#if you’re not familiar with Matilda

[probablygayattorneys]

Do I keep listening to My House from Matilda the Musical and picturing Kat and the professor?

Yes.

Does it make me cry when I do that?

Yes.

Am I going to stop doing it?

Hell no.

[mj0702]

@helen-with-an-a you mean mean woman...

“I’m not wearing that” you said again shying away from your sister

“Bubs come on… Ona really went out of her way to get you a game jersey” Lucy huffed holding the jersey in your face

“She’s your girlfriend not mine” you shrieked as you fell back on the bed of the hotel room

“Stop being a dick… put on the Jersey and show your support” your sister groaned losing her patience “It’s the Final”

“Exactly… everyone is going to support your precious Spaniard” you said holding Lucy off with your foot against her hip

“Who else would you want to support?” your sister asked confused

“I got Kyras Jersey” you grinned victorious

“Kyra…. Cooney-Cross Kyra” Lucy asked bewildered

“Sí…” you grinned proudly

“No… I won’t be seen with my SISTER in a aussie jersey” your sister exclaimed

“Matildas… they’re called Matildas… and even better if I don’t have to sit next to you…” you grinned knowing how you push your sisters buttons

“You’re being ridiculous… I’m going to call Keira” Lucy huffed pulling out her phone and starting to dial a number she knows by heart

“You can’t force me to put on a Jersey” you kicked your sisters hip lightly

“Oh you just wait…” Lucy said swatting your foot away “… hey Kei… Bubs being ridiculous and doesn’t want to wear a Spain jersey”

You kept on lightly pushing Lucy with your foot wherever you could reach her before she grinned and held her phone towards you

“… here… Keira wants to talk to you” she grinned

“Hey Kei” you smiled after you took your sisters phone “… nope… not wearing it… okay”

You held Lucys phone back to her grinning widely as she got back to the call with her ex-girlfriend

“… what you mean you tried???” your sister exclaimed shocked “… I’m not letting her wear an Aussie shirt… I REFUSE!”

“I can’t believe there are going to be pictures of us…” your sister grumbled as the two of you walked the stairs up to the “Parc des Princes”

“Normally you love pictures of us” you smiled into a camera while your sister spotted a deep frown

“You wearing the enemies shirt” Lucy grumbled under her breath

“Well… they need support too” you smiled

“Georgia coming too?” your sister asked interested

“Sí… her and Leah” you hummed smiling shyly

“Good… she can look after you traitor” Lucy nudged you lightly

“Not a traitor.. just a supporter of the underdogs” you shoved your sister slightly

“Mapí will throw an absolute fit when she sees you” your sister chuckled as she pulled you into her side

“Princess Norwegian can deal with that” you waved off as you spotted familiar blonde hair “G!!”

The woma turned around smiling already oopening her arms waiting to catch you as Lucy let go of you and set you free

“AY DÍOS WHAT ARE YOU WEARING NENA????!!!!!” you heard a screech behind you

“Hey maps… good luck out there” you grinned and watched as the spaniard clutched her heart dramatically

“Good luck??? GOOD LUCK??!!!” the blonde squeaked before she grabbed your arm pulling you after her “ALEXIAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!! Mira lo que lleva la nena… ¡¡no cree en nosotros!!””

“I nostradamus nothing I swear!!” you said panicked trying to free your wrist

“Cariño… I’m disappointed in you” you saw Alexia shaking her head “... if you need the correct Jersey you should’ve told me – I could have gotten you one”

“I DID get her one!!” Ona exclaimed and you saw how shocked your sisters girlfriend was

“yeah… wrong size” you shrugged your shoulders but THEN you shrunk backwards – reason for that… the death glare of one Jenni Hermoso.

“Take it off” Jenni said lowly

“Dislocating??” you asked a little scared

“Take. It. Off… NOW” the dark haird spaniard said

“No…” you said defiantly “.. I can support… HEY!”

You exclaimed shocked as Jenni crossed the locker room in three strides and pulled the Jersey over your head leaving you in Jeans and a sports bra

“Here..” Jenni threw her trainings shirt in your face “… I’m not having you running around in that… disrespectful”

“I can support…” you started again before Mapí interrupted you

“Spain” the blonde threw in happily “…. Correct… you support Spain”

“I hate you all” you grumbled but pulled Jennis shirt over your head since you knew they wouldn’t let you out of the room until you changed shirts - they’ll probably reschedule the game until you wear the red and yellow colors.

“Not so hard is it Cariño…” Alexia smiled sweetly “… now you look perfect”

[lov1ngreid]

BOYS LIKE YOU | 1

(pairings): highschool!spencer + cheerleader!reader both intended to be 18 in this story

(warnings): none!

(word count): 2.9k

(author’s note): so long i’m so sorry

hii i decided to split this fic into a mini series cause i have so many ideas and directions for it and i didn’t want to squish it into one long fic, some chapters maybe nsfw ;P i also wrote this with high school in mind, of course Spencer is regular high school age and not like twelve 🤨 but if you’d rather picture them in early college go ahead! also I usually HATEEE when fics have outfit inspos but soz I’m forcing you to imagine these outfits they’re so gorg ���

okay no more rambling!! if u wanna listen to what i did when i wrote this, here you go!! ➘

“That’s what you’re wearing” Your brother brodie snickered from his bedroom as you strolled past it on the way to the bathroom, usually you wouldn’t have given in to his snide comments, which you were no stranger to. But it was thanksgiving if your brother thought your outfit was ugly, chances are, so would the rest of your family.

Your outfit always happened to be a topic of conversation.

Your movements halt when you finally process what he had said, before slowly taking a few steps backwards meeting his taunting face while he sat on the edge of the bed “What’s wrong with it?” You cock your head feeling the embarrassment trickle through your face up to your ears, usually you wouldn’t care what comments Brodie decided to make about your outfit, but a lot of people were going to be seeing this one.

Honestly you thought it was pretty tame considering the only revealing piece was your skirt, which frankly wasn’t that short, and you thought you had compensated with your boots.

“Why are you wearing… boots?” He laughed looking down at your outfit with furrowed eyebrows before looking back up at your flustered face “and why are they red?”

You scoffed, embarrassment completely diminishing when you find out that was his problem with your outfit “they’re maroon… and you’re wearing a doctor who shirt, don’t think you’re in any position to be judging me” you glare back at him uncrossing your arms.

Honestly, he has absolutely no right to be making fun of your outfit, despite being twins, you were the complete opposites. His outfits usually consist of different coloured converse and some sort of comic book shirt, yours consisting of literally anything else.

“I have a party afterwards anyways, I don’t have time to get changed”

“You have a party on thanksgiving?… who has a party on thanksgiving” Brodie scoffs finishing the lace on his second converse

“A lot of people” you smile sarcastically backing from his door frame to continue your task before you were rudely interrupted “not that you would know” you mumble under your breath before leaving his bedroom.

A little satisfied smile crept upon your face when you heard Brodie’s faint ‘hey!’ Emitting from his bedroom.

You knew your mother would be absolutely furious knowing you had intentions on leaving thanksgiving early to attend a party, which was exactly why you had no plans on telling her. Your family was big enough as is, and considering you had shared thanksgiving with the Reid family for 12 years and counting, with both combined there had to be one, or many pockets for you to escape unnoticed.

The car ride to the Reid family home always seemed so short, always feeling so much longer when you were riding there on bikes, or walking there after school.

You couldn’t remember the last time you had even used your bike, it had to be collecting dust in your garage by now, you truly don’t think you had used it since starting highschool, despite your brother’s efforts to get you to ride to Spencer's house with him, each time you declined, something always more important popping up.

The familiar smell of the house flooded your nose while you took a step in, it always smelt like chai and vanilla, and it always looked like fall threw up on it, decorated with faux autumn leaves and pumpkins all year round, they always just added Santa hats to the pumpkins in December, you knew that was Spencer’s doing.

The wind was almost taken from you while Diana embraced you in the biggest hug, almost knocking over the cupcakes from the tray you were holding, giggling a little you returned the hug one handed of course. She always smelt like the house times ten, the vanilla smell becoming so much stronger the closer you were to her, pulling back she embraced your face in her warm slender hands brushing your cheeks softly with the pad of her thumb.

“You look so beautiful” she smiles, your face turning pink at her compliment, she did this every year. Every year she hugs you, looks like she’s about to cry and then goes on about how beautiful you look for the rest of the night, and every year it makes you feel a little more guilty about not coming around as much.

Both your parents embrace Diana and William before they usher you to the beautifully set dinner table, where the rest of his and your family awaited your arrival, both yours and his grandparents chatting away at the kitchen bench about some sort of football nonsense.

Always in awe of Diana’s meals, you debated on changing your mind and slipping out after dinner instead, not wanting to miss out on her carefully cooked Turkey.

Despite getting swept away in greeting the rest of your family, as well as the rest of the Reid’s, it didn’t take you long to notice one missing Reid.

Regardless of your efforts to talk to Spencer, he never really seemed that interested in befriending you after middle school, every time you tried to talk to him in class he always went quiet and dismissive, or snapped mean answers back at you, and you simply took the hint.

Spencer saw the way your friends snickered to themselves when you tried to speak to him, the way they’d whisper when he walked past, even though you’d smile and wave, he always saw them laugh behind you. He knew deep down it wasn’t your fault, but he couldn’t help but blame you when you never actually stopped any of your friends from making snide comments at him or his friends.

Excusing yourself from your family, you hopped up the stairs, muscle memory walking you towards Spencer’s room before you mind had caught up,

Reading the large ‘S R’ sticker on the bedroom door, you chuckle to yourself a little, staring at the crooked R knowing it was like that cause you couldn’t reach it to meet the S in the fourth grade, Spencer had refused to help you, cackling as he watched you on your tippy toes while you begged him to stop laughing.

Before your mind could even process anything, you brought your arm up to knock on his door, swallowing nervously.

You weren’t even sure why you were nervous, he just seemed to shut down any attempt at being friends and you never knew why. He got along with Brodie just fine, they were honestly really close, they hung out at school everyday and studied together after school on Wednesdays and Fridays, it just seemed like your invitation stopped one day.

The door swung open while your mind had still been dissociated thinking about all the attempts you made to talk to him, snapping you from your brain fog, Spencer stood at the door almost equally as confused as you, honestly you didn’t know why you were there, and as smart as he was, he didn’t know either.

“I brought you a cupcake” you chuckle pushing the baked good towards him with your right hand, eyebrows furrowed he takes a look at the seemingly vanilla cupcake in your hand before looking back up at your eyes.

“I don’t like cupcakes” Spencer shakes his head quickly while his hand grips harder on his door handle, debates in his mind about closing it on you.

“Yes you do” Cocking your head you stare at Spencer confused, he loved cupcakes, he also loved your cupcakes “I literally saw you eating one in the library the other day” you scoff at his obvious lie.

“And why were you in the library” he raises both his eyebrows, glancing back down at the pretty cupcake you had offered him, which he began to quickly regret declining, because he really did love your cupcakes.

“Reading?” You conceded pulling your arm holding the cupcake back “are you implying I don’t read Spencer Reid?” This was the most he had talked to you in months, you never realized you could miss a person's voice despite them being alive and well.

“If the boot fits” he shrugs leaning on his door, the grip on his door handle loosening a little, you stare a little taken back, he doesn’t talk to you for years, and then all of a sudden on thanksgiving he decides he’s going to spit back sassy little comments at you?

“Can you just take the cupcake?.. it’s pumpkin spice” you admitted pushing the sweet back in his direction, a little part of Spencer’s facade broke down, almost giving into the cupcake “I even made the little pumpkin out of fondant… it took forever” you whisper the last part almost talking to yourself.

He tried his hardest to stay strong but you had just about broken him down at this point, with a displeased groan rolling his eyes he reached out to snatch the cupcake from your soft hand, earning a small smile to form on your lips.

It only took him seconds to dig into the treat before a soft chuckle escaped your lips “can I come in?” You smile glancing behind him into his room, it looked almost exactly the same as it did when you were fourteen, posters in the same place, no furniture was rearranged, you even spotted the mini dalek figurine you had bought him on his top shelf.

Hesitantly Spencer nods stepping away from the door frame to welcome you in, his room was always kept neat, sheets tucked perfectly under his mattress, and books always in the correct spot. His weakness, however, was the countless amount of school work pages spread across his desk.

Taking a seat at his desk your eyes still gaze around his room, feeling like a blast from the past, all the books you read, series reruns you watched and stories you wrote coming back to you in a wave of memories.

“So…” he mumbled, mouth still half full with your cupcake before sitting down on the edge of his bed “do you need science homework?” Shrugging boring his eyes back into yours.

You scoff, frankly offended he would even ask you such a thing “no?.. Spencer, you and I have almost the same science grades." You'd be lying if you said you’ve never thought of asking Spencer for homework, especially on nights where cheer practice ran late and you didn’t have nearly enough time to finish, but you’ve never actually asked.

“Yeah almost” scoffing while he brushes his hands against each other wiping the crumbs of the cupcake away, you sat there stunned a little, he knew you’d never ask him considering your friendship… situation, you wouldn’t use him.

You felt the rage boiling in you for a little at his attitude towards you, considering you had done absolutely nothing for him to be mad at you for, sure you weren’t in the same friend group, but he would know more than anyone the statistics of middle school friends drifting apart in highschool, you swivel his desk chair to face his desk, frustrated palming your face with your hands dragging them down a little.

You allow your eyes to rake across his messy paper filled desk before they’re drawn to one page in particular, written in pink pen on beige lined paper, quickly snatching it from the pile you let your eyes scan over it a little before letting out an unexpected laugh.

Catching Spencer’s attention his eyes had almost bulged out of his head once he realized what piece of paper you had in your hands.

“Dear Spencer…” you start reading aloud ignoring Spencer’s loud attempts to make you put it down “I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our conversations and wanted to let you know-”

“Put it down please” he groans, reaching forwards to grab it from your hands, only for you to snatch it towards you standing up from his desk chair.

“-That I’ve liked you for a while now- Sadie Keller!” You gasp grinning up at Spencer while he makes every attempt to steal the paper back from your grip “you never told me you liked Sadie Keller!” you playfully smack him with the piece of notebook paper before letting him grab it from your grasp.

“I don’t really tell you anything” Spencer crumpled up the paper before tossing it back onto his desk, you face fell a little at his words, only because he was right, he didn’t really tell you anything at all, because he didn’t ever talk to you, because you weren’t really friends.

You almost could’ve sworn you felt a lightbulb click on above your head while you watched Spencer scurry his papers together to make a neat pile “come to a party with me” you rush causing his movements to halt slowly turning his head to meet your gaze.

“Why on earth would I do that… it’s thanksgiving” he reasoned, confusion painted across his face. He simply could not fathom why you would want to take him to a party, he also couldn’t fathom why he was considering it.

“God” you groaned, moving to take a seat on his bed now “people have got to get over that” rolling your eyes you pat down your skirt a little before continuing your attempt to read his face for clues on what was going on inside his head.

“Why would you want to be seen at a party with me?” He queried, attitude dripping from his sentence, watching as your face dropped and your brows furrowed coloured him confused, why would you want to be seen with him?

“Sadie will be there… and I can’t see a potential love story and not indulge” you snicker, almost dismissing his question, you thought you’d spare a sentimental conversation about how much you missed him and instead go an easier route, you wanted him to come for his benefit.

To your surprise, he looks as if he considers it for a while, it was the first time you actually took in what he was wearing, a fitted doctor who shirt and gray sweatpants, the same exact doctor who shirt your brother has on, you cringed a little at the thought that they had coordinated that.

“Fine” he says after a while of silence, you simply cannot help the grin creeping up on your face “but only because of Sadie, and not because of you” he rushes again, almost sounding like something he was trying to convince himself rather than you.

Holding your hands up in defense you smile at his surprising compliance “how are we even supposed to leave without anyone noticing?” Beginning to worry that both your families were beginning to wonder where both of you had gone.

In all seriousness, your family actually had not noticed that the both of you were up in Spencer’s room, and were much more occupied by the game of football they all huddled around to watch.

“Follow me genius”

go to PART TWO

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[greynatomy]

who even are you?

katrina gorry x reader

this was a request from wattpad. finally wrote about another matilda. my writing block is slightly going away.

this is one of the ones that’s been sitting in the drafts

part 2 part 3

———

You met Katrina at the beginning of 2021. You were in Australia on a vacation when you nearly knocked her down walking to a café. Your tall frame towers over hers by almost a whole foot.

As an apology, you invited her to have breakfast with you, connecting with one another instantly. You talked about what you did for work, intrigued when she said she played football professionally. She also opened up about always wanting to become a mother and recently finding out her ivf procedure worked and was currently pregnant.

You hit it off pretty well, hanging out everyday, which turned into you asking her on a date and becoming official by the end of your month long vacation. It was difficult when you had to go back home to England.

Months passed and you talked whenever you could, missing her more and more. You talked to your boss about wanting to go remote, but would fly out only when necessary and surprisingly to you, he agreed.

You talked about it to Katrina and she was ecstatic. You moved in with her just before her final weeks of pregnancy.

In the delivery room, once a little baby girl was born, which Katrina named her Harper, she asked if it would be okay if she put your name in the other box for parent. You cried into her shoulder, wanting nothing more.

After some time, you’d gotten married in a small private ceremony months after Harper’s birth, moving into a bigger place. You both couldn’t be happier.

Two years later, the Australia’s Women’s National Team were currently in training for the Olympic Qualifying Asia. Harper was off to the side of the pitch playing with all the toys that she brought with her.

The coach calls the team for a water break, Mini’s two other kids, Kyra and Charli, rush over to Harper.

“Havin’ fun Harps?”

“Yeah!” She raises up her little doll to show them.

Catching their breath, the three play with each other, all in their own world, until the coach calls them back in for a scrimmage. It was a close game, playing like it was a real match.

As everyone was focused on the game, Harper saw someone familiar in the distance, instantly getting up from her blanket, running towards the figure.

“Mama!” She crashes into you.

“Hi, Harper. You been good for Mommy?”

“Yeah!” Harper sees a ball and tugs you by the hand. “Mama, play!”

“Wanna play some football?”

In your own little world, the team’s scrimmage finished, everyone eager to change out of their sweaty gear. Kyra and Charli took off to Harper’s blanket wanting to spend some time with their little sister. The thing is, Harper’s not in the blanket.

“Charli, where’s Harper?”

“How would I know?”

“You’re supposed to keep an eye on her.”

“Me? What about you?”

“How’d we lose a baby?”

“Hey, guys!” Startled, they turn around to see Mini. “Good training today, huh? Where’d Harper go?”

“Uh-well-um—” Charli started malfunctioning.

“Wait! Look there!” Kyra pointed to the distance, seeing Harper with someone she’s never seen before. “Hey! Get away from her!” Before the other two know it, Kyra was already running to where Harper and the supposed stranger are, grabbing Harper out of your arms.

Katrina realizing that it was you, runs after Kyra, hearing her daughter let out a cry.

“How did you get in here? I’m gonna call security!”

“Can you just listen to—”

“—Why should I listen to you, you-you kidnapper!”

The rest of the Matildas are now aware of all the commotion, going up to it.

“What’s happening here?” Sam asks, seeing Kyra hold onto a crying Harper tightly.

“She’s trying to take Harper!”

“What? No, I’m not!”

“Who even are you?”

“If you’d let me expl—”

“I don’t wanna listen to what you have to sa—”

“SHUT UP!” Katrina yelled, everyone going silent, except for the cries of Harper. “Look, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go, but conclusions were jumped into so I’m doing it now. This is Y/N and she’s my wife and Harper’s other Mom.”

“You’re married?” “Wife?” “Other mom?” “Since when?” “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Okay! Shut up! I’ll answer everything after we’ve all showered and dressed. Kyra give Harper back to Y/N.”

Handing Harper back to you, she gives you and apologetic smile.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright. Just a misunderstanding.”

As they all go into the changing rooms, you greet your wife with a kiss.

“That was something, huh?”

“Definitely not how I wanted it to go.”

“‘Least it’s out of the way. Can we get some ice cream after?”

“I sceam (ice cream)!” Harper suddenly has a burst of energy.”

“Ice cream!”

“I have two children at this point.”

“Don’t Kyra and Charli call you Mom?”

“Four children. I have four children and you all drive me insane.”

[spicerackofblorbos]

Sapphire | Leon Kennedy x bartender!fem!reader

☾ summary ➼ part II to Amethyst, you invited Leon to stay the night after he kindly drove you home in the dead of night. Long-hidden feelings finally reveal themselves in a passionate heated exchange.

☾ content/warnings ➼ fluff, canon world, mutual pining, SMUT (18+), p in v, oral (m and f recieving), unprotected sex, afab!reader, adult language

☾ wc ➼ 6.5k

After making sure his car was locked, Leon follows close behind you as you step up the few stairs to your front door. Luckily you were smart enough to turn the porch lights on before leaving – though that seemed like where your luck had run out for the day.

You are quick to insert your key and turn, pressing down on the handle at the same time so that the old door opens with a groan. You are instantly hit with a burst of warmth from the dimly lit interior, creating goosebumps down your arms.

"Do you live by yourself?” Leon asks behind you, his blue eyes trailing around the small area of your house he can see.

"Yes and no." You say simply as you carefully tug your keys from the door handle. A large yawn escapes you as you step over the threshold, Leon on your heels. He makes sure to close and lock it securely for you with a few clicks.

"What does that mean? You don't have any family members hiding so they can get the jump on me and chop me up, do you?" Leon watches you slide your work shoes off before tucking them neatly into a shoe rack at the base of the stairs leading up to who knows where.

He makes sure to do the same, placing them by the rack as there wasn't any room. From what he could tell, every pair of shoes was the same size, so either you lived alone, or your family had the same size shoe.

"Nah, that's a few houses down." You joke from down the hall. Leon follows your voice to find you digging into a small closet full of spare bedding and towels. The way you had bent down gave Leon a full view of your curves, and he forces himself to look away.

When you find what you were looking for, you clutch them to your chest and turn around. Leon is a lot closer than you thought he’d be, causing you to squeak in surprise. Your face heats up in embarrassment.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were there.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you, sorry.”

Both of your statements come out in unison, followed by some light laughter. You remember in the beginning of your friendship with him, he rarely laughed or even cracked a smile. The day he did both was a small victory that you hold onto even now.

And you never got tired of hearing and seeing them. The way Leon laughs is so endearing to you. His sapphire eyes half close, the creases by his eyes scrunching. The laughs were always deep and rumbling, a soothing sound to your ears.

“No one here but me… and Matilda.” You say, looking past Leon to the small black cat that sat on her haunches at the end of the hall. Her pale-yellow eyes watch Leon, half with curiosity and the other half with caution.

You don’t catch the way Leon’s eyes widen at the name, a familiar one to him that he hasn’t heard in a while. He turns around to face the little creature, giving her a small wave and smile.

“Well, at least you have someone to keep you safe.” Leon says, twisting back to face you again.

“She’s the most ferocious guard cat you’ll ever see.” You chuckle as you brush past Leon towards Matilda and the base of the stairs. The subtle hint of aftershave and sandalwood tickles your nose as you do, and you find yourself breathing in a little deeper to hold on to the scent before it inevitably disappears.

“I have a couch down here, but honestly, you’ll be more comfortable in my living space up here.” You continue. You watch as your shy cat runs off towards the kitchen as you approach.

When you make it to the top of the stairs, you’re faced with your little living space. The previous owners had originally used this as an upstairs studio but since you were the only human in the house, you turned it into an office and living space. Your own personal haven.

On the left of the room is a lush L-shaped sofa, littered with various soft blankets and pillows – your favorite napping spot. A small coffee table separates that side and the other where a mid-sized flat screen sits on top of a little media center. On the back wall is a small window overlooking the backyard, curtains and blinds closed as they always were when you were gone for work. And right next to the couch is a full bathroom, the door half open and decorated with your favorite colors.

Considering this is the room you spend the most time in, it’s very personalized to you. Leon couldn’t help but trail his eyes over every part of this room, noting every piece of your personality splayed out. His gaze finally lands on the bookshelf next to the media center, full of the trinkets and gifts he’s given you. He smirks as he makes his way over to them, eyeballing the glittering prizes and remembering exactly when and where he retrieved them for you.

“This shelf will be worth a fortune one day if you keep this up.” Leon teases.

After placing the bedding and towels down on to the coffee table, you turn to watch Leon as he leans towards the shelf to take a closer look. The way his back muscles ripple in his moistened shirt sends tingles through your body.

It’s not like you’ve never seen his muscles, but without the low lighting of the bar and closer proximity than usual, you can’t help but marvel at his whole physique. With every shift in weight, the thin cloth of his shirt tightens and loosens around his strong shoulders. You avert your eyes quickly when you notice he's about to turn around.

“Well, that’s if I decide to sell them. But I could never. They’re gifts, after all.” You walk back over to the top of the stairs and turn to face him before stepping down, your palm lightly placed on the half wall separating the stairs and the upper floor.

“That bathroom is all yours. I think I have some clothes that might fit you, I just need to find them first.” You purse your lips then start for the bottom floor, leaving Leon to his devices.

Leon watches as you descend until you’re out of sight, then sighs through his nose. He grips onto the towels and heads into the bathroom you had pointed out, shaking his head of the thoughts that swirl in his mind as if that would do anything to help.

It doesn’t take him long to strip out of his wet clothes and step into the shower, shivering from the sudden change of temperature on his skin. As the warm water cascades down his sore and worn-out body, he mentally kicks himself.

He shouldn’t have taken you up on your offer. He’s crossing a boundary he had long promised himself after the first month of being your regular – letting himself get close to you. It’s not like he didn’t want to be close to you, far from it, actually.

What he feared the most was getting you into danger because of the nature of his job.

Leon didn’t know if his next mission would be his last. Not to mention, if he were to finally indulge you with information of what he did on his ‘business trips’, it could put you under the government’s spotlight. That was something he couldn’t dare let happen, not to someone as precious to him as you were.

While stepping out to dry off, his mind stays clouded with those negatives, but even so. Thoughts of you break through like rays of sunshine and he finds it increasingly harder to talk himself out of the what ifs of a real relationship. What would it mean to not only kiss you softly but to also grocery shop with you? Every single mundane thing he could think of would be miles better having you by his side.

A soft knock brings him back to the present.

You watch as the bathroom door slowly opens in front of you, a little bit of steam escaping through the crack. Leon stands in the doorway, half covered with a towel wrapped around his lower body. Droplets from his dark blonde hair fall onto his bare shoulders and chest. You knew he was muscular but this…

You blink a few times as you gather yourself and meet his eyes, feeling the heat of not only the steamy bathroom but from shyness radiating into your cheeks. In your arms are some clothes you had struggled to dig out, about Leon’s size you hoped.

“Uh, here.” You say quickly, shoving them in his chest before stepping back a few feet. “Let me know if you need something else or they don’t fit. I’m sure there is some of my grandfather’s stuff around here. I just didn’t think you’d want to dress like an old man.” You ramble and laugh nervously, averting your gaze from his figure.

“Thank you, I appreciate this.” Leon says with a grin, pretending he didn’t notice your reactions for your sake. A few witty lines dance around his mind, but he bites his tongue.

“Yeah, no problem. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” You say quickly before awkwardly turning and heading down the stairs.

Despite it edging towards six A.M., you find yourself brewing a pot of coffee after a quick shower of your own, now wearing an oversized sweater and sleep shorts in place of your work ‘uniform'. While the bubbling sound of the coffee maker fills the kitchen space, you find yourself leaning against the kitchen island facing the backyard. The sky is starting to turn a dark navy blue, signaling the oncoming morning.

“Coffee at this time of night?” The sudden voice startles you, your body standing up straight and spinning around quickly.

Leon stands in the archway that connects the kitchen to the hallway, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrows raised. At first glance, the clothes you had provided him with were a size or two too small. The band t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and chest, sitting flush like his wet shirt had in the car. The joggers were a few inches above his ankles and hugged tightly around his thighs and…

You turn to face the coffee pot and watch as the last few blackened drops fall, pinching your lips tightly at the sight of the subtle outline of his lower body.

“Well, technically it’s the morning.” You reply simply, fighting to keep your voice steady.

You hear Leon’s heavy-set footsteps as he walks into the kitchen, then the squeak of wood on the wooden floor as he pulls out a chair at your island, settling into it. You busy yourself by opening the cupboard above you and grabbing two mugs.

“How do you like your coffee?” You ask, your back still turned towards him. You pull down your sugar container then step to the fridge to grab your creamer.

“Black, please.”

You take a moment to pour the steaming liquid into each mug, doctoring yours up the way you like it first. With both in hand, you turn towards where Leon sat and place his coffee in front of him.

“It's not the greatest coffee.” You warn before taking a careful sip. The cream smoothed out the bitterness.

“It'll suffice.” Leon says, picking up his own.

The house is quiet now, awkwardly so. When you had suggested him to stay for the night (morning?), you didn't really think past that. Here you two were – one sitting and the other standing, on opposite sides of the island. A few birds chirp morning greetings outside the window, and the sky looks a little brighter.

Your eyes slowly trail around Leon's face as he stares out the window. You're only given a side profile, but it's enough to marvel at his handsome features. His sharp jaw, dimpled chin, long eyelashes.

He gives you a side eye as he takes another sip.

“Your eyes are glazing over.” Leon says with a small amused huff.

“It's been a long twenty hours.” You shrug, peeling your eyes away.

“We should probably go to bed, then.” He lightly suggests. Leon leans back and stretches in his chair, the small shirt riding up his stomach and showing a trail of light brown hair disappearing under the jogger's waistline. You didn't mean to look, but you did.

“Y-yeah. We probably should, huh?” You say, setting your cup down. That's as far as your body moves, though.

You watch Leon stand up, grab his mug, then walk over to your sink to set it down. His shoulder brushes against yours on his way back, and the sudden sensation sends a shiver down your spine. Just like in the car earlier, your mouth opens before thinking.

“Leon?” You call to him just as he's about to pass under the archway. He turns around to face you, eyebrows raised.

You take a few steps closer to him, your heart beating so strong in your chest that you worry Leon could hear it. When you're a foot away from him, you falter with your lips parted as if you were about to say something.

“Everything okay?” He looks down at you with softened eyes, his now damp hair falling into his face.

“I just… um. Look, there’s something I want to tell you but I-"

You're cut off by Leon leaning down to close the already small gap between you two, his warm lips pressing against yours. It takes you a moment to register the sensation of it all, even less time to melt into it. Your eyes flutter closed, unconsciously closing the rest of the distance. Leon's arm snakes around your waist and pulls you into his warm chest while his tongue slides along your bottom lip before parting them.

Your head spins as you grip onto his shirt, your senses overloading from how he feels to how your body reacts to him. The kiss grow hungrier, and the heat in your stomach grows hotter. It only takes until you’re fighting for air that you have to pull away. Leon's cheeks are bright red, his wide blue eyes contrasting against them. Both of your chests rise and fall rapidly in attempt to catch your breaths.

“I'm sorry.” Leon whispers, pulling away a little. He arm doesn't release you though, and you don't fight to leave.

“N-no, that was..” You’re a little dizzy but focusing on Leon’s body helps you from losing grip.

“You were in the middle of saying something and I cut you off.”

It could have been the shot nerves, or the look that Leon gives you, but you can't help but laugh. Your body shakes in his arms as you do, your head thrown back. You've been crushing on him for so long, but you still could never read the stoic faced, dry commenting Leon Kennedy. To have him kiss you first was like someone had cut the ropes that restrained you for so long.

Freeing.

“I don't know what I was going to say.” You say, your laughs dying down to small giggles.

“Can I do that again?” Leon asks softly. That impassive, hardened face of his transformed into that of a puppy in such a short time span, how could you say no?

Nodding your head yes, he leans down again, slower this time. As his lips meet yours again, you're more than ready this time. As your lips moved against each other, that heat in your core burns again, radiating warmth throughout your entire body.

The kiss turns as hot as your body. You feel Leon pushing up against you, and before you know it, you're backed into the archway. The light impact elicits a small gasp from you, escaping into Leon's open mouth. Your hands rest against his chest with your nails daring to dig straight into his covered skin.

Leon's large hands travel down from your waist to your hips, his fingers squeezing into your plush skin gently. You're practically sandwiched between his stone-like body and the wood behind you, but you don't care. Your hands slide up his muscular chest so that your arms can wrap around Leon's neck. Shaking fingers slide up into his dirty blonde hair and you can't help but tangle them into the strands and tug gently.

A soft whine comes out of him when you do that, the quick jerk pulling his lips away from you. Those ocean eyes of his open and look down at you with a dark expression. Despite that though, when he speaks, his voice comes out soft.

“Is this okay?”

“I'm not complaining.” As you grin, your fingers tug on his hair again, reveling in the reaction you get from him as you do.

“Careful.” Leon warns, his tone dropping slightly.

“Or what?” You tug again.

Leon doesn't even respond, he just steps back and effortlessly picks you up by the waist with both hands. He throws you over his shoulder and starts for the hallway, you squirming and laughing against his back.

“Which door?” He asks, stopping at the end of the hall where he's faced with two doors.

“The left one.” You say through choked giggles.

Leon pushes your door open with ease, one of his arms holding tight around your thighs to keep you safely in place. The light switch flips on with a click and your cozy bedroom illuminates in front of him. He doesn't take a moment to look around though, he's more focused on something else. Someone else. You.

He flips you down on the bed onto your back, a few of your decorative pillows and plushies falling to the floor from the impact. The way you look up at Leon with warm cheeks and a shy smile is enough to make him crack his own lopsided grin.

“You’re breathtaking.”

“You’re not so bad yourself, handsome.”  

Sitting up, you reach over to grab Leon by his shirt and start pulling him down with you. He crawls into the bed, his lips meeting yours once again as you both slowly fall into the bed together. He has both hands propped up on each side of your head, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you with his weight.

Your fingers tighten in the thin cloth while kissing back, savoring every bit of him in your mouth. Leon’s lips break away and slowly start to trail kisses down your jawline and neck. Your head tilts back into the soft sheets so he has better access and as you do, a soft sigh escapes you.

As Leon's lips reach your collar bones, he runs one of his hands under your sweater and squeezes your side softly, appreciating the warmth and softness of your skin. His hand continues upward, your sweater pulling up with it. The blatant absence of your bra lets Leon's big hand cup your breast easily, filling his calloused palm.

Your hands were just as busy, both of them under his too small shirt and feeling the ridges and dimples that came with his muscular torso and stomach. His body seems to be burning just as hot as your own. As your hands travel down, your fingertips find the waistband of his pants. You tug gently, getting a small chuckle out Leon.

Leon breaks away to look at you, his face hovering over yours and his blonde hair tickling your forehead.

“Impatient, are we?” He teases, moving his hand away from your chest and back down to the soft part of your stomach. Before you can answer, he slides off the bed and stands at the end of it, towering over you. In one swift move, Leon's strong hands grip you by the waist and pull you to the edge of the bed as well, your ass barely on the mattress. The movement makes you gasp, your eyes no doubt full of surprise as well.

His fingers trail light touches down your legs and thighs before slowing at the hem of your shorts. He looks down at you expectantly, as if waiting for you to stop him. You don't, instead you hook your thumbs at the hem of your sweater and tug it up over your chest. It takes you a moment, but you're able to pull it all the way over your head and off completely, tossing it on to the floor.

Leon chuckles above you, an eyebrow raised but he's no doubt staring at your plush chest and curves.

“Oh shut it, Kennedy.” You say before flopping on your back again, arms raised above your head.

“I didn't say anything.” Leon pulls your legs up to where your ass is flush to him now, and you can feel how hard he is for you. He places a soft kiss on your ankle before slowly going down your leg. With each kiss, he slides down to the floor so that he's kneeling and at eye level with your clothed heat. Your thighs now sit on top of his shoulders and you can see Leon's mischievous stare aimed at you.  

He doesn't hesitate to lean forward and nose into you gently, feeling how warm you are. Leon inhales a bit as he squeezes your soft thighs in tight fingers, your sweet scent nearly driving him crazy. After pulling away slightly, one of his hands gently palms over your sensitive core. Your hips reflexively buck up, pressing yourself more into his hand. The quick friction of it causes a soft moan to leave you.

It had been a while since you’ve been touched like this. That and the addition of it being someone you had vied after for so long makes you want to come undone on the spot.

A huff escapes Leon while watching you, pleased by how you react so easily to him. With a long finger, he hooks it around the thin cloth of your shorts and panties and pulls it to the side. Leon groans at the sight of your pretty pussy, glistening with your arousal, ready just for him.

Leon likes to tease. You feel his hot breath pat against your exposed heat, and you let out a small whine in frustration. However, out of shyness, you hide your face by crossing your arms over your head.

“Hey now,” Leon says softly, reaching up to grab your forearm and tugging it down gently so that he can see your face. “don't hide. I want to see your pretty face while I taste you.” He gives you another lopsided grin and you flush even more. You nod and remove your arms, opting to prop yourself up on your elbows so you both had a better visual on each other.

He places his lips on the soft inside of your thigh, lightly nipping at your skin. Slowly, he trails his tongue down until finally, his lips just barely ghosts on your already swollen clit. A few seconds pass and then his warm mouth envelopes you entirely, the tip of his tongue slowly lapping at your folds. He can't help but moan softly, the vibrations of it resonating to your core. You taste just as addictive as he thought.

Leon pulls away which causes you to whimper, and you eye him with a pout as he looks up at you. He just meets you with a sly smile.

“You're still wearing way too much.” He says before grabbing the waistline of your shorts and pulls them down roughly, taking your panties with them. In a single fluid movement, he slides them down your legs and over your feet, tossing them to the floor behind him. His rough hands grip your thighs and push them down onto the bed, gentle yet firm enough that you couldn't move them even if you tried.

You watch as he doesn't hesitate this time to dive in, his tongue dipping into your slick, the tip of his nose pressing against your clit. As his tongue moves, your head is thrown back in bliss as soft mewls escape from your lips. Instinctually, your hips buck but that's as far as you can go. Your legs strain against Leon's strength.

Your fingers make their way into his soft hair, tangling and tugging. Groans vibrate against you once again, adding to the friction against your most sensitive spot. It doesn't take long for the sensations to overwhelm you, your toes curling into the sheets just as your fingertips did in his scalp.

Suddenly, Leon pulls away slightly only to insert a finger into your tight warmth. As he slowly pumps his finger in and out of you, his mouth envelopes your clit once more, sucking ever so slightly. He doesn't stop there, the tip of his tongue making kitten licks as he does.

“Le-Leon I'm gonna..” You can't even get your words out, the rest of your words coming out in choking syllables. Instead, you tighten your fingers into his soft locks, tugging and pushing yourself more into his mouth as you chase your high.

Leon doesn't stop, not after you're moaning his name with your head thrown back and your nails digging into his scalp nor even when you're gushing hard into his mouth as your orgasm hits you like raging waves on ocean rocks.

You fall back onto the mattress with heavy pants and closed eyes as you feel your ecstasy fading away. From the front of the bed, you hear a low chuckle from Leon. Your left eye peeks open and you peer down to see Leon watching you with a smug smile.

“I bet you're pretty proud of yourself, huh?” You laugh, raising a hand for Leon to take.

“As a matter of fact, I am. You did so well.” Leon takes your hand and pulls you up into a sitting position right in front of him. The words he used sends shivers down your spine, and you can't help but smile up at him.

“Well, it's my turn.” Without hesitating, you reach over and palm over Leon's not-so-subtle erection, tucked in so tight under the cloth that it must hurt. The moment you make contact, Leon sucks in a bit of air, already so sensitive from what he just did to you and the noises he got out of you.

Moving your hand up his length, you reach the waistline of his joggers and tuck in a few fingers before gently yanking down the thick fabric, taking his boxers with it too. His cock springs free, the tip angry red and glistening with sheer pre-cum, all because of you.

“Christ, Leon…” You mutter softly. With one hand, you're pulling his pants down while the other wraps around Leon's girth, feeling the heat and ridged veins against your soft palm.

You don't miss the way Leon's soft sighs come out of his parted lips as he stares down at you, his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly and his gaze intent on your pretty face.

Slowly, you scoot towards the edge of the bed so that you’re sitting with your legs dangling and Leon standing right in the middle. You lean forward and flick your tongue up the little slit, gathering the drop of pre-cum in your mouth and then wrapping your lips around his head, savoring him.

The slight gasp from Leon sends a wave of arousal from your head down to your toes and you can't help but smile around him, your eyes meeting his darkened gaze. His hand reaches up and gently grabs a fistful of your hair then guides you up and down his cock, unconsciously bucking his hips so that you take in even more of him. It doesn't take long for your jaw to get tired from his size, but even still you take him all.

When you look up with watering eyes, you note how Leon has his own eyes closed from bliss, with his lips parted allowing soft pants to escape. The way his cheeks flush bright pink to the thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, you love it all. It fuels your need to suckle on him even harder, your tongue swirling around him at every chance you can.

Before you know it, Leon pushes your head away, a trail of saliva connecting your tongue to his throbbing cock. You look up at him curiously but before you can really get a good look, he's leaning down and effortlessly picks you up by the thighs so that you're pressed up against his chest lest you want to fall backwards.

In one fluid motion, he's twisting so that his back is facing the bed and then sitting on the edge of it in the spot you just were. You get the hint quickly and find yourself sitting on your knees on either side of his thighs, your arms wrapped around his neck and his large hands holding you up by your ass.

There's a moment where he just looks at you, making sure that you're okay with this. You answer the only way you know you can, by lining his hard cock with your slick entrance and slowly sliding down on him.

The way your warm walls hug around him is almost too much for the both of you. With this position, he's deep inside, his tip almost kissing your cervix. You don't move for a moment, letting yourself stretch to his size. Leon doesn't hesitate to capture your swollen lips in another kiss, his tongue sliding into your mouth and tangling with your tongue.

One of his arms wraps around your back while the other sits on your plush hip, his well manicured nails digging straight into your flesh. With that, he helps you move up and down on his length, and from there rapidly building moans escape you both.

Using the leverage from your knees, you're able to bounce up and down on him. He helps as he continues to kiss you hard, holding you up so that you can keep riding him easily. Breathy moans make you break away from his mouth, more trails of saliva connecting you both before splitting.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” Leon moans out, resting his hot forehead on your shoulder as you gyrate your hips on him. Every roll creates friction on your clit and you can already feel a massive wave of pleasure about to wash over you.

Leon can tell too just by the way your breathing comes out ragged, how your moans pitch higher, and how your movements become sloppier as you chase that high once again.

“Cum for me.” Leon grunts out, his arm that wraps around your waist tightens as he holds himself up with his other arm, giving him leverage to thrust up into you hard. That was it for you.

The dam that welled now broke and you came hard on top of him. As your body spasmed in his hold, your teeth find his shoulder and bite down as you moan his name, muffled and broken up.

He doesn't cum yet, because he's not done. He's waited so long for this, and he wants one more orgasm from you.

There's not a moment to breathe as he stands up, his hard cock popping out of you, and quickly he twists back facing the bed. He gives you a long, lingering kiss before tossing you onto the bed again.

Despite the post-orgasm dizziness, you can't help but laugh out loud on impact, staring up at him with a bright grin and wild eyes. He gets on the bed and crawls over to you, the bed frame groaning from the shifts in weight.

Leon leans over you, his blonde hair tickling your face once more. He lowers himself down to kiss you again, this time slower and sensually. As he moves his lips against yours, he spreads your legs under him and hooks your leg in his elbow so that he can push your knee closer to your chest.

Your lips are locked in his when he pushes his way into your dripping pussy, filling you up once again. As he does that, a sharp gasp escapes into his mouth from the sudden change, only to transform into a low moan.

Leon's lips trail down your jaw and neck as he slowly snaps his hips against you, the smacking of skin and breathy moans filling the empty spaces of your house. His teeth find purchase against your sensitive skin, eliciting the sweetest noises Leon's ever heard in his life.

His lips trail down further, nipping at your collarbone then down to your breasts. He licks one of your hardened nipples before taking it into his mouth and sucking gently. His teeth bite down a little making you gasp from the mixed pleasure and pain. He releases it before going back up your shoulder, grunts of effort escaping his parted lips.  

“God, you're perfect.” He moans against your neck before going in to suck on it, no doubt leaving a mark there for later.

Your hands slide up his sweaty chest and around his back, digging your nails straight into those back muscles you loved so much. You don't know if you're drawing red, but you certainly felt like you were by how tight you were holding on to him. As if your life depended on it.

He continues to fuck you into the bed, his grunts and moans coming out broken. You could have sworn you heard a little whine in there too, which only pushed you closer to the edge of your climax.

Leon releases your leg and lets it fall to the bed so that he can unwrap your arms around him and in one hand, he takes your wrists and flips them up above your head, holding you down as he pushes himself into you more, groaning as he picks up his pace.

“Fu-fuck I'm not going to last any longer..” He groans out as he rests his forehead on yours, both of your sweat mixing as his hot breath fans on your face.

“P-please cum in me.” You moan, wrapping your legs around his waist to hold him closer.

“Are you sure?” The look of hesitation flickers across his face before he notices how desperate you were for him. Then it turns into a wicked grin, loving the sight of you taking him so well and wanting more.

“Please!”

“Say it again.” That sweet begging voice of yours, he needs it. He snaps into you roughly, his fingers tightening around your wrists as he does.

“Please cum in me, L-Leon!” At this point, your words are slurring from being love-drunk, tired and fatigued but you don't want to stop until you're both finished.

Leon doesn't ask again, and as he feels that winding string about to break in him, he leans down and catches your mouth again, moving his lips against yours heatedly and just like that, you both let go.

Your legs tighten around his waist as ropes of his hot cum spill into you, his movements not stilling one bit as he finishes inside your pulsating walls. He can't help but groan your name as he does, feeling every ounce of energy draining from him with every last drop he shoots into you.

For a moment, there's a silence bar the heavy panting from the both of you. Then suddenly, you burst into a fit of laughter, him soon following. It’s contagious, and he leans down to kiss you again, chaste and sweet.

Leon pulls out slowly, and you can feel his cum already starting to leak out and onto the sheets. He releases your wrists then flops over next to you and sprawls out, his joints and bones popping as he stretches. Between this passionate session and his recent mission, he just knows his body will be mad at him later.

As you both lie there, staring at the now sunrise lit ceiling, sated grins sit on your faces. You both turn to face each other, staring into each other's eyes. He reaches over to move some of your hair off your face that had gotten stuck there from sweat, his fingers lightly caressing your skin.

“How long have you been waiting to do that, Kennedy?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow.

“How long have you been waiting for me to do that, is the better question.” He counters, chuckling lowly.

“Far too long, that's for sure.” You mutter softly, giving him a small smile.

“Does this mean I'm definitely your favorite regular now?”

You smack his chest lightly and laugh, rolling your eyes at him. You sit up carefully, noting how racked your body feels from the heated exchange. Slowly, you slide off the bed and stand up on wobbly knees. It takes you a moment to gather your bearings as you stretch yourself, feeling the warmth of the sunrays peering through your sheer curtains on your skin.

“You've always been my favorite, dummy. No one else brings me fun trinkets from their dangerous business trips.” You joke lightly, turning around to face him. He’s lying on his side, propped up on an arm as he stares at you. God, he's so perfect.

“Good, because I'll fight anyone that comes close to that title.”

“I’m sure you will, Kennedy. I'm gonna go clean up in the shower, wanna join?”

“But, showering means I'll see you naked.” He feigns shyness, but his smirk tells something different. He’s so dumb, you laugh to yourself.

“Your loss.” You purse your lips and start for the bathroom. The thud of Leon landing on the floor behind you is instantaneous, his heavy footsteps following quickly behind.

It's well into the morning when you find yourself snuggled up lazily into Leon's arms, both freshly showered and satisfied. He helped you strip your sheets and put new ones on before you grabbed him by the arm and tugged him into bed with you – something he definitely did not try to fight.

With his big arm wrapped around you protectively, him lying on his back, you nuzzle into his ribs as you splay your arm across his broad chest. He's already in and out of sleep, soft snores escaping him. His arm around you just tightens in response, his fingers curling into your soft side as he mumbles softly. As the morning birds continue their melody, you drift off easily. Already is your mind busy dreaming of the man whose scent permeates every part of your senses, making this rest the easiest one you've had in a while.

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[sunshine-theseus]

El Viaje | Sam Kerr x Reader

Words: 2.3k Summary: Sam’s done her ACL and the journey proves to be tough

“Sam? It’s 12:30 in the morning, what’s wrong?” my voice is groggy and hoarse as I pick up the phone.

Nothing is said in reply but a small shuttering gasp trickles through the speaker. I was very familiar with that sound. The one of Sam trying not to cry. It alarms me, so I scurry to sit up against the hotel headboard and turn on the lamp, as if it will make me concentrate better on the conversation.

“Chicka? What happened? Shouldn’t you be in training?” the Chelsea team had travelled to Morocco for some hot weather training, leaving them only 1 hour ahead of London but 9 hours behind Brisbane, so the timing was odd.

“I-” she chokes on her words and my heart clenches, as if I could feel whatever pain and sadness she was feeling.

“I won’t be going back to training. Not for a while.” my fiancé’s usual candour isn’t anywhere to be seen as she drags out the admission.

“Sam what are you going on about?”

Another one of those almost silent cries escapes her mouth.

“Sam please telling me what the fuck is going on or I’ll call Emma.” I grow even more worried as I flick through all the possibilities of what could have happened in my mind.

“Can we facetime? I want to see your face, it’ll make me feel better.” I’m requesting the facetime call before she can even finish, and it takes no time at all for me to be met with her face.

Her solemn, tear stained, lip quivering face. I nearly start crying just looking at her. I’ve only seen her look so defeated a small number of times, but it never gets easier. I desperately want to magically transport to Morocco and just hold her.

“Oh Sam, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I did my ACL.” The words don’t process in my head for a moment. She can’t possibly have said what I think she said.

“What?” it’s a whisper of disbelief but her face shows me everything I need to know. I feel sick as I stare into her eyes. Eyes that are usually so full of light and joy, dark and sullen in pain.

“I’m flying to Morocco. Next flight out.”

“No, we leave the day after tomorrow, it’d be a waste.”

“Sam-”

“You’re spending time with Sharn and Tameka, I’ll be okay.” The mention of my best friend and our Matildas teammate nearly makes me want to laugh.

“I’ve been here for 5 days; I went to their game last night, they’ll understand. Sharn’s coming to England in a couple months anyway. Say the word and I’ll fly out, whenever you want.” I can see the fight on her face.

“Please fly home, to England. I need you.” Tears well up in her eyes and I can feel them fighting on my waterline as well.

“Of course chicka.”

-

My flight gets in an hour before the team’s is supposed to. I sit in the secluded hallway I know they’ll eventually make their way down, leg bouncing non-stop and hands sweating. I’ve seen Sam injured, I’ve nursed her back to health, I’ve done everything you can imagine, but an ACL is different. Worse in every way.

Soon I begin to hear the chatter and footsteps often associated with the Chelsea team and rapidly stand up to greet them. Emma is the first one around the corner, closely followed by Jessie and Zećira. Each of them greet me and pass on a sorrowful smile before continuing down the hall.

It takes a little longer for Sam to make her way around, surrounded by Millie, Guro, and Erin; all of them are laughing and smiling at something Erin said. It takes me a few seconds but I’m taking off down the hall to meet the group who don’t notice me until I’m right in front of them. Where I usually would pick Sam up and spin her around, I have to stop myself, the crutches serving as a reminder to why I’m back early.

“Chickadee!” she smiles at me with that beautiful, joyful smile I’m used to, and I can’t help but lean forward and press a kiss to both her cheeks. Eventually she presses her own lips to mine, clearly sick of waiting.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam rolls her eyes, knowing I’m going to start fussing over her, and the girls around us laugh.

“I’m good. Millie’s been nursing me.” The friendly giant blonde grins proudly at us at the comment.

“Good, but now you have an actual nurse to look after you.” I grab Sam’s bag that Erin has a hold of, and the backpack that’s in Guro’s hand.

-

When we get home, I heave both lots of our bags through the house before cautiously trailing behind Sam who makes her way to our bedroom. She drops down onto the bed and I get nervous at the way her leg bounces as it absorbs the shock. I kneel down to start untying her shoes as she peels off her Chelsea travel jacket.

“I can do it you know?” Sam was ever the stubborn individual, and rarely wanted to accept help.

“Let me look after you.” I press a soft kiss to her injured knee before I continue taking off her shoes and socks.

I grab one of her oversized sweaters and shorts for her to slip into then head into our bathroom, running the warm water into the tub. I light some candles and turn off the lights, knowing she prefers the mellow light in times like these, before I hear her making her way on her crutches. It takes a little adjusting but I eventually help her slip into to sudsy water, then leave her to relax as I order some food for dinner.

Not long after I exit the room, I hear a splash and a groan of frustration, and race to see what’s happened. Sam’s body is still deep beneath the surface of the water but there’s a large puddle that slowly disperses at the base of the tub.

“What happened?” I pull my towel off the rack and begin to clean up the mess.

“I tried to get out.” the defeat is clear on Sam’s face, and it helps dampen the flame of anger that bubbled in my chest.

“Sammy-”

“I can’t do that, I know. I just… I don’t want to rely on you for everything.”

“Darl, I know it’s hard, and it will be hard for the next 9 months, but I’m here for you. I want to help you. You’re not alone.” Gently, I run a hand through her drying hair, occasionally massaging her scalp.

I can see the cogs turning in her head as I wait for an answer. The only thing I get is her leaning over and resting her head on my shoulder. It’s not comfortable for either of us but it’s the gesture that matters.

~~~~~

A few days later Sam has to go in for surgery. I have a shift at the hospital, so I drive her in, and take a goofy photo of her before she gets prepped, before I start my rounds. I find it hard, lacking my usual charm and overly-kind demeaner as I visit Carl, a 63 year old Irish man who came to spend a few years in England after retiring from teaching history in Australia, before going home to Ireland. He doesn’t stop talking. I don’t mind though; his stories never disappoint. He came in for a hip surgery but due to some complications he’s had to stay a little longer, and come in for regular stays every few months.

“You’re worried about something.” He likes to study me as I move around.

“Not when I’ve got you, hey Carl?”

“You’re pouring yourself a cup of tea. You don’t like tea. Which is appalling by the way.” I relax my shoulders and take in a deep breath. He knows me too well.

“It’s my fiancé-”

“Sam! Oh how is she!? I love young love.” A warm and reminiscent smile flitters across his face.

“Yes, well, she tore her ACL during training in Morocco. She has surgery today.”

“Bloody hell the poor thing! She’ll be okay love.” Carl pats my arm in reassurance, and I hate to admit I feel much more at peace.

-

Around 4 hours into my shift, I get called to take over a new patient for one of the other nurses who had to leave after their surgery. I walk down the fluorescently lit hallways, my shoes squeaking against the linoleum. Sam should just about be finished surgery too.

I pushed open the dark wood door but come to a stop when I see who’s snoring in the bed. My fiancé, ever so peaceful and beautiful, yet still looking so tired. There are band-aids over different points of her knee, barely propped up with a roll of cloth.

I check her vitals, not yet giving her more pain meds, and take a seat beside her. I take her hand in mine, rubbing my thumb back and forth over the dark vein, and admire her. Despite the hospital attire and the ruffled hair that falls out of her hair-tie, she looks so handsome.

-

I get paged to visit a few other patients before Sam gets the chance to wake up, but by the time I get back, basically the whole Chelsea team is sitting around her room or in the hall.

Jessie’s the one talking Sam when I walk back through the door, vials and food in hand.

“Time for lunch and meds!” I scoot in beside Emma and LJ to have access to her IV after she finishes the food, the girls around us greeting me.

“Chickadee! You’re here.” Sam reaches a hand out for me and puckers her lips but I stand back.

“Nuh uh. Here we’re nurse and patient, not fiancés. Now I need you to eat some food so I can give you your medication.” I can see her desire to fight back on her face, but I know she won’t ignore the orders when I’m actually on the clock.

When she finishes the horrid food, I put clean gloves on and fill the new needle with morphine, then turn back to her. I have to fiddle with the IV for a moment but eventually manage to inject the medicine.

“You might get sleepy; I’ll be back soon to see how you’re doing and adjust the dose if need be, okay? There’s the emergency button if you need me sooner.” I bid her and the team adieu.

~~~~~

I don’t get to take Sam home with me after my shift, instead having to pick her up the next day.

While she’s wheeled out to the car, crutches resting on her lap, I carry her brace and compression bands and whatever else she’s been given. Sam sits across the backseat, making sure to keep her knee elevated, and I make sure to drive as safely as possible.

-

When we get home, we find ourselves in bed, Sam’s head resting on my chest as I play with her hair, Derry Girls playing on the TV.

“I love you so much, thank you for being my nurse.” A kiss is pressed lightly to my collar bone and I smile.

“I’ll always look after you, my beautiful girl.” She looks up at me with those big chocolate brown eyes and I think I fall in love with her all over again.

I lean down and attach my lips to her’s but as we pull away, she turns serious.

“You owe me a lot of kisses for refusing to kiss me in the hospital.”

“Of course darling.” I simply kiss her again. Anything for my beautiful girl.

~~~~~

“You don’t have to baby me Y/N for fuck sake!” so much for ‘thanks for looking after me’.

“I’m not babying you Sam! I’m making sure you don’t push yourself too far!”

“I can lift things without you hovering over me!”

“You were trying to lift boxes that I can barely lift at full health!” she was really getting on my last nerve.

“I just want you to leave me alone for 5 fucking minutes! God I’m so sick of you!” that makes me pause, pain encapsulates my heart and tears floor my waterline.

My mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out. What am I supposed to say to that? So I turn around, picking Helen up on my way, and head to our bedroom. The door slams shut behind me, rattling the walls, the artwork threatening to drop and shatter to the floor. Not dissimilar to my heart.

I hear Sam groan but nothing else echoes down the hall for a while. Until I hear a crash. Without a thought I’m opening the door and rushing across the wood floors to find the girl I’m angry at.

All I find is her sitting on the ground, surrounded by piles of wood. She’s untouched.

“Sam…” it’s more of a sigh of relief than anything else.

“I just- I wanted to make it myself to apologise. And also to prove myself right.”

“You don’t need to make a whole fucking bookshelf for me. You shouldn’t. Your words hurt, but I don’t want you hurt.” I slowly help her get up, although it’s a struggle.

“I’m really really sorry. I didn’t mean it, that I’m sick of you. I could never be sick of you. You’re too kind.” A kiss is pressed to my cheek.

“And pretty.” Another to my opposite cheek.

“And perfect.” She kisses my lips, love flowing between us as I kiss back.

“I don’t deserve you. You’ve done nothing but take care of me and I’ve been all ‘Oscar the Grouch’ on you.” I lead her over to the couch and pull her against me.

“You could turn into Oscar the Grouch and I’d still love and take care of you. I will find you in every lifetime, and love you endlessly.”

[quietblueriver]

Could not stop thinking about Marisha discussing self-worth as Laudna’s fatal flaw and this emerged in a flurry last night and during lunch. It’s all Laudna, immediately after the conversation with the Hells after sword-gate, and it builds a bit from this. Don’t usually write from Laudna’s perspective but giving it a go. She deserves so much, y’all, ugh.

Okay, anyway, angst ahead.

-

There wasn’t going to be any easy drifting off, not after the events of the last hour, but it’s even more difficult without Imogen. Laudna has grown spoiled, there’s no denying it, and she misses the heat of Imogen’s body and the pleasant burn of her touch.

It’s her own fault, of course, there’s no denying that either, and the cold and lonesomeness are a fit punishment. And in any case, even if she didn’t deserve it, her eyes are still intermittently leaking ichor. There’d be no point in dirtying Imogen’s bedding as well.

The rest of the Hells also seem to be having trouble sleeping, aside from Chet, anyway, whose familiar, constant racket is broken by a chorus of shifting bodies and too-loud sighs. She can hardly blame them; after all, she’s the monster and she can’t even sleep with herself in the room.

Delilah has gone quiet, something Laudna appreciates usually, still appreciates now, but it’s a much closer call than usual. Because Laudna, left with herself and the thoughts that are really, truly her own, feels somehow both restless enough that her skin itches and so heavy that it’s almost as if the ground has remembered she shouldn’t be walking and is trying to suck her back into itself, into the stillness where she belongs.

It’s not the ground, not really, because there’s her bedroll and the floor and the floor below that, and likely a cellar, at least, and Imogen would roll her eyes at the joke and Laudna wants to peel back her skin and help her tendons escape. Instead, she forms strings of ichor between her fingers, twisting them absently as she thinks.

It’s not productive, she’s well aware, to keep running through the night’s events, the fight for the sword, the conversation with Imogen on the rooftop, the conversation with everyone else afterward. Still, she can’t stop, and maybe that’s fit punishment, too. If she’s going to try to use Delilah’s power, she’s going to have to make decisions like she did earlier and to deal with their fallout.

The niggling, snide voice in her head clears its proverbial throat. A remnant of Matilda, it has become bloated and ever more confident from three decades with Delilah, even if it now appears less frequently, smart enough to wait until Laudna is alone so that it can’t be challenged by Imogen, who may always come knocking even with her circlet.

The cadence and tone are of Matilda’s life as well, a bit of Master Elron, who used to make her stand in the front of the class when she got distracted, back rigid against the snickers of her classmates, and a bit of her grandmother, who used to pinch her until she bruised for any perceived infraction or imperfection. Sure of itself, always, and smug in its confidence.

Laudna forms fists, ichor squeezing between the gaps in her fingers and nails digging lightly into her palm as it speaks.

And what, exactly, makes you think that you’re strong enough to use Delilah? If you recall, you forced poor Imogen and all the others to come rescue you from the tree where she’d trapped you in your own mind. Have you changed so much in a few months? Grown so much more powerful?

It’s a fair point. She’d told Imogen, told the others, that she wants to use Delilah, that Delilah owes her. It’s rather easy to stand by the latter, murder and all that, but the former, while not a lie, feels, when she’s outside the passion of the moment, to be…a stretch.

Not a stretch. An impossibility. What you should have said is that you’re going to let Delilah use you. Isn’t that right?

The voice has never been kind or shy, but it has, undeniably, often been right. It was right when it reminded Matilda that she likely wouldn’t have had dirt thrown all over her face and dress if she’d just pretended, acted a bit more like the other children instead of saying all the things that popped into her mind.

It was right when it reminded her that she wouldn’t have been murdered if she’d just been a little smarter, a little less gullible. After all, what possibly could have prompted a lady to invite Matilda as company for dinner? Not that she should have anticipated murder, of course–the voice wasn’t paranoid; it merely knew enough about Matilda, about who she was and what she could offer, to be pragmatically suspicious–but there was no world in which that invitation came without strings.

Now, it’s right that Laudna using Delilah is, at best, a tenuous proposition.

She turns her foot and ankle, twists and presses against the sturdy floor until each joint aches in protest, threatens to dislodge. Unwilling to risk waking the others with the noise of her bones, which are as likely to escape their bounds with a shocking loud crack as with a muted pop, she rides the edge and uses the hurt to silence the voice for a moment, assesses herself.

She is not a liar. It’s understandable, that they’re suspicious, that Imogen is suspicious, even if it hurts her, but Laudna cannot help that the truth right now seems much less like a looking glass and much more like a mud puddle.

She believed fiercely what she said about Delilah in their conversations tonight. She believed that she had a real chance, that she could do something good with all of her bad. It was truth to her.

She does not dismiss the Laudna of that moment now in the tempering darkness. That optimism and fervency have allowed her to survive this long. The beliefs and confidence they inspire are genuine. When the flame burns lower, though, she can acknowledge that her most ardent optimism is a force against the ruthlessness of reality and that it cannot see the full truth and maintain itself.

Even without the fire of the zealot, though, she still hopes. She is uninterested in doom as an outlook, finds it unproductive and just as divorced from reality as its opposite. So a part of her, small as it may be in the face of cruel facts, hopes very much to use Delilah, hopes that she can harness whatever power is available to her in service to Imogen and their friends. She hopes and she’s going to try to give that hope its best chance.

A toe frees itself from its joint, the click quiet enough that Laudna is confident only she could hear it, but she reaches down to force it back and then stops her motion anyway. The voice returns.

Trying is all well and good, but outmatching her would require someone much more capable, dear. You know that. You’ve always been a little easily led, and we’ve been down that road before, hmm? Ask Orym.

She brings her thumb to her mouth and bites at the nail, tugging until a large portion comes loose. The pain is more than she anticipated, deeper into her quick than she meant, and she sucks the raw skin dripping black into her mouth to stifle the noise that threatens to escape.

As it throbs satisfyingly, she thinks about Orym and the sword. It killed them. It killed her. It was evil and it didn’t belong, and she wanted it gone. It was her choice. Her choice.

Except that Laudna hadn’t been lying to Imogen on the roof, either, when she said she wasn’t sure whether it was worth distinguishing herself from Delilah. She confused even herself as she wavered between her hope and her fears, a messy, sticky thing and probably the most complete view of the truth.

It doesn’t surprise her that her love for Imogen, her desire to protect her, left her grasping for coherence, her own mind unwilling to withhold what might help her but unable to reconcile the parts of itself, muddling confident reassurances and righteousness with doubts and fears and warnings. All true but so obviously incompatible when presented together.

Still, it’s easier to prioritize when it’s Imogen’s future that’s at stake. Some things are constant. Laudna is a dead end and always has been. And as for the rest, well, with Imogen on the line, hope loses to the present moment, and she must admit that she isn’t sure how to distinguish herself from Delilah.

The natural consequence of that particular admission is that she can no longer honestly be sure whether her hope, her plan to use Delilah, isn’t itself the product of Delilah’s meddling, a ploy to get Laudna to give what’s left of herself willingly.

There it is, the voice whispers as the painful pulsing of her thumb eases. If there’s no point in distinguishing, what, exactly, is choice? If there’s no point in distinguishing, how much more of you is there really left to give?

She digs an incisor into the exposed quick and rolls to her side so that she can torture herself with a view of Imogen, the familiar bow of her spine as she sleeps. Laudna wants to count her vertebrae with her fingers, sates herself by counting the toes of the foot that has been flung out from her blanket and then counting them again and again. There are five each time. The voice is quiet.

Laudna loves her, stops the implication of Delilah’s infiltration at the door of that love. This, still, is hers. She lets herself believe the silence inside her is motivated by agreement rather than pity.

She removes her thumb from her mouth so that she might gnaw at her lip, dig her incisor into the fragile skin with more pressure than is required. She draws the wound into her mouth and holds it against the back of her front teeth, ichor sticky on her tongue.

Laudna doesn’t want pity, even from herself. Pity is what you give to someone who has lost all control of their circumstances. Pity is what you give to a lost cause.

The Hells don’t pity her. The opposite, really. They seem to believe Laudna is someone. That Laudna is special.

There’s a reason she chose you. You know that, right? Imogen’s plaintive voice echoes, edged with frustration, and Laudna hears herself, hears the truth. I don’t think I do.

Because she’s almost certain that if there is a truth of her lives, of the most remarkable pieces of her lives, it is this: If she has ever been special, it has been because others have made her so. Vex’ahlia made Matilda worth killing. Delilah makes Laudna powerful. Imogen makes Laudna palatable.

Without them, she’s simply Laudna, who was simply Matilda, who was strange but entirely forgettable once one left her presence. No one, when it came down to it. Unfortunately for her, she was no one who, if the observer were quite drunk or had terrible vision, vaguely resembled someone quite her opposite. Someone who was beautiful and powerful and far too smart to allow herself to be tortured and hung from a tree in living effigy. And being that kind of no one in a town with Delilah Briarwood turned out to be a death sentence.

It’s an incredible kindness for the others to try to build her up, to tell her that Delilah chose her, that it wasn’t merely chance or awful luck. They’re her friends, and quite good ones at that, as far as Laudna can tell. They believe what they’re saying, and she hardly knows what to do with so much good intention.

But Laudna knows better. After all, they never knew Matilda, and they only came to know Laudna through Imogen’s brave and inexplicable affection, which is so steadfast that it shames strangers who once would have thrown rocks at her into feeling their repulsion without acting on it. What’s a grimace to a stone? Although Imogen’s indignation at that relatively small unkindness is still a force. Between Imogen and Delilah, Laudna was allowed to become something more than herself to their little group.

As for Imogen herself, her perception of Laudna is a mystery Laudna is quite certain she’ll never understand. For some reason, Imogen sees her in the gracious light of love, where Laudna’s shadows become possibilities, her sharpest and most feral features softened and blurred. Transformative.

Barely conscious, eyes clamped closed against the searing pain at her ear, a woman’s voice close enough that she can feel the contrast of her breath against the cold damp of the air. It’s confusing, the conversational tone against the background of repeated, erratic clangs of something heavy against metal and what she’s beginning to suspect are her own screams. “Not quite the resemblance I’d hoped, in the end, but don’t worry, dear. From the right angle with the right light, you’ll look just like her. Now be a good girl and hold still for the other side, hmm?”

Transformative.

It’s such a beautiful way to see someone, so very like Imogen, but in the end, it’s an impairment like any other, really. Although what a gift it has been, that Imogen cannot see her for what she is.

She licks at the last of the ichor on her lip and curls her own body in a mirror to Imogen’s. It is Delilah’s voice that whispers, That’s quite enough, I think. Sleep, child.

And she does.

[bettyshoweduptotheparty]

Reclaiming the narrative: Thoughts on Anti-Hero on the Eras Tour

I’ve noticed something when watching the midnights set from one of the LA shows (disclaimer, I’ve not actually been to a live show of this tour yet so all my observations are from other people’s videos).

Before going into her final song, Taylor ends her performance of Anti Hero with this pose which was immediately familiar to me as the famous Matilda pose from the poster for Matilda the Musical. The head position and even the light from the back…? I’ve seen that musical a ton of times but even if you haven’t I’d say it’s quite the resemblance.

So if Taylor is in fact referencing Matilda here, what is she saying? If you haven’t seen the show (or the film), this pose is from a song called ‘Naughty’ where Matilda tells the audience that even when you’re a child you can change your story by taking charge of your narrative and not playing by the rules. She ends the song in this pose while she sings the final lines which are:

‘But nobody else is gonna put it right for me,

Nobody but me is gonna change my story,

Sometimes you have to be a little bit naughty.’

So, if this is a deliberate Matilda pose, my interpretation would be that, like Matilda, Taylor is taking charge of her public narrative and is changing her story to show herself authentically. No more perfect princess stories. Naughty also references Romeo and Juliet and Cinderella, both also mentioned in Taylor’s songs, and emphasises how they were just victims of their ‘stupid fate’ and if they’d changed their story maybe they would have lived happily. So bottom line: the people in the story can take charge and change the ending. You don’t need a fairy godmother, you can be your own hero. Very Taylor to end a song called Anti Hero with such a defiant hero pose 😉

Another thing I noticed that solidified that thought for me, is that the giant Taylor on the screen visuals balls her hands into fists and yells at where Taylor is standing performing before she turns and screams at the audience.

I’ve never actually seen a video of the full screen visuals during this number, because people tend to film Taylor walking around on stage which is ironic, because I think it is exactly the point she’s trying to make that we’re all too distracted by the glittery performance to notice the giant screaming in the background.

That’s my (rather long) rambling on the Anti Hero performance. And that was just one song, I swear, when I get to see the full show, I’ll have pages of notes! Sorry (not sorry) 🤭

[darcylewisbingohq]

1. driftwood | bonfire | pyromania

2. sweater weather | a dark and stormy night| 10 days of rain

3. centaur | Sleepy Hollow, NY | bakotsu

4. Halloween virgin | Halloween veteran | Queen of Halloween

5. hidden lagoon | The Pettenedda (well monster) | a bunyip in the billabong

6. dungeon | hidden away in Hydra’s sub-basement | subterranean terror

7. supernatural harbinger (Vardøger) | bilocation (doppelgänger) | the Gothic double (Jekyll v. Hyde/Banner v. Hulk)

8. the Hanging Wood | Witches Castle | the Black Forest

9. Chinese Lantern | vampire fruit | Ghost Gum

10. sheet ghost | haunt | ghost POV

11. phobia | fear made flesh | [insert your personal fear here]

12. alienation | Hill of Crosses | “Waltzing Matilda”

13. mutation | sentient Hydra experiment | interviewing a monster

14. Sasquatch | Wild Man of the Woods | Silvanus (similar to a satyr or faun)

15. tarot cards | crystal ball | ouija board

16. a sling ring | a mystery portal | Doors of Death

17. immortal enemy(ies) to lover(s) | succubus soulmate | fiends for life

18. feline | witch’s familiar | thylacine sighting

19. dragon | La Gargouille | kaiju battle

20. enthrall | ‘like a moth to a flame’ | Mothman

21. a virgin sacrifice | fresh flesh | Drop Bear

22. cider festival | beer garden | Oktoberfest

23. rum runner | mooncusser | Half Moon Bay

24. Jersey Devil | Monster of Ravenna | La Llorona

25. costume | disguised naiad | swan maidens

26. (pre)deceased | axe murder | Fall River, Mass.

27. howl | werewolf | Forest of the Wolves

28. runic carvings | curse | a cult of witches

29. Blood Moon | The Hunt | the Wild Hunt/Santa Compaña

30. catacombs | reliquary | ossuary church

31. rich people Halloween party | a Gothic masquerade | Hydra’s Halloween Ball

Alternates

Because the Darcy Lewis Bingo Mod Team are writers and artists ourselves, we understand that not all prompts are created equal and, therefore, are not necessarily inspiring to all creators. So, for 2024-25, we are including a list of 10 fun, spooky alternate prompts you’re welcome to use on any day you get stumped by the creator prompts we’ve supplied above. Each alternate prompt may only be used once, however, so use them wisely and don’t take them for granted. These are not easier prompts by any means! And don’t forget that all of your Promptober fills must incorporate our beloved Lady of the Astrophysics Lab, Dr. Darcy Lewis!

A1. a 2-sentence horror story (req.: cannot be longer than 2 sentences & must tell a complete horror story)

A2. Darcy’s First Halloween

A3. a Halloween Darcy drabble (req.: exactly 100 words)

A4. the Avengers go out on Halloween Night in New York City

A5. an onomatopoeic story or poem (req.: must include at least 13 onomatopoetic words)

A6. a Darcy retelling of the Headless Horseman (or your favorite classic spooky story)

A7. an acrostic poem about Darcy, the Avengers, and Halloween

A8. The Mummy AU

A9. an autumnal Darcy haiku

A10. record a podfic (with permission) of a friend’s spookiest Darcy fic

With our alternates, this means every player begins this round of Promptober with a whopping 103 spooky season prompts. We can’t wait to see what you make of them in the year to come. Have a spooky time creating, Darcy Friends!

Promptober 2024 is a list of 31 this-that-or-the-other prompt themes handpicked by our mod team to cross international borders for creators to choose from to create spooky, oogie, or hygge fanworks for the autumn & Halloween season (or for Scary Christmas, Valloween/St. Guillotine’s Day, Half-Halloween, Gay Halloween!, Summerween, Scary Christmas in July, or Autumn Down Under for our Aussie creators). We continue to be not your mom so we’re not here to tell you when or how long you can celebrate your Spooky Season. Here at Darcy Lewis Bingo HQ, all your spooky holiday lifestyle choices are valid. In fact…

Important Dates & Deadlines

Promptober begins on August 3rd, 2024 this round, but you know how we feel about deadlines. 🔪 So, for this round of Promptober, we’re doing away entirely with hard deadlines and we mean it! You have from August 3rd, 2024 until our next Halloween event begins, and even beyond that, if you like! Though we do strongly recommend wrapping up this challenge before the next spooky challenge begins, this event remains open basically as long as this bingo exists. No pressure to complete, ever, just inspo and encouragement. 🧡

Promptober Challenges

Promptober Mini Challenge: choose and complete fannish works for any 13 of the prompts from this list for our mini challenge. Creators may choose 13 prompts from the list of prompts—any 13 prompts at all!

Promptober Mega Challenge: choose and complete fannish works for 31 of the listed prompts for our spooky main event! Creators may choose any 31 of the total 93 prompts listed to complete this event.

For an extra personal challenge, you may limit yourself to only posting a fanwork inspired by one of the prompts listed by the number that corresponds to each day of October for every day of the month all month long, but it’s absolutely not required for completion of this event. We want you to succeed and create, and to share new Darcy works, so our goal is always to support you in your fannish creative endeavors and make that as easy as possible.

*If you post every day in October as a personal challenge, mention us @darcylewisbingohq in your tumblr posts to let us know you’ve posted a new work or update so we can reblog your daily posts in as close to real time as possible. Once we’ve left a like on your post, rest assured: that means it’s in our queue, just waiting its turn to be featured on our blog.

Promptober 2024 Guidelines

Promptober fills must prominently feature our beloved Lady of Astrophysics, Dr. Darcy Lewis!

Promptober creators have all of our 2024-2025 round to work on this event! If you want to work on it the whole year until we release the next spooky season event, we encourage you to do that. If spooky challenges are particularly your jam, we’d love to see what you do with ours when you’ve got the whole year to tackle it!

entries—Your fanwork is NOT required to use the prompt exactly as it appears on this list. Prompts need only inspire your fanwork, whether they appear word for word in it or not. However the prompt inspires you is correct, as far as we’re concerned. Subvert the prompt, reverse the prompt, marry the prompt—it’s up to you.

All forms of fannish works are accepted and encouraged for this event! Fanfic, fanart, poetry, podfics, fanvids, playlists, fiber and other crafts, fan edits, moodboards, etc.

You may start posting your Promptober fanworks as soon as they’re ready to share. No need to wait until October and no need to rush to get them all done in that month, either.

Fanwork Fill Requirements

100 words for written works or word art, with the exception of poetry with independent formatting rules (such as haikus).

1 image for artwork or handcrafts of any kind and a description for the visually impaired of the medium used and what it represents.

1 image for cosplay or character-bounding and a description for the visually impaired of cosplay or clothing and any other fashion influences incorporated into the costume or clothing (be descriptive! talk about fabrics and colors, tone and texture! describe the emotions the colors you used evoke in you as the creator!)

9 elements for moodboards (background, images, texts, ephemera) and a description for the visually impaired of the moodboard and what it represents.

6 images for social media AUs and a description for the visually impaired of the creation and what it represents.

10 songs for playlists and a text list of artists and songs to give credit to the original artists, plus a description for the visually impaired of what the playlist represents and how it relates to Darcy.

Still not sure if your creation will meet the minimum prompt fill requirements? @ a mod! we’ll create new requirements based on new types of creator fanwork submissions, as needed.

These participation requirements are identical to our annual bingo event; those guidelines are always pinned at the top of our tumblr blog where they’re easy to find; the link to those guidelines and fill requirements can also be found on Discord in our #bingo-info channel.

[professorthaddeus]

butterfly effects

The air has been saturated with a sharp, tangy sense of urgency ever since the freeway collapsed, but here in the back alleys by Conrad’s home, the cobbled streets are cold as ever, the walls dark and damp from the recent brainstorm. Justin pads along by his side, a comforting presence at his feet, and Conrad could almost pretend it’s just another day on the job, on the way to his paper route.

Except for one thing. The Fix’s hulking form lumbers ahead of him, his shoulders barely squeezing through the alleyways. In the shadows, he practically looks like a wall himself—solid, unyielding stone, brought to life to eliminate any obstacles ahead of him. No, ahead of all three of them. 

It’s been a long, long time since any grownup took an interest in Conrad. Now, there are five grownups looking out for him. Trying to save him. 

It’s a lot. 

Well, maybe that’s not fair. Mister F—the owner of Sugah’s has always paid attention to him. Even if their interactions weren’t the most pleasant on Conrad’s end, the club owner always remembered his name and cared where he was. Well. Cared if he was too close to Sugah’s, at least.

The Fix keeps glancing back at him to make sure he’s following. It’s funny—one look from someone so intimidating would usually send Conrad scrambling into corners to hide, but he doesn’t feel that itch under his skin tonight. That gaze, concerned and watchful, those giant hands swinging by The Fix’s sides, capable of so much violence but so much care, too… they’re so familiar. Echoes of bright points in a dark, forgotten place.

The next time The Fix looks back, Conrad clears his throat and tries to project his voice far enough to reach the henchman’s ears above. “Um, Mister The Fix?”

“Just The Fix is fine, kid.”

Conrad swallows. “Oh, okay. Um. Earlier, you wanted to know why I trusted you so quickly, right? I didn’t really know myself, then, but I think I’ve figured it out.” He scuffs his feet, the words faltering on his tongue as the memories come into focus.

“Oh?” The Fix is giving him an encouraging nod.

“I… I think I know you. From before we met recently, I mean. You used to come to Madame Loathing’s, didn’t you?”

The Fix blinks. “Yes, I did. I still do. But I don’t remember seeing you there.”

Conrad shrugs. “I usually kept to myself when I lived there. But you… you were impossible to miss.”  

The other children would always get so excited when their benefactor came to visit. Conrad stayed back, but he still caught the man’s endless patience as he listened to Ronnie ramble about snakes, as he watched Matilda practice her magic tricks. Still felt the draw of a grownup who really cared, a grownup who was kind.

“You used to nurture the wayward interests, didn’t you? You wanted to protect them so that they could grow.” Now that Conrad remembers, it seems so odd that he ever forgot. Then again, it’s been a long time since he ran away. And The Fix’s visits had gotten less and less frequent over the years. Conrad frowns. “But now… you just do whatever the DA tells you to do, and the DA only cares about the big guy’s job. What happened?”

“Hey now, nothing happened.” The Fix’s brow furrows. “I do what I do for the big guy, same as any other worker here, and after a while, he began to value ambition the most.”

“But you’re so strong. You could do so much good if you just—”

The Fix’s mouth twists into a grimace as he rolls a shoulder. It’s probably just in discomfort, and he doesn’t move forward, but Conrad still flinches back reflexively, and Justin rumbles a low growl in warning. The Fix’s eyes soften, the irritation vanishing from his face.

“People come after you a lot, don’t they?”

“Well… yeah. I get it, though. People don’t like a little kid telling them what they should do. Like I just did with you.” Conrad winces. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” The Fix shakes his head. “I’ll be honest, I’m not very comfortable with your mission to change the big guy’s mind. But you’re a part of the mind, too, and that’s your purpose. Maybe you have a point.”

“No, you don’t have to say that, I shouldn’t have—look, I’m not trying to blame you," Conrad stammers. "I can’t really talk, anyway. I know I’m kind of failing as the big guy’s moral conscience here—oh sorry, not that I’m saying you’re failing, but…” He sighs, shifting his weight. “Most people’s consciences talk to them a lot, and actually make a difference. I mean, even Justin’s always telling me I need to do more.”

“Wha—no, I told you one time that maybe we could be doing a little more than just switching the front page of the newspaper.”

“Oh, right.”

Justin nudges Conrad’s leg. “I know you do the best you can, and sometimes that’s all we can do,” he justifies.

Conrad’s eyes well up with a familiar emotion. He’s so lucky to have this dog by his side. “Justin, you’re my best friend.”

“You’re my best friend.”

The Fix kneels, interrupting Conrad’s move to give Justin a hug. Conrad is suddenly struck with an image of this mountain of a man crouching down in the entryway at Madame Loathing’s to let Jimmy the prospective gymnast clamber all over him. “I’m glad the two of you have each other; you’re both really good friends. But you don’t have to do this by yourselves anymore. I’d like to be your friend, too.”

Conrad flushes. “I… I appreciate that, Mister—I mean, The Fix.” He looks down, fiddling with the fraying strap of his bag. “But I still don’t know if I can do more, even with help. I’d like to, but the one time I tried and it actually worked, I—I got the big guy hurt real bad, and…” An innocent kid died. Ichabod. Conrad shudders, his shoulders curling in on himself. Things have been crazy, and it’s all his fault. The collapsed highway, the darkened switchboard, the eyes being closed… he might’ve gotten the big guy hurt again.

The Fix tilts his head, considering him intently in a way that makes Conrad want to squirm away. The Fix hums awkwardly. “You know, back in the 70s, there was this man named Edward Norton Lorenz who developed a hypothesis that contributed a lot to chaos theory. He theorized that Earth’s weather patterns are pretty much impossible to predict perfectly because, for example, the smallest changes in atmospheric pressure can build into storms, or a gust of wind can send clouds on a completely different path.”

Conrad looks to Justin for help, but his friend looks just as bewildered as he feels.

“What?”

The Fix sighs. “What I’m trying to say is, I think I was right. You’re important, Conrad—you’re the butterfly. And it’s okay if you feel like you can’t do too much right now.” He ventures a smile. Conrad gets a feeling The Fix doesn’t do that much. The smile’s a little lopsided, but it’s gentle. “Even the tiniest butterfly can make a big change with just a flap of its wings.”

Conrad’s eyes widen. His first instinct is to protest—history has shown him that he can’t affect anything. He doesn’t deserve to, anyway, after the harm he’s caused. But maybe that’s not exactly true. After all, because of Conrad—or at least, because The Fix saw Conrad, he went from blindly following the DA’s orders without considering the consequences to actively lying to his boss, giving voice to his old desire to protect.

It’s too much. Justin presses against his legs, and Conrad worries at his lip, resisting the urge to curl up into a ball on the ground. There’s something fluttering inside him, an unfamiliar warmth settling tentatively alongside the ever-present whirlpool of guilt. It’s weird. It’s kind of nice.

The Fix stands, turning to face the industrial lights of Occipital Park in the distance. “Come on, we should probably get going to meet up with the others.” Conrad adjusts his bag and takes a deep breath, straightening his spine.

“Okay.”

The Fix is reaching out to offer him a hand. He takes it.

-----

also on ao3 (if you'd like to give your local fic writer some contraband dopamine kudos :p)

[lorrainmorgan]

Sebastian just told Ominis about Anne being cursed.

Serpent's Confession

[ 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐮 𝐦𝐲 🐍 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 ]

Previous Part 11 Next

Read it here or Expand and enjoy!

“Your friend is burning, Mr Gaunt. Do not go and blame him for the smell of ashes”.

The three of them materialized at Professor Weasley's Office. Compared to the bleak and sterile building they had just fled, that room felt warm and cozy. The window was frosted over with snow, casting a soft glow across the room, and a crackling fire in the corner settled the room as a safe place to be. 

Lorra let out a deep breath, feeling the tension leaving her body as she sank into the plush couch in the corner of the office. 

-"I need a minute. I need a..." She trailed off, her voice becoming faint as she succumbed to exhaustion and fainted onto the soft cushions.

They gently placed her between the pillows and covered her with a warm blanket. Sebastian brushed a strand of hair away from Lorra's face. He hoped Ominis had come with a plan already.

- "This is serious, Mr. Sallow. Your friend here is not who we think she is. The problem is, she doesn't even know it herself. We are at a dead end here." Mrs. Weasley turned to him with a grave expression.

-"How could this even be happening? You said that wasn't her wand, professor?". Sebastian's voice was filled with disbelief as he stared at the wand poking out of Mrs. Weasley 's pocket.

- “The problem here is much more grand than I had anticipated." She paused, her eyes scanned the room before continuing, "I need to gather my thoughts for a moment. And as for her, let her sleep." Gently, she stroked the girl's red hair as she spoke, a troubled furrow etched on her brow.

Sebastian nodded and began to make his way to the exit. 

-“Oh, and Mr. Sallow?” Matilda interrupted his steps as he was about to close the door. “Stay close to your friends. These are hard times you’re going through, don’t neglect them.”.

Matilda Weasley was the embodiment of a loving and nurturing mother figure, always making time for her students and offering sage advice. Her presence alone was mesmerizing, and she seemed to possess the perfect words to heal any heartache or pain. 

Sebastian's footsteps reverberated through the cold, empty halls of the castle as he made his way down the Grand Staircase. The weight of Professor Weasley's words still hung heavy on his mind, threatening to bring tears to his eyes.

As he turned a corner, a low grunt caught his attention from a dimly lit alcove drawing him out of his thoughts. Intrigued, he followed the sound and soon noticed a trail of Bertie Botts scattered on the floor like breadcrumbs leading him to a hidden treasure. As he approached a dark corner, he noticed that a wall tapestry had been hastily moved to the side, revealing a hidden wooden door behind it. 

The grunts grew louder and more recognizable as he approached, filling him with a sense of familiarity. Without hesitation, Sebastian pushed open the door and stepped into what appeared to be a secret chamber. 

- "So is this our new Undercroft now, Ominis? What are you doing in this dark room?" Sebastian inquired, his wand casting Lumos, bringing a soft light into the shadows.

-"I clearly didn't realize the lights were off, Sebastian," Ominis replied with a hint of annoyance. "But to answer your question, I’m researching, and this room is closer to the library." 

As Sebastian's spell illuminated the room, it revealed a chaotic scene - scrolls, books, and papers strewn about in a whirlwind of disarray. Ominis quickly passed his wand over each item, sorting through them and tossing aside any that appeared useless or irrelevant. With a flick of his wrist, they were banished to a corner of the room.

-"How did you manage to find me here?" Ominis questioned curiously as he continued his duty. 

-"Unfortunately for you, my dear friend, your distinct tone and inflection is unmistakable. And let us not forget the trail of candy scattered on the floor like breadcrumbs. Ah, how nice it is to see you never bothering to clean up after yourself, your highness." Sebastian teased with a sly grin. Ominis just smiled with a smirk. 

- “I’ve found some information, Sebastian, is not completely clear… but it’s a start”. 

Ominis' voice rang out, echoing through the room as he read aloud the words written on a book in braille. 

“For the past decades, the most important pureblood families in Europe had meticulously crafted a document detailing their percentage of blood purity, and their plans for arranged marriages between them, in order to combine their bloodlines and achieve an almost ethereal level of purity.  

There was one family that was invited to join, but denied as for they had already reached a devine status, their blood atheral like the silver moon - The Le Fays”.  

With a flick of his wand, the blonde wizard swiped it to the left and another scroll appeared, levitating before them.

“Morgana Le Fay, the first true pureblood witch borned not from humans, but instead she emerged from the depths of water. There was nothing more pure than that - a direct descendant of the element that brings life to all living creatures. 

She was given the surname "Le Fay" due to her ethereal beauty and gentle demeanor, leading people to believe she was a fairy, rather than a witch.  

She, and many other witches and wizards were part of the court of King Arthur, and there, he met Merlin, with whom she had multiple descendants, each with their own unique magical abilities. The youngest of them, were two identical twin sisters, named Geneva and Igraine.”

Sebastian struggled to wrap his head around the information, Ominis’ words felt like a blur to him, as if he were trying to make sense of a different language. Gaunt cleared his throat as he passed to another scroll that had a small Family Tree. 

- "Miss Geneva Le Fay ( Unknown dates-No descendents)  Lady Igraine Le Fay, married Lord Gorlois, purebloods, only child: Lorrain Morgana Le Fay.  (1876 - Unknown) . Lorrain is the daughter of those lords as your cousin said, Sebastian. And that also makes her the granddaughter of Merlin.”

-"Lorr- Wait...you're saying that our friend is a direct descendant of the legendary Merlin? Like...THE Merlin?" his voice rising in disbelief. He could feel his eyes widening in shock, almost bulging out of their sockets.

-”Yes. There’s a scroll with more detailed information, now where did I put it?” 

An old dark blue scroll came flying into Ominis’ hands. Its contents revealed more details about the Le Fay family, including hand-drawn illustrations of their personal wands. Ominis runed his fingers over the images, absorbing every detail before thrusting it into Sebastian's grasp.

-”Look at Geneva’s wand. Carefully.” Ominous demanded.

-"This can't be. It's exactly like Lorrain's." They both knew no wand could be identical to another, which meant that it must be the same one their friend had been using all along. The shaft was a pristine white, adorned with a delicate spiral pattern that seemed to writhe and twist like living vines.

But it was the central inscription that caught Sebastian’s eye, a quote etched in vibrant red letters, pulsing with power. 

-"Semper in Potestate," He read under his breath.

-”That’s my family motto Sebastian” The blonde said slowly while his friend’s mind raced as he tried to piece together the information.

-“After we left the Ministry of Magic, Professor Weasley confirmed that the wand confiscated by the aurors did not belong to Lorrain. So her aunt was employed by your family and gave Lorra her wand? Does that make any sense to you? 

-"There's only one explanation for why someone would allow another person to carve something into their wand: if they owe that person a lifelong debt. But passing your wand down to a family member-." 

- “It is used as a form of payment.”  a third voice joined in.

Professor Weasley's presence in the room caught Ominis and Sebastian off guard, their minds still reeling from the conversation they had just been having. The room fell silent as she entered, her expression serene yet filled with subtle hints of impressed curiosity. She moved gracefully through the scattered books and scrolls on the floor, examining each one with a practiced eye. 

- “Worry not, gentleman. Nurse Bainey is making sure your friend can recover from… the treatment she was given at the Ministry. She’ll be alright. As for me, I was about to check on you two but it seems like you’ve been busy”. Matilda Weasley's soothing voice eased the tension in the cramped room. Her eyes glimmered with concern as she placed a reassuring hand on each of the two students' shoulders.

She then reached into her pocket, her fingers closing around the so spoken wand. With a determined expression, she withdrew it and placed it carefully on the table before them.

-"Now, let's see if what you've discovered is true," Matilda said with a hint of excitement in her voice. The three of them leaned in, eager to confirm their suspicions.

Revelio.  

A thick coat of something that resembled paint peeled off the wand, revealing the Gaunt family motto emblazoned in fiery letters at its core, burning bright and proud. The intense heat radiated from the wood, sending a wave of warmth through Ominis's hand as he reached out to take the wand. Flames seemed to dance and swirl within the letters, giving them a life of their own. It was as if the wand itself was alive and pulsating with power.

The professor's brow furrowed in concern as their suspicions were proven correct. 

-”Passing the wand to another family member before dying, when you’re in debt with someone, means you’re surrendering that person as well”.  She finally explained. 

-“Does that mean Lorra is indebted to your family too, Ominis?” Sebastian's confusion only deepened as he asked. 

-“No, it means she is owned by them. As far as this goes, I’m assuming Geneva left Lorrain as a debt payment before she passed ”. Ominis’ voice broke at those words. 

-"Geneva Le Fay passed away not long ago," she began cautiously. "So this must be a recent occurrence. Mr. Gaunt, have you noticed anything unusual happening at home?" Mrs. Weasley questioned firmly.

Home.  

The word felt like a curse on her tongue. It was not what Ominis would use to describe the Gaunt Manor. To him, it was a place of horrors and torment. More like a prison, where family members turned against each other, where love was replaced with humiliation and neglect, and where torture was seen as an acceptable form of discipline. He couldn't bring himself to call it home. 

-“Professor, I-I know my family's reputation may be notorious for their sinister ways, but I refuse to accept such a damning accusation without more proof” Ominis’ voice trembled with mixed emotions as he tried in vain to defend his family.

The Gaunts and their infamous ties to dark magic were well-known. Yet, despite knowing the truth deep down, Ominis couldn't shake off the lingering hope that maybe, just maybe, his family wasn't that savage.

But as he spoke the words aloud, even he could hear the desperation and denial in his own voice. He knew that his efforts to protect his family's tarnished reputation were futile. The truth would always prevail, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.

-”I’m not trying to insinuate anything young man, I’m ask-”

-”Oh for the love of Merlin Ominis!” Sebastian's voice rose in anger at his friend’s denial. ” They haunt muggles for sports, so stop defending them already! You’ve said it yourself! They’d used the torturing curse on you, the scars on your back should b-”

-”I know what my family has done Sebastian, thank you!. You should focus on yours for a change”. Ominis interrupted him.

There was a moment of silence. 

Sebastian's heart clenched as Ominis' harsh words echoed in his mind, hurting him like daggers, his face turned into a melancholy grimace as tears began to fall uncontrollably from his eyes. 

Ominis held his wand at his friend. He sensed a change in the air of the room, it felt heavy all of the sudden. Sebastian proceeded to confessed that his twin sister Anne, had been brutally attacked upon her return to Feldcroft for the Holidays from a School Camp. 

-”I’ve tried to tell you since I saw you at the library. That’s why I returned to Hogwarts. To inform the school, to inform… you.”

Sebastian's mind was a battlefield, filled with memories of Anne in agony. He wanted to lash out and scream at the unfairness of it all, punch something, to release the rage boiling inside him, but he forced himself to sit down and clench his fists instead, angrily stomping his foot, a meaningless attempt to control his raging emotions.

Ominis stood nearby, unsure of what to do or say. 

-“Your friend is burning, Mr Gaunt. Do not go and blame him for the smell of ashes”. The professor finally whispered gently into Ominis’ ear. 

That metaphor was the push Ominis needed to rush to Sebastian and enveloped him in a hug. Normally, the blonde was not one for physical touch, but this was beyond that matter.

-”Sebastian I am so sorry…I’-I” 

The two friends embraced, both struggling to contain their emotions in front of their professor. Sallow’s grip on Ominis' velvet shirt tightened, his nails digging into the fabric as he desperately clung to him. Ominis returned the embrace with equal force, their bodies pressed together in a desperate attempt to hold onto each other and keep from shattering. 

Piece by piece, Matilda saw their sanity slip from them. Not like a waterfall, but like a small leak in a pipe.

-”Gentleman, it is late, let us retire to our dorms and allow our troubled minds to rest. For it is in these moments of turmoil that we may say or do things we do not truly mean." Professor Weasley said before leaving the chamber. She didn't even bother to escort them to the Slytherin Common Room. She knew they needed this. Both of them.

After closing the door behind her, she began picking up the Bertie Botts she found on the floor, her footsteps getting lost in sobs and cursed words escaping from the room as she walked the lonely hallway.

Notes 👉 Ominis exploring his feelings and showing them to Sebastian for the first time for such a shocking situation is something I've always wanted to explore. 👉 Like I said in a previous post, exploring their friendship, their feelings and dynamics about their households and how it portrays in their decisions-actions is something that will be explored further in the chapters.

[hammerbonk]

secaF railimaF | Familiar Faces

For @definesanity ! Love this sopping wet mangy old cat you’ve created.

CW for: Attempted descriptions of bodily decay and gore?

Regulus… try as Vertin might, had never really gotten used to Oneself being in the suitcase.

She supposed it was a bit silly when you have a personified celestial body, a bunch of ghosts, mathematicians and half a dozen killing machines walking around the place, but something about seeing Vertin, her best mate’s doppelgänger lingering in the doorways stopped that Pirate’s heart every time.

Speaking of doppelgängers, she was still trying to wrap her head around all that. But Kaalaa Baunaa and Matilda’s explanations of Realms weren’t much help, and neither were X’s addendums to his own theories of the Storm.

However, Regulus knew that Oneself had her own suitcase. And as much as she freaked her out, she was also horribly, terribly fascinated by her.

So on complete compulsion, the Pirate set out on what might be her most dangerous voyage yet - venturing into the depths of Oneself’s suitcase, alone! She waited for the one day her unsuspecting target would be out — with Vertin in the Wilderness, apparently — and quickly sprung into action.

Creaking open the door to Oneself’s room, Regulus was greeted by rather plain surroundings. Even though it had been months since she arrived, Oneself’s bed looked barely slept in, and her desk and was completely bare as well, save for the odd pile of papers and stash of toffees.

That, in a way, reassured Regulus that she was a Timekeeper through and through.

But this was no time for snooping, and the Pirate hastened to locate her treasure with natural ease: Oneself’s suitcase.

Stepping into a suitcase while inside a suitcase? She couldn’t wait to see what would happen—

“Regulus? What are you doing?”

Necrologist’s voice cut right through her, causing her to turn invisible on instinct.

However, it also did cause her to jump, which meant losing her footing and have one leg plummet into the depths of the suitcase prematurely.

The last thing she heard was hurried footsteps and a muffled shout before everything turned black.

———

The first thing Regulus noticed was the putrid smell. It crawled into her lungs, nearly suffocating her as it dug into both her brain and stomach.

The second thing she noticed, after she gritted her teeth and looked around with watery eyes, was just how off everything was.

It was definitely the suitcase lobby alright, but the cosy, warm ambience it usually possessed had been replaced by cold darkness.

The strange floating picture frames lay scattered and broken across the floor, as did the many memorabilia and other oddities that once sat proudly upon the lobby’s rows and rows of shelves. The vast windows that should’ve given light to the room every morning were now stained, and also covered by… were those Shamir worms? And there were no more plants to speak of, just dry husks that give a sickening crunch under Regulus’s foot.

Somewhere that should have brought safety and respite instead brought a growing dread settling in her bones.

All in all, it made HM Prison Holloway look like Buckingham Palace.

“Thank goodness you’re alright, Regulus.”

Necrologist’s voice caught her off guard again.

“Blimey! I know you hang around with ghosts, but are you one yourself?” Regulus retorted.

But Necrologist gave no response, gazing off into the endless corridors, her demure expression replaced with that of abject terror.

“Necrologist…?” Regulus’s toned softened as she came to her side.

Silence dragged on. As much as she was trying not to be a wet blanket, she couldn’t help but dart her gaze back and forth from her anguished companion to whatever was beyond that sprawling darkness.

“It’s so loud,” Necrologist gasped, as if every breath pained her. “They see us; they want us to see them.”

Suddenly, Regulus was being dragged into the unknown, out of the lobby and down the endless corridors of the suitcase. Wait, she was vaguely familiar with this route. Shouldn’t this be the conservatory?

The smell here was even worse than the lobby, with all sorts of critters littering the floor. If the stench from before crawled into her lungs, over here it dug its claws in deep.

What should’ve been clean, polished floors were cracked and stained with a red so dark it was almost brown or black — blood, to her horror.

“We’re all here now. They’re here. You’re here.” Necrologist choked out, her grip on Regulus becoming nearly painful.

“Wh— ‘course I’m here. What are you on about—“

Whatever Regulus was about to say in that moment died on her tongue, for what she saw was herself.

It could’ve been. It should’ve been, judging by the body’s tattered dress, with its vivid colours faded and muddied to time. A tiny, shrivelled up bow and collar lay beside it, no core in sight. Regulus was thankful that the worst for her Chief Mate was long over, because whatever happened to his Captain was far worse.

She had been carefully sat up against the wall — that was the only explanation, since there’s no way she could’ve propped herself up with the state of her limbs. Her arms were so mangled that the faint bumps of her dislocated bones stuck out against the puffy sleeves of her jacket, which had been eaten at by the critters.

So had her face, which still had some sort of content look on its face despite whatever the hell had been done to it. Funny how even in death, she looked peaceful. A rock-and-roller to the end. That’s how Regulus knew that was her.

Everyone else had suffered similar gruesome fates, and had also been granted some sort of dignity in final moments.

Druvis, Lilya, Sotheby, oh poor Sotheby…

Wait. Where was Sonetto—

“You found them.” Oneself cried hoarsely.

Regulus and Necrologist spun around at the same time, face to face with the looming figure whose property they had trespassed.

But instead of rage or betrayal, they were met with… misery. Years of repressed grief that writhed beneath a wrinkled face, watering hollow eyes.

“They were always here,” Necrologist gently replied. “They never left you.”

It didn’t matter how different Oneself was to Vertin. It didn’t matter how forsaken that saint was, for there would still be followers for their ark.

And Regulus, her first follower, or would’ve been, knew exactly what she needed to do for the Timekeeper.

Unapologetically, Regulus seized the gaunt figure before her in a tight bear hug, while Necrologist offered soft words of comfort.

“And we’re here now.”

[greynatomy]

it’s you

kyra cooney-cross x reader

request from wattpad

been wanting to write a fic for kcc and it finally happened

———

After winning their first World Cup match, the Matildas do a lap to show their appreciation for all the fans that came out to watch them play. Kyra Cooney-Cross signs a couple posters and jerseys, thanking all she comes across.

Looking out to the crowd, she locks eyes with the most beautiful pair of eyes she’s ever seen. Stuck frozen in her place on the field, she can’t seem to look away. Charli, who decides to jump on her back, makes her look away for just a second to steady her feet again, looks back out to the crowd. Unfortunately for her, those pair of eyes that had her enchanted were no longer there.

On the coach ride back to the hotel, Kyra could not get those eyes out of her head. She wished she could’ve seen who those eyes belonged to. Charli could tell something was bothering her friend, wanting to help Kyra out.

During the quarterfinals against France, Kyra constantly looks to the crowd hoping to spot some familiarity, but having no luck. Not spotting those same eyes during the match didn’t mean Kyra stopped checking, barely paying attention to the game.

The match ended with penalties, Australia winning 7-6, making them move onto the next round.

Lookout out to the crowd, there you were again, Kyra locking eyes with you a second time. She moves her eyes across your face, trying to memorize all of your features, you plump lips to your button nose. You were beautiful. Walking towards where you stood in the stands, Katrina jumps around her excitedly, making Kyra celebrate with Mini.

After the small burst of excitement from both Matildas, she looks back up to the stands, but you were gone. Kyra hoping you would be at the next match.

The semifinals against England ended with the Australians broken-hearted. No one was celebrating, but still made the rounds to thank all of their supporters.

Australia then lost third place to Sweden, putting them down at fourth place with no medal. They were bummed, but they felt accomplished with putting women’s football out there. So, they celebrated with each other, with their fans, with their family.

Even through all the celebrations, Kyra was a bit down, not having seen you anymore the last two of her matches. She didn’t know if she’d ever see you again, kicking herself for not getting to you sooner.

A month later, Kyra moves to the North of London, having been signed by Arsenal. She was excited, especially getting to be on the team with her fellow Aussies.

The first day of training for the new season, she’d been welcomed to the team with open arms. Introducing and being introduced to all the players on the team was all smiles, Caitlin and Steph then walked her to the staff who’d she’d see basically everyday.

Walking Kyra over to where a couple cameras and lenses are splayed out, Steph gestures to a figure sitting on the bench occupied by her laptop.

“And this is our team’s main photographer. The best in the business.

Locking eyes with the photographer, Kyra freezes in her spot. It was you, the girl from the crowd. The girl who she couldn’t stop thinking about the first time she’d seen you. She couldn’t believe it. She finally found you.

“It’s you.” Kyra said in a soft tone, confusing her fellow Aussies.

“Hi.” You give her a shy smile.

Caitlin and Steph noticing the tension between the two of you, leaves you both be.

“I haven’t been able to get you out of my head ever since I saw you back home. Well, my home. Unless you’re also Australian, then it’s your home too.”

Your laugh breaks Kyra out of her rambling.

“I am Australian. Moved here a couple of years ago.”

“Uh, well, I’m Kyra.”

“Y/N. Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is definitely all mine.”

She shakes your hand noticing you to be shorter than her.

The next few days, you and Kyra often speak, her always finding a way by your side, her reasoning being that she finally found you and wanted to make sure you wouldn’t disappear again. You were fine with it because of all the pictures you get to take of her, also not minding all the time you had spent with her.

About two weeks after officially meeting, Kyra decided to ask you out on a date. You, of course, said yes. So, here you are, putting your finishing touches on, when you hear the sound of your doorbell go off.

“Be there in a second.” Putting your heels on, you open the door to be met by Kyra.

“Wow. You look beautiful.” She said in a breathy tone.

“Thank you.” You give her a shy smile, cheeks heating up. “You look beautiful as well.”

“Um, these are for you.” She holds out a bouquet of flowers. You take them, quickly putting them in a vase. “Ready to go?”

Kyra was the perfect gentlewoman. She opened the passenger door open for you getting in and out of the car. Pulling your seat out for you at the table.

Conversation flowed easily between the two of you at dinner. She told you about her family, her football career and she found out about how you became a sports photographer. You both also found out you were born just a couple of weeks after her, making her older than you.

Dinner was lovely. You insisted to pay half of the bill, which she declined saying that you could get next time. You teased her a bit about there being a next time making her flustered. Not wanting the night to end just yet, you two are taking a stroll around the city.

Seeing you shiver from the cold, she took her blazer off and draped it over your shoulders. Gaining a bit more confidence, she wrapped an arm around your waist, you leaning onto her.

On the drive home, she kept her hand on the gear stick, which you grabbed and intertwined seething your hands on your lap. Parking the car at your apartment building, she walks you to your front door, hands still linked together.

“Thank you for taking me out on a date.” You started.

“Thank you for agreeing to let me take you out. I’d also like do go on more in the future.”

“I’d also like that.”

“Okay. Well, goodnight Kyra.”

“Goodnight Y/N.”

She waits for you to close your front door to start walking back to her car, kicking herself for not getting a kiss. So she walks back to your door, giving it a knock, the door opening instantly.

“I forgot to give you your jacket ba—”

You’re cut off when you feel a pair of lips on yours, hands cupped on both your cheeks. After your initial shock, you deepen the kiss, wrapping your arms over her shoulders, her hands moving down your waist. Kyra pulls away first.

“I couldn’t leave without a kiss.”

“I’m glad you came back.”

You pull her back for a second kiss.

“Would you like to come in?” You ask, resting your forehead on hers.

“I’d love to.”

[angelasscribbles]

The Dark Kingdom Chapter 8: Man on a Mission

Series: The Dark Kingdom

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings: Riley x Max (although only Max appears in this chapter)

Word Count: 1,115

Rating: MA

Warnings for this series: mature themes

A/N: This idea was born from this ask I sent @alj4890. A flicker of an idea sprang into my head and over the next few days it just kept growing, so here you are, Max on fire. Happy belated Birthday!

My other stuff: Master List.

Maxwell Beaumont strode through the palace corridors on a mission. Two years shy of three decades of life, he was ready to settle down and take his rightful place as the heir to Ramsford. His brother would ascend the throne when their father stepped down, leaving Max to pick up the mantle of duke.

Russet brown hair framed a rounded face. Bright cobalt blue eyes that usually danced with good humor were solemn and ladened with worry as his five-foot-eleven frame barreled down the hallways without regard to the servants that scattered and dove out of his way.

He had to get to her.

Having just returned from Ramsford on Beaumont family business, the snippets of rumors and conversations that had made their way to his ears were troublesome at best.

“Maxwell, wait!” His brother bellowed as he chased after him.

The younger man ignored him, laser focused on his destination.

“Max, come on!” Bertrand heaved as he finally caught up. “She’s just run away again, like she’s done before. She’ll be back.”

“No,” his head shook vehemently back and forth, “She would not run away, not now!”

“Max. This wouldn’t be the first time—”

He stopped outside her door and spun on his brother. “I just saw her two days ago, Bert. We made plans! She did not run away!”

“What kind of plans?” Bertrand demanded.

A bit of the fury eased out of him as he replied, “Marriage plans.”

“Marriage?” Bertrand yelped as he stumbled back, “She’s practically our sister!”

“She’s not. And I didn’t grow up with her thanks to our father sending me away.”

“He merely wanted to ensure that you received the best education that—”

“Bullshit! I look too much like our mother, and I wasn’t stoic enough for the old man. I showed my grief and since he couldn’t show his own, he couldn’t stomach mine! That’s why he sent me away!” He turned back to bang on the door. “Riley! Riley! Open the door!”

“I’m telling you, she’s not—”

The door swung open to reveal not Riley, but a skittish young maid, “Your Highness?”

He pushed past her into the room. “Where is she?”

“G-gone, sir.” The maid squeaked out.

He whirled on her. “Gone where?”

She jumped, tears welling in her eyes, “I-I don’t know, sir.”

An older woman with steel gray hair inserted herself between them. “Young master, please, it’s not the girl’s fault.”

Max’s rage ticked down a notch or two as he took in the familiar head of housekeeping. “I know.” His eyes flicked back to the girl. “I’m sorry.” His attention returned to Matilda. “Is it true? Did she run away again?”

Riley had been a troubled child. Max knew nothing about her past prior to his parents taking her in. Riley herself couldn’t remember anything. She had seemed happy enough when Annabelle was alive. A year or so after the queen’s death, something had changed. Everyone chalked it up to grief. Riley had become withdrawn, jumpy and prone to bouts of depression. At thirteen she had run away for the first time.

But she was a grown woman now. A woman that he had fallen in love with. Deeply, madly, head over heels in love with. She had assured him she felt the same. She had agreed to marry him. They had made plans. They’d discussed the future, the colors for the wedding, possible names for their theoretical children.

There was nothing in him that would believe she had voluntarily left without telling him anything.

“You’re wasting your time.” His brother said from the doorway, shaking his head.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words died on his lips as his eyes fell on the sheets that had just been stripped from the bed. He surged over to the pile of laundry and snatched a pillowcase from the top. “Is this blood?”

“Probably from her hair.”

“What?”

“She pulled out a chunk of her own hair.” Matilda pointed to the trashcan.

Max dumped the contents of the can onto the floor, revealing a hank of bloody hair. He held it up, his body shaking as he demanded, “You think she did this to herself?”

“The king said that Lady Riley is prone to—”

“I don’t give a fucking damn what that old bastard said! She didn’t do this to herself!”

Matilda took a step back. She had been a maid in the royal household most of her adult life and she had never seen Maxwell angry, much less in the grips of a blind rage. “But sir… who within these walls would dare—”

The younger maid whispered, eyes wide, “The Esseri…”

“What?” Max gave her his full attention. “What did you just say?”

“The Esseri, sir…vampires—”

“Don’t be ludicrous!” Bertrand scoffed.

“Shut up, Bert! I want to hear what she has to say.” He dropped the hair and crossed the room to stand in front of her. “What do you know?”

“N-nothing! Just that the soldiers say her trail crossed the partition, but the dogs and horses refused to follow.”

Icy dread clawed at his stomach. It made sense. Who else could get past palace security? Who else could carry a grown woman out of the capital right under the noses of the King’s Guard? Who else could, or would, cross the partition? Turning in horror to his brother, he uttered, “They took her!”

“Max, we don’t know that!”

“They took her, Bert! No one saw or heard a thing! The dogs tracked her to the partition! What more proof do you need? Send a detachment into the Black Spire Mountains, now!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That would break the treaty. Based on absolutely nothing! She ran away, gave them the slip—”

“Bertrand.... Please!”

“Even if I wanted to, father would never agree—”

“Fine. I’ll do it myself. Move!” Maxwell pushed past his brother, shoving him back into the wall as he went.

“What? No!” Bertrand regained his balance and flew down the hall after his brother in panic, determined to stop him from undertaking a suicide mission. One that was sure to plunge the country into war, no less.

It was to no avail. He had never seen Maxwell move so fast. He gave up the chase and instead veered off a side hallway that looped back to the wing housing the king’s offices. Perhaps their father could talk sense into him.

But it was too late. By the time the king gave the order to stand down, a detachment of soldiers had already left with the young prince, marching headlong toward the black spire mountains, the Esseri, and almost certain death.

[hes-a-rat-whisperer]

“Reunion”

Fairytale!au

Although Felly had been gone for months, Mattie and Gossy had FINALLY received news from their husband that he would be home within the week! The two couldn’t be more excited, and decided to head down to the marketplace to find the perfect welcome home present for the handsome wendigo. As usual the two went down without any escorts, after all the two always felt their kingdom was safe enough!

Little did they know the hell that would unfold that morning…..

It all started when Matilda had decided to go into one of the tents to try on different special gowns, and of course modeling in them for her pretty puppy to see, when, while the young pregnant queen was getting changed, Gosgo was approached by an all too familiar face.

“Your highness!” The disturbingly chipper voice of the man who’d the king come across all those years ago, the one who sold Mattie to him. He was still much taller than the blonde, although older looking and with grey hair, but that disturbing knowing grin said everything. His name was Lord Lucien, and although slave trading had now been outlawed since the prince had met his future wife, it would see this scumbag was still around.

“You’re JUST the man I’ve been looking for! How have you been?”

Gosgo imediately frowned as soon as that horrible man´s visage entered his peripheral vision. "what are you doing here..?" the king´s tone sounded so dismissive, really unnatural for the always so chipper and friendly royal.

in fact, from the way he was saying it, it almost sounded like he was actually asking ´shouldn´t you be in jail?´

[knownangels]

ch-ch-cherry bomb

wc: 13.9k (yes ik)

It’s maybe a little early in the spring for a bonfire, but unless it served her well to do so, Matilda didn’t like to make a habit of swaying to the breeze of social decorum.

“You’re been staring at Benji down there for, like, forty seconds.” 

At the sound of her classmate’s voice, Matilda wobbles wher she stands. She turns (and Christ she really should not have had that last shot because it has gotten to the the point where the world’s started to turn with her) to face Claire. Or, slightly to the right of Claire. One tiny, totally unnoticeable adjustment to her posture fixes that mistake.

She clears her throat to lie: “I am not staring at Benji.”

“You totally are.” Claire laughs. “I mean, I thought everybody knew—“

Okay. Maybe her lie was not as smooth as she wanted it.

“Ew! God.” Matilda shakes both hands out, then giggles because she thinks: gross, cooties! “Claire, like. I’m drunk, not stupid? Or blind. I know. I’m — I’m not staring. I am chaperoning him.” 

Matilda spells out the word in the air with her index finger in prim, pretty cursive like a Disney star. Claire watches patiently although the p might get written twice and there seems to be some confusion whether the n isn’t two or three m’s instead.

“For what?”

Matilda scoffs. 

“He needs to talk to people more. And I really thought helping him get his little friend over here would help, or whatever.” 

Matilda fishes in her jacket pocket for her vape. Now that she knows it’s close, her stomach bubbles a bit and her words become clipped and sharp. Fuck, she needs to quit. 

She takes a longer hit than usual, fist closed around the familiar shape. The rhinestones encapsulating it rub against the pad of her thumb, a pleasantly grounding sensation. She squeezes until it starts to hurt a bit, and the night comes quickly back into focus. Claire watches, then its her turn to attempt subtlety and fail. 

“The cute one?” She asks. 

Matilda rolls her eyes. It is a sure-fire signal of Matilda’s depleted patience and slash or good will. 

“Oh my God, just go ask him out. He’s such a social butterfly it’s disgusting. You’ll get along.” Her eyes narrow. “Claire, were you just trying to sneak in a way to talk about him? You don’t care that I was staring — it wasn’t really like, even that much staring — you just were fishing for information on Maran.” 

“No.” Claire says, too quick to be honest. Her lips stay parted. Clearly, she has something further to add. But Matilda only turns that alleged stare on her, pulling at the vape again before primly crossing her arms. “What?”

“He was inside,” Matilda says, pointing with her eyes to the A-frame cabin she’d rented to host. Stupid fucking investment banker owner, trying to gouge the price threefold on one of those short-term rental websites. He had been so generous and given her night for free. And all it had taken was an emailed picture of her, face girlish and horrified, holding up a hidden camera she’d totally found tucked on a shelf in the bathroom. 

“Wh-what?” 

“He’s inside,” Matilda says again, voice rising snappy and high before she lets out a sigh. “By the drinks. Since you are literally frothing to talk to him.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder past the throng of partygoers dancing on the raised deck, down towards the lawn. “I’m gonna go see if mama bird’s doing okay.” 

Out on the grass below, people have begun to pull chairs and blankets to encircle the crackling fire. Benji sits a few paces away from the rest of the crowd, just outside a socially acceptable distance. He’s found a massive log, preferring not to use it as a seat but rather as a reclining feature. He sits on the ground, no barrier between his jeans and the damp grass. Even to her, who boasts his rare and coveted label of friend, Benji looks difficult to approach. 

She does it anyway.

Matilda marches down the steps, ignoring several prompts for pause and conversation. Instead off being lulled into a few chatting groups, she beelines towards Benji. 

His dramatic little spot isn’t far enough out that the night air has completely soaked the fire’s warmth, but it’s certainly chillier than she’d prefer. She tucks arms around herself as she drapes over the top of the log behind him, one leg knee-bent to nudge between his shoulders. Benji snorts.

She turns to look at him side-long, and gets caught out. His profile half-lit. Benji’s pretty anyway, but there’s something about where he hovers. The glowing circle of the fire doesn’t quite reach all the way, creating a few centimeters of liminal space where orange flickering dies into purple twilight. Benji’s sat right in that spot, and the lighting makes him downright, jealousy-inducing, disturbingly gorgeous. 

Matilda could tell him as much, but he’d scowl at her. Maybe even get up and leave. She doesn’t want Benji to leave. She wants Benji attached to her, clearly with her, her cool friend, her invitee, her guest. 

Fuck. She really shouldn’t have had that last one.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Matilda monotones. “Just me. I’m sure you were waiting for some other sad, lonely homosexual to wander over and like, My Chemical Romance meet-cute woo you to bed.” 

Benji doesn’t twitch, even though she thought that one was particularly good. Instead, he has what looks like a nasty smile pulling at his mouth. 

“When I opened the mixer cooler, all the ice was melted and lukewarm.”

Matilda sits bolt upright, her heart snagging in her chest. “You’re lying.”

“There was a fly in there, too.” Benji pouts. “Didn’t make it.”

“You’re lying.” 

“Yep.” He pops the p in a frustratingly charming mockery of her, vocal fry and all. “Don’t dish and you won’t have to take.” 

She could check him with her knee, pulled up to nudge right at the sensitive spot between shoulder and neck. She could pluck a hair from the top of his scalp and do a lie herself, marvel at it being gray. But Benji’s a youngest too; he’s anticipating all this. 

She takes what some might call the high road, but she prefers to call a strategic and temporary retreat. Matilda lies back down, lacing her fingers over her stomach. 

“You’re such an asshole. I was going to warn you that your Cabbage Patch Kid was getting slobbered on in there.” 

Benji twitches, then. 

Aha, she thinks. There’s the gap in the armor. 

The movement is just a slight kick of his foot out. A few fingers tightening on his own knee. But he softens it as quick as the tells had come: Matilda recognized that shuttering and admired it, the first time they met. 

Benji was so careful of himself, so in-control but charmingly messy with his demeanor. She wished she could pull it all together, pack it up, hide it away like he could, sometimes. She’s too proud to admit she takes mental notes every time they speak. She’s too honest with herself to deny that she knows she’ll never replicate that easy mystery, because with people like Benji it was natural. Unduplicable— undupli—

Matilda scrunches her nose, the word falling to bits in her head. Fuck, she should not have had that last drink. 

“He’ll live.” 

“Maybe not. Did you leave him with pedialyte? Not even a water bottle?” She pouts.

“He’s a big boy,” Benji says, although now he’s got just a tiny little note of worried guilt to him. Matilda beams evilly up at the sky. 

“I’m just kidding. I sent him off with my friend from class. She’s safe. And, like, I think celibate by choice, so if you’re worried—”

Benji groans and rubs fists into his eyes. “C’mon.”

“I’m just saying. We should be fine, but like—”

“Til.” 

“—he’s very cute, so anything could happen really, but I’m just trying to assure you I do have the money to cover a Plan B for him if he needs it in the morning, because you should probably expect—”

Benji reaches around deftly to pinch the sensitive skin behind her knee. Matilda yelps and rubs at it, eyes narrowed to slits just like his. 

Fucking youngest sibling behavior. She tells him as much. 

“I warned you.” Benji laughs.

It’s a nice enough sound she largely forgives him.

“He’s gonna have so much fun. We’ll give him,” she spreads her fingers against the night sky and tries her very best to emulate their accent. “The proper American experience, mate.” 

“You’re off it.”

Matilda nods and the whole expanse of the galaxy, the universe, starry gorgeous planetary system they rotate around spins even harder and faster than it usually is. She leans over the log to press her forehead to Benji’s cool, leather-clad shoulder.

“Do you want to hear the drag idea I had.”

Benji snorts again. His hand reaches up to brush back hair from her face. Just a moment before she was cognitively aware the curtain of it in her eyes was bothering. 

“Why’re you askin’ me? Your token poof, hey? Think I give a fuck about drag?” 

“You do.” Matilda says. She rubs her forehead on his shoulder. “If you’re not transphobic, you’ll let me speak my truth.”

“Oi! Don’t you think assumin’ I wanna hear your dogshit idea means you’re working a bit of the other ‘phobia there, mate?” 

“Mate.” Matilda parrots childishly. Youngest sibling behavior. “Well. Do you?”

A pause. Then:

“Yeah, a’right. Lay it on me.” 

“Blo.” Matilda intones seriously. She palms the side of his head, pressing her cheek to his temple at a strange perpendicular and tilting his face up to the stars. “Like, blow. Obviously. But Blo from Regressive. The insurance lady.” She gestures a circle around her head. “I’ll do the whole wig.”

“From those bloody stupid commercials?”

Matilda sights. “God, of course you wouldn’t get the vision. It’s too tastefully referential to everyday American media culture—”

“I’d rather hear about Maran’s’ night unfiltered than listen to you chat shit on your own genius.” Benji teases meanly, gesturing a fist at his hip. “I’d rather listen to Maran talk about his figurines—“

“Bioncles.”

“Til, what? He’s already got you sucked in?”

“I’m going to be worse than you.” Matilda admits suddenly. She has only had one single conversation with Maran. In her car, which they had picked him up from the airport in, there’d be no time to chat. He had been entirely engrossed in his catch-up with Benji. She had watched his face light up in the rear view mirror as they talked non-stop for the drive back to Benji’s apartment, where an air mattress and touch light courtesy of her online shopping return pile were waiting. 

But when Benji went to the bathroom at lunch — McDonald’s, because Maran insisted on trying the superior version of fries — he’d turned to her and beamed. Thanks her for the ride, her hospitality, her favor to Benji. Matilda had never met a friend-of-a-friend without it being slightly awkward, but Maran had something about him. He gestured to the toy display on the mustard yellow wall and had jumped into a regaling tale about McDonald’s toys from his childhood, and the little robot he had sat on his windowsill at home. 

And Matilda, who did not give a single fuck about Legos or building blocks or robot action figures or whatever the hell exposition he was explaining about the larger universe, had sat there and listened.

“What do you mean, you’re going to be worse than me?” Benji asks, yanking her from the reverie. 

But, prompted to explain, Matilda’s mouth dries. 

She didn’t really have words to describe Benji’s childhood friend just yet. He was probably one of the most charming people she’d ever met. And yet he had this flighty aura about him. Almost shy, but not quite. Not scatterbrained, either, because he seemed to be totally present in the moment. Maybe sort of sad. Sort of lonely, even surrounded by people. Even beaming, the way he did. 

It had always been sort of obvious to Matilda when a person had either no friends or a single person they held close. Maran had been looking at Benji in her reareview mirror as they chatted with the grateful reverence someone who had expecting to be on their own for awhile longer. 

“I mean.” She starts, and stops. 

Benji simply quirks a brow.

“Ugh! I don’t know, okay. I had like. Two franken-lemon drops.” She circles a wrist in the air. “Whatever replaced the vodka assault and batteried my sobriety.”

“Way to put it.” Benji chuckles. 

Matilda slouches to the side, nearly draping herself across his shoulders. There’s a lull in conversation from the other side of the bonfire as she rolls herself bodily into his lap. It is partially to find a softer recline than the log under her back. Partially to converse with him better,. Partially because she knows that nearly every person is looking at them, wondering about their quiet and intimate conversation, wondering what they could be talking about, wondering at the hidden aspects of their friendship and hoping it could be made public — or, maybe, have that feeling shared. 

Matilda swings her eyes around the circle of partygoers. They double and triple and bob and swim in her vision. She smiles. 

“You’re going to have to keep an eye on him.” 

“What?” Benji asks, elongating that vowel like a motherfucker. 

Matilda pushes up with a palm in the grass between his knees. He scowls at her, their noses almost touching. “Benji, I know you are totally dense about some things. I love that for you, really. I do. It adds to the whole —“ she waves her fingers in a circle chest-level. “That.” 

He glares at her.

Matilda sighs. “But honestly, it gets old sometimes! I’m just trying to be a good friend, okay? Maran seems like a sweetie.”

“He’s a nice lad, Til, I swear. Told y’we got up to it as kids, but we’ve mostly leveled—“

“I don’t care!” Matilda laughs. Her hands raise as if she’ll cup his cheeks and squeeze, but the warning glare on his face is enough to deter that drunken thought. “Benji. That’s not what I’m saying. Look, Maran is basically this little offshoot of you, right? And everybody here wants something to do with you.”

Benji scoffs again. This time, it’s ‘genuinely incredulous’ rather than his usual ‘moderately humored’. 

Matilda’s lip curls. “You’re so joking right now. Benji — oh my God, I’m not therapying you. I’m too drunk to even bother, okay, because that is a well to the center of the earth full of content to pick through and even the most seasoned psych would—“

“You’re full of fuckin’—“

Someone shouts his name. They both turn to look up towards the deck, where the voice’s owner stands backlit by the golden patio light. Whatever Maran calls down to him is lost over the thrum of a dozen conversations and the crackle of the fire. But he sports such a sweet, eagerly excited smile…

“Maran makes me feel like when you see a mortally wounded fawn on the side of the road and you know it’s going to just croak right there but you’re like, oh my God, I can help.” Matilda muses. “You know?”

Benji is silent for a moment before gingerly lifting her by the biceps to her feet, rising with her. He tucks a hand behind her neck and pulls her down for a kiss to the forehead, which Matilda tilts into despite the spinny nausea of being made to stand so fast. It’s the most affectionate Benji’s ever been with her, and she wonders if that is what Maran does — softens him. 

“And I need therapy?”

“I’m going to hate, like, every single girl he dates.” Matilda promises, voice hushed. “Not in a creepy way. In a cute roadkill way.” She holds up both hands, fingers spread like claws. “Stay away from my little fawn and his broken femur.” 

“Therapy.” Benji suggests. He holds a finger up. “Ah, water. Carbs. Sleep. Then therapy.” 

Matilda watches him jog across the lawn towards the deck stairs, which he takes impressively quick and two at a time.

And, a few weeks later at the sequel to that wildly successful totally illegal bonfire at a blackmailed rental, Matilda watches him descend the same steps.

The log has become their spot, of sorts. With every face Benji passes, she feels the thick rise of tension in the air like ozone; lightning on spiking her hair before a storm. It is so, so delicious — she turns her head and catches no less than three people staring at them as Benji lowers to an artfully lazy slump beside her. 

He’s so fucking blind.

But right now, he has the energy of someone who wants to gossip, so Matilda turns to lay her cheek on his shoulder. She maintains a sweep of the partying crowd. 

“Can I be honest with you?” 

Benji, who certainly knows what this is about, offers her a noise that is half grunt, half laugh. “G’wed.”

“I really cannot stand this new one.” Matilda admits. “In a way that makes me concerned about my own internalized shit. You know when you hate someone that bad?” 

Benji is silent for a long, working moment. Whatever goes on between his ears is lost to everyone but him. Then: “She’s sound, I guess.” 

It is way more diplomatic than Matilda was expecting. It’s way more sly than she thinks he means to slip. So she throws her head back and laughs.

Up on the deck, the sleight blonde tucked against Maran’s side —short enough to dodge his waving arm — moves closer. 

And although it would tickle her fucking pink to hear, Matilda isn’t close enough to catch what Fiadh whispers, anxious, in his ear: 

Why do I get the feeling Benji’s friend hates me? 

*

Years prior:

The step stool scrapes across nonna’s hardwood floor. Maran snaps into guilty shape before she turns to him, attention pulled from the kitchen’s ancient stone sink.

“Have I told you once or twice?” Nonna asks. 

Maran holds up two fingers. 

Nonna laughs, then catches herself. She wags her own wrinkled digit before wiping both hands on the faded floral apron tied at her waist. 

“Maybe even three, eh? Maran. Pick it up, care for papa’s hard work.”

“Sorry,” Maran says.

He does as requested, then walks himself up the steps beside her at the counter; in a year, he won’t need the stool. In four, he’ll dwarf his grandmother, even though she stands tall for a woman of her age. 

The spite, his mum’s disembodied voice whispers impishly in his head. That’s the ingredient. Maran isn’t sure what exactly spite is — he’s a bit behind the rest of his classmates, and tries not to let them see him trailing behind in the vocabulary workbook — but he figures that he shouldn’t ask Nonna. 

“Maran,” Nonna admonishes his apology. “Ah-ah. Per favore.” 

“Scusa, nonna.” Maran responds dutifully, but it’s not quite enough. Nonna narrows her eyes. He sighs, propping his chin on the cool countertop, and can barely hide the attitude when he corrects: “Mi dispiace. Molto, molto, molto.”

“Ah, marrona! Smart ass.” 

But Nonna laughs. She has a wrinkled and sun-dotted brown hand pressed to her chest in a youthfully ladylike gesture.

Maran has helped her in the garden, both of their knees and fingernails black from the soil; has helped her chop firewood for the stone oven on the patio; has watched her pluck a horrible, scary splinter from her finger after an afternoon of patching and waxing their old boat, made reliable from decades of unselfconscious and hearty care. She’s a woman that has worked nearly every day of her life — still, with that dainty hand accompanying the look of reproach, Maran has never felt more that she ought to be the queen of something, somewhere. 

“Tantissimo.” Maran chirps. He’s smiling, mischievous; genetics clear in their reflected, crooked mouths. And now he means it, really. He’s sorry a hundred times for not listening, for maybe scratching the floor. And he peers up at her with thick-lashed eyes, hoping that comes across. He’s never meant anything more (except for maybe later that evening when they’re sitting on the rocky beach with their feet in the lapping waves, watching the sun descend the water, when he’ll turn and see her cast orange and tell her if there’s ever a summer he doesn’t get to visit, he’ll die). 

“Oh, tantissimo, really?” Nonna flattens her queenly hand against her forehead now. “He is too above us. Mannaggia la miseria, he won’t eat at our humble table. Best we save all of this food for the common folk —“

Maran casts a quick glance into the sink. Fresh picked cherries, stems already plucked free, bob in the water. The original goal of his step stool. His mouth waters. 

“I said sorry,” he pouts, sneaking a finger to swirl the water. He debates on plucking a cherry, but none of them have been pitted yet. And also, he’d get a slap to the hand for it. But maybe…Maran perks up. 

“Can I have some if I help?”

And suddenly he’s scooped up in her warm, soft arms, feet dangling just an inch or so above the top step of her stool. Nonna smells like sun and salt and her coconut lotion as she lays kisses across his face. He’d be embarrassed, if any of his school friends were watching. But they’re not — it’s summer, they’re stuck home in rainy, boring Liverpool, and Maran gets to be here, with her, so he allows the attack. Giggles through it, even. He loves her so, so much. 

“Can he have some if he helps! What a good boy, my Maran. Here,” Nonna gestures. She hands him a tool he’s seen in the drawer, but never used. It’s made of two equal sized pieces of smooth, sanded wood. The stain has worn off in places, the grain light underneath. Maran puts his hand to those impressions. Although they’re much larger than his own palm, the use-worn nooks make obvious how to handle the thing. 

Nonna fishes a handful of cherries from the water. With careful instruction, Maran learns to nestle them one at a time into the hammered metal cup wedged between two bits of wood. With wrinkled fingers curled around his, he squeezes the device — 

Out pops the cherry pit, spit into the sink. The pulpy fruit still clings to the outside, feathering out in the clear water. It slowly begins to spiral pink. “Oh! Mum does this with a knife.”

Nonna tsks. “And I bet she has cut a finger. I told that girl to find her one.”

Maran picks up another cherry, proudly pitting it on his own. He examines the tool. “One of these?” 

At that moment, the back door swings open. Nonno barges in — loud and brash and heavy feet, as usual. He swings the parchment from the butcher onto the counter and pulls nonna into a barrage of kisses to the face, not unlike the ones Maran had just received. 

“No, Maran, one of these—” and then she’s laughing girlishly. Her husband’s big form crosses the kitchen to sweep her into a crushing hug.

Nonna says something to him that Maran isn’t yet able to translate — the words are too fast, too big, too messy and noisy and adult in their dialect for his beginner Italian to catch. 

“Maran!” Nonno barks, startling him out of his thoughts. Maran pits another cherry and lifts it up to show him. Nonno opens his jaw wide, snapping his teeth and pretending to bite at Maran’s fingers before the cherry disappears. 

“I think that they taste better when you do them!” Nonno whispers (although he’s never been capable, it’s still a yell in his booming, clear voice). 

“Chi si duci,” Nonna deadpans. She plucks the other pitted cherry from the water and tests it, eyes widening. “Wait, it is true. Maran has the touch.” 

And he’s old enough to know they’re being silly with him, making him feel good about being new at a task. Still, he beams as he pits the rest of the cherries and listens to their lilting conversation. He picks up what he can, here and there, but even though most of the words are lost to him he doesn’t feel lost. He feels right at home. Involved. 

When he places the bowl of cherries in front of them at the kitchen table, pitting tool in hand, Nonno beams. 

“You!” He says, and plucks Nonna’s sun-kissed hand from where it curls under her chin. “Every time it is used it, I am loved more.” 

Maran glances down at the pieces of wood, his thumb brushing the light spots again and again. He remembers the knife and chisel Nonno carries in his pocket, the spare in his work apron, the stark white raised scars on his dark brown knuckles. 

Oh, Maran realizes, but can’t name the realization. Oh, Maran feels something click into place, but can’t name what or where. 

“Maran,” Nonna says, snapping him from his thoughts. She’s not looking at him, but smiling gently at Nonno across the table. “You have permission to go find Giuliano and play until dinner. When you come back, we’ll have crostata ready to eat.” 

Maran loves crostata. He loves it so much he can almost smell it cooking right then. His posture straightens and he puts the tool on the table beside his grandparents’ twined hands, and then offers them a little salute and sprints out the door. 

*

Just the other month:

Maran has never traveled anywhere on his own, besides those annual trips to his grandparents’ home. That flight has barely changed in the decade and some years he’d been flying it. Even then, it’s quick — he always slept.

 On the international charter he takes to the States, Maran doesn’t sleep at all. 

He isn’t sure why he’s so nervous. Why, despite the anticipation and excitement months in the making, he suddenly feels a pang of something worryingly similar to guilt. 

It will be the first summer he doesn’t visit his nonna. Coincidentally, it will be her second year without nonno. 

When Benji had first invited him for a holiday stateside, nonna was the first person he told. He supposes now it was more asking permission. 

Live your life! It’s for you, anyway. 

Maran settles back in his seat, legs tucked. They’ll start to ache soon, give him pins and needle — but he’s too wrapped in his own thoughts to mind. He barely notices when the plane ascends. 

He wonders how she knows exactly what to say, nonna. Because lately, all he’s been able to think about is that he’s only been living life for himself. And even then, just barely. He worried that this decision to holiday was just another impulse-driven tick of the box. Doing things because someone asked, because it was offered, because the opportunity presented itself. If he was thinking critically, he’d spend the summer with nonna because potentially — it might be — she was getting up there, was all, and —

Maran swallows hard. When his eyes crack open, they scan not a beautiful seaside sky touched gold by sundown, but the dull grey cabin interior. The seatbelt light’s gone off, so Maran unbuckles himself. He pretends that the nasty, dramatic thoughts of nonna and the wiggle of guilt escape him. Like they’d been held in by the seatbelt and he had no choice but to think them. 

Except the anxiety lingers. It turns to other things: what if the plan went down, and what if it Benji was extending a pity invitation? What if the way he lived — impulsive, thoughtless — worried his friend. Was he living at all, really? No prospects, when he eventually returned to Liverpool. No school or certificates or job offers or apprenticeships. 

Nothing but a day and the next, aimless and unable to focus on anytihng but the scroll of a feed beneath his thumb. For fuck’s sake, last year he’d nearly enlisted.

He imagines Benji’s voice, dreamlike and mean, amongst his own thoughts: what would he do if he were alone? What would Maran do, left to his own devices? Look at all his choices so far. Barely choices, innit? Wouldn’t be anything responsible. 

The voice is meaner than Benji would ever really be, but he’s in such a fucking state that the anxiety rockets up another notch anyway. When the flight attendant next passes by, Maran gently reaches to touch her elbow. He hopes his smile is just that, not the grimace he worries betrays his mood. 

“I know this is so inappropriate.” He starts, already apologetic. “I promise I’m not bein’ difficult—“

Her dark eyes narrow in that service industry way Maran recognizes. Anticipatory. He tries not to wince and barely manages to keep sheepish smile plastered on his face.

“I’m getting a bit nervy,” Maran admits, as if it embarrasses him. It does embarrass him. There’s no reason he should be in it like this. He’s flown before “Haven’t flown before. D’you think I can get a little—“ he clicks his tongue, gestures with thumb and forefinger. 

“I’ll need to see identification.” The flight attendant says.

Maran stares up at her. “Wait, what? I look that young?” He beams. “Swear.”

She seems to be fighting a smile of her own. “Do you have it, or not?”  

He fights it from his pocket, blushing hot when she watches him pull it from a bright pink wallet. The top sleeve sports his big eyes, the iris color rubbed off by use. The bottom unfolds into his gaping mouth, and its from there Maran fights his card out. 

The flight attendant watches silently until its placed in her palm. 

“This isn’t a fake, is it?” She teases, gesturing to the wallet. “I think my nephew has that.” 

And then Maran has a little plastic cup half-filled with a mixture of Coke and rum — he didn’t particularly like rum, but he also didn’t particularly know anytihng about drinks, and this was the thing his girlfriends always ordered at a bar while Maran was stuck sipping at a pint he didn’t actually like. Might as well enjoy if he was also going to kill the nerves.

When he thanks the flight attendant (very sincerely, mind) she blushes. Maran doesn’t sleep even after he finishes his drink, but something about making her blush settles him more than the alcohol. 

He isn’t sure why.

*

A bit after that:

Maran whistles, low and impressed.

Benji’s only been at the flat for a few months, or so he claims. The incredible array of fucking mess could be attribute to a shut-in of several years. And diagnoses. 

For saying as much during their tight hug, Maran gets a solid thump to the back of his shoulder.

“Dickhead,” Benji says, but his sneer is missing. When they pull away, his eyes seem brighter than Maran’s ever seen them — especially in all the blurry, silly, nose-up selfies they’ve sent each other during Benji’s first year abroad. He looks…he looks happy, Maran thinks, and privately defends that as a regular show of emotiona for his friend. People tend to assume otherwise.

He has a bit of a hard time piecing together the fact that Benji’s happiness in that moment is a result of his presence. They’re best mates, sure, and that’s how it ought to be — but lingering on it makes little pricks of tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

“Don’t pop off.”

Maran huffs and socks him back. He’s hoping for that nasty look, maybe a fond and laughingly delivered insult. But instead Benji’s brow pulls. It’s that knowingly empathetic scrunch. He reaches for Maran again, tossing aside the duffel he’d slung about his shoulder to carry in. 

Nice of him, that walk up was four flights, Maran thinks as he’s pulled into another crushing hug. And then he starts properly crying.

He won’t pretend Benji’s own sniffle is quiet. Or that he doesn’t feel the eye-spaced wet spots growing on his shirt. They’re being babies, sure, clutching at each other and sniffling like its been a decade, not a year. Maran is incapable of pretending that doesn’t mean something. They’ve known each other since birth, after all. Earlier, if he’s keen to get philosophical. 

He can’t really piece together the fact that Benji’s happiness and his own presence might be related; lingering on that thought makes tears prick at his eyes.

“I missed you, mate.” 

“You’re my favorite,” Maran replies immediately. The words don’t pass through his brain on the way out his mouth, but he means them. Really, really means them.

Benji thumps him again. Naturally Maran socks him back. He’s hoping for a bit of a sneer, a laughingly delivered insult. But instead Benji’s brow pulls.

Nice of him, that walk up was four flights. Maran thinks as he’s squeezed tight. 

He even allows Maran to squeeze him back, and then they’re moving in a clumsy sort-of waltz circle in the center of what could be a spacious living area if the bastard could pick up after himself. 

Maran says that, too. Benji gives him another thump for it, but he’s also still sniffling.

“Mate.” Maran starts. 

“Fuck off.” Benji mumbles warningly, but it’s no use. 

“Missed you so fuckin’ much.” 

Another half-hearted swat to his back. “Oh, fuck yourself.”  

Benji does another soft little noise, one that gets Maran actually worried for the state of his shirt. But he gives a fuck, he gives a fuck, he can’t pretend not to — so he pulls Benji in for another hug when he backs off, stiff with embarrassment. 

I’m glad I wasn’t the only one lonely, Maran thinks. Benji, sometime I’m gonna ask you about that: do you get lonely? Is that normal? I think I care too much. And when I’ve got nothing to care over — 

Benji’s next noise isn’t a cry or a sniffle, but a wheeze. 

“Oi!” He snaps, laughing through their shared emotion. “M’fuckin’ lungs, man. Keep bein’ mean to me and I won’t invite you—“

Maran perks immediately. “Where? S’cool place, though. Say it’s cool. Oh, mate, are you taking me somewhere cool for my first night?”

Benji’s cheeks look warm beneath the yellowy light. He needs more lamps; they would make the place less sad and stuffy. Maran’s just opening his mouth to say as much when Benji pulls him in for their most crushing hug yet.

“What!” He wheeze-laughs, arms stuck to his sides.”Fuckin’ hell.”

“I missed you. Oh, fuck, Maran, I missed you.”

Maran warms a bit, too. In the hall mirror, over Benji’s shoulder, he realizes that tears and emotion have painted his nose a cherry-red.

Clown, Maran thinks fondly at his reflection. Worrying over what?

*

A couple weeks?:

Looking back, Maran isn’t sure if it was a romantic one-after-another of chance encounters moonlighting as capital S signs, or if the universe had been offering him him string after string of warnings. 

Everyone had urged him to have fun on this summer trip; Benji might be busy, sure, but that didn’t mean Maran couldn’t dive the deep end. How many opportunities would he have, anyway? Realistically, when would he ever be able to travel the world again? He hadn’t, unlike his best friend, had the foresight to set himself up a future. An educated or well-paying one, anyway. Hadn’t been smart to save or invest or open — what did Saha call it? high yield? — or get a bank. 

And, unlike Benji (yet again), he didn’t have a responsible and welcoming older sibling in whose footsteps he could follow. 

What he had was the money saved from a summer job (he’d planned on putting it towards driving lessons, towards a car). Maran had a friend on the precipice of a massive life change. Maran had — 

Maran had more things, for sure. He just couldn’t think of them at the moment.

But.

No prospects, really. No motivation. No path ahead. No job lined up. No dreams — at least, not for the nebulous, adult ‘future’. 

So although he was tagging along (as Maran did, he always tagged along, that was Maran, following), he was being a bit of a cunt about it all.

“Nah, it’ll be good for you. I feel a bit like a shit dog owner, yeah? Leavin’ you alone when I’m in class half the week.” Benji insists on Maran’s phone screen. In the little boxed background, Maran can make out a shelf and the telltale orange stained wood of public space furniture.

“You at the library again, mate?” Thanks to his mood, Maran sounds a bit nastier than he intends. Benji doesn’t seem to notice. Or, in his patiently diplomatic way, doesn’t care. 

Benji turns to look at the array of books behind him. “Bit obvious.” 

“You are a proper fucking loser,” Maran says sweetly. He pretends to be offended at the finger Benji raises.

“Who’s dropping an application off to deliver pizza—“

“You just said you approved and it’ll be good for me.”

“The exercise will. How much that piece of absolute shit cost you, man?”

“Couple quid.” Maran chirps, automatic. Then he frowns. “No. Uh. Dollars. Like, two hundred.”

“Scammed!” Benji hisses. “You been here a week and you got scammed by some fuck on Facebook. I told you to be careful.”

Maran sours even further. He doesn’t want Benji to seem his childish slouch, the moody tuck of his arms, the severe pout his mouth draws.

What are you doing, Maran? What are your plans? Have we just fucked off, no prospects, to spend a summer — what? Faffing about, doing fuck-all, being nobody, spending money you shouldn’t be spending?

It felt — it sounded— familiar. It sounded like—

Bastard. 

Maran silences the little voice with that, just to be wily. He musters up his own. He finds nonna’s, his mother’s, Kay and Saha all assuring him it would be good for them both. That Maran could have fun.

Have fun. Have fun. Have fun.

And what else? 

What else? 

Maran hopes the moment has stretched too long, too awkward; judging from the blank look on Benji’s face, it hasn’t. Or…he hasn’t noticed, bless him. 

“S’fine. Got the bike. And I’ll be careful,” Maran says. He beams into the camera. It isn’t fake, his smile. It’s sincere. It’s —

What else? 

They chat as Benji packs up his studying material. When he hangs up to enjoy his walk home in solitude (but not silence, he always has that fucking noise too high in his earbuds), Maran simply lays on the air mattress and counts the minutes. It usually takes ten and a half, traffic considering, for Benji to meaner across campus towards his flat. At nine minutes thirty, Maran abruptly stands. He drags himself from the bedroom, fixing his mattress-flattened hair. With a sneaky glance out the curtains, he confirms Benji’s making the final trek up the sidewalk towards the building. 

Then Maran positions himself on the couch, a book he’s never read opened halfway through and flat over his knee. He pulls his phone from his pocket, places it screen-up on the coffee table and open to a group chat that looks active from a distance but hasn’t been touched in two months minimum.

Look, Benji. I have a life outside you, Maran thinks, and lifts his head just as the front door rattles and swings open.  

*

Maybe a week after that: 

Maran doesn’t have a license, but he doesn’t need one to ride the bike. So he signs up to as many of the delivery apps as he can as a rider. Money he’ll need, if he wants to enjoy the stay at all and not loaf about on Benji’s dime. And something to do, because if he spends another Thursday afternoon by himself he’s liable to do something desperate. Like, join in on the mid morning pickleball matches that the complex’s elderly folk enjoy out on the lawn. Maran doesn’t even fucking know what pickleball is.

What he does know is that the hill is a fucking riot to shoot down on his bike, but a bitch to pedal back up at the end of a working day. He tries to go for the dinner rush only, and keep the trips short. But the tips roll in meager — cagey, stingy suburban fucks and poor college students make up the majority of his clientele.

Maran prefers his skateboard to the bike, which makes him use muscles in his legs but also his core, which he didn’t even know you needed to ride a bloody fucking bike in the first place. But he can’t ride the road on his skateboard, and the tips roll in faster the quicker he is between deliveries, and so he resigns himself to the hard work between parties and bowling and filthy underground shows Benji drags him along to as a plus-one. 

Occasionally, the good tip rolls in. Maran is quick to nab them up.

This latest one is a sizeable amount — shockingly good, considering the upscale neighborhood the app directs his delivery towards. 

Shockingly, considering the shiny copper roofs of the gated apartment community. Shockingly, despite the curling script font of the welcome mat: soooo happy you’re here! 

Maran sighs and braces himself to knock. The instructions hadn’t said leave at door, so he’s anticipating someone who wants to chat. Or be strange. He’d had a fellow open the door just last week, shirtless but for a comically large bib around his neck and a pacifier in his mouth. 

The girl that opens the door has neither of those things. But frankly, she’s pretty enough Maran wouldn’t blink twice otherwise.

“Hi.” He says, and stands there like a numb fucking idiot before he remembers the food in his bag. He slings it off his shoulder and to the ground, holding the girl’s eye as long as he can before slippery fingers on the zipper make him break it. 

“Um.” He straightens. Pauses again, because their eyes meet. She is pretty. Gorgeous, even. Springy strawberry-blonde curls that are long enough to frame a trim waist, eyes that are just a size too big that seem to twinkle up at him. Even the little wrinkle between her brows is pretty — oh, fucking hell. She’s frowning.

Maran swallows. “Name?”

“Isn’t it on there?” The girl asks, gesturing at the phone loose in his free hand. He’d been close to dropping it.

“Yeah, but—“ he fumbles the white paper satchel containing her food, barely managing to catch it mid air before it spills all over her sequin butterfly top. “Oh, fuck. Woulda fumbled that tip, huh?”

The girl laughs. He brightens too, even if it’s just a little giggle. Her eyes crinkle when she does it, but she hides what her mouth does behind her hand. 

“You’re nothin’ local,” she says as she takes the bag from him. Their fingers brush. 

“Sorry?” 

She flaps her hand, laughing again. Now she doens’t have one free to hide her smile. She’s got a gorgeous one of that, too. Teeth straight and white and just a bit too big for her mouth in as endearing a magnification as her honey-colored eyes. 

“Not local.” She says. She taps at her phone, bag propped on the swell of a hip for better motor control. Maran’s phone, still slightly slack in his hand, pings. She’s added another five to the tip. 

Maran tries to come back down to earth a bit, and process. “Uh. No. M’from—“

“Can I guess?” 

For the first time in their interaction, he notices her accent.

“Wait a second.” He laughs. “Hold on, ‘fore we go further with this.”

“Oh, further, are we?”

“Irish.” Maran says confidently. “North?”

“How dare.”

Maran laughs harder, his smile widening at her tone. She’s nice to talk to. “So sorry! I’ll guess.”

“I asked first.”

“Uh, Dublin.” 

“Easy cheat, that. Nearly everybody is. No, Cork.”

He pouts, watching a spot of color rise to each of her cheek. “Aw. I was guessin’.” 

“Let me take over for you, then?” The girl switches the bag to her other hip, and Maran tries not to let his focus drift there too long. “Um. Oh, I’m so shite at this. Ah, can I get a hint?”

Maran stares at her, perplexed. “What, me talkin’ s’not enough for you?” 

She blinks owlishly, then flushes even pinker. “Alright then, yeah. Liverpool.”

“Bit obvious!” Maran laughs. He hadn’t been aware until just then that he’s leaned against her doorway. He jumps back from it, sheepish. “Aw, fuckin’ hell. I’ve got to get to others— you were on the way—“

“You make me feel very special,” the girl cheeks. She hefts the food up, because the bag is rather full and she’s nearly a foot shorter and proportionate in musculature. That is, to say, not owning much at all. Her straining bicep flashes a bit of ink below the sleeve. 

Maran glances down at his phone screen. Then back up at her, smiling. “Fiadh. Nice to meet you.”

Fiadh giggles when he tips a fake hat, bowing low. She peeks at her phone, then sets a storm of butterflies in his gut: “Maran. Let’s run into each other again.” 

He’s stunned from words by the easy, sweet confidence of her tone. Maran stares at the flat orange color of her shut door for a moment long after it’s been shut in his face. Then he lets go of a deep breath, turning from the door before slipping both hands over his wild, smiling face. 

It isn’t until he’s back at his bike that Maran realizes he’s left the cherry milkshake from her order to melt in the drink holder. 

*

Day or two, maybe: 

The three of them stumble into the on-campus diner far too late in the evening. It’s university affiliated, which stateside Maran has begun to understand means massively inflated money-wise, but the food’s the best they’ve found so far. And by best, of course, the greasiest and fattiest most disgusting post-bar hop food available. 

Maran is picking at the remainder of their wings when Benji abruptly stands, teetering slightly on his feet. He spreads both palms on the laminate table, prompting Maran and Naima to look up.

“You okay, chief?” Naima asks. She sounds (and looks) the least sloshed of them. Her handmade crochet top, loops tastefully open to show skin, doesn’t have a single smudge of wing sauce. 

Maran pouts down at his own shirt, wishing Matilda were there — she always carries one of those handy little stain pens with her. He wipes at his mouth, uncomfortably anxious that he’s got stains at the corners like a child.

“Yeah, Benj. You good?” 

Benji, who has stood there silent for a long moment, shakes himself. His eyes swim somewhere halfway between the pair, then swing towards the corner of the diner.

“Ah. Needta piss.” 

Several heads turn their direction; alcohol always fucks with Benji’s volume controls. But thankfully, all the other patrons seem either too eclipsed in their own business or alcohol levels to care.

“G’wed, then.” Maran prompts. He flaps a hand at Benji. “Well. ‘Fore we gotta give you a new nickname, Benj.” 

“Piss King Supreme.” Naima intones. 

“PeePee Palanivel.” 

“Fuck yourself,” Benji says, pointing at Naima. He sways as he turns to Maran with the same finger. “Fuck yourself extra.” 

“Don’t get lost!” Maran calls, equally at odds with his volume controls, as Benji teeters towards the door marked with a stick figure in a top hat. 

The second he’s up and out of earshot, Maran spreads both arms across the booth towards her. 

“Yes?”

Naima sips her Coke, knuckle pressed to the deep sleepless circle under her left eye. It’s Thursday night, which means tomorrow (today, if it’s past midnight?) is Friday, which means she’s got an early morning lecture, which means she’ll hit totally Benji-like levels of cranky if they stay up much later. He mentally strikes off the idea to ask her if she’d like to go see a late movie.

“M’gonna die alone.”

She wrinkles her nose at him. It looks a mix of humored, intrigued as to where this conversation will go and why Benji couldn’t be around to partake, and exhausted with his antics.

“Man, what? You sneak another drink when I wasn’t looking?”

Maran shakes his head innocently. The room spins once he’s done, and Naima sucks her teeth.

“Are we doing the late night existential loneliness thing?” She swirls her straw. “Ugh. Why’d you wait for Benji to get up? He’s the expert.”

“Ha.” Maran snorts, momentarily distracted from his own self pity. Then he sobers a bit…just not much. Whatever had been in those drinks at her friend’s house party were strong. 

“Oh shit.” Naima says, slow and sage. “You weren’t joking. That’s only forty percent alcohol talking.” 

Maran peers down into his plate of suddenly unappetizing fried food. He thinks of all the truthful things that he could tell Naima, in this moment. But she hates giving advice. Secretly, he knows, hates being responsible. Hates when people box her into the mom friend category. The perpetual eldest sibling.

Maran doesn’t know what that is like. He does, sort of, considering Saha. But — 

That’s one of the truthful things. And they usually start with: when Benji’s gone, I’ve gotta stand on my own Like, as a person. As an interesting person, with something to say. When Benji’s gone, I feel alone, sometimes. Even sat across you, Naima. I wish I had little siblings to poke at me for more than I can give. I wish I had more friends here, not that you and Benji and acquaintances and the party regulars and stuff aren’t enough. It’s enough. It is enough. 

Why doesn’t it feel like enough?

Maran blinks. It’s sluggish to his brain slurry, but probably normal. Silently, he turns both arms palm-to-ceiling, fingers spread beseechingly.

Naima sighs. But she puts her own hands, warm and dry, on top of his — although there’s a slightly dubious quirk to her brow.

“Hypothetically—” 

Naima sighs and begins to retract her hands. She scowls a bit when Maran encloses her fingers again.

“Motherfucker. You are out of it, Maran. I think we can cross off vodka from your list.” She casts a dramatic, searching look over her shoulder. “How slow does that guy piss?”

“Hypothetically,” Maran insists, whinging for her attention again, shaking her hand. “I mean, am I dataeable?” 

Naima pretends to stand. 

He wails (admittedly too loud) as she tries to pull away.

“Fuckable, at least?Naima. Nai, come on.”

She’s trying to be put-off by the question, but she’s predictable — Naima’s always had a weak spot for the sort of humor that puts her on the spot. So they’re both grinning and giggling as she tries to get away from the booth and he nearly tumbles off the side seat, shoulders shaking.

They’re drawing a bit of attention, but no more than drunk, grease-seeking college kids at a diner. So the blush on Maran’s cheeks isn’t as full-force as it could be. 

“Can’t take you two anywhere.” 

Maran cranes his neck to see Benji stood there, arms crossed. He is clearly, judging from the lifted brow and smile pulling at one side of his mouth, assessing how quickly things have fallen apart in his absence. 

Maran grins up at him. “We’re wallowing. Y’should join, mate.” 

“Don’t look like wallowing.” Benji mumbles, nudging Maran back into the corner of the booth so he can slide in again. 

“It wasn’t wallowing.” Naima announces. The words are mischievous, leading. Maran narrows heavy eyelids at her warningly, but she ignores him. “Mar was just begging me to fuck him. It was real weird.”

His jaw drops and a shocked, embarrassed noise escapes him. “You!” 

“You!” Naima accuses in turn, pointing at him. “You gonna look Benji in the eye and lie to him? To that face? Look at that face, Maran.”

Maran cannot.

“Gotta be careful with this one.” Benji says. His tone is evil, even. “Has a reputation.” 

Maran’s just drunk enough that it stings, a bit. He knows it’s a joke — knows Benji would never lob something like that with an insult intended. But…but the drinks were strong —

“Nice job.” Naima says.

“Huh?” 

“You are so dense.” She insists.

Benji leans over to peek at him, but Maran only tucks his chin down into his palm and turns away. 

“Did you just hmph?” Benji asks, incredulous. Maran’s temper bubbles at that laugh.

“I don’t have a fuckin—“ 

“Excuse me.” 

All three of their heads whip to the side at the introduction of a new, unfamiliar voice. Maran, head swimming and still emotional, sort of likes the sound. And when he sees who it comes from, he likes the sound even more. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” The blonde lifts her fingers just above her hip, which he chooses to interpret as a subtle wave meant just for him.”Um, I’m glad you lot are having fun, but you’re being really loud.” 

Benji and Naima pull faces in unison, staring at the freckled face. It’s familiar to Maran, but not them; they share a quick conversation contained in two twin looks: the audacity, then, wait — are we actually being that loud?

 “We’re really sorry,” Maran says. There’s a quiet, grumbling chorus from the other two that he ignores. He casts a shyly embarrassed glance around the diner; people stare back, some angrily. 

“It’s Waffle House on the outskirts of a college town at —“ Across from him, Naima pauses her grumble to reach out and check Benji’s watch. “One twenty-five in the morning.” 

Fiadh crosses her arms, but it doesn't look intimidating the way it does on Benji. She looks like she’s trying to hug herself, and her mouth is twisted into a strange pout, and her eyes have gone a bit shiny. 

“I’m not trying to cause any issues, alright? My friend just had a rough night — like, a proper rough breakup.”

Maran glances between them. He can see the debate play out on Naima’s face; keep arguing, cause more of a scene, be the bad guy even though it is sort of silly to expect full quiet in a restaurant like this one. Or let it slide. It’s only a matter of tension for Naima because her stubborn streak is wider than Benji’s moodiness.

Maran turns back to the recognizable face. “I didn’t get your full name, last time?”

Beside him, Benji snorts and leans back in the booth so Maran can talk more directly to her. “Last time.” 

Beneath the table, Maran digs his heels into Benji’s ankle until that loftily amused noise becomes pained.

“Why do you need my legal name, Maran?” 

Naima and Benji share another look. He tries very hard to ignore the fact that they’re privy to this interaction. He wishes it was just the two of them, him and this beautiful girl that seems interested in speaking. 

“Um.” 

“So he can look you up on the ‘gram,” Naima fills in. She wiggles her fingers. “See if you’re one of those Bible verse in the bio types.” 

“I was not—“

Beside her, Benji snorts.

Maran stands abruptly. It startles Fiadh, even, who jumps away from the end of their table. Over her shoulder, a gaggle of other girls —her friends, presumably, who are pretending to not pay attention— move as one single-felled unit. They all lean forward, all narrow their eyes, and Maran realizes he s not the only one with an audience.

“D’you want to go for a walk?” Maran blurts. He casts a glance back down at their unfinished food, at the spot in front of Benji’s arm which is staining the laminate diner table a buffalo chicken orange. He’s embarrassed, all of a sudden. He isn’t sure why.

Fiadh, in a fluffy neon furred coat that matches the color of the glitter carefully applied to her eyelids, smiles at him. He’s a bit stunned by it — not just at the wattage, or hypnotizingly shy coax to it, but that she gives it to him at all. Him.

“Yeah, sure.” 

*

Twenty minutes, ish: 

“It’s a bit rough, I hear.” 

Maran tilts his head a bit. She looks very pretty, even under the ebb of harsh street lights — he’s not sure what that means, really, only that Saha was always complaining about it growing up.

Fluorescence is a sin.

“What? Liverpool?”

Fiadh giggles behind her hand. The balloon in Maran’s chest swells and bursts at the sound. He hopes the grin remains normal, even though it doesn’t feel it.

“The way you say that — great. Yeah, Liverpool. Where else?”

He laughs, a bit shy. “It’s nice. I miss it. Honest, found it impressive that you guessed point-blank. Some people can’t distinguish, y’know? As distinct we think it is. Haven’t been used t’people pickin’ up on it much, over here.” 

“They guess London?” 

He slaps a hand down on the table, eyebrows raised. “Would you believe?  Me, posh. But, yeah. To answer you, yeah, it’s nice. Miss it.” Maran’s stomach twists strangely. He feels a strangely defensive need to give his hometown to credit. “Really though, s’not, like…more rough than anywhere else?” 

Fiadh blinks up at him, honey-brown brows tilted slightly. 

He considers for a moment, then flips his palm ceiling to floor and back. “Right, well. Okay, maybe a bit. Certain places. That’s anywhere, though. You ask the right person and you’ll get a great rant about why that is. Lots of, y’know, industrial exploitation and immigration and —“

Fiadh’s brow is no longer pinched. Her grin more humored than it was a moment before. Maran snaps his mouth shut.

“You the right person, then?”

There’s an unreadable note to her voice Maran can’t place.

“Not for that one, no.” Maran says. He squirms in his seat a bit. “M’best mate, Benji — he goes here, too. Nursing. Oh well. Not, like, same I guess. Nursing’s on main, and you said you were a bit ways up the road, at the STEM campus. Anyway. Benji’s the right one to ask about all that sort of stuff. ‘Bad’ neighborhoods and housin’ and crime and — fuckin’ hell. Talk your ear off on it, you get him going.”

“You have that in common, then. Fiadh says. 

Her demure grin drops at the expression Maran makes at that. “Oh, no! No, oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that—“ She reaches across and tucks her slim, ringed fingers into Maran’s. Her skin is smooth, slightly tacky from the lotion she’d put on when they came inside. Maran feels his grin bounce back, and squeezes her hand.

“Naw, don’t worry. Do that all the time.” He chuckles. “I mean, the rantin’, but also — also saying the wrong thing, yeah? Worry about it always.”

“Always,” Fiadh insists in agreement. Her voice is so pretty and soft, even more attractive with the lilt of her accent. He’d really like her to say his name again. “I’m so glad you get it, Maran.” She blinks at him for a moment, then ducks her head so that a strand of curly gold falls into her eyes. His chest feels loose, all of a sudden. 

“I’m so glad we met.”

“Yes.” Maran breathes back, and then shakes his head a bit. “I mean, yes. Me too, yeah.”  

*

Two hours later, in Benji’s flat, almost sober:

Naima stands at the foot of his air mattress in a pair of Benji’s briefs and an oversized shirt nabbed from Maran’s plastic drawers serving as a dresser. 

“You what.”

“Walked her home?” Maran asks, not sure why he’s asking. That’s what happened. He walked Fiadh home.

“Probably a good thing,” Benji calls from the living room. 

“Stop eavesdroppin’, bastard.”

“Stop fumblin’, bastard!” His best friend shouts.

“Shut up, both of you.” Naima suggests. “It’s almost four in the morning.”

Maran tilts his face up at her, and she gets that sibling look about. Without prompting, Naima rounds the mattress to sit on its edge. Maran rolls dramatically towards her as the air rebalances him, pitching himself into her side She smells like whatever spicy, neutral scent Benji’s body wash has and that he is largely obtuse to. She smells like the lingering drip of too-sweet maple syrup poured from a diner bottle. She smells like the pine out front, as if she and Benji had accidentally tumbled against it on their own drunk walk home.

“What’s up, Marvin?”

Maran smiles slightly, tilting his forehead into her hip. He likes being babied, likes that Naima won’t do this with just anybody, likes that he gets a hint of what her sister mode looks like. She only ever calls him that silly nickname when its jsut the two of them. And despite the thin walls and Benji’s nosiness, he’s gone silent in the living room. 

“Thanks for talking to me.” Maran says earnestly. He’s sobered up in the chilly night air, enough that the words are strong and sincere. 

Except Naima reaches up and pats his hair, warm palm brushing past his hairline to tuck at the crown. With that leverage, she pulls him up to plant a kiss to the center of his forehead. Maran can feel a bit of residue there from her dark lipstick. Dark Cherry Kiss, or something. He’s watched her apply it in the mirror before a night out. 

“Don’t be silly, Mar.” Naima says. Her voice is lilting and quiet. Affectionate, but humored. Maran’s stomach sours. 

Like she’s assuring a child. 

“i’m not being—“

“You are,” she insists, kissing the same spot on his forehead again. Maran resists the urge to wipe it off. “And I’m telling you there’s no reason to do that, okay? Get some sleep. And there’s water on the floor if you need it.”

Thanks, he withholds. He thinks maybe he does that out of spite. 

* 

Twooo…three days later?:

Maran is delivering again. 

The notification for Fiadh’s address is half down the list of orders, and it’s out of the way, but he’s thinking in Benji’s voice, in Naima’s knowing laugh. Before he knows it, he’s tapping the accept order button. 

He waits: sat on the sofa, legs tossed over the arm; slumped until his spine hurt in one of the rickety kitchen stools; starfish spread on the ground, phone screen to his forehead. 

And then finally, there’s a little ping that signals the app is connecting him with the customer. 

Fiadh: Not to be insane, but I was hoping it would be you. Is that stupid? 

Maran: I’m happy to be delivering your order today :thumbs_up: also no, it’s definitely not. I have maybe been thinking about you a bit.

Fiadh: Just a bit? 

Maran: Alright, fine, yeah. A lot. :blushing: 

His phone pings again.The restaurant’s finished her order, and now he’s got to go pick-up. Maran practically skips out the front door, sticking his upper half back in to grab the keys he’d forgotten.

And he nearly trips down the steps. Maran stares at the latest notification at the top of his screen, knuckles white where they clutch the edges.

! Customer [Fiadh] has added items from secondary pickup location. This location is on your route; the amount from this order will be added to their customer total, but delivery specialists do not receive a second payout. !

Customer [Fiadh] has added the following items to the order: 

- 1 pack evergreen mint gum

- 2 BoomBam energy drinks, very berry and lemonade

-  1 pack condoms, medium 

Maran fumbles his keys in the ignition once, twice, three — swear — four times.

*

Ten minutes later:

Maran feels more than a bit awkward waiting for the door to open. He dries his free hand on his thigh. The plastic bags around his wrist dig just shy of painful; he’d doubled bagged them. With how fast he’d taken the stairs up to Fiadh’s floor, they’d spun and wound themselves tight around flesh. 

The door cracks, and Maran abruptly stops fidgeting. 

It’s her cute slippers he notices first. Leopard or cheetah or the markings of some other big cat, the faux fur lining them almost too fluffy.

Then Maran’s eyes drag up the rest of her. 

Maran blinks. She’s wearing a too-big shirt that reads Take me back to Cabo! Richard n’ Karol 2016 in peeling, faded letters. She’s wearing those cute slippers and a soft looking, her silly Cabo too-big shirt —and not much else.

“Uh.” He glances down to the bags around his wrist, then peers back up at her with a sheepish shrug. “I was going to ask if maybe that was a mistake…?” 

Fiadh’s big, pretty eyes pop wider. “You still think —“ She pinches the bridge of her nose. For some reason, the curl of her lips makes something nervous slip into his stomach.  

Is she laughing at me? Maran briefly wonders. But only briefly, because a small fist knots in the front of his own shirt and yanks him across the threshold. 

*

Three weeks later:

“Why—” Maran tries to place it. “Endocrinology.”  

She laughs. “Wrong one. Entomology.”

“Bugs.” Maran offers. The blunder pinks his cheeks, makes his foot tap.”I guess, insects? Use the respectable term, right? S’like,” he laughs, and is the only one of them to do so. Which makes him laugh more, awkward and hard, which dissipates whatever shred of humor remained of the bombed joke because Fiadh’s only silent and staring at him with her big, deep eyes. 

“Well.” Maran breaks off before he carries on — s’like, is bugs a slur? y’think they get offended, prefer insects? wouldn’t that be funny, you get chewed out because you’ve broken some insect social blunder, who’d you think is the most formal of ‘em, if you had to guess, but you don’t because you study ‘em, so ladybugs, for sure, and cockroaches probably —

“Well,” Maran says again. He tips back until the playground horse’s spring groans under him. Somehow, even that sound is embarrassing. “Whatever. Fuckin’ hell, I’ve had a bit much, I think.”

“I chose it because I liked butterflies as a kid.”

He blinks at her. He expected to continue filling the awful void himself, until she tired of it and left. He was always sort of waiting for Fiadh to sigh in that way of hers, stand with her arms pin straight at her sides, and walk off in exasperation. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes,” Fiadh answers from a thousand miles away. Her mouth quirks in one of the softest, most genuine smiles he’s ever seen. “We had this greenhouse — more a conservatory, really, the size of it.” She has the decency to cast a sheepish glance askew, out over the woodchips. “One year da had monarchs shipped in. The caterpillars, I mean. Danaus plexippus.”

She pauses, peeks at him, then beams because Maran frees an impressed whistle as cued. 

“Big words in endocrinology.” 

He laughs. “I’ll bet! Not like either of us know. So — the caterpillars.” 

“Larvae, technically.” Fiadh says. He wrinkles his nose. “The most interesting stage.”

“You’re getting to the part where they’re all pretty n’orange, not squirmy?”

Fiadh huffs a laugh — she always does that, just a little bit of a breath. Barely a noise. Sometimes he wonders if it’s purposeful; if she knows what he wants, a proper laugh, and withholds it; if she can tell that he needs it, in a way. 

“Right. So he’s got them sent in, you follow? Tells me it’s my job as lady of the house to fill it up with plants and butterflies and the like. We’d gone to a butterfly house in Denmark when I was — oh, eight, hell, just a baby.”

“Made an impression, I guess. Lifelong learner out of you.”

Her mouth pulls strangely. “Suppose. Sometimes—”

It’s a perfect night for this sort of conversation. Humid enough that his shirt clings a bit, but not muggy. A breeze gentling across the field, strokes of shifting grass blue in the moonlight. He feels the shift in her tone, in the mood of their discussion, like a change in the wind. 

Maran slips himself from the horse contraption, eyes glued to Fiadh where she sits on her own. She’s sleight against the backdrop of the chain link fence: hair fluttering in picturesque wisps, the soft and pale angle of her upturned nose absurdly perfect as if drawn. 

He tries to be quiet, but shuffling towards her across the woodchips proves the effort’s misplaced. Whatever memory or winding thought has transfixed her nearly breaks, but Fiadh doesn’t move as he approaches. She shifts only slightly, thighs tensing as Maran slips in behind her on the spring-bound creature. Her hand rests on its — a badger? a beaver? — forehead, thumb stroking a circle. The place she touches must have been touched similarly by a thousand other thumbs, because it’s shinier than other parts of the old play attraction.

“Maybe I’m a bit more sloshed than I thought, too.” 

Maran hums, chin tucking to a shoulder, arms around a waist, honey curls touching his nose. It’s humid — with them pressed together precariously balanced on the teeter-totter animal, it’s worse. 

But she draws a breath like she’ll speak more, if he’s just quiet. So he is. 

“Sometimes.”

He can’t help it. “But not often?”

“I think it was nice to have a thing.” Fiadh’s gone again. Her eyes are far off on the dim and foggy horizon. Dragging the rest of her, thoughts first, with them. Maran thinks he might not even exist to her as it unravels:

“It’s like when you tell a family member you like something— or even, they bring it up first and you barely express interest, really, but then that just becomes.” Her wrist stirs the air, fingers splayed like the explanation is tucked between the webs. She’s so pale the moon turns that thin skin purple; blood and night sky. 

“Your thing?”

“Right.” She faces way from him, but Maran can hear that bit of her voice about to break. “Sometimes I don’t even know if I’m into it at all. Or if it’s comfortable. If I’m just doing something I know, just…coasting?”

Maran isn’t sure why he shivers, but goosebumps prick at his arms uncaring of his awareness. He brushes a hand down her arm, tracing the path of a dragonfly’s thorax and wingspan even though he can’t see it well: it was one of her earliest, he remembers, so that’s why it’s faded, and that’s why it’s also his favorite. 

“Y’got all these guys, though.” He points out. “That’s commitment, yeah? Passionate, not coastin’.”

Fiadh slumps into his chest a bit. “I’m not so sure.” Suddenly, she twists at the waist to find his gaze. “If I say something awful, will you judge me?”

“No,” Maran says immediately. Maran responds before processing frequently, but he’s mostly sure he means that ‘no’. Mostly.

“I like telling people.” Fiadh admits. It’s a flurry of words just as quick as his assurance. He wonders (briefly, and guiltily for even that split second) if they might have come out regardless of his answer.

“Telling people?”

“That it’s what I’m studying. I feel like everyone’s got this image of me, yeah? Like,” she spreads both hands, index and thumb ninety degrees, to frame a portion of the sky above. “Real specific but totally inaccurate. I know what I look like, and I think people assume. I use my brain just like anybody else, sometimes better.  So I like when people think I’m smart. I like that they look at my and don’t expect bugs.” 

“Insects,” Maran corrects gently. 

Fiadh is quiet for a moment. Then she wrenches herself from Maran’s arms, nearly clipping him sensitive with a knee as she heaves off the rocker. 

Backed by a big, sparkling, romantic moon,Maran can only stare up at her. She’s worked up from something,maybe speaking, her eyes bright and wide and —maybe, he worries, terrified?

Maran smiles at her as soft as he can manage: I get it, keep talking, keep explaining, I’ll do my best to understand, I want to know, I can understand, I can make it better if you want, I know what to say—

“What if I’m meant to do something else, you know? Something bigger, or even better or something —something.” 

“Somethingsomething,” Maran sing-songs, humoring himself.

“Somehing not studying wings under a microscope and pinning for display and identifying instars in freshwater populations and egg cycles and living in an apartment that—“

Maran rather likes her apartment; it’s the fanciest one he’s ever been in, all light (vulnerable, stainable) wood and stainless steel and new appliances. 

“—a covered parking space, drinking cup after cup of leftover pours and going-bad mixers and no job prospects besides conservation or preservation and barely a social life and dating —“

Maran blinks at her. She blinks at him. Then Fiadh bends and retches into the woodchips.

“Oh.” Maran says helplessly. He’s standing, suddenly. His stomach feels cold.

She tries to speak between pathetic, sniffling heaves. “I—too much— oh, the worst. I’m —the worst.” 

She’s not, her assures her, she’s not. She’s so far from the worst they’ve got to come up with a new unit of measurement just to find the distance, he assures her. She jdanced a little too hard, but she looked very cute doing it, he assures her, he got a very cute slow-mo of her jumping in a circle, he’ll send it to her. 

Maran orders the car. Maran assures her. Maran shuffles her to the elevator of her building, assures her and the doorman he’s meant to be there. Maran gets her water and a pill,gets himself one of each after he’s done assuring her, tucking her in, pulling the sheet to her chin because she keeps the apartment at a cool sixty-eight even when she’s gone because she’s sensitive to heat—

Maran pulls the sheet back down to her stomach, because she’s sensitive to heat, and she’s just been sick, and she’s laying there staring up at him with the saddest eyes he could possible imagine. He assures her right to sleep. He assures her with a thumb circling the back of her hand, held in his own. He assures her and imagines the spot goes shiny, but that his is the only thumb that polishes it. 

Dating— he’s thinking as he falls asleep on her couch, even though he’s more than welcome in the bed. The couch is comfier, firm where the bed sawllows him, sinks him into uncomfortably expensive depth.s.

Dating—he thinks, eyes shut, memory and its embellishment giving him a vision of the little spindly veins in her hands as she stretched towards the moon. 

*

Sometime later:

It doesn’t take long, after that. He isn’t stupid — he can tell the second it happens. Rain checked brunch. Museum tripped pushed the next week. A phone call unreturned. Hours between texts, when usually he was hard pressed to get her to stop. 

At a party a few days after they decide friends is better, he’s venting. 

“And it was mutual.” Maran tries not to let himself sound bitter or sad ora’s fucking hurt as he is, but it’s difficult with the taste of the mixed drinks still heavy on his tongue, in the back of his throat. “Well.”

“That’s such a lie, dude. Like it’s always a lie. No offense. Someone wanted it, someone didn’t. Or, fuck. Someone wanted it less.” His fresh friend tilts back nearly off the railing they lean against. They’ve meandered a few blocks from the house party towards a public park. It’s more a square of greenery between two criss-crossed streets, but there’s a bench and that is enough of a qualifier for Maran. 

“Been through it recently too, then?” 

“Hah. I guess — not like this. But kinda.”

Maran tilts his chin back, head loose on his neck. “I just don’t get it, y’know?    Like, m’not planning on staying so…all’s fair, right. But I don’t know how she can go from tellin’ me, oh, Mar, I’ve never connected with someone like this, I thought I was going to be alone.

His drinking buddy sits upright beside him on the bench. A massive hand flattens to his chest, nudging him back against the wrought iron perhaps harder than it means to.

“Oh that is —that’s wicked fucking eerie, dude, I had like almost the same thing said to me.” The other man shoves a hand back through his hair. “Almost word for word. Jesus H., it’s probably from some stupid viral top ten ways ways to nicely break up with someone you’re too scared to admit you fell out of love with or were never in love with at all TikTok.” 

“Psychopaths.” Maran blinks at his new, nameless friend. “You sound, man?” 

He shakes his wild mop of red hair. 

“Peachy keen.” His wide-split smiling mouth twists curiously. “Why don’t we say like…cherry keen, or something? Peary keen?”

Maran sticks his hand out with a grin, pumping his new friend’s much larger on. “Banana-y keen.”

The other boy barks a laugh, charming and brash and too loud; nobody says a word about their volume control as they go on and on, until they run out of fruit.

*

At the beginning:

“Whoa.” 

Maran stumbles against the sudden grip tight around his lower arm. He’s two in. Benji cleared out not twenty minutes ago, so he’s alone and skittish but hiding it well, would be hiding it well if he had another—

“Leggo of me, man, fuckin’ hell.” 

Maran wrenches himself away from the grip, his face set in an uncharacteristic frown. He knows he looks angry, looks unapproachable, looks as though he’s not willing to have a conversation when all he really wants is for someone to fucking say something to him, anything, anyone. 

Maran turns to the person he’d bumped into, then pauses.

“Oh.” 

Benny’s forehead wrinkles with his hitching eyebrows. “Christ, Maran. K-Kill a guy with enthusiasm, will you?” 

Maran nudges around his shoulder, peering behind the wide set of Benny’s shoulders towards the drink table behind him. There’s a variety of bottles and mixers set out. Two women with short-cropped hair stand behind the folding table, twin-like in their choice of leather jackets despite the humidity.

Briefly, he remembers Naima’s fluttering dramatic sigh before they departed the flat: Matilda’s butch barmaid bouncers are going to be back.

“I’ll be a bit more enthusiastic once I get at those l’il beauties.” Maran sing-songs, pointing at the table.

Benny turns at the waist. His button-up sleeve strains a bit against his bicep, cutting into skin in a way that looks uncomfortable. Maran reaches out and tucks a finger into the taut fabric, pulling it away. 

“Don’t think Jules n’Stella are your t-type.” Benny quips, turning back to look down at the finger tucked into his shirt and then back at Maran’s face. 

“You’d be wrong about that,” one of the women crows. Maran feels heat sweep into his face when her shrewd, pretty green eyes dip down him. “Come hang out with us for the rest of the party, sweetheart.” 

Benny tucks an arm around Maran’s waist abruptly, tugging him a stumbling step closer. They touch flush from thigh to shoulder, Maran slightly tucked into his chest. He freezes, but Benny doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Ooh, stop it you.” He squeezes a broad palm around Maran’s shoulder. His middle finger, ringed by a band of steel with a silly skull welded to the middle, digs uncomfortable into Maran’s collarbone. He could move away. It hurts, and he could move away, but — but—

“I just want another Cherry Bomb.” 

Benny glances at the list of drinks Matilda had typed up. “Zombie. Cherry Bomb. Rumming up that Hill. One Way or Another…Shot. Oh, fuck. Matilda is a fucking l-loser.”

“I think they’re funny.” Maran mumbles. “They’re all lady band songs.” 

“Lady band songs.” Jules or Stella echoes. “Benson, leave him with us. We can be trusted. You can trust us with the super cute little—”

Benny hisses like a cat, lifting his other arm to tuck around Maran and pull him in even tighter. It’s not like his hug with Benji, or Fiadh tucking herself against his chest and asking if he’s mad, if he’ll quit his job at her father’s pool, if they’ll keep talking, if he’ll leave her alone, if he’ll hug her again.

Maran sways a bit, and Benny readjusts to keep him upright. They stumble together towards the exit. At least, Maran thinks its the exit.

“Wher’we goin’?” He asks, suddenly sleepy with the overwhelming scent of — pine, maybe, the woods, something salty like an ocean spray— “Are you wearin’ cologne? Smells nice.”

Benny pauses briefly. Then, somehow miraculously shouldering the door open, dodging an influx of new partygoers, and keeping them tight together, they stumble out into the cool night air. 

“We,” Benny announces, finally taking space for himself and allowing Maran his own bubble back, “Are going to go load up on ch-ch-chili cheese dogs.” 

Maran’s stomach flips. He puts a hand to it. “I might puke.”

“Maran, baby.” Benny slaps a hand to his back, nudging him a step forward into the night. “Pukin’ the dogs back up is ninety p-percent of the American dream.”

Maran smiles wryly, thinking of Benji’s bitchily pulled brow and mouth open to rant. “I thought that was trickle down economics.”

Beside him, Benny is silent for so long a moment that Maran tilts his face back from the breezy midnight air and opens his eyes. When he does, Benny’s hair rustles in the wind as he turns away. It brushes his cheek, and Maran’s stomach flips again.

“I love those t-two, but I will fight them—“

“I might actually be sick—“

“Sh,” Benny says, cupping the back of his neck. He rubs there a second, and Maran floats off elsewhere on— on the wave of nausea from the drinks. He had too many drinks. He had too many, for sure. “I will fight them.” 

“Don’t gotta fight nobody.” Maran assures. “They’re nice n’all, real flattering. But I like you better, don’t worry mate. You do the magic tricks.”

Benny pauses their sidewalk march and turns Maran towards him with hands on his shoulders. Maran blinks owlishly. 

“You’re goddamn right I do the t-tricks.” Benny intones. His voice is low and earnest, theatrically approving for Maran’s ears and his ears only. “You are goddamn right.” 

Maran isn’t sure what to do, then, other than laugh.

“Cute socks, b-by the way.” Benny points out, once they’re a ways down the street. The dim glow of the downtown district looms at the top of the gentle hill. At one point in the spring, Maran had struggled to peddle up it.

“Thanks,” he says, still beaming for some silly reason. “There’s little cherries on the bottom. Can’t remember where I got ‘em.” 

“Nice, nice.” Benny says. He drops his arm off Maran’s shoulders, but keeps his strange waltzing gait even with Maran’s so the brush every so often. It’s comforting. Maran doesn’t feel alone, in the cool night. “You have a good time?”

Maran thinks about this question. He thinks about it more than he’s thought a lot of decisions through, recently. Then he turns to offer Benny a smile with his answer: “Yeah. A blast.”