind of blunt. Viking trait.”

She shook her head. “I’m just not used to be called cute.”

He leaned forward, toward her. “What? Do you not have a boyfriend?”

“Nah, I had a few dates in college, but no one I really connected with.”

“Oh.” He bored his big green eyes into hers. “Do you connect with me?”

She smirked back. “Sure. But don’t get too used to the idea. We walk very different paths of lives.”

“You mean I’m dead and you aren’t?” The way he said it held much contempt, and lacked his usual teasing tone.

“Yeah, that.” She simpered. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t.” He assured. “It’s just something I’ve had to come to terms with.” Then he smiled, genuinely. “I do like you though. I’d like to get to know you more. Maybe you are the one that’ll break the curse.”

Astrid reached out, and overlapped his hand with hers. “I certainly hope so.”  

[zealoptics]

The Outsiders by ZEAL Rider Ian Wood

Words by **[Ian Wood](https://www.instagram.com/eanwood/)** | Photos by **[Jordan Ingmire](https://www.instagram.com/jordaningmire/)**

The sound of explosions stir me from a deep slumber. The bombs may be going off thousands of feet away but the blasts shake me from my dream world. Barely awake I sit up to investigate the violent action, bouncing my head off the bunk above. The “rude” awakening knocks me back down, a dry mouth from the propane heater running off and on all night reminds me where I am. Rubbing my eyes to adjust to the light, and a quick pull of the window blinds, reveals a winter wonderland. The bombs that stirred me from my fantasy world are the result of hard working ski patrollers doing their best to keep us safe from avalanches in the available side country. Comfortably nestled in my 16 foot tiny home, I am amidst the cascade mountains in Washington state. From the looks of my neighbor RV’s we have received a healthy amount of fresh snow over night. Rolling out of my bunk and placing my feet on the noticeably cold floor sends a quick signal to my brain that its going to be nice blower pow. Where are my slippers?. . . It’s 7 o clock in the morning and the chairs don’t start spinning until 9. With the resort lifts and split board trails being accessible out my front door I have plenty of time to get ready. Living in a trailer in the parking lot of a resort, you build morning routines. So much time spent by yourself allows you the freedom to do what you want, when you want. Meditation has made it into the start of my day, followed by a nutrient packed fruit smoothie. Somedays I listen to an audio book or inspiring tunes, maybe a quick stretch, and then I put on my space suit for the wild frontier. Isn’t this what we are striving for our whole lives? - Complete freedom, nobody telling us what to do or how to live. Shouldn’t we be fine tuning physical/mental health with joy, adventure, and a lust for life? I chuckle to myself as I ponder the perspective of my life, how did I get here? - 32 years old, no kids, no wife, no mortgage or salary career, living in a trailer that is smaller than some peoples closets. If you were to write this down and read it to someone, they would feel sorry for me. If they were to see my smile or feel my energy as this pervasive lust for living, they just might question the way they look at life.

Growing up in a capitalist nation where economy is god, and success is based upon the amount of things you possess, I had all the proper training to be a compliant citizen. In the West at 5 years old we are shuffled through a school system that is based more on conforming than education. It appears to be preparation for the 9-5 world with a vibrant brochure selling the restricted life of a weekend warrior. All the tv shows portraying the “happy” rich people with all their possessions, living in big mansions, surrounded by “beautiful” people, contribute to a thorough brain washing. The deep irony is when these movie stars, symbolizing the ultimate success of the american dream, often end their own lives in misery. I can’t say how this country is viewed from the outside but it seems that a lot of foreigners come here in hope of acquiring financial wealth and pursuing this illusion. Interestingly enough this nation is comprised of foreigners. We are all immigrants except for the few indigenous natives who have almost been entirely snuffed out. The trouble begins when necessities are far surpassed and endless desires are sought one after the other. The core issue is these desires are never filled and endless consumerism runs rampant. A bi product of this foolishness is a nation that suffers from severe obesity and malnutrition simultaneously. Unfortunately the PNW of the United states is a major influence in this worlds over consumption. Amazon, Microsoft, Starbucks, and Costco are just a few of the fortune 500 companies located in Seattle. A city surrounded by natural wonder, with the pacific ocean on one side and the cascade mountain range on the other. I was right on track to be another cog in the wheel, another poor sap in debt living pay check to pay check. Buying a bunch of things I didn’t need, to fit in or look good in some one else’s judgement. This is one ideal this nation whole heartedly promotes. This constant hunger for more leaves the blind consumer in debt regardless of socioeconomic status. It’s easy to get lost in this society living beyond their means. Look at our national debt for reference as to how we are taught to spend money. From this path… I slowly strayed. The mountains called and as the famous John Muir quote states; I had to go!

Hindsight is always 20 20. Looking back, I can see the friends that pulled me back into the mountains saved my life. Being a product of the NorthWest was a blessing that was hard to fully realize. Some of the greatest outsiders and heroes to exist in the snow world, come from this area. Humans that forever changed the snowboarding world were located all around me and leading lives way outside the norm. They were more like professional dirtbags than Olympians. The skills to be trained into super athletes were there, but they chose to live a life of freedom and self expression. These professionals were less about selling out and more about expressing themselves freely, on their own terms. You don’t have to be a legend to enjoy a similar lifestyle, boarding as much as you can and working as little as you have to. The locals shaped me even more so than the legends. “You work - I ride”, so the saying goes. The slogan “work to live, don’t live to work” comes up often. These people that surrounded me spent their money in a very different manner. Extravagance was a “new” used vehicle that handled the snowy roads in a supreme way, or a rig that could transform into a sleeping domain. Maybe a new gizmo for snow camping or a fancy sleeping bag that packed small and was light. Simultaneously we were becoming more self sufficient and learning how to spend money wisely. I didn’t know it at the time, but these people I like to refer to as the outsiders, were shaping me. As I became an “adult” (I put it in quotations because I think it is absolutely insane that someone being an adult is based on age and not life experience) I came to realize that most people were lost. Year after year, the older they got the more confused they seemed to be. Their connection to what mattered in life slowly dwindled as they bought into the game. Work beat them down and a diet of processed food provided them with no fuel. Coffee delivers a quick blast of energy for a long drawn out day. The ever growing list of how society tries to fill the voids will leave your head spinning. For many years I have pondered, and even now it seems, that kids have it much more figured out than adults! Youngsters are happy chasing dreams and living for the moment. The beliefs that create their realities are still uninhibited, so they are able to enjoy the little things. Snowboarding takes me back to that mental clarity. Every time I strap in, my mind grows a little more silent as the moment zooms in to capture my attention. Pushing skills to a new level can cloud the mind with fear. Making the decision to trust in your ability clears the sky and locks you in where time stands still.

The people I meet in the NW have inspired me to leap into more than just snowboard specific adventures. Every aspect of one’s life effects the other and it’s best to be well rounded. Adventures of every kind can be linked to snowboarding in one way or another. Learning how to navigate the world and trust in your life skills to get you where you need to be is one example. From Yoga, to skateboarding, even dancing, it all can help you with self expression and in turn improve the picture you paint on a board. I started the winter season going to a 10 day silent meditation retreat with photographer/best bud Jordan Ingmire. This shared wisdom solidified the lessons learned from snowboarding. The present moment is the only reality. As soon as we add thoughts or words to things, we have strayed. Our minds are trained in this society to constantly be thinking about the future or the past. Focused on likes or dislikes, we form a craving for the things we desire and try to avoid the things we dislike. So constantly we are planning for the future, or revisiting the things that have already happened. We want more of the things we like and are upset when we get what we don’t want. Both of these judgements are illusions. The images with attached emotions either no longer exist or are an interpreted creation of the future. All of our thoughts around experiences are not truly reality. They are a merely a projection of the mind which in turn creates what we believe to be reality. So those moments while ripping down a line, or riding through a technical part of the mountain, are actually creating the silent mind that brings us closer to the truest reality. Wether you are taking a conscious deep breath sitting in a cross legged position or standing on top of a glorious mountain top, you are training the mind to be aware of what is going on inside of it. Slowly bringing awareness to our daily actions muffles the constant brain chatter and creates space for the only true reality- the present moment. Any one that has been terrified by the raw elements of a mountain has lived through this mind altering experience of a silent mind.

For the last several years I was caught in a whirlwind of dreaming and creation. Desires of achieving fantasies began to develop in my mind and expanded as I shared them with others. The winters had been very active with traveling, working on video projects, and getting caught up in the go go go, do do do. This winter I set out to focus on “being” more than “doing”. Starting the season off in meditation had a huge impact on how I wanted to spend my winter and what I felt was important to focus on. I decided I was going to spend the entire winter at home in the PNW. No distant travels, no video projects, and nothing more than immersing myself in the art of snowboarding. Whether it was with my best friends, the local community, strangers, or by myself, I found room for growth in all relationships. With the climate pattern rollercoaster ride we have been locked into in the NW, it was a risky move. Travel has always been a back up plan for winters that never show up. Japan in January, Alaska in April, the interior mountains of BC , Montana, Wyoming, allow for plenty of Plan B options. With travel comes planning, and with planning comes extensive mental activity. I wanted to get rid of all the things that add to the mind game of winter. That way I could find my place in the mountains with clear thoughts and tuned senses. We are constantly searching for connection to the moment as boarders and one of the best ways to help that process is to alleviate as much mental chatter as possible. I deliberately decided to put all of my eggs in one basket and whether winter came as I desired or not, I was staying and making the best of it. Worse case scenario you can always go adventure on your split board, walk for miles and search around corners you haven’t looked past before. The stars aligned as it became one of the best winters for Washington in many years, with cold temperatures and big storms that seemed to never end. The snow just kept stacking and the energy was high in the PNW. It was a season for the soul. One of those winters where you run into all your buddies on the hiking routes or skin trails. I found myself greeting friends with big hugs and thinking “you know what. . . there are friends on a pow day.” We were riding as many of our favorite lines as we could in one day. Lines that you sometimes only ride once a year because the conditions have to be just right, were getting ridden several times a week. No video cameras, no waiting to get the shot, no worries about landing a trick or how your style was; just pure intimacy with the mountains and the people sharing them with you.

As the planet rotates around the sun the seasons will change here in the PNW. Spring time comes with longer days and stronger ultra violet rays. The rivers flow with snow melt as photosynthesis sprouts new life on the hillsides. T shirts and open vents become common on the touring trails and chair lifts, as winter pow turns to spring corn. Fresh snow can bless us all the way into May, providing up to 7 months of possible fresh snow adventures. The park rats and split boarders rejoice as their favorite season is upon them. In the same day you can lap the park with friends and in the evening tour up to soak in breathtaking views. In strong winter seasons, such as this past one, you can extend your snow season year round. The list of volcanos in the area is long and the adventures bountiful. “Variety is the spice of life”; one of my favorite expressions. Living in the PNW I can’t help but completely agree with this notion. Summer comes and the thoughts of the year ahead are born in the stillness created in the absence of daily snow obsession. Sometimes I worry about what the future holds for the PNW snow lovers. Big money is pushing hard to suck the life out of the mountains. Solace and solitude are being replaced with high speed quads and 4 star hotels. Seattle is growing and you can see the reflection of it in the traffic to all of the hills. Will we just become another destination resort? Will the dirtbag locals living in their cars at the mountain be run off by people commuting 2 hours everyday? Only time will tell. I reflect back on lessons learned in the meditation hall. Be present here in the now, and let the thoughts pass like clouds in the sky. My judgement of what is best is just a figment of my imagination. For now the mountains in the PNW are full of life, love, and soul. Explorers, adventurers, athletes, party people, weirdos, musicians, artists, and of course the city people, all share these beautiful mountains. I hope that one day you have the opportunity to visit this majestic place I call home. We can easily be considered outsiders In a world where so many equate success and happiness to financial status. Every day we strap in we are representing the importance of something greater than that. Outsider: “a person who does not belong to a particular group.” There are enough of us here in the PNW that have formed a group of our own. We are the outsiders and you are welcome to join us.

Ian’s Top Picks

[SHOP ACE](https://www.zealoptics.com/en/shop/sunglasses/lifestyle-collection/ace "SHOP ACE") [SHOP FARGO](https://www.zealoptics.com/en/shop/goggles/select-series/fargo "SHOP FARGO")

Want more? Check out the below and follow Ian’s journey this winter @eanwood.

[melyaliz]

Lost Puppy

I’m sorry I got too excited and just wanted to post the first one now... 

Happy Eirly Birthday @royslittleharper !!!! 

And you may or may not be getting more stuff.... 

Based off a ship I did for her and her follow up fic

“You kiss them and they come back, it’s like when you feed a stray dog.” your friend said flipping back a strand of her hair. You couldn’t help but laugh. You sometimes couldn't help but compare him to a dog.

I mean the way he looked when he stood at the front of your flat with a copy of the Love Actually.

“I heard this was a Romcom,” he said walking up with large hopeful eyes. It reminded you of your childhood dog that use to bring you sticks to play with.

Honestly, you hadn’t expected him to come back after your one night stand. Your friend had joked that he would and you had laughed just assuming she was just being nice. But maybe she was on to something.

Not that you minded.

You had laughed opening your door wider so he could come in. “I have some comfy blankets,” you told him as you took the movie looking it over.

“Ok,” he said.

You glanced at the cover of the movie then back at the boy who was sprawled out on your couch looking around as if he was seeing your apartment for the first time. In a way he might be, seeing as last time he was here he was a little… busy.

Suddenly his eyes spotted a figure from your favorite game Skyrim. It was anAncient Dragon, wings stretched out wide as if about to take flight. Jumping up he pulled it off the shelf looking it over, eyes bright with excitement. However, that was nothing to the kind of excitement that had had when he saw the other figurines you had on the shelves.

You couldn’t keep up with the onslaught of questions.

Romcom totally forgotten you cracked out the game and started to show him. After all a picture says a thousand words or something like that.

You both spend the whole night playing the game. Laughing and talking as if you were both lifelong friends not just two people who had meet a week ago drunk at a bar.

Then again, like last time, he suddenly cut off the connect you were both having.

This time it lasted longer, the sun was just shooting it’s first rays into your livingroom. You had your legs draped over his lap as he yelled at you to doge an attack. However, as morning’s light hit his face he seemed to wake from a dream, reality hitting him.

“Oh no, what time is it?” he said bolting up almost knocking you off the couch.

“I don’t know… probably like 6?”

Desperately he started to gather up his things. “I… I have to go” he mumbled.

“Oh… ok” you would be lying if you felt a little hurt.

Your words halted him right in his tracks. Beating him on the head, pulling him from his panic. Turning sharply he studied you, “It’s not you… I have this thing…”

You wave him away as if shooing off a fly. “No you it’s me. We did this song and dance last time.” those words seemed to hurt him even more as he glanced over at the DVD, forgotten on the table.

“I’ll be back. I want to continue our adventure and…” he paused as if unable to find the right words. Instead, he leaned forward kissing you. Quick but desperate. As if trying to tell you something but unable to find the right way.

Kissing him back may have been a mistake but hell, you liked making bad choices. Especially if those bad choices were smoking hot redheads.

-----

It had been another week before you saw him again.

This time he didn’t come with an apology move.

He came with so many cuts and bruises he looked like he had been run over by a truck. Or quite literally one of the dragons from your game. In the back of your head you somehow felt like this was more possible with how strange he was. Sometimes when you talked with him he felt like he had fallen out of another reality.

“Hey…” he mumbled glancing up at you, his right eye already starting to swell.

“What happened to you?” you asked as you ran down your steps helping him walk up to your place.

“Who the hell did this!?!” you demanded you are getting the best of you.

“I…”

“Never mind just get in here,” you said helping him in and onto your couch before running to get the first aid kit as well as a few other items.

“Was it like a bar fight or something… how the hell do you have burn marks and knife wounds?” you let out a growl in annoyance at the total brutality of what you were witnessing. How could anyone hurt someone like Charlie. He was such a little push over. However, your anger rant was cut off by the red haired boy’s laugh.  

“Did you just growl?”

He was looking at you in what looked like a mixture of shock and amusement. “Are you judging me right now!?!” it came out much harder than you mean it to , but you were worked up. Shaking your head you took a deep breath, “Sorry I didn’t mean to snap it’s just…” the verbal onslaught of more violent words on what you were going to do to those monsters when you met then came flowing out.

“You’re adorable” Charlie snickered, so softly that you hadn't heard him. Probably because you were still ranting as you had pulled out your first aid kit. Why you had such a well stocked first aid kit was a story for another day.

“But really who DOES THIS!?!” you returned from the other room as you got some clean water.

He stayed a whole day this time. Laying on your couch eating all your food while watching your play video games. He watched you with an awe that almost seemed odd on a man his age. However, you weren’t going to argue the onslaught of affection.  

As the sun slowly set in the sky and the last slice of pizza was sitting cold in the box you glanced down at him where his head was resting against your side.  

“Do you need to go”

He looked up at you, studying you, as if trying to read between the lines of your words. “I… I don’t want to” he mumbled sitting up, his eyes never leaving yours “I like it here”

You felt your face flush with raw honesty, “I like having you here” you said.

“Good” was all he said before kissing you. Long and hard, it held a passion that was so strong and consuming you could barely breath. It wasn’t like the first night where everything was filled with slight uncertainty laced with an alcohol infused lust. This time it was raw, strong, filled with a need to feel you. Be with you. As if he was a man drowning and you were the breath of air that kept him swimming.

You realized, as he slowly moved his body over yours, that you barely knew him. You didn't know where those wounds had come from or what he even did when he wasn’t with you. Yet as he pulled you close to him letting his lips leave yours to trail down your jawline to your neck you didn’t really care.

At least for now, you would keep kissing him and hoping he would come back

Like a little lost puppy.

[hprarepairnet]

love is a pyramid scheme

pairing: cormac mclaggen x romilda vane

setting: modern, non-magical, soul mate au

word count: 791

get to know our members challenge: favorite rare-pairs | (1/5) - andrea

Oh, shit, sorry, I—wow, I don’t even think I’d have to be drunk to fuck you, is what Romilda’s soul mate is going to say to her the first time they ever meet.

Her parents—her teachers—her pediatrician—they’re all suitably horrified when the words appear in barely legible chicken-scratch across the flat of her right forearm. She’s seven, and there’s a Backstreet Boys poster on her bedroom wall, and the whole ordeal is a mess of pinched nerves and chaotic confusion and wet, sloppy tears soaking the curve of her dad’s shoulder. Everyone knows that the timing of a Mark is arbitrary, that there isn’t a logical, scientific explanation for it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Books and movies and trashy soap operas make it seem like they show up like clockwork on the first day of high school, or college, or grad school—but that isn’t how it works, not for almost ninety percent of the population, and Romilda isn’t an exception.

She gets older, though.

And she begins to think that she’s actually kind of lucky. There isn’t a hello, or an excuse me, or a can you please move etched into her skin. Nothing generic. Nothing forgettable. She’s destined to be with someone who understands the importance of individuality; someone who’s going to make an impression, and make it last—make it stick.

She appreciates that.

She likes it.

Tons of people wait for their soul mates.

It used to be expected—white lace wedding gowns and honeymoon sheets tacky with virgin blood and firsts, firsts, firsts; first dates, first kisses, first fucks. Romilda can concede that there’s a certain…appeal to all of that, a sweetness, a gentleness, a wistful air of romance that’s inspired a million different happily ever after clichés, none of them even close to real.

Her soul mate isn’t going to wait for her. Isn’t going to wait for anyone. That’s obvious. She wonders if he’s just selfish—like she is—or if he’s just impatient—like she is—or if he’s just supremely confident that they’ll meet exactly when they’re supposed to; that they’ll be exactly what they’re supposed to be—like she is.

She’s never particularly cared about the fairytales, anyway.

Romilda’s nineteen when it happens.

It’s football season, which means it’s tailgate season, and she’s shoving her way through a crowd of douchey looking frat boys standing by the keg. Lukewarm beer sloshes over the rim of one of their cups, drenching her elbow and streaking down her Mark, and she wrinkles her nose, tamping down a needling surge of irritation—

She glances up.

The guy is tall, broad, with big shoulders and a long torso and a faded American flag silk-screened onto the front of his t-shirt. He has copper blond hair, carelessly tousled and dark with sweat towards his temples, high cheekbones and a square jaw and pale blue eyes; his lips are chapped, bitten red and raw, and a tiny white scar mars the wing of his left eyebrow. He’s—attractive. Imperfect. Awareness pierces her gut, hot and sharp.

“Oh, shit, sorry, I—wow, I don’t even think I’d have to be drunk to fuck you,” the guy blurts out.

“Too bad you’ll never get the chance to,” she automatically snaps back, shaking out her wrist.

There’s a split-second of silence—in her head, mostly, but it’s filling up the space between them, too, somehow light and heavy and anticipatory and wild, all at once—and then her eyes are flying to the guy’s right forearm, scanning, desperate, searching, and there it is, finally, twelve years and what had always seemed like a lifetime in a waiting room—just—disappearing. Vanishing. It’s instantaneous. Her own handwriting, neat and small and pretty, is stretched across pale, faintly freckled skin, corded and thick with muscle, and she’s lost the ability to fucking breathe.

Too bad you’ll never get the chance to, she reads, and has to laugh.

He’s staring at her arm, his expression twitching with an oddly endearing blend of alarm, delight, and embarrassment. She gets it. Seeing her Mark—seeing her words—she’s pictured this moment a hundred, no, a thousand times, and she’s heard the stories and she’s attended the seminars and none of it could’ve ever prepared her for this, for how it feels to claim and be claimed—he’s a stranger, yeah, she doesn’t even know his name, know who he is, but—but he’s hers.

She licks her lips.

His gaze lingers on her mouth.

“Knew it,” he murmurs, voice a little deeper than it had been.

“Knew what?”

His answer is a smile—slow and syrupy and smug smug smug with satisfaction.

She gets that, too.

[anavoliselenu]

Relase me chapter 10

Padgett. I remember Ms. Peters coming into the conference room during the meeting and mentioning that name.

Without warning, Jamie slams on the brakes and I lurch forward against my seat belt. “What the hell?”

“Sorry. I think I saw something on that street we just passed.” She thrusts the car into reverse and careens backward on the winding canyon road.

I swivel in my seat, terrified that I’ll see headlights approaching. But the road is dark, and we make the turn safely. By the time I’m facing forward again and ready to chew Jamie out for being so damn reckless, my anger is forgotten, pushed out of my mind by the sight of the incredible structure rising in front of me.

“Wow. Do you think that’s his?”

“I don’t know. It’s not as big as I thought it would be,” Jamie says. She pulls the car over to the side of the road, and we both get out and walk to the temporary chain-link fence that has been put up around the structure. A small metal plate identifies Nathan Dean as the architect. “It’s his,” Jamie says. “I remember that name from one of the articles. But shit, Stark is rolling in money. Shouldn’t this be a mansion?”

“No,” I say. “It’s perfect.”

As bazillionaire houses go, it probably is small. I’m guessing it’s about ten thousand square feet. But it seems to rise from the hills as opposed to being plunked down on them. Any larger and it would overwhelm. Smaller, and it would be lost. Though still unpainted and raw, the stonework only half-finished, the overall essence of the home is clear. It suggests power and control, but there’s also warmth and comfort. It’s inviting. It’s Justin.

And I think it’s spectacular.

From our spot on the road, we stand slightly above the building. Guests will enter by a driveway that slopes down, giving the illusion of entering a private valley. There are other houses nearby, but none will be visible from the property itself.

All that is visible, in fact, is the ocean. The house is finished enough that I can tell there are no windows on the side facing inland. I can’t see the side facing the ocean, but after seeing Justin’s apartment and his office—and after hearing his description of the portrait he wants painted—I have no doubt that the west wall is made entirely of windows.

“A million dollars,” Jamie says, and then whistles. “It’s like winning the lottery.”

She’s right. A million dollars is everything to me. A million dollars is start-up capital. A million dollars changes my entire life.

Yeah, but there’s that little problem.…

I slide my hand down the inner seam of the jeans I’d pulled on for our night on the town. Through the denim, I can barely feel them, but if I close my eyes I can easily picture the thick, brutal scars that mar both my inner thighs and my hips. “He wouldn’t be getting what he thinks he’s getting.”

Her grin is wicked. “Caveat emptor, baby. Buyer beware.”

And that’s why I love Jamie.

I turn back to the house and try to imagine myself standing in front of those windows. The curtains. The bed. Everything as he described it—and Justin Stark with his eyes on me.

My whole body quickens at the thought, and I can no longer deny how much I want this. Justin Stark has thrown me off-kilter, and part of me wants to punish him for it. At the very least, I want to regain the upper hand. Although perhaps “regain” is the wrong word. Where Justin is concerned, I’m not sure I ever had it.

“Caveat emptor,” I repeat. And then I squeeze Jamie’s hand and smile.

15

On Sunday, I am forced to face the most basic truth of my life: If I don’t spend a few hours washing clothes, I’ll be going to work naked.

“Carl would like it,” Jamie says, when I tell her why laundry is my plan for the day.

“I’d rather not test that theory. You coming?” I have a laundry basket tucked under my arm and am leaning against her bedroom door. She looks around at the mishmash of clothing strewn across her floor and says cautiously, “I think most of this stuff is actually clean.”

I shudder. “How is it that we’re friends?”

“Yin and yang.”

“Do you have any auditions next week?”

“Two, actually.”

“Then rewash all that stuff, and I’ll help you fold and iron. Because you are not going to an audition covered in cat fur.” As if she can tell that I’m talking about her, Lady Meow-Meow lifts her head. She’s curled up on a pile of black material that looks suspiciously familiar. “Is that my dress?”

Jamie flashes a guilty smile. “One of the auditions is for Sexy Girl in Bar and there’s three lines of dialogue. I was going to have it dry-cleaned.”

“Yang,” I say wryly. “Come on. Let’s go see if the machines are free.”

The laundry room is connected to the pool deck, and once both our loads are going, we snag two lounge chairs. As I’m settling in, Jamie runs back upstairs without explanation. A few minutes later she returns with a tote bag slung over her shoulder and a bottle of champagne in her hand.

“We have champagne?”

She shrugs. “Got some at the store yesterday.” She lifts her shoulder and glances down at the tote. “And orange juice.” She untangles the metal cage, then places her thumbs and deftly wiggles the cork. A moment later, I’m jumping at the sound of the pop and then the twang of the cork slamming into the metal sign prohibiting glass in the pool area.

“Awesome,” I say. “Did you think about cups?”

“I thought of everything,” she says proudly, and proceeds to unpack the juice, the cups, a bag of chips, a jar of salsa, and a small plastic bowl.

“I love Sunday,” I say, taking the mimosa that Jamie hands me and holding it up in a toast.

“No shit.”

We settle down on our lounge chairs, sipping and talking about nothing in particular. Fifteen minutes later, I’ve finished my drink, Jamie’s finished three, and we’ve made a blood pact to go to Target that very afternoon and buy a coffeemaker that brews coffee instead of swill.

That’s apparently all the conversation Jamie can stand, because she closes her eyes, tilts back her head, and starts to soak up the sun.

I, however, am antsy.

I shift around on the lounge for a few minutes, trying to get comfortable. Then I give it up and go upstairs to fetch my laptop. I’ve been fiddling with a pretty simple iPhone app, and I run what I’ve coded so far through the simulator before settling into the fun part. But in the end I spend only a half hour or so with coding, declaring objects, synthesizing properties, and creating various subclasses. The day is just too lazy for even easy programming work. Besides, the glare from the sun makes it hard to see the screen. I shut down my computer and head back into the apartment, this time returning with my camera.

The pool area is not beautiful, but the cracked concrete and splashes of water make for some interesting close-ups. A flowering plant I don’t recognize grows near the fence, and I grab a few petals and toss them in the pool, then lay on my stomach, trying to get a shot of only flowers and water, with no hint of concrete from the pool or the deck.

After a few dozen shots, I turn my attention to Jamie, trying to capture on film the way she looks at peace, in such contrast to her usual frenetic persona. I actually get some amazing shots. Jamie’s got the kind of face that the camera loves. If she ever gets a break, I think she has a chance of actually getting work as an actress. But getting a break in Hollywood is about as common as, oh, being offered a million dollars for your portrait.

I almost laugh out loud. Now there’s someone I’d love to photograph. I close my eyes and imagine light and shadow falling across the angles of that amazing face. A hint of stubble. A slight sheen of sweat. Maybe even his hair slicked back after a dip in the pool.

I hear a faint noise and realize it’s me, moaning softly.

Beside me, Jamie stirs. I sit up straighter, trying to shake off the fantasy.

“What time is it?” The question’s rhetorical, as she’s picking up her phone to check the time even as she asks. I glance at the display. Not quite eleven. “I told Ollie he should come hang with us today,” she says, her voice a little groggy. “I mean, it must suck with Courtney out of town, and I thought he had a good time last night, didn’t you?”

“He looked to be,” I say. “But you’re the girl who can force anyone to have a good time on a dance floor.”

“Ha! I was so not forcing him. That boy may not admit it, but he likes to dance.” She peels off her T-shirt to reveal a pink bra that she apparently assumes will pass as a bathing suit top. “Do you think he’ll come?”

I shrug. As much as I love Ollie, I don’t really want brunch company. Going out would mean getting dressed. Staying in would mean cooking. “Call and ask.”

“Nah. It’s no big deal. If he comes he comes.” She sounds suspiciously nonchalant.

I take a sip of my mimosa and shift on the chaise so I can see her better. “He wants me to wear a tux at the wedding,” I say, stressing the last word. “Because I’ll be his best man. When he gets married.”

“Oh please, Selena. I am not banging Ollie. Quit worrying.”

“Sorry,” I say, but I’m genuinely relieved. “Sometimes I think you need these little reminders.”

“But were you serious about the tux? Because that’s just so eighties. Or maybe the seventies? When did Annie Hall come out? That’s the movie where Diane What’s-Her-Face wore the men’s clothes, right?”

“Diane Keaton,” I say. “Annie Hall, and it’s classic Woody Allen from 1977. Honestly, James, it won Best Picture. How can you not know this? You’re the one who wants to work in Hollywood, not me.”

“I want to work in Hollywood now. Not before I was born.”

I’m sure there’s a great comeback lurking out there—something about Saw: Part 27—but before I can articulate it, my cell phone rings. Jamie shoots me a smug look, satisfied to have gotten the last word.

I glance at the caller ID, silently swear, then push the button to answer the call. “Mother,” I say, forcing myself to sound glad to hear from her. “How did you—” I see Jamie’s guilty expression and know exactly how she got my number. I cough and backtrack. “How did you get so lucky to call when I actually have time to talk?”

“Hello, Selena,” she says, making me cringe. “It’s Sunday morning. You should be at church trying to meet a nice man, but I had a feeling I’d catch you at home.” For my mother, religion is on par with The Bachelor.

I can tell she’s waiting for me to say something, but I never know what to say to my mother, and so I stay quiet. I’m actually proud of myself for managing the feat. It’s taken a lot of years for me to reach this level of defiance. And being fifteen hundred miles away helps, too.

After a few moments, she clears her throat. “I’m sure you know why I’m calling.” Her voice is low and serious. Have I done something? What could I have done?

“Um, no?”

I hear her suck in air. My mother is a stunningly beautiful woman, but there is a small gap between her two front teeth. A scout for some New York modeling agency once told her that the gap added character to her beauty, and if she wanted a career as a model, all Mother had to do was pack her bags and move to Manhattan. My mother eschewed the idea, stayed in Texas and got married. A proper lady was interested in a husband, not a career. But she never got the tooth fixed, either.

“Today is Ashley’s wedding anniversary.”

I feel Jamie’s hand close over mine and realize that I’m clenching the arm of the chaise so tight it’s a wonder the metal doesn’t crumble. How typical of my mother to remember my dead sister’s anniversary when she hardly ever bothered to remember her birthday when Ashley was alive.

“Listen, Mother. I have to go.”

“Are you dating anyone?”

I close my eyes and count to ten. “No,” I say, but an image of Justin fills my mind.

“Does that no mean yes?”

“Mother, please.”

“Selena, you’re twenty-four years old. You’re beautiful—assuming you haven’t gotten even bigger in the hips—but you’re not getting any younger. And with your—well, we all have flaws, but yours are so extreme, and—”

“Jesus, Mother.”

“I’m simply saying that at twenty-four you need to be thinking about getting on with your life.”

“That’s what I’m doing.” I lock eyes with Jamie, silently pleading for rescue.

Get rid of her, Jamie mouths.

Like that’s easy …

“Mother, seriously, I have to go. There’s someone at the door.” I cringe. I’m a terrible liar.

Jamie scrambles off her chaise and sprints to the far side of the pool. “Selena! Some guy’s at the door! Holy fuck, he’s gorgeous!”

I clap my hand over my mouth, not sure if I’m mortified or thrilled.

“Well, I’ll let you go, then,” my mother says. I can’t tell if she actually heard Jamie. I think I hear a tiny bit of excitement in her voice, but I might just be imagining it. “Goodbye, Selena. Kiss-kiss.”

That’s all it’s ever been. Never I love you. Just kiss-kiss, and then she hangs up before I can even answer.

Jamie flops back down beside me, looking far too impressed with herself.

“Oh. My. God,” I say. “Are you nuts?”

“That was priceless,” she says. “Honestly, I wish I could have seen your mother’s face.”

I maintain my stern expression, but secretly I agree.

“Come on,” Jamie says, standing up and gathering her things. “Let’s go move our stuff to the dryer. And I’m still hungry. Wanna do pizza and a movie? How about Annie Hall? I hear it won an Oscar.”

Jamie’s not the least bit interested in Annie Hall, and she dozes off about fifteen minutes into the movie. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure if she’s asleep or in a food coma from the six slices of pepperoni pizza she consumed within minutes of the delivery guy’s arrival at our door.

Me, I love the movie, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been paying attention. No, I’ve been thinking about Justin Stark. About his offer, the one that my mother would so not approve of.

The one I think I’ve decided to accept. I just need to ask Justin a couple of questions.

Be careful.

He’s dangerous.

I don’t believe it. Not really. Not the way Ollie means. But I need to know for sure.

Butterflies dance in my belly as I grab my phone off the charging station by the sofa and pad barefoot to my bedroom. My laundry, I realize, is still in the dryer. But my panties can wait.

I scroll back through my incoming calls and find his number. I hesitate only a second, and then I dial.

“Selena,” Stark says, before the first ring dies out. He sounds relieved to hear from me.

“What happened to Sara Padgett?” The question bursts out of me. I have to ask while I have the nerve.

I can feel the chill coming off Justin all the way through the phone line.

“She died, Selena. But I believe you already knew that.”

“I want to know how,” I say. “And I want to know about the two of you. Your security got all riled up yesterday when someone named Padgett showed up. And if I’m going to—”

“What?”

I suck in a breath. “If I’m going to consider your very generous offer, I need to understand the kind of man I’m dealing with.”

“Jesus.” For a moment I hear only traffic noise. He must be in his car.

“Justin?”

“I’m here. This is bullshit, Selena. You know that right?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t know shit because you’re not telling me anything.”

The words, when they come, sound grudging. “Sara Padgett and her brother, Eric, inherited a controlling share of an interesting little company called Padgett Enviro-Works from their father. The company had made their father quite wealthy, but it lost its edge after he passed away, and started spiraling downward. Eric was failing at management and Sara wasn’t interested in the company at all. I saw an opportunity for growth and made an overture to buy their shares of stock.”

He pauses as if waiting for me to comment, but I stay silent. I want to hear where this is going.

After a moment he continues, his words flat, as if he’s reading from notecards. “They both declined my offer, but Sara asked if I would escort her to a charity function. I agreed. One thing led to another and we continued to see each other.”

“Did you love her?”

“No. She was a friend. Her death was a horrible shock.”

“It was an accident?”

“I can only imagine so. Apparently it looked like autoerotic asphyxiation that went very, very bad. The coroner ruled it an accident and that was that.”

I run my fingers through my hair. I believe what he’s told me—but I’m also certain that he hasn’t told me everything. I consider just dropping it, but I can’t. I have to know. “But there’s more, isn’t there? That’s not the whole story.”

“Why do you say so?”

“I—someone—I mean, a friend is worried about me.” It’s only fair he knows, right? “About me and you. He thinks you’re dangerous.”

“Does he?” Right then, the tone of Stark’s voice sounds very, very dangerous. I close my eyes and hope that I somehow haven’t gotten Ollie in trouble. Surely he can’t know this is coming from Ollie. Can he?

“That’s not the point,” I say. “What else happened?”

“Her brother,” he says flatly. “Somehow, Eric is convinced that I tied her up, choked her, and left her for dead, accidentally killing her. And he’s just itching to go sell his story.”

“Oh.” I lick my lips. “That’s horrible.” No wonder he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“So that’s that. What do you think, Selena? Am I dangerous?” The words are harsh. Angry. I’m thinking this may not be the best time to discuss his proposal.

“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s not.” Again, that pregnant silence. And then one sharp curse. “Dammit, Selena. I’m the one who’s sorry. Of course you’ll hear rumors. Of course you have a right to ask questions. Considering what I’m asking, you can ask all the questions you want.”

“You’re really not mad?”

“At you, no. At Padgett—well, let’s just say he’s on my list.”

I decide not to ask what list that might be.

“I hope you’re still considering my offer,” he says. “I very much want for you to say yes. I’m hoping it won’t take too much longer for you to reach a decision.”

“I’ve already decided,” I blurt.

He’s silent for so long, I think he hasn’t heard me.

“Tell me,” he finally says.

I swallow and nod, even though of course he can’t see me. “I have conditions.”

“So we’re negotiating. Excellent. What are your terms, Ms. Fairchild?”

I’ve rehearsed this in my mind and my words spill out like a thesis presentation. “First of all, you need to understand that I’m doing this for the money. I need it, I can use it, I want it. So please keep that in mind. Your million dollars color all of my terms.”

“I understand.”

“I get paid no matter what, even if you end up not liking the painting.”

“Certainly. The money is your fee. It has nothing to do with my satisfaction with the painting.”

“You can’t sell it. Not to anyone. It’s either yours, or it’s destroyed.”

“So far your terms are satisfactory.”

I pause and draw a breath because we’re getting to the key points. “The artist has to paint me. Me. Not some artistic representation of me, but the real me.”

“You are what I want, Selena,” he says, with the same tone of voice he’d used when he’d put his fingers inside me. Tell me you like this.

Yes. God, yes.

I cross and uncross my legs as I sit on the side of the bed. “Just making sure we understand each other, Mr. Stark. Once I take my clothes off, that’s it. What you see is what you get.”

“Be careful, Ms. Fairchild. You’re making me hard.”

“Dammit, Stark, I’m serious.”

“Oh, I’m serious, too. Believe me.”

I mutter a soft curse and hear him chuckle on the other end. “So we agree?” I ask, probably too sharply.

“To your terms? Absolutely. Of course, I have a few deal points of my own to address.”

“Deal points?”

“Certainly. You’ve changed the original terms with a counteroffer. It’s my privilege to do the same.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t thought he’d change the original deal, but I realize now I should have.

“And let me be just as clear as you were, Ms. Fairchild. This is no longer a negotiation. These are my final terms. You agree, or you don’t.”

“Um, okay.” I lick my lips and squirm some more. I’m suddenly very interested in what he has to say. “So what are the terms?”

“From now until the painting is completed, you’re mine.”

“Yours?” The word tastes like chocolate in my mouth.

“What exactly does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I try again. “That I belong to you.” My voice is a whisper. Hell, it’s a prayer, and I’m surprised by how turned on I am by his words. I mean, I’d moved to LA to take control of my life, but here I am getting hot at the idea of putting myself in Justin’s hands.

“What else?” he asks.

“That I do as you say.” I slip my hand down between my legs and into my shorts. I’m wet, slick, and hot.

“Yes,” Justin says. His voice is hard, tense. He’s on edge, too, and that knowledge makes me even more turned on.

“And if I don’t?”

“You studied science, Ms. Fairchild. Surely you’re aware that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”

“Oh.” I slide my finger over my sensitive clit, then gasp, not expecting the fast, hard tremor that shoots through me in release.

“You like that, Ms. Fairchild?” he asks.

My cheeks flame. I’m not sure if he means his terms or my orgasm. I draw myself up. “What if I don���t agree?”

“Then I don’t get my painting, and you don’t get your million.”

“Why make me agree? I’ve already said I’ll pose.”

“Because I can. Because I want you. Because I don’t want to court my way up to our first fuck. And because I don’t want to play games.”

“Isn’t a game exactly what you’re playing?”

“A fair point, Ms. Fairchild. But I want this on my terms.”

“You say you want me, but you don’t. You say you want my portrait, but you won’t.”

For a moment, I hear nothing. Justin Stark is trying to figure out my angle. “You’re wrong,” he finally says.

“I don’t think so. And that’s why my terms are important. You call it off—the painting, this game—and I still get my money.”

“Is that an agreement?”

“It’s a condition.”

“Very well. I accept your condition.”

“And we don’t start now. We start at the first session with the artist.”

“You’re a tough negotiator, Ms. Fairchild. But I accept your proposed commencement date.”

I roll my eyes. He’s getting weary of my tweaks to his deal. Well, too bad. “And it’s not open-ended,” I add. “For all I know, you’re paying the artist by the hour, and he’ll take a year to complete it. One week, Mr. Stark.”

“One week?” He doesn’t sound happy.

“That’s my best offer. And, of course, you’ll have to work around my day job. But my evenings and the weekend are yours.”

“Very well. One week. Now, do we have a deal?”

I want to say yes. Instead, I say, “What—what exactly do you want to do with me?”

“So many things, but mostly I want to fuck you. Hard and fast and very thoroughly.”

Oh my.

“I—will it be kinky?”

He chuckles. “Would you like it to be?”

I don’t know. “I’m not—I mean, I haven’t ever.” I feel my cheeks start to burn furiously. I’ve been out on a horrible number of first dates, courtesy of my mother, but have had only two real boyfriends. The first was more experienced than I was, and by that I mean that he’d dated a college girl even though we were in high school. But unless a fast fuck on top of his parents’ pool table counts, there was nothing remotely kinky about our relationship. As for the second, there was definitely pain with Kurt, but only the emotional kind.

All in all, the types of things Justin might be talking about are outside my realm of experience.

Stark seems to understand my hesitation. “I want to give you pleasure,” he says. “That’s all I want to do. Will we do things that are kinky? You may think so. But I also think you’ll like it.”

I tremble, surprised by how much I want to know what things he wants to do with me. Under my tank top, my nipples are hard. Between my legs, my sex throbs. I think you’ll like it. Yeah, I think so, too. Assuming we get that far. Assuming he doesn’t call off the deal once he sees me naked.

I close my eyes wishing things were different. Wishing I was different.

“Take a chance, Selena,” he says softly. “Let me show you how far I can take you.”

I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. I remember our game in the limo. “Yes, sir,” I finally say.

He sucks in air sharply. I’ve surprised him, and the thought thrills me. “Good girl,” he says. Then, “Dear God, I want you now.”

Me, too. “The first session, Mr. Stark,” I say, but the tremble in my voice gives me away.

“Of course, Ms. Fairchild. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow evening. I’ll text you when it’s on the way. Stay in tonight and relax. I want you refreshed. And open your door. There’s something for you on the mat.”

On my mat?

“Sweet dreams, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, then clicks off before I can ask what he’s talking about.

I hurry from my bedroom, passing Jamie who’s still napping on the couch. I open the door to find a small box wrapped in silver paper.

I don’t even bother taking it into the apartment, just tear off the paper and lift the lid. There’s a stunning ankle bracelet inside. Diamonds and emeralds set in platinum and strung on a delicate chain. It sparkles in my palm, the weight negligible.

Beneath the bracelet, I find a handwritten note. For our week. Wear this. D.S.

Our week? He must have just written this. Must have just been here, outside the apartment.

The realization sends a shiver up my spine. I unclasp the latch, bend down, and hook it around my ankle. Then I stand up and look defiantly out toward the street.

I see a car, red and sporty and obviously expensive. I can’t see through the tinted windows, but that doesn’t matter. I am certain that it’s Justin.

I watch, silently daring him to come to me. Or maybe I’m begging? I honestly don’t know. But the car door doesn’t open. The car doesn’t move.

Our time hasn’t begun.

Finally, I have reached my limit. I turn and go back into the apartment. I close the door and sag against it, feeling warm and edgy. But I’m smiling. Because out there in the world, Justin Stark is waiting for me.

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