#the absence of fear (and other lies we tell ourselves)

[little-cereal-draws]

What happened to Steven in the Duat

[sacredpyre]

PROMPTS FROM FOURTH WING*  assorted dialogue from the novel, adjust as necessary

“A dragon without its rider is a tragedy. A rider without their dragon is dead.”

"Fly...or die."

“This place cuts away the bullshit and the niceties, revealing whoever you are at your core.”

“You look all frail and breakable, but you’re really a violent little thing, aren’t you?”

"You gave me your heart, and I’m keeping it."

"I’m going to keep you. You’re mine,"

"Only if you’re mine."

"I’ve been yours for longer than you could ever imagine."

"I don’t deserve you. But I’m going to keep you all the same."

"Blades aren’t the only way to disarm an opponent."

"Nature likes all things in balance.”

"Lust and logic never seem to go hand in hand."

“Strength of courage is more important than physical strength”

“The right way isn’t the only way.”

“Hope is a fickle, dangerous thing. It steals your focus and aims it towards the possibilities instead of keeping it where it belongs -on the probabilities.”

"Fear is not the enemy, but rather the catalyst for growth and bravery."

"In the darkest moments, it is our light that shines the brightest."

"The only limits we have are the ones we set for ourselves."

"Strength is not defined by physical power, but by the ability to persevere and adapt."

"Sometimes, the greatest battles are fought within our own minds."

"Forgiveness is not forgetting, but rather freeing ourselves from the chains of resentment."

"Success is not measured by material wealth, but by the impact we have on others."

"Courage is not the absence of fear, but the willingness to face it head-on."

"The path to greatness is paved with determination and unwavering faith in oneself."

"We are all connected, and our actions have the power to inspire and uplift others."

"Patience is not passive waiting, but a strength that enables us to endure and overcome."

"The past does not define our future, but it can shape the strength and wisdom we bring to it."

"Our deepest fears hold the potential to become our greatest strengths."

"Love is not a weakness, but the most powerful force in the universe."

"True success is not achieved alone, but through collaboration and lifting each other up."

"Believe in yourself, for no one else can determine your worth."

"Failure is not the end, but a stepping stone on the path to success."

"Happiness is a choice, and it is found within our own hearts."

"Our scars tell a story of resilience and survival, a testament to our strength."

"Wisdom is not gained overnight, but through a lifetime of lessons and experiences."

"The power of our thoughts can shape our reality."

"Every ending is a new beginning, an opportunity for growth and transformation."

“Lies are comforting. Truth is painful.”

"I will not die today.”

"I wouldn't be standing here if I'd quit every time something seemed impossible to overcome."

“Don’t borrow tomorrow’s trouble.”

“None of this is worth it without you.”

“You can't make me fall for you and then die.”

“You’re making us look bad. Stop it.”

“There is no me without you.”

“Going for blood today, are we, Violence?"

“Coming in last is better than coming in dead.”

“I am annoyingly aware of everything you do.”

"There aren't enough curse words in the word for this.”

"“Tell him if he harms you, I'll scorch the ground where he stands."

"I would rather die than harm you, and you know it.”

“When did I ever give you the impression that I give a fuck what people think about me?”

“But if we let fear kill whatever this is between us, then we don’t deserve it.”

“If I asked you to stay behind, would you?"

"I try not to pick fights I know I can't win.”

“Justice is not always merciful.”

[pizzee]

Fic recommendations

i saw a post ab this on this tumbleweed website and figured I’d slap together a quick list. All of the works I recommend are on my AO3 bookmarks but I know some people don’t use it as a primary fic source. So, i’ll link some here i think everyone should give a gander!! They are primarily Moon Knight (of course) but I also include some personal faves from other fandoms under the cut that I think are just fantastic storytelling. You don’t need to know the fandom to read them, trust me

(PS!! I’m only linking one fic per writer, but deffo check out their other works if you like what you read! These are just my faves :))

MOON KNIGHT FICS:

- The Absence of Fear (And Other Lies We Tell Ourselves) by Pokimoko    

- 10,000 Lightyears Somewhere Out In Space by Tiptapricot  ​

- Of Eggs and Fatherhood by LintillaTheArchaeologist ​

- dance lessons by mmummydust

- your grounding touch (through the turbulence) by mockspector (jude_fell)  ​

- with roses red come lilies white by bartonbones

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

OTHER FICS (legit novel quality works):

- flight of the navigator by sagemb (Iron Man/MCU)

- Hearts and Their Consumption by setepenre_set (Howl’s Moving Castle)

- A Feather's Edge by Boomchick (FF7)

[ernestofparis]

I was physically assaulted today.

I’m a night owl, and that means I go out at the middle of the night, put my headphones in, and allow the night soul of the city to meet me. I’ve done this a million times.

This early morning, almost getting home after a rather interesting adventure, I feel arms wrapping around my neck. They slowly pin me to the floor, when the second wasted cumshot of a guy appears, holding a gun. The usual; they tell me to shut up, to give them my wallet (which I didn’t have at the time) and my phone, asking also for the password in a probably fake Venezuelan accent, probably to discredit them. I was too scared, so I fumbled and wasn’t able to give it to them (maybe for the better). This caused him to beat me with the butt of his weapon. Next thing I know, the cunt that hugged me from behind was showing me my broken chain with my medal, stained with my own blood, telling me “look what you did”, as if the blood was his. He was even claiming my blood as his own, while blaiming me for spilling it. He then starts to take my jacket off. They let me take my ID and my keys, then to leave me on the ground. I ask them If I can take out my SIM card, and the guy in the gun tries to help, but just can’t be bothered. I watch them walk away. I then realise they took my headphones too.

There is too much to be said and felt. These escapades du flâneur were sacred to me. These nights were sacred to me. That path was sacred to me. They violated them by rendering me helpless to their inability to make a living in a decent way.

And then, all the feelings of anger and revenge that turn me into an animal, making me probably worse than them. I still know I’m better, because I restrained myself. And there was the silver lining:

My restraint somehow led my mind into a rabbit hole that concluded in the most necessary and strange of gardens. I find my higher self telling me, inside my mind, swearing to God and ourselves, that all the lies that my family, my schools, and the narcissists that have come into my life are not true. He’s begging me to believe him, and miraculously, after years of struggling to get out of the black hole of depression and self assured insufficiency, I realise that it’s true: They’re lies, warped by those who refused to see me, and woven by my own despair to go along. And suddenly, like my jacket, that fabric was gone, and its cold absence shows me my real reflection in the most objective mirror I’ve ever gazed myself into.

Don’t ask me why this happened then; why did such violence catalyse such a path in my mind. But it did. And along the other things I’ve been learning recently, I can now see how the hope that I’ve lately gotten back will come to be.

Right now I’m processing the first stages of trauma. At first it was waves of anger and aggression directed towards the poor bastards that don’t know what else to do with their lives. But now I’m starting to feel the helplessness, fear, and notes of despair of having gone through that. And I’m tired. I feel defeated. And yet, it feels normal; I’ve just gone through a traumatic event. But above that, it feels ok because I can see the field of wheat that I’ve been promising myself for years, just outside the walls of the magnificent, cold and dead castle that has been keeping hostage all these years.

I guess I’ll always have the castle. But it’s time for me to get out on the world, so I can come back to fill it with the life we both deserve.

[snailsandpuppy-dogtails]

The Lies We Tell Each Other, The Lies We Tell Ourselves

It's work in Progress Wednesday, but since all my things are a work in progress, you can just have the whole fic instead. Part two of I Just Called To Say (Smut) This is obviously also smut. Luke/Penelope WC: 9,841 AO3

They didn’t talk about it after that night and neither called the other the rest of the case, Penelope reeling from what she’d done and what after would look like, Luke struggling with the guilt of it all and feeling like he’d completely fucked up the thing they finally had going where she didn’t outwardly hate him and wasn’t shunning him.

Recently(enough) single, and away on a case, you called your not-so-sober teammate and pushed her into phone sex. Good fucking job.

The second he woke up the next morning a sick pang rippled through him. It started low in his gut, spreading up into his stomach and across his lungs until it found his throat, a knot of nerves and bile settling in the center there, a fist constricting low below his navel.

Guilt.

It was guilt. Guilt over the act, not really sure what compelled him to think something like that would be ok to ask her to do. They weren’t together, he knew it was bound to be a one time thing despite what he may want, and the fact that he wanted for her at all when he should probably still be hung up on Lisa or mourning the loss of their relationship, at least outwardly, he felt like an ass.

He tried to twist it mentally; it wasn’t even really like anything had happened, nothing physical…Nothing either couldn’t deny. It was still something she could forget and move on from, erase as if it never happened.

He wished it weren’t, but he knew better. He knew she was practical under the layers of cute and kitsch, she wouldn’t become entangled with a teammate. So he needed to put any thoughts or hopes of continuation out of his mind.

He would never be able to do that. He didn’t want to do that, but they still had a case they needed to work.

An apology gift, he decided, would help right things, something to say he was sorry for putting her in the position he had, one where she might have felt even a little bit objectified, exploited. Where there was even a possibility of her having to confront those things now, a strange balance to offset the awkwardness.

Which is why two days later back at the hotel, still on the case, he found himself scrolling the pages of a luxury body care company.

It made complete sense.

Sure, the obvious gift would have been a cute little addition to her desk, something like the cat he’d gotten her after Vermont, but those were trinkets, just mindless clutter. She deserved something better, something to help ease her stress and sooth her. Now that he knew she engaged in lavish bath rituals, something along the pampering, self-care line seemed like an apt apology gift. He looked at bottle after bottle and item after item, finally selecting a few he thought she’d really enjoy would really help de-stress, and had them shipped.

—

There was no Penelope waiting for the team when the jet landed after the case. Luke was reluctantly thankful. He didn’t want to face her without the peace-offering and it would be waiting for him when he got home, but her absence also served as confirmation to his fears: that she was angry, embarrassed, or felt foolish. Or possibly, worst of all, that the mere thought of being around him made her so uncomfortable she couldn’t bring herself to be there when the team got back. He hated himself for making her feel that way. This was her home, they were her family, now he’d tainted it. He just hoped she’d forgive him and they could work past it.

——

They couldn’t really talk about it while working and Penelope couldn’t find the nerve to call him “after hours”, his voice too fresh. Doing something like that with a teammate? With Luke?! Someone she worked with day-in and day-out and who needed her time through the phone quickly and at a moment’s notice! How was she- how were they supposed to just…And what if he regretted it? If he was just feeling lonely and desperate and decided he could because, well, there were no strings to tie him down as Pinocchio would say…No Lisa.

Still, she couldn’t help but notice his stark lack of involvement in any group calls for the remainder of the case. At first she was thankful, nervous of how it was going to go, but as the case went on, she had to admit it stung. What if it was just something he thought (and apparently he wasn’t wrong) that he could get away with? After all, he wasn’t calling her about it… The thought made her sick to her stomach. That she’d let him rope her in like that, let him coax her into something he could hold over her, expose and take advantage of the feelings they’d all suspected and she’d gradually been accepting she had for him.

No.

That wasn’t like him. She knew that.

Penelope pushed the negativity from her mind. If a good time was all it was, then yeah, it was fun, she wouldn’t deny it, but she had an effect on him too. Her cheeks warmed at the sound of him coming through the receiver playing over in her mind.

She’d need time to get that under control.

All the same, Penelope had intended to be there when the team got back, maybe then she could gauge his expression, gauge his demeanor (gauge his intent), but an emergency alert from the cat monitor she set up recently for aging Sergio had her rushing home just as soon as the jet had taken off.

Damn it. It’ll just have to wait until tomorrow.

———

Walking into the BAU the next morning he was entirely prepared for wrath, hatred, even the pointed chilly avoidance of a tundra-like ice wall; what he didn’t expect was casual indifference. She was walking away from Prentiss and Rossi across the catwalk when he walked in, Prentiss and Rossi just heading into their offices.

“Luke.” She greeted, as he crossed her line of sight.

“…Hey, Garcia.” Weird. She seemed fine, not even a pause in her step.

The present was too big to fit into his backpack so he was carrying it out in the open. He followed her, wanting to get on with the task, attack it head-on even with his tail between his legs.

“How are you?” This was fine. She could do this…She was doing this. Things were normal, he looked normal, no gloating face or smug smile. Ok, well, actually that part was pretty strange for him. Did he look a little nervous? Concerned? Serious? Ohh, she really should focus more on reading expressions, maybe take one of the professional enrichment classes offered by the bureau…

Luke followed her right through the layered doors into her office.

Sensing the tagalong, she turned abruptly. “What’s that?” she questioned, glancing to the box in his hands.

His eyes met hers, head stooping and shoulders hunching just a bit (she knew what those signals meant), holding out the box a few inches indicating she take it.

“An apology. For my phone call,” he said sheepishly, “and then not calling...The first was out of line, the second was inexcusable. I’m sorry.” After its arrival he’d had second thoughts on whether this particular gift was also out of line in the scope of things, but ultimately settled on living in denial and pretending it was just relevant to her interests and wellbeing.

What Luke presented and Penelope now held was a gorgeous dark wood box tied with a glittering lime-green bow.

Her mouth made a small “oh” as the word slipped out softly, taking the box in hand. Try as he might, the expression was pretty unreadable beyond vague surprise.

An apology gift? For something…they both willingly engaged in? So he did regret it. He wasn’t feeling like he’d conquered something…he felt like he’d done something wrong. She didn’t know what to do…what to say, but Luke didn’t give much time for a response.

“Uhm, hold off on opening it until you’re home, it has more use there anyway.” He managed a fraction of his normal smile before leaving, trying not to let the disappointment and sorrow show. As he exited he thought back to that night ‘Tonight, right now’ she’d said…It really was just that night for her wasn’t it?

With the case wrapped, they were in a “paperwork” phase, everyone writing up reports and filing, processing. Which meant there was little interaction between 

Penelope and anyone else. In fact there was little of her seen all day, she in her office around the corner, and he at his desk in the bullpen. Luke wondered if she let curiosity get the better of her and opened it, if she didn’t care enough to want to open it, or if she’d pawned it off on someone, not wanting something that reminded her of him. Of them. Too little too late he realized that’s exactly what this would do, be a constant reminder any time she used it.

She was, of course, somewhat curious about what the box could contain. She’d never been in this situation before so had no idea what someone would get another person they wanted to suck up to? Was that what he was doing? Sucking up? Hushing?

Anyway, she had no idea what could be in the very fancy box tied with very pretty ribbon.

And she had work to do.

Penelope stuck it under the far side of her table of servers, out of sight, out of mind…thus not opening it all day wasn’t really an issue.

Except that it was. She could see it there in her mind’s eye below her desk just a few feet from her own feet mocking her all day. And being reminded of the box all day reminded her of him, and being reminded of him all day reminded her of…it. Them. The call. All day. Damn him. Distraction all day. Thoughts straying all day. Getting turned on and frustrated and left in a perpetual state of confusion. All. Day.

————

She struggled to open her apartment door, heavy box balanced between hands and body, bags slipping off her shoulder and jerking at her arm, jostling the carefully distributed weight, but eventually everything made it in without crashing to the ground. Closing the door behind her, she set the box down on her countertop then went back to the door, slipping the bags from the place they’d nestled themselves in the crook of her arm, stowing them away.

She leaned on the wall with a hand as she toed off her heels and shrugged out of her coat, padding into her bedroom to hang it up. Her stomach rumbled and she headed into the kitchen, familiar routine being met. She brewed a cup of tea and made some toast, but the box caught her attention, calling like a siren.

Bread and mug in hand, Penelope came to sit opposite where it lay on her counter, hands and drink resting on either side. For a long moment she just looked at it, the polished dark wood, curling grain, and softly curving edges. This box that made her imagination run wild all afternoon slowing her productivity and breaking the barrier she’d been building in her mind of that night. If HR found out about it, they’d have a field day since he was technically on duty being away on the case.

Should she even bother opening it? Maybe she should just toss it in the nearest dumpster, this regret gift, this guilty conscience reminder and mega-infraction related token of good faith.

But she already knew she wasn’t going to do that.

She’d brought it all the way home, now she needed to open it, see what it contained. He’d said it was more suited for here…What did that mean anyway? Why did this feel so confusing? Why was this so heavy? Uncharted waters. Weird circumstances. Even weirded Alvez. He couldn’t think she’d threaten his job, could he?

No.

Taking a deep drink from her mug, she blew out a breath, readying herself, then slowly opened the lid… Where she saw an array of angular glass bottles, each filled with epsom salt, bubble bath, body scrub, and…oil. They were different shapes and colors, beautiful and heavy. If the dried herbs, dead sea salt, mineral-rich clays, and enriched elixirs were any indication, they were also very expensive.

Fingers dancing over the selection, her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she picked up the bottle of oil, memory taking flight, somewhat angry at herself for still thinking about it.

How the sound of his voice ran goosebumps over her skin, how he described every move he’d make, how when she closed her eyes she could feel him with her like she had that night. She thought about Luke touching her, his fingertips coming to her arm, how she always felt soft for days after he touched her, how even in spite of the dread she’d been feeling, because she knew now it was dread and embarrassment at losing the upper hand, she was still warm and tingly after that phone call. “Do you want to know what I’d do if I were there?” whispered in her ears, a trick of the mind.

She licked her lips, taking another drink, trying and failing to not think about what that meant.

But she did, and now, with the opportunity to find out, she wanted to.

But he apologized! And he was acting all weird!

Don’t be so dramatic, he ended the phone call telling you your bath sounded relaxing and maybe he should try it when he got back. And then he gave you this. He wasn’t talking about soaking in his own tub, dumb-dumb, he was talking about a more up-close, in-person type of sponging.

…They really were beautiful, it would only be right to call him and thank him…Or ask what in the spa days of hell he was playing at and remind him what trouble this could be for them both.

—————

“What is this?” Was brusquely pushed through the phone before he ever got out “Hello.”

Mmm, so she’d opened it. He couldn’t tell how she felt about it, but it was sounding like not good. “I told you, it’s for your bath.” He was trying to sound light, to let her know it was a friendly gesture, he hadn’t meant to goad her.

Hm. No, he didn’t, he did not say bath, he said it had more use at home. “You did not say that, you specifically said-” she began correcting, then stopped.

Stop arguing. Does it matter what the specifics were when what you want to do is something along the lines of being as brazen as he had been? If he could do it, so could you, right? ‘For the bath’, that wasn’t a coincidence.

She turned the bottle over in her hand, thumb brushing silver paper label. “…Anyway this one’s not bath oil. It’s massage oil.”

-Silence-

Shit.

He’d been looking at the company’s full range of oils; massage, body, bath, face, hair, diffuser…there were way more that he thought possible. Honestly, that part was a little overwhelming, but he was pretty sure he’d picked out a bath oil. He definitely remembered…

His hand drifted to the back of his neck, easing the tension flaring from the mixup. She called to confront him. She thought he had done it on purpose and was calling him out on something that wasn’t even his fault when all he was trying to do was make up for fucking up with the first call. Damn it. This was exactly what he got for messing around.

“Penelope, I am so sorry. That wasn’t my intention, they must have made a mistake. I promise, I- I didn’t …”

There was another pause, Luke, trying to think of what he could say to convince her he respected her, that he felt bad, that he was wracked with guilt over the whole thing. He’d never done something like that, definitely not with someone he worked so intimately with, that he didn’t just think- that she wasn’t just an object of lust to him, though she certainly was lust-worthy…He hadn’t done it because he didn’t have anyone…and he wanted more…of her…from her.

While Luke thought how else to respond, if she’d believed him, if he would need to try to explain further, or if she would hang up on him, Penelope considered her next move. He sounded worried, she almost felt guilty…but she liked teasing him.

She audibly inhaled, doing that thing people do before making some sighing mournful statement. Drama, it served her well in places besides community theater. 

“Shame…I was thinking you were offering.”

“I-” He was prepared to declare and grovel, swear and beg, but the words registering were like an iron gate slamming on his thoughts. “What?” That was not what he expected.

“You did say you’d gladly rub every inch of my milky skin, didn’t you? Or was that not your intention either?” Her questions curled through the receiver. She bit her lip, hoping she wasn’t barking up the wrong tree. Going too far had long passed of course, but changes of heart happen, and it was always possible he thought better of continuing a team-partner-whatever-this-could-be given the risk they faced.

Her words flowing out, phantom hands beckoning him, enticing, enchanting. Luke swallowed hard, cautiously stepping towards the ledge, each word spoken with care 

“Penelope, I have every intention of fulfilling that promise. There is nothing I’d like more.”

Hubris filled her, tongue acting where brain was still catching up “Oh, I’m sure I can think of a few things you’ll like more, but it’s a good start…Are you coming to lend a hand this time? Might be a bit tricky on my own.”

Luke could hear the smile in her tease and was already half way back out of his apartment, “I’m on my way, wait up for me, Chica.” jumping on the invitation, all thought of good form and respectfully distant boundaries gone out the window.

She heard his keys clatter and the door slam as he hung up the phone. A digit slipped between her teeth, biting down on her thumb as a pleased grin crept into place. 

Well, that hadn’t been very hard.

——————

This was crazy. This was crazy. Thiswascrazy. He somewhat expected her to have changed her mind by the time he got there, tell him she was kidding, pretend to be asleep -Just not answer the door. He wouldn’t have pushed it, he would have taken the clue and gracefully never brought it up again. What he didn’t expect was Penelope to answer the door half dressed. Or half undressed in front of him.

Penelope, thinking why waste time with dressing up when he’d already seen her work clothes and she invited him here for non-clothed activities, decided to dress down instead, answering the door in little but her robe which despite the reason Luke was 99% sure he was there, still caught him off guard. It covered more of her than he’d ever seen dressed at one time and yet ignited more imagination than anything he’d seen her in that covered less.

Mouth hanging open, his feet stuck to the floor just south of the threshold of her apartment. He was staring, eyes caught with breath at the glowing fuchsia-wrapped sight before him, but then that had been a goal, she was aiming for a reaction. If any doubt of her resolve laid in his mind, it certainly didn’t now.

Penelope shifted straightening, arm coming to wrap around her waist, nerves creeping to the top under his gaping gaze. She had thought it was an appreciative stare at first, but the longer it went on the more unsure she became. Did he think this was too forward? Did it take away the chase and mystique? Maybe this was all too much. Too real? Too inappropriate? “-Are you planning on coming in or are you going to stand out there all night? Because while I like my neighbors and all, I didn’t really plan on them seeing me like this…”

Luke’s gaze, which had been slowly roaming up and down, looping and waving across her expanse, committing every soft drape of this Penelope to memory, snapped back to her face landing first on her eyes, then settling on the small wavering smirk waiting there. Physically responding, in a flash large hands sprung firmly around the smooth satin, feet and legs tangling as he quickly maneuvered her backwards, shutting the door behind them. “What I have planned isn’t really for their eyes either.”

Penelope let out a delighted laugh at the surprising move. Her hands cupped his neck and wrapped around his back returning the enthusiastic hold, “I told you I could think of something you’d like more…”

Luke was already busily burrowing into soft gold and rose curls, lips cascading and brushing. He inhaled deeply, taking in the warmth and freshness of her skin. “You are absolutely right, but I would like to keep my word…” He was keeping her flush against him as he continued to walk them further back, a solid hold low on her hip and high across her back, “You smell amazing. You taste amazing…Did you get started without me?” Words were breathed between sips and nibbles, Luke taking without further invitation.

“Mmm maybe just a little.” she hummed. She might have indulged in a quick shower to keep herself occupied and keep any sneaky creeping nerves from popping up while she waited for him to make his way across the city, and the humidity did wonders for her hair. “Don’t worry, there’s still plenty for you to do”

Luke pulled back, hand cupping her neck, eyes catching, molten and dark. He was going to say something, something clever and biting, flirtatious and ruffling, something to disguise his deep, and deeply consuming tenderness for her, but instead he pulled her in again smothering his feelings with the very real feeling of her soft full lips on his, the stiffness in her body breaking immediately as she gave in readily to this thrilling development between them. Her light quick hands tripping every nerve ending they passed on his body as they made their way over the expanse of Luke, exploring biceps and forearms, broad, tough muscles of his back, and tight but padded chest, nerve endings triggering an autonomic response, thigh coming between thighs, parting robe and legs, hands traveling down below her ass in a gripping dip and grind against her, her tongue on his neck, her earlobe between his teeth, the soft moan as his mouth found hers again.

“mmm…better than I imagined.”

Luke broke away, chuckling softly as his hands released their firm hold on the back of her legs to run up and down her arms. So she’d imagined him? What it would be like with him? Beyond that call. This was looking better and better. “While I’d like to continue this and prove just how right you are, I believe there’s a gifting error I need to make up for.”

Penelope, impatient to get to where they were headed now that they’d started, halfheartedly joked, “No reason one activity can’t transition to another.” She was becoming breathless, the height difference without her heels allowing her nethers get acquainted with his jeans-covered thigh, hips chasing delicious friction, quickly losing interest in the facade. Who cared if it was bath oil, massage oil, or olive oil, if being together was like this; electric, catnip, intoxicating, magnetic, all manner of cliche descriptor.

He was just as eager, unsure if he’d give in, but knowing he wanted it to last longer than a frantic fuck on her entry floor. He kissed her head, hand moving to loosely hang around her. “Lead the way.”

Penelope turned in his hold, delight threading her stomach as Luke’s arms once again tightened around her, hands coming up to massage her breasts, mouth resuming its spot on her neck as they took close awkward steps to her room. She was grateful she knew her way around her own apartment as her head fell to his shoulder and her eyes drifted shut, leading them by instinct.

———————

Having made it to her room without further attachment, Penelope was sliding back on her bed as indicated by Luke who had turned all business with such rapidity she almost laughed.

She thought when she felt the tickling pull of the sash on her waist that they might skip the pretense, but when she turned to face him, attempting to work the buttons of his shirt his hands stopped hers, his voice deep and quiet next to her ear, “Not yet. Take this off, lay down and relax.” He’d finished the cool instruction with a soft squeeze to her hands and the brush of his lips to her cheek.

Relax? How did he think she could possibly do that now?

The sound of him, deep and smooth landing straight between her thighs. Who knew she liked being told what to do? Ok, she did, a little…she also liked giving orders. But how did he know?

She did as asked, robe dropping silently to the floor, Penelope dropping to the bed as Luke glanced around in the golden glow of her room searching, then finding the wooden box. He opened it where it lay on her dresser, fingers rifling then lifting out one of the bottles.

Her heart beat in her ears watching his face in the mirror of her vanity, concentrated but beautiful. She tried to control her breathing, to steady it and keep her pulse from soaring, ignore the fact that here she was, entirely on display, entirely turned on, blushing and hot and out of breath…from just a little kissing. And then his mouth twitched, eyes connecting with hers through the reflection, her cheeks heating at what she knew he’d seen.

Luke turned slowly, holding up the bottle, “Penelope… this doesn’t say massage oil, it says body oil.”

She painted on a crooked frown, sounding thoughtful, if slightly confused. “Hmm, does it? Maybe I wasn’t wearing my glasses…Well, pa-tay-toe, pa-tah-toe.”

His eyebrow peaked, cocky and quizzical, “Luring me here under false pretense, Chica? I could have your job.”

Penelope propped herself up on her forearms looking him up and down, challenging, “You couldn’t do my job, and anyway I’m not the one who started it.”

“Oh, well in that case…” Luke played as if putting the bottle back, meaning to leave.

Penelope shot to her knees, more on edge than she’d felt “Alvez, if you don’t get out of that shirt and on this bed-” Then readjusted, sitting back.

His head ducked, laughing silently as he tossed the bottle over, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt, then looked back up at her, bashful, before pulling it off admitting, “I’m glad you weren’t the one to end it, either.”

Slowly, he came closer, eyes fixed on hers, his movements hypnotic. A knee on the bed sinking the mattress down under his weight, his hand coming just behind her ear, bending down, pulling her closer, fingers threading through her hair, lips brushing, Penelope lightly panting and mindlessly rising to follow as he pulled away.

“I suppose it’s not really fair of me to stay so dressed up when you’ve dressed down for the occasion.” he teased again, looming over her.

She wanted to come back with something smart and acidic, but nothing formed so instead Penelope settled on a glare and a scoff, hand pushing at his bare chest.

Luke’s nose and eyes crinkled at the weak assault letting it propel him away, but captured her hand to kiss her fingertips before resolutely shucking his jeans, quickly resuming his previous position, pulling her back into another breath-stealing kiss.

With every glide and press they were incrementally moving back down the bed, Penelope’s hands having gotten no further than the firm swell of his shoulders and the taught tendons of his neck by the time she was fully horizontal with Luke over her.

He was carefully hovering, contact drastically reduced from what they’d started out with in the hall, she could feel the heat trapped between them, but not the warmth of his skin. He was trying to remain respectful, taking things slow, working her up, it wouldn’t fit to come crashing down on top of her smothering her. He wanted to listen to her, respond to her movements.

At the break of a breath, he moved to her jaw, pressing a kiss there, re-leveraging himself to allow for an exploring hand to move from bed to cushioned hip to soft belly, skating up, mouth twisting to meet her throat as her head tilted away and her legs shifted under him. Exploring hand moved to rising breast, his thumb grazing along the hot under seam while fingers settled to work along the side and top, and then his body pitched up and back, full strong lips sucking wet kisses to her chest, 

Penelope gasping, head jerking back down.

It’s not like she’d never had her breasts played with. With that part of her anatomy so prominent, it was often the first place a partner went. Warm-up or not, men always went straight for her boobs, or rather they latched on to her nipples like babies searching for milk. Few had the mind to remember to move their hands like he was, and none as of yet had the musculature his lips seemed to, pulling sensations from tit to tender.

With another swirl of her body and a sweet keen, he moved back north, nipping at the corded muscle and nuzzling at her jaw.

“Turn over, so at least one of us keeps our word.” he directed, quiet and gruff in her ear. If he didn’t stop now, he wouldn’t and that just wouldn’t do.

Penelope, falling into a lust-driven haze, felt the constant stop and start was unwarranted given he was the one taking the lead, but again, complied with just a little protest; he hadn’t made a bad move yet, but she still needed to voice her displeasure.

Luke pushed up kneeling above her, legs and knees bracketing her own. She felt the shift in the mattress as he bent over to retrieve the bottle, heard the deep pop of the corked lid, the sandy rasp of oil as he poured it in his palms and rubbed them together to warm the liquid, then again the dip under her legs as he moved backward down her.

To her surprise, he didn’t start at her shoulders, he started down low.

He started at her butt.

Well, her hips, her thighs, really.

His fingers ran deep and constant pressure down the outside of her legs, thumbs pressing in from hip joint to ankle, calling forth raw pain that melted into pleasure. 

She twisted her head to the right, resting her cheek on the pillow, allowing her eyes to close, senses taking over, the unidentifiable herbal scent filling the room and his oil dressed fingers slickly gliding over all of her.

Back and forth, back and forth, his thumbs made short strokes against her calves, Penelope resisting the urge to leap and twitch when he hit a particularly ticklish spot, but never repressing a hum or sigh (or moan), letting him know just how good this felt, how appreciative her body was.

Lower, he cupped her heel, softly flexing and stretching her tendon, then releasing to give the other the same careful attention. Strong fingers wrapped around each toe and knuckles dug into her soles making her feet arch. The dragging friction of oil and skin coasting, blood rushing to capillaries, warming her from the inside out.

She imagined each of his muscles tensing and hardening to push against her own, controlled, smooth, A light moan seeping out as Luke ran over a taught tendon. 

“Your talents are wasted on this criminal hunting business” she sighed into her pillow.

Not wanting to disturb the serenity, Luke murmured back, “I dunno, I think the whole behavioral analyst bit is coming in hand right now.”

If she wasn’t half way to becoming a hot bowl of jelly she might have attempted to twist back and look at him, but instead she just mumbled into the fabric “Oh? And what insights have you gleaned?”

But the question went unanswered, Luke continuing the work it now seemed he was born for in silence.

Up and out, thumbs digging in wide spans, every muscle yielding beneath him, every knot unfurling at his insistence, her body becoming more pliable with every stroke.

As he worked his way back up he placed a tender kiss to the back of each knee, Penelope suppressing a shiver, cool lips a contrast to hot flesh, a promise of what was still to come.

By the time he made his way back up she was dripping with want, the definition of hot and bothered that she’d never really taken time to understand before. His hands gliding tough over the backs of her legs, not stopping when they reached her ass. Gripping and spreading as thumbs arched outward- then stopping- holding her open. Her lips spreading taught with her cheeks, nerves at attention she hung on edge for the anticipated touch. Finally, finally they were getting somewhere. Holding her breath, she waited for the delivered push, the relief, the feeling of those rough fingers teasing wet silken skin, but when nothing came she squirmed without thought.

Luke released her, picking up where he left off, now high across her glutes. Penelope ground into the bed seeking that same friction so deeply anticipated, letting out a quiet moan as her hips rolled, not enough, but something at least.

He thought about it, he was thinking about it; dipping in, feeling her, seeking the reward of his efforts, he strained against it above her seeing the honey waiting for him there, glistening heated lips spreading frustrated, puffy and red. He thought about running a hand through her, finding her and soothing her, he thought about tugging up on her hips and ending the act then and there, taking her wild and hard, unforgiving, hips snapping as she cried out beneath him and tightened around him, bucking and panting into her sheets, slick and sweaty.

But no.

He cut off the thought, letting go and starting again. He didn’t want to rush, he was hoping to make this something memorable, make her feel desired, wanted, needed. He was going to make sure she knew this wasn’t some superficial rebound, this was more than that. Hopefully.

Hands slid up over her ass, the heel of his palms digging into her hip flexors and up her back, something catching his eye, pausing momentarily to read and trace the delicate lettering there.

A mistake.

He could feel every muscle in her tense, seconds of misunderstanding threatening to undo what he just worked to alleviate.

Fuck.

Her eyes squeezed closed, her lungs held tight, her toes clenched and curled. The silly tattoo, two people bonded. Derek. Her everything. The only name she’d ever have on her skin was her own, but it was the one he’d given her. Did Luke connect the dots? What he must be thinking…

He bent down, first, tongue swiping across the word, then, placing what could only be described as open mouthed butterfly kisses to every letter, a display of deference. “Queen, Goddess, temptress, Babygirl.” he murmured, “Throne, temple, altar, bed, makes no difference to me, I praise every supple curve, every line and dimple, every letter on your body. I wouldn’t give up a fraction of you, or risk the whole.”

She felt his hands gently sweep her, unfurling fingers and feet, Penelope releasing the breath she hadn’t realized she’d stilled in his discovery, but she felt the relief as all of her melted at his actions.

Once he was satisfied she was loose again, Luke’s fingers curled around her traps, tough and strained from staring at screens all day, holding her shoulders to her ears worrying about their loved ones… The pads of his thumbs pushed into the sides of her neck and the base of her skull.

His legs tightened around her thighs as he dipped forward for leverage, a puff of breath blowing from his nose, and his lips just skimming her ear; fantasies born from the sensation invaded her thoughts: his panted breath washing across her neck, his supple lips on her skin, what it was to have him come undone with her, because of her.

But none of that had happened. No, Luke was everywhere doing everything but what she really wanted him to.

For what felt like ages he moved slow and sensual, a deep, insistent undulation of their bodies lulling her. Her back under him rolling and collecting in mounds then slipping away like sand under his hands, wide palms starting low and deep, steady along her spine and across her shoulder blades, pressure switching to squeezing as his rubs cascaded down her sides, fingers slipping just a bit under to feel out breast tissue, caressing it, applying pressure, but never lingering, always continuing.

And then a shift, it started out nearly indecisive, hesitant presses interspersed, a kiss here, a peck there, unsure, attentive to protest. When none came, Luke repeated the action, again and again, incorporating lips with fingers and hands and biceps, kissing up the expanse of her, lips across the backs of her arms and over her neck, mouth gliding with finger strokes. She sighed at the alternating feel; hard, dexterous, sliding fingers and plush, full, muscular lips united in their efforts to remove every bit of solidity from her.

“Penelope” he pressed into her flesh, calling to her, calling her back from the vapid nothingness he’d sunk her into. “Penelope,” A vibrating murmur embedding into her skin, tattooing her name in a font of his own making, she could feel the purr of it, see how it twisted and scrolled. “Penelope,” the need in his voice as he flowed up and over her. Involuntarily, quite subconsciously, she shivered underneath him.

“I need you to turn over”

She resisted, a small sound of satiated protest burrowing into the bedding under her. Luke's hands were magic, Penelope euphoric and lax, body and bed indistinguishable to her senses. She sighed a breath into the pillow, “I am a puddle, Luke Alvez, I cannot move.” Despite wanting to very much, despite wanting what this next part was sure to hold, she couldn’t will the energy yet.

Pride bloomed in him, he knew he was good, but the fact that she’d openly admitted it, doled out a compliment of sorts, even if unintentionally, gave him hope. But he wasn’t done, by all weight and measure he’d only given attention to half her body.

In a move she could only describe as agent kung-fu Penelope found herself on her back blinking up at a smiling Luke kneeling between her knees. The  ~whatever~ he’d done, he’d done so smoothly and with such speed that she couldn’t describe where his hands or arms or legs had gone, or which way she’d been flipped, just that moments ago she was melting face-first into the soft confines of a wonderful kind of hell and now she was sky-ward with a nude and beautifully tanned god-like Luke hovering over her.

She eyed him dazedly, taking in what she hadn’t been so brave to openly look at before; sculpted prominent chest, warm brown nipples, proud Luke, as he should be.

Feeling much the same, Luke gave in momentarily, leaning down, kissing her slow and deep. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck bringing him closer, seemingly brought back to life, her leg snaking around his, brushing, hips undulating as she hummed against his lips, “You can skip this side for now, make it up to me later.”

Luke pulled back breathing a chuckle, “I thought you were a puddle”

She shifted, the cracked ice of his voice working her wildly, “I seemed to have quickly regained some bones” as she said it her other leg curled around his teasing his thigh, a finger reaching out to swirl on his chest,“…and I could really use one mor-”

But before she could finish the innuendo, she was cut off, her bottom lip coated in his, teeth nipping and tongue feeling and lips sucking, movements quickly working into a fervor of kisses rushing towards some unnamed finish line once again.

Too soon Luke took her hands from his neck, parting them, loosely he held each wrist above her head, thumbs brushing a gentle tickle to the sensitive under skin as he took her in. Flush and warm, creamy and soft, Penelope laid out before him ready for feasting; pert nipples on swelling breasts rising and falling with panted breath, a rose pink blush spreading, swollen mouth dropped open ending in that full lower lip he wanted to pull back onto his and never part from.

Penelope wriggled under him, the intensity of his gaze, pupils blown, looking at her like that. There was nothing but a thin coating of their familiar candy brown being swallowed up by an ocean of shining black, and his cock, she could see now, was ridgid and firm, erect and ready, stretching and distorting the fabric of his briefs.

“Now?” Her eyelids drooped heavy and her voice was thick with air, what was meant as a command came out soft and needing. The position, the situation, being held down but holding power, Luke openly, unabashedly, flaunting how much he wanted her, how aroused he was, was one of the most erotic situations she could remember being in, not that she was capable of remembering much at the moment, and in turn set her off even more.

At the sound, his gaze feathered, and without letting go he leaned down again, nose trailing her cheek, his hot breath on the side of her face, her earlobe being pulled in and nibbled before being released and replaced by his velvety whisper “Be patient a little longer, I still haven’t fulfilled part of my pledge.”

He’d gladly lick and rub every inch of her. That he wanted to was what he’d said. She thought it was just dirty talk, the ruse they used to get here, she didn’t expect Luke Alvez to spend the better part of what had to have been an hour basting and sautéing her all while withholding himself. He hadn’t even so much as touched his groin to hers since entering her bedroom, a fact that had not gone unnoticed and a feeling she was now sorely, throbbingly, anxious for. She could feel herself clenching, nearly uncomfortably wet, sticky and hot and sensitive, so ready, so willing.

“Alvez- Luke, please” Penelope wiggled weakly trying to coax some part of him against some part of her unsuccessfully.

Mouth continuing its assault, his lips marched persistently southward, question pressed between them as his hands released to shadow over her, skin buzzing in their wake as he sunk ever lower. “Compromise? There’s still part of you…”

Before he finished he parted her thighs, covering her, securing himself firmly to her clit, sucking hard. Strong tongue lashed, then with a point, circled and pressed roughly to the sensitive nerves, launching her upward, Penelope grinding into his face, hands clawing at his hair, yelling, jolting her to an edge. But just as quickly he backed off, feather light barely there tip caressing, tickling, morphing the angry shriek of his name into a watery moan, Penelope falling back.

Clasped hands secured her hips down, Luke licking long, lavish strokes, tongue rippling over and through the neglected tissue. Penelope hot and slick and sensitive, bucking and mewling and twisting and thrusting, waffling between getting closer and getting away, her hands clawing at and pushing off in a faltering back and forth. She could feel the tight pull starting in her stomach, too much and not enough, muscles constricting, she was going to come on his ghosting tongue. She tried in vain to meet a deeper pressure, to push herself onto him again to get more, but her hips wouldn’t budge from his steadying grip, Luke pulling her through on gentle laps, Penelope convulsing around nothing, squeezing tight, legs shaking around torso. As he felt her come he pressed his tongue hard and flat against her, holding her there, drawing out her orgasm, tongue pushing in time with the beating tremors. Her hands scrabbled through his curls, eyes wound tight as she came again, hard, releasing a final whining sob, immobile hips trying to give a final jerk. Luke licked a few more times, letting her go, sucking kisses and nipping her sweat dampened and oil dipped inner thighs, hands running over her stomach, soothing up and down her sides, Penelope breathing hard.

Coming down she laughed, drawing a curious look from Luke as he tilted his face up towards her from where he was still working between her legs, “Ok, I change my mind.” she said limply, “You can do whatever you want with that part of your face.”

Luke grinned, mischievously placing a final sucking kiss to her upper thigh and advanced back over her, “Whatever I want, huh?”

Her arm was resting overhead covering her eyes, she moved it fractionally to peak at him, “Don’t make me regret it, Alvez.”

“I don’t want you to regret anything, Chica.” He was playing with a strand of her hair that had managed to stay curled and looking at her so sincerely, his voice so light and sweet, she felt caught off guard.

Too soon.

Luke pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and then planted more in rapid succession, allowing them both space to brush away the moment. He kissed the hinge of her jaw nipping lightly and tasted along the column of her throat. Open mouth he dragged, dampening and drinking at her collar and dipped lower to swirl and suction her fevered breasts.

Penelope’s hands combed at his scalp, caressing the back of his head and down his neck, light fingers encouraging and feeling, then pulling him up, wanting his mouth on hers. Luke obliged with demanding pressure, jaw forcing jaw open, his body dropping, breath exchanged. She could feel him lean to one side, arm doing something below, but too distracted to really pay attention, the kiss becoming wide and sloppy and trailing. She felt his mouth open across her still slowing pulse, the slight suction pulling it into his lips, his warm tongue flat and soft on the skin there, and then the light scrape of teeth, mouth gliding closed. He re-centered and lowered himself so that finally his chest was on hers, chest against chest, the sturdy line of abs pressing into her soft belly, the hard line of him against her, and-

The shock of the contact rolling through her, a quick intake of breath, head jerking back and mouth parting, hands shooting down to grip at his shoulders, the jolt she felt below; thick, stiff, and hot, Luke’s cock was parting her lips, threading and anointing himself between her, head brushing and teasing her stimulated clit as he undulated through the leftover dew.

He brought a hand up to push the hair back off her face, resting it gently above her, his eyes seeking hers out, holding them. He was finding it harder to take a steady breath, asking through rough panting, “Is this alright? Do you want me to stop?”

Surprise and sensation evening out, she rolled her hips in return, garnering a stuttered huff from Luke, his cock dipping further in, catching, then gliding up and back over her again. Penelope shook her head “No, this is-” a tight whine breaking up her response, her nails digging in, “This is good.”

“and more?” the words stuck to his mouth, thick and sweet like honey.

She was meeting him grind for grind, calf and ankle vining and trailing around his, shooting shimmers of pleasure up his legs straight to the most heated part of him.

“I would really-” her eyes squeezed shut, face contorting beautifully as a sturdy vein scraped against a particularly sensitive nerve, “Uuunh-” licking her lips, “like more. Yes.”

As much as he wanted more, to be surrounded by her, filling her, feeling her constrict and hold him, he also wanted to stay here in this moment…just a bit longer… seeking pleasure with what they knew…just a bit longer… holding out, lasting, seeing the edge he could bring her to... just..a bit…longer…She was panting under him, chest falling hard with each half exhale before sucking in more air, he could feel heat spike and a fresh wave of soaking wetness…just..a bit…

“Luke-” Her head tightly jerked to the side, bottom lip sucking in, teeth sinking down, hands clutching at his back.

He pushed in, an appreciative groan met her, Penelope wordlessly arching back, head lifting, chest lifting, all of her lifting, overwhelmed, frozen in time. Her vision was dark, so dark, so dark, pitch black. But she could feel him in her, thick and filling and ridged and pulsing, pulsing against her own vibrating come-undone muscles, his thumb brushing her cheek, her breasts rising and falling slick against his, his heart beating to her, and then his soft lips landing on hers, enticing, calming.

He didn’t move, waiting, waiting for her say so, for her ready.

Sucking in a long loud breath, she rolled her hips swooping forward and curving back, both gasping, Luke biting at the join of her neck, then rolling his tongue over and mouthing at her thundering pulse. His hands had moved high around her back, securing her as he pulled them up, Penelope releasing her grip, reached back guiding them to her rounded ass, legs spread wide around him. She placed her hands on his chest feeling his pecks as she rolled into him again, his fingers digging into her soft flesh and hitching his inhale. She placed a swirling kiss to his nipple, Luke anchored under her, but seemingly swelling and hardening within her. Her mouth trailed to his collar, hands splaying and moving down over his hard-earned muscles. She felt him huff and hold back a jerk. Her lips glided over the expanse of skin to suck reverently at his Adam’s apple, and then up and across his taught neck, she could feel his chest rising on hers in short bursts, her teeth trailing up to his ear, another roll of her hips,

“fuck me” she whispered, commanding he move.

Luke breathed out, grip relaxing, hands shifting to hold high on her hips, and then around her middle, pulling out, back, slowly, pushing back in, slowly. He steadied his breath and licked at his lips dragging molasses-like plunges.

The stretch, the pace, nearly painful, all of Penelope collecting in and up. “Come on, Luke” she whined against him, sweet and slow lasting too long, reserve having been the pace from the start. She wanted more, needed more, more friction, more Luke, wild and wanting and taking, a Luke she hadn’t seen before.

“I said, fuck me” growled between them as she used something akin to force to shove him backward. Now sitting atop a delightfully surprised and horizontal Luke, an extended arm holding him down (probably not really) Penelope rose and fell in earnest. He watched in awe as she chased her own pleasure, his hands reaching up to caress her furiously pumping thighs and trace her bracing arms, her breath becoming heavy and face flushing with heat. An unsated sigh fell from her lips, losing steam. This was never her favorite position, it felt good enough, but required too much work in the long-term.

He could feel her slowing, felt her leaning forward, the energy and vigor she previously had waning. Luke took the opportunity to tug at those bracing arms, pulling her down flush, holding her tight to his chest “You want me to fuck you, Chica? Think you can take it?” He held her wrists in one hand between them and her back crushing to him with the other, lips brushing ear, the questions punctuated with sharp thrusts into her.

Penelope cried out, the angle, the abruptness, his tone all new, dark and dripping and deep “aaahtYes!”

He was satisfied to go slow, to explore, and learn, and tease, and taste their first time, but if slow was too much, he was willing to give in to rough and fast.

“You want me to pound into you? Feel you as your needy little cunt chokes down on my cock, begging for more?” Luke gritted, thrusting up, holding her down on him, movements fast and callous. This isn’t how he would normally talk to anyone, let alone Penelope, but something in the moment something about now laid a shift.

“Ye-ye-OOaahh -Yes, Luoooh” She was struggling to move her hands, her hips, all of her held fast to him, by him. She felt his legs arch and hand tighten, rolling them over.

Penelope shrieked and Luke grunted, pushing further in, filling her in a different way, hitting new spots inside. His hipbones dug delightfully into her flesh, finding hers to rub and bruise, Luke moaned, feeling her tighten around him, hot, sopping walls squeezing him firmly.

He gathered a falling thigh with a huffed “nuh-uh” and a shake of his head, pulling it closer, kissing her knee before hooking it around his hip, slamming into her harder again and again, quick and tight, her tits and stomach rippling rhythmically with each thrust. His hand planted above her shoulder and his head dipped pulling her into a soft, tender kiss. Still Luke, still Penelope. The gentleness of his lips a stark contrast to the unyieldingly brutal ram he was meeting her with threatening to send her over the edge.

He could feel her fluttering around him, her stomach tightening under him, her moans and whines getting higher, Penelope close again. He slowed and elongated his movements, stretching out the inevitable, hips rolling deep and strong, the weight of his groin pressing on her clit, rutting a hold before backing out, his body washing into hers with a wave.

Her hands were high on his chest, flexing and clawing erratically, Penelope moaning and crying in his ear. Too much, almost there, yes, just right, just- “Please, please. Luke, oh my god. Please. Just-” she called, breathless, begging him for more, to pull the trigger and make her fall apart. She reached a hand between them in effort, but it was smoothly pulled away and guided to his neck.

“Hold on to me, Chica, wait for me.” he softly muttered to cheek and jaw.

The sight of her, HER, Penelope, beneath him, pleading and begging, and needy for him was what did it. He felt the tightening, everything drawing up, tensing.

The arm at her shoulder wrapped around her, scooping her up bodily, Penelope and Luke joining somehow even deeper in their seated position, a deep moan released on shared breath, lip skating lip, nose brushing nose, eyes fluttering shut. He was whispering and murmuring, deep and low, encouragement, praise, confessions, the call of her name, and the tone of his voice, cadence matching thrust. Her legs tightened constricting, drawing her closer, closer, trying with everything left in her to join him, to be absorbed. She was grinding down and swiveling, soft whispered sentiments and her name crashing humid as he held her waist, her neck, lips trembling with warm breath along her cheek. She couldn’t hold out, Luke sweetly winding her up and setting her off.

“You need to- I’m gonna-“ puffed between breaths. Her body was going lax against his own, hips the only thing still working at her insistence, unwilling to try and hold off any longer, she was coming with or without him.

She felt a large hand skate from limp neck, down her back, giving a squeeze to her thigh before sliding slickly between them. He sucked at her neck and bit down lightly as thick fingers found and polished her, “Do it” rumbling into a shining, shooting Penelope, lungs loudly expelling all air as her orgasm took her, body shaking, walls shrinking, constricting hard and opening, seemingly gasping, only to slam down around him again. Luke continued to thrust and rub automatically as her body sucked and milked his, sending him toppling after, swelling and hardening to shoot and fill her, yelling and gritting his release as his body continued to chase and pump until he was as soft as their caught breathing, only then wrapping both arms around her waist, pressing deep kisses into the side of her neck and shoulder, up to her mouth, lip meeting lip, tongue circling tongue, falling back, taking her with him.

She broke the kiss, face landing next to his, and he almost said it then, words he’d regret if he let them slip, words he wasn’t positive weren’t just part of a post euphoria, words he knew she’d feel were worthless right now. He bit his lip and slid his hands down to squeeze her ass instead.

Penelope slid off him and to his side, leaving a leg draped on his, a hand over his chest and her head tucked into his arm. Things had cooled down, but somehow it didn’t feel like it, everything still charged. They laid there quietly, neither thinking about anything, neither feeling particularly awkward about the event, and neither moving a muscle for a while.

In the silence of the room, Luke’s stomach growled loudly, body obnoxiously demanding sustenance in exchange for activity.

“Sorry” he apologized mildly embarrassed at the volume, fingertips brushing her arm mindlessly, sending little shockwaves to his own system at the feel of her.

Penelope canted her head, a small teasing smile peering up at him, “What? Work up an appetite?”

Luke shook with quiet laughter, “I didn’t have time to make dinner, somebody called me.” he defended.

Her smile turned to a knowing frown, “Me neither” she agreed, and then gasped “And Roxy!?”

Something else was on the tip of his tongue, but his eyes caught something in hers and his reply halted, expression and mind changing. His brows knit as he felt a sudden boldness, bravery.

He closed his mouth, smiling, then opened it again, “How about, I make you both dinner?”

She crinkled her nose as she shook her head, “I still don’t trust your cooking, how about you take me home to your girl and buy me dinner on the way.”

[usaigi]

I love your MK writing so much you manage to hit on the characters super well in a way that… just works. Do you have any fic recs (completed or ongoing) that you rlly enjoy? I want to read more but the tag is… vast

Thank you!! That is so sweet, I really appreciate it 💕

I have a lot of recs so I'll try to keep the list someone short haha but here are some of my favs

shaving by zippe(but they have many great fics)

Avoidance, avoidance, and grief by NezumiPi

The Absence of Fear (And Other Lies We Tell Ourselves) by Pokimoko

afternoons by fencesandfrogs

The Last Stand by fantasiesdreaming

on being an avatar by alligator_writes

Recollection by Whisky (whiskyrunner)

[books-i-finished-reading]

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How to think like Mandela - Daniel Smith

21st October 2023

He never crafted a halo for himself but he had one thrust upon him by a world hungry for heroes in an age when they are in short supply.

... no individual should be judged on the chance circumstances of their birth but on their character and actions instead.

... all humans enter the world as equals.

... life's work would bring with it many setbacks to cope with. Indeed, dealing with the setbacks is part of the work.

"... greatest glory of living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time you fall."

"A good head and good heart are always a formidable combination. But when you add to that a literate tongue or pen, then you have something very special."

Education,... is the means to equality of opportunity.

"When a man fights, even the enemies, you know, respect you, especially if you fight intelligently."

... the past is not a place in which we should seek to dwell, ... learn it's lessons or pay a heavy price.

... borrow the best from the West and from the East.

It is not a hard task to place blame. But we must look within ourselves, become responsible and provide fresh solutions if we ever want to do more than complain,...

What is great leadership, after all, if not the quality of taking responsibility for your actions and directing them towards a wider good.

... one man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist, ...

... lived to tell the tale, ...

"... the dignity that comes from not having succumbed to oppression and fear."

Be consistent.

Be remarkable and unremarkable.

Encourage others to be the best versions of them-selves.

"... where people of goodwill get together and transcend their differences for the common good, peaceful and just solutions can be found even for those problems which seem most intractable."

"... after climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills to climb."

"... with freedom come responsibilities,.."

... combine conscience with action.

... what you wore conveyed a message. If you wanted to be taken seriously, you needed to dress seriously.

... bravery is not the absence of fear but a willingness to confront it.

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena,...

... the ability to adapt to particular circumstances could be the difference between victory and defeat.

"The freedoms which democracy brings will remain empty shells if they are not accompanied by real and tangible improvements in the material lives of millions of ordinary citizens..."

[williamkergroach55]

It's Not That You Don't Want It Enough. It's That Your Habits Suck!

When it comes to manifesting your desires, it's not about lacking desire but rather having ineffective habits. Manifestation is a co-creation with the universe, which means you have to take action on the physical plane.

One of the main reasons why we struggle to achieve what we want is the absence of supportive habits or routines. For instance, if you desire a thriving business, you need to work on it consistently. If you seek a passionate relationship, you need habits that foster sexual chemistry and connection. And if you aim for a fit body, you must establish habits such as healthy eating, regular exercise, and stepping out of your comfort zone.

Last night, while journaling in bed, I focused on two areas of my life that needed improvement. I asked myself essential questions:

💖 How do I envision these aspects of my life?

💖 What systems or routines will help me achieve my goals?

💖 What obstacles am I facing?

💖 What beliefs do I need to shift and transform?

Having a clear vision of where we want to go is crucial, but it's equally important to reverse engineer the process. We need to identify the daily habits that will propel us towards our desires. Some changes may be minor adjustments, while others might require a significant lifestyle overhaul.

However, the real challenge lies in uncovering the limiting beliefs that underlie our current habits. What stories do we tell ourselves that drive these behaviors? For example, if we prioritize work over relationships, what underlying beliefs are at play? Is it a fear of abandonment? A belief that relationships limit our freedom? An aversion to intimacy?

Once we acknowledge and understand the root causes of our dysfunctional habits, we can utilize techniques like EFT/tapping to address them head-on. By facing and accepting our challenges, we can even find humor in them. This allows us to reprogram ourselves, adopting new beliefs and priorities. Through intentional habit formation, we can finally align our actions with our true desires, and the game is forever changed.

#Manifestation #Habits #PersonalGrowth #Transformation

[subjecta5newtella]

you know that trope where person a is having a really hard time and person b spends time with them to calm them down at night and they are about to leave so person a can get some sleep but person a grabs their hand and asks them to stay. you know that trope. but it’s nalby in the glade

this was supposed to be like. 200 words. the all-consuming love for pre-thomas glade dynamics hit me and now it's 2.3k. god help me.

Alby tries to tell himself it’s just habit that brings him to the Map Room at the same time every day, not some kind of ritual or anything. Surely it’s normal to hate a break in routine, to feel just a little off-balance when something requires his attention and he doesn’t arrive in time to walk to dinner with the Runners.

All the Runners. Definitely not one particular Runner. The second-in-command shouldn’t be playing favorites.

He’s been late the last couple days, tasked with shuttling the new Greenie around when Nick needs to attend to other things, but the kid has attached himself to a group of the Builders to the point where Alby feels like he can leave him for a while (and thank god for that, honestly, because he’s one of the ones that talks all the time when he’s nervous).

He watches the Runners file out of the Map Room one by one, but Minho comes out last and locks the door and there’s still one missing.

“Where’s—“ Alby starts, but Minho cuts him off before he can even get the question out.

“Finished his map early and headed off. He’s been weird all day.”

“Why?”

Minho shrugs. “Fuck if I know, dude. You know how hard it is to get answers out of that guy when he doesn't want to talk? Might work for you, though.”

There are a hell of a lot of implications there, a lot of observations he’s made that Alby hadn’t noticed him making, but Minho isn’t in charge of the Runners for no reason. Talking to him is easier once you remember that, as much as he sometimes makes it hard.

“I’ll try,” Alby says, and sets off to find Newt.

Newt’s not in the first place he looks, which is probably good because that particular spot behind the Homestead is where Alby had found the wreckage of him one time in the early days, a time bad enough that they just don’t speak of it. He’s not in the gardens either, and as Alby treks back across the Glade to head towards the trees, he curses Newt’s tendency to vanish when he’s upset. It could be worse; he’s not picking fights or breaking shit or any of the other, more destructive coping mechanisms Alby’s seen from some of the Gladers, but since the anxiety doesn’t go away until he finds Newt, he wishes Newt was a little less opposed to being found.

Alby finally finds him just past the area where most of the Gladers sleep, half in the woods but not quite. He’s brought his sleeping bag with him as well, as though he expects to stay there until morning, as though he thinks his wouldn’t be one of the most visible absences possible for the rest of the evening. He’s staring up at the trees, flat on his back and face still a little red, and when Alby comes to sit next to him he turns his head and pushes himself up into a sitting position, but doesn’t say anything.

Newt’s an odd creature sometimes. Alby knows him better than anyone else, but there are still times when he’s not sure if the best thing to do is get him to talk or leave him alone. Maybe this time the right thing to do is not to talk, but with every second the quiet feels more and more like a weight pressing down, and Alby breaks.

“What’s going on?”

Newt won’t look at him for a moment, just at his own hands, but then he seems to come to some kind of decision and makes eye contact. “I don’t think there’s a way out of here,” he says, and then everything spills out of him like bile or blood. “I think Minho thinks the same thing, he just doesn’t want to admit it. And that feels bad all the time but it feels worse when there’s a new Greenie, because it’s bad enough that there’s another kid stuck here with us, but then we’re supposed to give them hope. They find out about the Runners and they get told we’re looking for a way out, and they start to think it’s actually possible.”

And that…. well. Alby doesn’t begin to know what to say to that. “Are you sure it’s not?”

“I mean, no, I can’t say with absolute certainty or anything, but... it just repeats. I think we’ve found everything we’re gonna find.”

Alby doesn’t really do optimism—he’s not as much of a pessimist as Newt is sometimes, more of a realist if anything—but he can’t let that linger, can’t even look directly at it for too long.

“So you don’t know for sure. Which means it might all be fine, and maybe tomorrow one of you will figure out something new, and we’ll all get out of here.”

“It’s not that bloody simple,” Newt snaps, and Alby bites back a retort, because he’s fucking trying, okay?

Instead he just says, “I know. Just... trying to help.”

Newt sighs. “Yeah, sorry. That wasn’t fair. Been a bad day, that’s all. Bad couple days.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You weren’t the one who put us here. Unless I’m missing something, in which case you might want to admit to it now while I’m too tired to kill you.” And sure, it’s almost all a joke, but Alby can’t help but feel like it’s a little bit true. For all that Newt is kind, for as much as he cares about every single person in the Glade, or maybe because of all those things, he has a hatred for the Creators like nothing else Alby’s ever seen from him.

Still, he’s pretty sure he’s safe from that kind of threat, or at least as safe as someone with no recollection of their past can be, so he says, “Not as far as I know.”

Newt’s quiet for a minute, and then he says, “What if it was one of us?”

“Why would we put ourselves here if it was?”

Newt shrugs. “I guess.”

He falls silent after that, and this time Alby lets him stay that way, at least for a while. Eventually, though, he checks his watch and realizes they can’t wait any longer if they want to eat, and starving isn’t exactly going to do Newt’s mood any good.

“Alright, you need to eat before dinner’s over. And shower, and then you can continue staring at nothing if you really want.”

“That genius for planning is why you’re second-in-command, huh?” Newt says with an asymmetrical smile, and Alby says, “Sure,” because sometimes Nick’s justifications for it don’t make a lot of sense to him either.

He gets to his feet and turns to pull Newt up with him, and they head for dinner. Frypan gives them a look for being late, and Minho spares a glance, eyes flicking from Newt to Alby before he nods just a little, but no one says anything about the way they arrive after everyone and as a matched set. They’ve all just got enough of their own problems, maybe. A lot of eyes still on the Greenie, too.

After dinner and showers and Alby spending the whole walk back fighting the urge to tuck the chunk of hair that’s fallen out of Newt’s mess of a bun back into place, they end up in the same spot, mostly hidden from where the rest of the Gladers are setting up for the night.

This time, Alby chooses the second option. He waits to see if Newt will talk, and when he doesn’t, he leaves the silence alone. It’s not a comfortable emptiness, not when everything Newt had said earlier still lingers, but pushing any further seems like it might hurt more than mend.

That’s one possible answer, at least. Another is that he’s scared to lean too hard on whatever it is between them for fear that it might break. A third is that he’s afraid of all the things that Newt might say. So he waits, and he hopes that his presence is any kind of reassurance.

Eventually, though, night starts to set in and he can’t justify keeping Newt awake any longer. He goes to stand up, but Newt’s hand shoots out to grab his wrist and good god, Alby sometimes forgets how fast he can move.

“Don’t leave.” Newt says, and Alby shakes his head.

“You should get some rest. Don’t want you running the Maze tired tomorrow.”

Newt says, “You being here doesn’t prevent me from resting,” which is true, sure, but not something Alby had been ready to assume. You don’t set up for the night in the middle of the woods if you want company, at least not in his own experience of things, but if Newt wants him to stay, what other choice can he make?

“Can I at least go get my own sleeping bag?”

Newt’s fingers uncurl in response, and Alby gently tugs his wrist away, going to collect his things. On the way back he runs into Nick, making the rounds before bed, which is a thing Alby usually accompanies him on except that he’s been a little distracted.

Nick’s gaze drops to the sleeping bag and pillow in Alby’s arms, and Alby mentally curses the sense of order that had led him to sleep in the same place since the beginning, meaning that now any kind of rearrangement looks unusual.

“Is everything okay?” Nick asks, brow furrowed.

Alby doesn’t lie to Nick. He doesn’t lie in general, really, but especially not to Nick because the Glade doesn’t function if communication between them breaks down. But this... he’s not ready to tell Nick what Newt suspects. It’s still only a suspicion, one that could easily be proved wrong, and he’s not ready to damage morale that badly without proof.

So he lies, or at least omits part of the truth. “Yeah, everything’s fine. Newt’s just in a mood, and I’m keeping an eye on him to make sure he’s not gonna be out of it in the Maze tomorrow.” There’s no point in trying to say it like he’d do this for any other Runner, not with the way he and Newt have been bound since the early days by something still unvoiced, but he can still pretend at least a little.

Nick knows there’s no truth to that last part at least, but Alby knows how much time he spends picking his battles, so he’s not surprised when Nick just nods. “Sounds good. Don’t want him getting injured.”

“Yeah. Sorry for ditching nighttime rounds.”

“It’s fine. You might have to take the Greenie tomorrow if the supply meeting goes over, so we’ll call it even.”

It’s an empty threat, given that Alby’s most useful skills as a leader lie in allotment and record-keeping, but he takes the way out Nick’s offering him. “Fine.”

Nick nods. “Alright, go ahead. Deal with whatever you’re dealing with.”

“Thanks,” Alby says, and heads back to the space in the trees.

Newt looks up when he approaches, propping himself up on his elbows. He mostly just looks tired now, which is an improvement at least, even if it doesn’t do wonders for Alby’s confidence in sending him out into the Maze in the morning. “Forgot you’re supposed to have a job to do. Wouldn’t have stolen you from Nick if I remembered.”

Alby spreads out his sleeping bag, laying down on top of it. It’s too warm in the Glade to sleep inside it, which kind of feels like an oversight on someone’s part. “I ran into him on the way back, it’s fine. He’s threatening to make me take over with the Greenie if the meeting tomorrow runs long, but it’s probably an empty threat. Hopefully.”

Newt worms his way close enough to bump Alby with a shoulder. “Be nice to the new kid, Albert.”

“I’m trying, he just talks so much.”

“Can’t be worse than Kuo.”

Alby snorts. “You haven’t met him.”

“I met him the first full day he was here!”

“For three minutes! And it’s not like he even asks a ton of questions, I can either answer those or deflect fine, but he’ll just say things and I have no idea how I’m supposed to react to them.”

“I’m sure he’s just scared.”

“Yeah, I know. I think he’s gonna get absorbed into the Builders soon enough anyway, he’s already halfway there.”

“That helps.”

“Yeah. I keep hoping that Nick will get that I’m shit at this, but I guess sometimes there aren’t other options.”

Newt shrugs. “You’re good at plenty of other things, and you haven’t killed a Greenie yet.”

“I don’t think I like ‘yet’ in that sentence.”

“I’m confident in your ability to not kill a Greenie. Better?”

“Yeah, sure.” Alby readjusts his pillow, doing his best not to acknowledge the root under his head because proximity takes priority over comfort right now. “Sorry. Didn’t come back just to complain.”

“Nah, it’s okay. Took my mind off everything a little.”

“Are you gonna be okay tomorrow?” Alby asks, knowing as he does that it’s probably only going to make Newt mad, but he can’t just not ask.

Sure enough, there’s a bite to it when Newt says, “I’ll be fine,” that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“Don’t get pissed off at me for caring about you. It’s just dangerous out there, and—“

“Yeah, I have figured that out, actually. I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t, don’t start acting like I did.”

“No, you just—“ Newt stops himself and sighs, looking away. “I’m sorry. I’m… yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Alby reaches out and interweaves his fingers with Newt’s, half-expecting him to pull away and ready to let go if he does. He doesn’t.

When he wakes before dawn with Newt’s face pressed into his shoulder, Alby thinks he could almost be happy staying in the Glade like this, but only almost. One of them has to believe they’ll get out of here, and if that means he has to play at optimism for a while, it’s one more role he’ll do his best to handle.

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Seventeen (Zuko x Reader)

Chapter 16 - Part 1 - Part 2

Word Count: 2,130

Author’s Note: All I’m gonna say is that I think my exposition sucks, but here it is, the plot has returned (Alexa play Edge of Seventeen)

News of your newfound comfort with your husband sweeps silently and swiftly throughout the palace following your return from Ember Island, the sideways glances you receive from diplomats and servants alike impossible to overlook. Those mulling about the corridors gawk as you leave your quarters beside Zuko each morning, whispers muttered over the scandal that you now sleep in the same bed; eyes widen when you brazenly peck his lips in the company of others, and cheeks redden when his hand is spied resting shamefully low on your waist. Neither of you mind the reproachful attention, however - you want your love to be seen. 

Of course, it’s a short matter time before the council gets involved in the affair, your advisors calling a meeting less than a week after your return to berate you about the newest stain on your public image. 

“It’s disgraceful!” rages one of Yong’s aides, tossing his arms about as he shoots himself out of his seat. “The Firelord and lady are figures of authority - not foolish teenage lovers! Do you have any idea how idiotic this makes you look to the nation? To the world??” 

“Hakoda loved his wife publicly,” you flatly answer, taking a tauntingly unbothered sip of the tea laid out before you. “He’s still a very respected leader, both in the Southern Water Tribe and in other parts of the world.” 

“Chief Hakoda’s wife held no power,” the aide spits. He leans menacingly over the table towards you, clenching his fists. “You are no longer a weak, sheltered Water Tribe woman. You’re queen of one of the strongest governments to ever exist - you need to damn well act like it.” 

You shift your gaze towards the man, fixing him with a subtle, cutting glare that makes him pale. You feel the weight of your betrothal necklace at your throat, the force pushing you upward to stand at eye level with him. 

“I was never weak,” you state. “I was never sheltered. I watched Fire Nation soldiers murder my parents when I was six years old, and supported an entire village in my siblings’ absence when they left to fight with the Avatar. I willingly left my home to marry a stranger for the betterment of my people; do not call me weak for learning to love him.” 

A heavy silence falls over the room, a dozen sets of eyes trained on you. You stand, unwavering, unblinking, staring at the aide who challenged you; he sets his jaw, refusing to lower himself. Yong comes up beside him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“What Jenshi means,” she sternly justifies, “is that there are still many people in the Fire Nation who are loyal to Ozai, who are used to a Firelord and lady that operate as a political alliance rather than a traditional marriage; those people may view your affections as a sign of weakness and attempt to take advantage of it.” 

“Yes,” Jenshi mutters, lowering his shoulders as he calms himself. “And with all due respect, my lady, we still don’t know who we can trust. The threat may still very well be within the palace walls.” 

You and Zuko turn to each other, sharing a noiseless, worried look; he takes your hand, squeezing it tightly as he addresses the entire room, lowering you back to his side. 

“What do the other sectors have to say?” he questions. “Military?” 

“The general consensus so far is that the military doesn’t care,” answers Counselor Chin. “Your superior skill as a warrior is revered, and the Firelady has proven a great leader in regards to our decolonization efforts. Your personal lives are of no concern to us, and we are primed to defend you against all existing dangers.” 

“Ethically there are a few problems,” chimes Advisor Shi, head of the Integrity Committee. “Your actions go against what has been culturally accepted since before Sozin’s reign; a Firelord and lady aren’t meant to be publicly affectionate with one another, no matter how they may feel for each other beyond the nation’s eye.” 

Zuko hums, nodding. 

“I understand,” he responds. “But we are trying to move away from the traditional monarchy. We’ve already established that we don’t want any children we have to be forced into their roles, and public reception was relatively accepting. What could it hurt for us to be honest about our feelings for each other?”

“It brings us back to concerns over dissent,” Yong interjects. “As Jinshi said, we’re no closer to understanding who was behind Counselor Fen’s murder or what their intentions are; we can’t let them use your emotions as leverage.” 

“Has word really spread that quickly?” you ask her, fear beginning to quake in the center of your chest. “They’re talking about it outside the palace?” 

“No,” Jinshi replies, “but it will soon. If there are actors within the palace, we assume they already know and will attempt to play your intimacy with each other to their advantage.” 

Zuko’s body stiffens, the corners of his lips turning downward into a grave, shadowed grimace. He nods in concession, but doesn’t let go of your hand. 

“We’ll watch ourselves,” he affirms, clutching your palm tighter within his. “In the meantime, I want everyone within the palace’s actions to be heavily monitored. No one is safe if we’re not.” 

After the meeting, you and Zuko take lunch together, choosing the unromantic and relatively public setting of a stateroom outside your private wing of the palace. Anxiety causes your stomach to churn like the ocean in a storm, hindering your appetite so that you only pick at your food - you notice that Zuko does the same. 

“... I visited the physician this morning,” you tell him, breaking the uneasy stagnance. “She said the medicine worked - I’m not pregnant.” 

“Good,” Zuko murmurs. His hand is raised to his chin, his voice distant as he keeps his pensive gaze aimed at an empty space on the table before you. “One less thing we have to worry about.” 

“What’s on your mind?” you ask.

“The attacks,” Zuko relays. “They’re not… normal.” 

“Normal how?” 

Zuko sighs, folding his arms in front of him as he continues to ponder, his brow furrowing in search of the correct words. 

“... They’re not what my father would do,” he says after a pause. “He wouldn’t utilize outsiders like the Dai Li, or kill an indirect target just to make a statement. That’s what Azula would do.” 

“... So you think she was behind it?” you guess. “They could have been her ideas, but the fact that she took herself out means that there had to have been someone else.” 

“Exactly,” Zuko agrees. “And that’s what’s confusing. The only person she ever feared was our father, but after he abandoned her during the comet, she hated him. Everything we have from her investigation supports that. She’d never be allegiant to him.” 

“But who else could have convinced her?” you wonder. “What else? Threatening her life clearly didn’t mean anything, and she renounced her loyalty to the Fire Nation when she was arrested. Do you think that… that maybe someone told her they were trying to overthrow you? That they offered to let her take your place?” 

“Azula was like our father. If she wanted to take over, she would’ve just taken over. She never would have taken the throne if it were offered.” 

“So… she wasn’t the one leading the attacks… but her pride kept her from bending to anyone’s will but her own. What was her place, then?” 

“I think she just wanted me dead,” Zuko admits. “Whoever approached her, they asked for her help in killing me. They gave her the opportunity to exact her revenge in a way that destroyed me little by little, the way she wanted to see it happen.” 

“... But Ozai and his supporters don’t operate that way,” you recall. 

“ They don’t,” Zuko echos. “They take by force.” 

You meet his eyes, a deep, tumbling chasm bottoming out in your stomach, the shockwave reverberating through your body. Your limbs feel limp, your head dizzy. 

“It’s not the Fire Nation,” you realize.

The words come out in a quiet gasp, carried by what little breath you can manage to force from your lungs. Zuko’s expression falls gravely blank; he reaches for your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips without thought or care to who could see. 

“It’s not the Fire Nation,” he repeats. “Which means… there might be no one we can trust.”

The door to your bedroom slides open and sputters shut behind you, indicating Zuko’s entrance; bent over, fumbling with the ties on your robes, you don't turn to greet him, but instead share the message you got that afternoon. 

“Toph is coming,” you announce. “She heard about Azula and is worried about our safety, so she's bringing a group of-” 

You cease completely as you face the man standing in front of the doorway, horrified to find that he isn't your husband. 

“I must say, you really know how to upset things,” Advisor Xiang sneers, pacing slowly towards you. 

You take a few steps back, cornering yourself back against the nearest wall; in the waist of your robes, Suki’s fan presses harshly to your side, too hidden for you to reach without alerting your intruder.

“Get out,” you quip. “Get out before I call the guards.” 

“Make one sound and this knife will end up in your neck,” Xiang threatens. He raises a blade from his hip, holding it menacingly level with your throat; as he closes in on you, he lets it graze your skin, his gaunt, sunken face glaring down at you like a demon summoned from the darkest corner of hell. 

“You were supposed to run, little girl,” he drawls on. “You were supposed to die in Ba Sing Se. None of this - this love you have for the Firelord, your flirting with the possibility of continuing his bloodline - was ever supposed to happen. And we can't let it happen.” 

“Who is ‘we’?” you demand. You try to make your voice firm, unshaken, but it quivers in your mouth, causing Xiang to release a belittling chuckle. 

“You won't find that out,” he taunts. “I've come to discuss the terms of your punishment. You see, since you defied everything we expected of you, we’re going to make you do what we planned to do months ago - you're going to kill Zuko.” 

Bile rises to the back of your throat, your gut seizing in a panicked, terrified hitch. You shake your head, quickly and minutely, tears starting to sear the corners of your eyes. 

“No,” you detest. “I won't do it. We’ll stop you.” 

“You will do it,” Xiang hisses, “because if he isn't dead within the next seven days, your entire family - that bumbling brother, his wife, your sister and her precious little family, even your father - will die instead.” 

He removes the dagger from your neck, grinning tauntingly, maliciously, as he slips it into the loose breast of your robes. His touch sickens you, but you're too petrified to force him back. 

“And don't you dare try reaching out for help,” he snarls. “We have informants throughout the palace - we’ll know every move you make, and if anyone gets word of this, your loved ones will all perish, and this time you’ll have no one to take you in.” 

It's only when Xiang releases you do you realize he had a hold on your wrist, gripping you so tightly that he leaves flaming red marks on your skin. Tears bubble down your cheeks, a sob lodged in your throat that you refuse to let go. 

“Why are you doing this?” you plead. 

You don't know why you expect him to answer honestly - you don't know why you expect him to answer at all. He smirks, showing the ugly, yellowed points of his irregularly sharp canines. 

“Because Zuko would have been better off dead when Ozai gave him that scar,” he replies. “His is a family of sociopaths and murders, my dear - we must end the cycle before it repeats itself.” 

Xiang slips through the door he ambushed you from, and you're left alone in your terror. Fingers shaking, you take the knife from your robes and hide it under the mattress, your mind racing as you try to figure out what you can possibly do to save the people you love. 

You're in bed by the time Zuko returns, the lights turned out and your body hidden beneath the blankets, too shaken to face him. As he lays down beside you, wrapping his arms around your waist and nestling into the comfort of your body, all you can feel is the blade beneath you, slicing your side as ruthlessly as if you were the one sentenced to death.

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[abraidoffrostandfelt]

bring me wary to the woods, warm my frozen fingers over reminding words

half of the forest was haunted that’s what we used to say think know looking back though it was all haunted i am thinking, knowing, telling you that we carried the haunting with us into the forest, from it in our pockets, laced into our shoes, wrapped around the slightness of our fingers it follows in dappled darkness and brightest noontide i can almost touch it back into the silver slip of moon the curve and crease of your smile i can sense it in  the subtle slide, set aside for later for keeps, to play over when i need a lifeline, a draw into dream and sleep, a wayward way back into before a touchstone, my hand reaching the softness, the baby-fat, the smallness of a curve a step too soft to write itself into story even with its existence as sure as my own dropping to my knees in the forest unseen i am not memorizing this path or identifying plants i am not calling them by name or marking my way i am almost lost, even though at certain angles, ordinary reminders of houses remain visible in the sunlit beyond i am not seeing further than this circle of trees my focus frozen into these subtle boundaries we are not deep enough, so i must keep my layers on and i do — though in my mind i am dressed in air and light alone there are rules, and they echo as i ignore them over and again, go within, and court the lostness if we make friends you will shed what makes you scary and scared, like leaves and coats and the petals of apple trees cycles softer than snow, falling slow i am here wearing a costume, this fabric that consumes the reality of my skin yet any fairytale witch knows it is impossible to hide what lies within layers upon layers with velvet cloaks and still we glow and so i hold the forest as it holds me both haunted and dear because nature is full of dualities and i have never identified as a single way forward so let my imperfections and my complexity be my beauty if such a term exists in such a way that i can claim it this is a test like once when we found the very edge, where the haunting began, joined hands and together stepped over under, through like a dance as if the moment were choreographed and so the question is, did you shiver? did you listen to the winter woods? the way their whispering comes down to us like a forest snow, feather ice, touch me gentle through the razor air the rub and rattle of wind, rushes between their branches grown closer to cloud than to our reach and it is eerie when, in the middle of that music, the air beneath is all stillness against us and in the contrast we watch the woods work their way through feeling what we cannot standing grounded, ankle deep in ice i wonder what you feel think know as i radiate the snowy cold, rose apple cheeks, sugar bright we are searching out our spirits in this seance of pines hold my hands beneath their greenery and there is the sense of presences and pulses a surround of sleeping trees, still exchanging stories underneath us and i keep stutter stumble falling just from standing my balance questions itself, toes catch, roots hold, my knees bend back to falling in the forest and i find myself breathless at the bottom swallowed in the earthen corridors of countless rabbit holes trying to track my way back in the absence of a magnet pulling north the snow helps though i still get my footsteps confused within the web of other creatures’ they ramble on and i weave my way out earth grass snow, numb fingers attempting to hold on, my hands in your hands and did you look back? do not break the circle now here nothing can touch us the forest fingers unforgotten stayed into the roar and ramble of air beyond our backs there is no going back and i speak this protection over us and into the snow pressed tracks this surround, this orbit of others the ones leading into the past, the future forward and back, rocking gently heal to toe, they appear around us the rabbit deer robin-red-breast onward our paths, pulses, hearts marked held and haunted, we gather ourselves into this here and focus forward, melting away what remains of fear, of trembling have i ever told shown you how my teeth chatter-rattle? i need to stop holding it, let the energy fly in raindrops and forward floods, gently into mist and fog we see only what is ours,   and i am missing my daydreams, my moreness, my you then and now, at once so speak the spooky stories into my truths the ones that can pull this place back give me the shivers safely, scare away the fear so that even when the thaw is upon us the forest is all still here i am repeating myself do you remember? did you swallow the answers? you cannot pass further unless you speak them right i can wait, am waiting, have been here, wary and warm, amused unassuming, all by myself i do so dislike tests extra credit if you know my name if you remember if you spit the answers into the secret snow and don’t burn your fingers touching too much truth sizzle-crackle-fire-glow and this keeps becoming something different so i breathe life into the change rearrange what i can, transform, emerge wanting more

by, earthboundpixie

[ladylillianrose]

Clarkeman Fanfiction Recommendation List

I decided to compile a nice easy access list for everyone of popular/highly rated Max Richman/Zoey Clarke fanfictions. They are arranged by type of work, and alphabetically by title! 

Collections:

Fallout by Jade4813: After the embarrassing incident at Simon and Jessica’s engagement party, Zoey knows she needs to clear the air with Simon, but she keeps getting distracted by memories of That Song. Part 1 of Zoey’s Extraordinary Confessions Series. Rated General Audiences, Complete

Give Me One Good Reason by TheAuthor44: What if Zoey hadn't run out the door after being confronted with Max's heart-song in 1x11.Part 2 of The ByeByeBye Collection. Rated General Audiences, Complete

Give Me One Good Reason, Part 2 by TheAuthor44: After their fight in the alley, Zoey and Max still have a lot to express….Part 2 of The ByeByeBye Collection. Rated Mature, Complete

Repercussions by Jade4813: Sequel to Fallout (and episode 7 of the series). Zoey still has the ability to hear other people's "heartsongs" but now others can hear her feelings, too. Will Max finally learn how she feels about him? (Inspired by the episode 8 description.) Part 2 of Zoey’s Extraordinary Confessions Series. Rated General Audiences, Complete

Resolution by Jade4813: Zoey has finally figured out how she feels about Max, but when she tries to get up the never to tell him, Everything. Goes. Wrong. Will the two of them ever manage to get on the same page? Part 3 of Zoey’s Extraordinary Confessions Series. Rated General Audiences, Complete

Multi-Chapter, Complete:

Ad Nauseam (Or Not) by Gwritesforfun:  5 times Zoey and Max attempted to talk about their feelings and were interrupted. One time they weren't. Or, the evolution of a much-needed discussion. Rated Mature, Complete

Adventures in Babysitting by TheAuthor44: Max helps babysit baby Peter when Zoey is stuck at work. Ladies, tell your ovaries I said you're welcome. Rated General Audiences, Complete

The Lies We Tell Ourselves by Jade4813: Max would do absolutely anything for Zoey. Including posing as her fake boyfriend to give her father one last "big moment" to celebrate with her. Nothing could possibly go wrong. After all, it's only his heart that stands to be broken. Right? Takes place after "Zoey's Extraordinary Glitch." Rated Teen, Complete

The Long and Winding Road by TheAuthor44: Three months after her fathers' funeral Zoey gets assigned to go to a managerial conference for SPRQ Point in Orlando, Florida. Max offers to come along after he tells her he’s been meaning to head back east to go through things from his childhood home. While Max originally offers flying together – Zoey suggests they drive and make it a road trip! Max needs to figure out his next career move, Zoey needs an escape from her grief - It's perfect! Road trip shenanigans ensue as Max and Zoey’s love story takes some unexpected twists and turns. Rated Teen, Complete

The Marks That Life Left On Them by chosenandloved: This is a Clarkeman fic set about one month post-finale.Simon, Zoey, and Max all seek out therapy in their own ways and come to some startling realizations regarding life and love. Rated Teen, Complete

A marriage (and other mishaps) by Bookreader525: Zoey and Max accompany Joan and Leif on a business trip to Las Vegas. Their presentation goes well— so well, in fact, that they spend the rest of the night partying. Cue the next morning, when Zoey wakes up in a hotel room that is not hers with a ring on her finger that she doesn't recall wearing before. Rated Teen, Complete

Max’s Extraordinary Project by Gwritesforfun:  Any successful project takes a well-executed plan. Max has a birthday surprise for Zoey, and he assembles a team to give her a gift. Rated Teen, Complete

Seasons of Love by Ladylillianrose: Max has always been included in the Clarke family holiday celebrations. A journey through the different holidays and celebrations they have, as their lives continue to change and grow. Rated Teen, Complete

Take A Chance On Me by Ladylillianrose: Max moved to the 6th floor, giving Zoey the space and time she needed to figure out her feelings. But now that she's ready to talk, what is she going to tell him? Rated Teen, Complete

The Wedding Date by Jade4813: Zoey agrees to be Max's Plus One at his brother's wedding. They're supposed to be just friends, but the dreams Zoey's been having about him lately make things complicated. Rated Explicit, Complete

When I Kiss You, SPRQS Fly by ElliHelm: Five times Zoey and Max kissed throughout their (totally just a) friendship. Plus one time where they finally acknowledged it was more than that. Rated Mature, Complete

When I Think About You I… by Ladylillianrose: Zoey performs Karaoke, giving Max a show he will never forget. (Established Relationship). Rated Explicit, Complete

You’ve Got SPRQS by Ladylillianrose: A new dating app has just launched for the SPRQ Watch, called SPRQS. Joan signs Zoey up for it in order to help her meet someone. Will Zoey find someone? Can you really fall in love through an app? Inspired by You've Got Mail. Rated Teen, Complete

Zoey’s Extraordinary Nephew by Ladylillianrose: Max stops by to meet Zoey's nephew, and a much-needed conversation is had. Rated Teen, Complete 

Zoey’s Extraordinary Nightmare by aubreyrichman: An event causes Zoey to realize her worst fears. Rated Teen, Complete

Zoey’s Extraordinary Relationships by Gwritesforfun:  “Unnecessarily complicated, exhausting for everybody, the opposite of good.” Zoey reflects on 5 complicated past relationships, and one that isn’t complicated at all. A 5+1 things. Rated Teen, Complete

Zoey’s Extraordinary Reunion by aubreyrichman: High School Reunions are synonymous with drama, stress, fear, and showing the people that attended school with you that you are different than you were when they knew you. When Max receives an invitation to his High School Reunion, he doesn't realize that the reunion itself could change EVERYTHING. Rated Teen, Complete 

Zoey’s Extraordinary Secrets by aubreyrichman: What could have happened with Zoey if timing had been different? What if Zoey’s dad wasn’t so sick when she developed her powers? What if she had gotten them earlier? What if...? Rated Explicit, Complete

Multi-Chapter, In-Progress

Extraordinarily Star-Crossed by aubreyrichman & Ladylillianrose: “...and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself....the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other's sight, as I may say, even for a moment...”-Plato, The Symposium. Rated Mature, In-Progress

Ghosted: An Extraordinary Haunting by aubreyrichman: When Max’s life hangs in the balance, who else does he turn to but his best friend? But does that mean that he will be heard? Rated Teen, In-Progress

It’s Not the Goodbye, It’s The Longing That Follows by Jade4813: Zoey told Max that she needed more time, but time, it seems, has just run out. After she realizes her feelings a little too late, can the two of them find their way back to each other? Rated General Audiences, In-Progress

Table for Two by ElliHelm: When Zoey's conscience (re: jealousy) rears its ugly head at a fateful encounter at the Golden Gate Grind, Operation: Get Max Off Of Her suddenly becomes a lot more complicated. Or, How To Go On A Totally Platonic Dinner Date With Your Best Friend When You Know They're In Love With You. An AU where Zoey goes to Hand-Picked with Max and how her life changes as a result. Rated Teen, In-Progress 

The Times They Just Knew by bigcitydreamer98: Set after the finale, told through the POVs of Zoey's friends and family, those closest to Zoey recount the times they knew that Zoey and Max were falling for one another. From lingering glances to cheesy Dad jokes, slightly concerning outbursts of song to meeting the family Max never seems to talk about, Zoey and Max make it through it all - most importantly, together. Rated General Audiences, In-Progress 

Win Some or Learn Some by Jade4813: Zoey has just discovered her new powers, but they develop an inconvenient glitch that makes her start to realize her feelings for him may not be what she's always believed. The only problem is, she has no idea if he feels the same way. Rated Explicit, In-Progress

Zoey’s Extraordinary Guide To Grief by atlas_outlast: Or; How To Grieve When You’ve Been Grieving For Years But Now Your Father Is Actually Dead. Rated Teen, In-Progress

One-Shots

Both Showing Hearts by TheAuthor44: AU 1x12 where Zoey reflects on all the events of the day ... and Max gets to finish. Rated General Audiences, Complete

Breaking Point by Jade4813: When they become temporary roommates during quarantine, how many times can Zoey and Max have sex while still pretending to themselves and to each other that it Doesn’t Mean Anything? Rated Explicit, Complete

do you think you will be good enough (to love others and to be loved) by flashlightinacave: Post season 1 episode 10, Zoey and Max finally have a real conversation and trade some needed apologies. Rated Teen, Complete

Hand-Picked Redux by TheAuthor44: What if Mo convinced Zoey to join Max for dinner at Hand-Picked? What if she wasn't so emotionally avoidant? What if Autumn hadn't been working at the Golden Gate Grind that day? Rated General Audiences, Complete

A Promise by TheAuthor44: My take on Max's goodbye to Mitch in 1x12. Max lets Mitch know exactly how he feels about his daughter - and makes him a promise. Not Rated, Complete

The Sound of Silence by Jade4813: Max had never had Zoey's power, but he'd never mourned its absence. Her voice, and the sound of her laugh, had been all the music he'd ever needed for over sixty years. Rated General Audiences, Complete

Tobin Ships It by TheAuthor44: In order to win the office bet of when Zoey and Max will get together, Tobin decides to take matters into his own hands. Rated General Audiences, Complete

Wild Things by innie: Her power has a soft spot for Max. Rated Mature, Complete

[austennerdita2533]

A/N: Just a Literati trifle in celebration of GG’s 20th Anniversary Week. I still have another chapter or two to write but I wanted to get this out before the event officially ended. (Canon compliant + OS + divergences)

Also here: (AO3)

Enjoy! 

xx Ashlee Bree

An Archive of Words Between Us

One day, many weeks into it but still no closer to clarity about what it is between them, Rory does what she does best: she makes a list.

Marked at the beginning, from when she and Jess first met, she soon starts to add to it with frightening regularity. A new entry comes any time there’s news, insight, questions, or growing confusion to report. She writes it all down. Out. She compiles everything in a beat-up old notebook she’s taken to carrying around.

Over the years that follow it becomes a confessional of sorts for her, a still developing story. She reaches for a pen whenever the mood strikes, and writes…then writes some more…

Committing to paper all the things they’ve said to each other over the course of their history, as well as many of the things they didn’t.

- i. things we said when we were strangers -

“Hey, Dodger, wait a minute,” she calls out before he disappears behind the gazebo. “Is this a gimmick of yours? Do you always write margin notes in the books you steal from strangers?”

Jess stops. Casts a cursory glance over his shoulder before turning back around with hands in his hoodie pocket.

“Depends, I guess.”

“On?”

“Does it matter?”

Rory shrugs.“You could be a literature-defacing miscreant on the lam for all I know. Your face might be tacked to Wanted posters all over New York City. I’ve got to edge my bets, protect my assets.”

“What,” he says, “you aiming to sentence me without a trial or something?”

“Thinking about it.”

“Wow. I can’t believe you’re going to bust out the cuffs already, Judge Judy,” he chuckles, raising his hands in supplication before rocking backwards on his heels like he’s been shot. “That’s not very neighborly.”

“Sounds like there’s evidence to be had if I dig a bit.” A pause. A teasing quirk of an eyebrow. “Is there?” she asks.

Though he stays silent at this, a spark of something catches deep in his dark eyes as their gazes meet, and Rory's stomach flips.

“Well?”

“You tell me,” he says, all smooth and inscrutable and James Dean cool as hell.

“I’m no Agent Scully at the FBI, but the truth is out there. Don’t think I won’t uncover it,” Rory replies, her wit flowing strong and sure. “If I think it’s warranted I could hire Kirk to lay chase for a while…he likes detecting. Takes payment in Skittles, too. Boxes of which I will have no trouble acquiring, I assure you.”

“Who the hell’s Kirk?”

“Let me worry about that,” she beams back at him coyly, bouncing the book he’d pilfered earlier against her hip.

“Save your Skittles, concerned citizen. I’m clean.”

“Oh, yeah? And why should I believe you when I hold proof to the contrary?”

“Because—” Ambling backwards in the middle of the street, a crooked smirk forms along the corner of Jess’s mouth as he gives her one last idle loll of his shoulder. “I only leave notes for people who might appreciate them. Start with the one on page three, by the way,” he adds with a farewell salute. “It’s a doozy.”

Curiosity piqued, Rory ignores the warmth in her chest as she watches him turn to leave a second time. Instead, she buries her nose in the margins of Howl and peruses. Losing herself in his tiny blocked script the whole walk home.

- ii. things we said because we were lying to ourselves -

Pacifying the town's fears about their friendship isn’t easy.

Especially not after Jess outbids her boyfriend at the basket-bidding festival to win an afternoon of her company. Or the night he shows up on her doorstep unannounced, bearing food and intellectual discussion after she swears to everybody else she wanted to spend the evening alone. Or when he wrecks her car on their way back from a spontaneous hunt for ice cream cones.

Then there’s the time she misses Lorelai’s graduation because she’s stuck on a bus next to some scruffy-looking creep who spits chew into a soda can while he mumbles the names of state capitals under his breath in an Appalachian-sounding litany, Rory having skipped town impulsively to visit Jess in the Big Apple after Luke had sent him packing because of an accident that had no real bearing or blame. At least not unless it was half hers to share in, too, in any case.

She expends a lot of energy defending what they are to people. Clarifying what they’re not.

Pretty soon a truncated version of the truth skips from her mouth like a message she’s spent months concocting, memorizing, and then recording, with her smart enough not to speak it aloud until it sounds convincing. And it does. She makes sure of it.

Tensions abate after that, for a time. Mostly because of the distance.

Mom and Dean, in particular, seem to breathe easier with so much of it stretched between them. They’re much happier once Jess is no longer there to lurk around Luke’s, or clog the aisles of Doose’s, or stake out chalkperson outlines on the sidewalks of town where he can draw her closer to him. Too close for comfort, as far as anyone else is concerned. Even if his only aim in doing so had been to imbibe her in intellectual conversation.

Rory finds it funny how his absence from Stars Hollow makes it both easier and harder for her to placate everyone’s misgivings. The words may be simple to say, but the meaning behind them feels deflated. Half-bodied at best.

Like calculus, it causes her headaches. Forces her to work twice as hard to make everyone believe she doesn’t care that he’s gone and likely never coming back again. That the vacant space he’s left behind doesn’t sting whenever her gaze passes over it, remembering.

Exhausting though it is, however, she does her best. She makes the effort.

She starts by dolling out extra attention and assurances to Dean about her commitment to him. To their relationship. Then she pivots around mention of Jess’s existence to her mom because she knows she doesn’t approve of him let alone agree about any of his good qualities. With Lane, she focuses on school and Mrs. Kim and music they can add to her floorboard collection. And in front of Luke, so as not to burden him with more disappointment, she acts as if nothing is different. Pretends that nothing much has changed.

Omission quickly becomes a habit for Rory. A way of life.

Only once does exposure threaten to spoil everything when her mom confronts her openly one afternoon about a placeholder that’s slipped out of her copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls.

“It’s nothing,” Rory says as she makes a quick grab for it in the kitchen and blushes.

“Really? Because nothing to me looks a hell of lot like a paper plate fragment. One that’s smudged in pizza grease and blue scribbles.” Laughing, completely unaware of her daughter’s wide-eyed discomfort and humiliation, Lorelai hands it back to her without inspecting it closely. “I’m surprised by your choice is all. Messy and makeshift isn’t your typical bookmark M.O., hun.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when Paris accosts you at the break bell. You drop things. People jump, drinks spill. Beloved bookmarks go soaring…”

“Ah. I take it she was yelling in dog decibels again?”

“More like she put out an APB on all aliens living a few hundred million lightyears away and then gave them exact shouting coordinates for where to find her. So same difference, really.”

Her mom snorts. Passes over the ranch dressing.

“She’s a pill, that one. I’m telling you Pink wrote that song with her in mind.” Shaking her head, Lorelai closes the fridge behind her as she bites into another French fry. “So how’d you come by the plate?” she asks, her mouth full.

“It was spontaneous. I was running late so I nicked it from the cafeteria on my way out,” Rory lies, knowing full well Chilton never dispenses paper or plastic dishes for dining.

“Oh.” Her mom considers this. “Well, I suppose there were times even Madeleine Albright couldn’t find anything better to use in a pinch. That was very…replateful of you.”

“What can I say,” she exhales with relief, feigning amusement as her fib is accepted with alacrity, “the Forks was with me.”

“Only the Forks? Don’t tell me you’re leaving out the spoons and the knives. How could you?” says Lorelai, aghast, as she scoops stray kitchen utensils to press them against her chest in a bodily cuddle. “It’s cutlery discrimination!”

“No, it’s punning.”

“Says who?”

“Me.” A pause. A nibble of pizza. “Also, Shakespeare would agree.”

“Psssh, Shakespeare! That old killjoy,” her mom says dismissively, rolling her eyes in good humor as she tucks a box of strawberry Pop Tarts under her armpit and motions toward the living room. “What’s that you have written on the inside there, anyway? French? Calculus? Rolling Stone lyrics? A blueprint for the evil plan you’ve hatched to shoot Grandma to the moon? I’m dying to know.”

Waving her off, Rory tucks the shard back into the spine of her book where it belongs. Hiding it from view. “It’s for school,” she assures her as they settle onto the sofa.

“So tell me about it. I don’t care if it’s boring.”

“Pass.”

“Come on! I could use a good Chilton-instigated snooze.”

“Too bad. No beauty naps for you.”

Lorelai pouts, fake affronted. “Rude!”

(Turns out that ‘shard,’ that ‘thing for school’ which is stuck between the pages of Rory’s Hemingway, isn’t boring at all. In fact, it has a history. A story. The truth is it’s a souvenir she’s saved ever since she and Jess talked books over pizza at Antonioli’s on basket-bidding day.

Toward the end of the meal he’d ripped off a piece of plate so he could jot down his phone number and a quote. Only sliding it into her hand, folded in half, crinkled up like a note passed between desks at school, in the moments before they parted ways and headed home.

It’s stupid she’s kept it. She realizes that now. Stupider still to slip it between the pages of each new book she reads or unfurl it in the privacy of her bedroom to puzzle out if the line he’d included from A Moveable Feast is meant to have double meaning:

“We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply and slept well and warm together and [liked] each other,” it reads.

Stupidest of all, she can’t seem to bring herself to stop looking at it. To throw the darn thing away. A note…a number…a greasy sliver of paper plate!)

“Like I said, Mom,” Rory swallows before smiling over at her convincingly, “it’s nothing. Really.”

- iii. things we said on the verge (of something) -

In early June, Sookie’s wedding day arrives.

Things are static again. Serene. Normal.

Granted, slight changes do sprinkle into the mix here and there because of her dad’s presence, because Dean holds her a little tighter around the waist now than he once did, but mostly it’s the same here as it’s always been. Pleasant people fade into gossip and nonsense while fun blurs into peculiarity.

Life feels simple once more. A tad plain and colorless, maybe, but simple.

Then Jess returns to town on a whim or a fluke or a who the devil knows what he’s thinking and everything goes sideways, pear-shaped, belly-up-and-down in seconds because this is the last thing she’d been been expecting and suddenly the only thing that registers is the length of the grass plus the number of steps it will take to close the distance between them. All that matters is he’s here, he’s back, he’s near enough to touch, and she’s smiling so hard she can hardly breathe as she drinks him in from head to foot like a glutton: her pulse leaping, her heart lurching free from the cage of her chest.

The whole world tilts. Collapses. The pale yellow of the sun shines down like a spotlight so it’s only a rippling alcove she sees. Just him, just her. Just them canopied beneath these flittering fronds of green.

Any rational thought Rory possesses scatters across the wind with the pollen. And then before she knows it, the ground tilts out like a ramp underfoot.

It pushes her forward. Outward. Sliding her toward him until she’s thrust and tangled in his arms with no memory at all of how she got there, or why their mouths feel so hot and wanton like this, so damn unsatisfied. It all seems impossible considering they’re still pressed together in a kiss that can only be described in one way: illicit.

“Not a word,” Rory pants when they stop and Jess pulls back, his jaw taut, his expression shuttered, to nod once understanding.

“Okay,” he says.

“Promise me.” The huskiness of her voice feels at odds with this demand, with the trembling fist she still has curled in the lapel of his jacket, but she cannot think about her stinging mouth or his tongue right now so she clings to desperation instead. “Can you do that?”

“Okay,” he repeats, all eyes, eyes, eyes. And with that single look, she forgets to breathe let alone digest anything he’s promised.

In the end, it’s an impulse that overtakes them not a decision. It’s a moment of clandestine passion they share, not a confession that will alter the circumstances any.

And yet it’s guilt, not regret, that begins to pull like an anchor in her belly until she’s running in shoes that chafe the back of her heels. It’s terror and confusion, not apology, that ripples along her nerve endings until she’s dashing through the trees like a coward or a swindler because she needs to believe behind her there’s still a haven of black and white she can cross with both feet.

Only when Rory stops does she feel the change. Does she discern the difference. It takes one sting, one breathless stitch in her side, for her to know she’s tumbled forward into color without noticing.

Looking down, and there it is. His name already singed across her chest in scarlet letters.

- iv. things we whispered on the hood of your car -

“Tell me something no else knows.”

“About what?” he asks around midnight the following April, the two of them sprawled on the hood of his car at a deserted rest stop off the I-95 on their way back from a concert in the city.

“You, silly.”

“Funny you’re thinking about penning my biography already, Churchill. I’m honored, truly, but aren’t I too young for that sort of enumeration?”

With a roll of her eyes plus a protracted har-har, Rory lifts their intertwined hands, watching, mesmerized, as their fingers thread then unthread as they lay side-by-side parked beneath the Big Dipper in this forsaken parking lot. Though they’ve been together about six months now, prying Jess open has been slow work. It’s like taking a crowbar to cement: one chip, one crack, one crumble at a time.

“Stop deflecting, Mariano,” she warns. “Evasion’s for chumps.”

“Fine,” he sighs. She presses a kiss of reward against his knuckles before curling tighter into his side. “How about this: every year roughly sixteen hundred people in New York City are bitten by other humans.”

“Bitten?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“That’s just it,” he says in his best horror story voice, “could be vampires, could be cranky commuters, could be urban mania or road rage…nobody knows.”

“Oh, please. As if I’d let you off the hook with that obvious dodge. You’re killin’ me here, Smalls!” Rory says with an elbow rib and tsk. “Second of all, you so made that biting thing up.”

When she edges her head back onto his shoulder to look at him, Jess drags his pointer finger down her forehead before bopping her affectionately on the nose, his expression neutral.

“Didn’t you?” He shrugs in that cute off-the-cuff way of his then smirks into her hairline. “That’s unbelievable!”

“It is what it is.”

“So, what,” she says as she throws her leg over his hip to lug him closer, her arm already stretched out across his middle, “is there a case of zombiepox going around that the CDC has neglected to inform us about? Because I’ve got to tell you if that’s so then I’ll need an inoculation ASAP, mister! Frazzled, bloodshot, and half-rotted is not a good look for me. It just isn’t.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Hey!” she exclaims.

“No offense, critter of Frankenstein,” he chuckles, absorbing her retaliatory swat with a grunt and rolling her further on top of him, “but I’ve seen you pre-coffee. It isn’t pretty. We’re talkin’ bolts out your neck, monster glares, frothing purple mouth and everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep up your running tally and you might find I bite you next. Rory the Ripper does have a nice alliterative ring to it—you best remember that,” she warns all narrowed eyes and silky breath and arms folded under her chin.

Jess cocks his left eyebrow, brushes his thumb over her bottom lip. “Idle threats don’t scare me, Gilmore.”

“They should.”

“Maybe.” A lazy grin forms at the edges of his mouth. “But yours don’t.”

“Fine,” she blows out a breath. With her head resting in the center of his chest, Rory fixes him with one long steady look, her voice dropping an octave lower as it drains free of sarcasm to assume a more serious edge. “Name one thing that does then. That scares you, I mean,” she says.

He doesn’t answer right away. In fact, he fidgets so long beneath her that by the time he settles with his hands clasped behind his head, lost in thought and translation, peering up at the sky, she’s half convinced that silence or deflection is the best she can hope to expect from him in reply.

Reticence is a quality she’s come to recognize in Jess. It’s one she can reflect back at him in part because they’re both cut from the same quiet, introspective cloth. However, it’s also one that restricts her access to his thoughts and feelings when she most wants it, and that can take a toll. Makes her wonder if they’re parked at different weigh stations in this relationship or not.

It’s bizarre to reconcile how she can understand him so well in some contexts, to the point where she can predict his next reaction or sense a good joke hanging in the periphery that's about to descend; while in others, he’s a total head-scratcher. Like a Sudoku puzzle with numbers that don’t add up to anything.

The silence between them continues to stretch. It becomes an awkward, formless wall.

The stillness, too, which is illuminated only by the light of the moon and the faint din of the car radio, hangs between them until he draws her up his body and folds her over him with a green plaid blanket. His fingers tracing languid strokes up and down her spine.

“Swans,” he says at last, his tone subdued. Scratchy. “Swans scare me.”

“What else?”

“Tennis balls. They’re too small and fast as they zip past. I hate how they can leave imprints on your face like ugly yellow snitches.”

“Okay then. Weird but fair. What else?” Rory asks all warmth and eagerness, her eyes searching his for something he wouldn’t want to slip free.

“Pennywise.” Though she snickers at that, it’s a valid fear. Clowns unsettle her, too. Evil ones especially. She’d had nightmares for eight months after she’d read Stephen King’s It for the first time, and had taken to sleeping with the bedside lamp on for years.

“Anything more?” she asks.

“Cricket bats.”

“Ooh-ho!” Poking him, “So Mrs. Kim got to you, did she?”

“Listen, I tried to be cool and unaffected but who knows what would’ve become of my head if she’d taken a swing with that thing?” Jess shudders at the same time she imagines Humpty Dumpty and laughs. “Jeez.”

“Things would’ve gotten messy,” she adds honestly.

He stalls a moment, then blinks back at her all wariness to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “How messy are we talking here?”

Rory cocks her head and bites the corner of her mouth, musing. “Think pumpkins.”

“Smashed ones?”

“Yep.”

“Figures,” he mutters miserably.

With an encouraging pat, “Don’t worry, I would’ve stepped in before Mrs. Kim buried your handsome yet indignant face beneath the floorboards or behind a brick wall in the catacombs with Fortunato. It’s the least I could do since I sort of like you and all.”

“Sort of?” Jess asks.

“Yeah. I’m no unreliable narrator girlfriend who'd escort you to your doom, you see. I’d much prefer to keep you,” she says with an adoring grasp and swivel of his chin, which he deflects by tickling her breathless as she bends down over him.

“Gee thanks, Casper. Nice to know you care about me.”

“Not about you exactly,” she teases, her flip-floppy giggles still piercing the air. “Just your head.”

That stops him. “My head, huh?”

“Sure.” Still a little breathless, she reaches toward him to fist her fingers through thick black tendrils along his nape. “It’s pretty.” She gives the strands a little tug. “Full of thoughts I’m hoping to pilfer for further study.”

“You know, I always thought there was some hoodlum in your DNA. Now I’m convinced,” he says as he leans over to commence the tickling again. “And you will pay."

The two of them continue to roll then thump against his windshield all elbows and knees until the levity starts to leaden and transform. As Jess reaches over to cup her cheek, their gazes meet in the silvery darkness and hold, kindling like flint.

Quiet washes over them again for a moment. Only this time, it’s bloated; it’s heavy. It’s a mess of a hundred thousand decipherable something’s teetering on the precipice of expression.

A flicker of alarm passes over his features as he frames her face with his hands, palms flat against the car. He hovers aloft, unsure. Indecision mixes with fear to tangle with retreat even as gravity beckons him nearer, his head dropping low enough for their foreheads to touch.

“I sort of like you, too, you know,” Jess breathes softly, his lips lowering to press against her mouth in a quick but lingering kiss. “A lot.” His jaw clenches. “Maybe too much.”

Suddenly there’s a tightrope pulled taut and vibrating in every direction because there’s no shrinking back from the dense electricity pulsating between them. There’s no more room to dance around unnamed emotion whenever it identifies itself in blown pupils, in a bobbing Adam’s apple, in hands that slip and slide until they fit together like aligning planets.

In that instant Rory knows. She knows right then and there she’s falling in love with him, that she’s half fallen already. And it’s both a revelation and a fact so natural she can feel the truth of it whistling from deep in her bones.

Looking nervous, vulnerable, more fragile than she’s ever seen him, he swallows hard then shifts to squint out at the shadowy tree line while scratching at his nape. “It’s just…so many people have treated me like garbage that all I know how to do is spoil things. I destroy, Rory—ruin what’s good. It’s what I do best. It’s all I know. I’m trying here and all, but I…don’t know how to do this,” he says, gesturing lamely between them. “How to do us right.”

“Hey now,” she thumbs his cheek, tries to turn his head back toward her but it won’t budge, and neither will he. “That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about. Go easy on him, will you?” He nods into her palm, softening a little. The tension leaves his body as he gathers her in his arms again, her head conforming to the crook of his neck, but she’s not convinced all is well yet.

“There’s no rulebook or anything,” Rory says placatingly. “We’ll figure it out together, okay? You and me.”

“Yeah.”

“We will,” she says with an emphatic, assuring squeeze. “I know we will.”

With a caustic laugh, a heavy sigh, he runs his teeth over his lip, “I’m a screw up, Rory.”

“Hey. Not true.”

“I am.” Jess sounds so resigned, so convinced, it ties her into knots thinking he sees himself that way.

“Not to me, you’re not.”

“No,” he says with a deadened inflection, with a sad downturn of his mouth. “Not to you.”

Frowning, she feels his cynicism, his self-deprecation, descend like a slash across the gut. Helpless to do anything but try to be a soft place for him and his insecurities to land, she pulls him toward her, embracing him, quieting him, caring for him more with each passing second even though a warning gong goes off in her heart when she leans in to steal another kiss.

“Maybe I’m not a screw up to you yet,” he whispers, “but I could be at another time. On another day.”

“Stop,” Rory declares forcefully, holding her finger against his lips so he knows she means it.

Jess relents. “Okay,” he sighs. “Just know I’ll get it if you change your mind.”

- v. things we cried out at a crossroads -

Strained.

Silent.

Distant.

Those are the best adjectives to describe the status of her and Jess’s relationship as the bus pulls away from the curb a couple weeks later. After the party from hell. From her place on the sidewalk, her chest full of a heaviness she can’t name, Rory stares after it - after him - with little to no regard for the hour’s lateness or for the morning bell which signals the start of homeroom.

It’s the middle of May. That means finals, graduation, and summer loom on the periphery but she doesn’t care. None of it resonates. In the background she can hear Paris barking orders at a few trembling freshman and minted sophomores, but she does nothing to intervene. She makes no move to prevent her frenemy’s yellow journalistic splatter from crushing the innocents to smithereens.

Instead, she watches the hum and bump of the vehicle’s dusty rubber wheels as they roll down the street. She tracks the plume of smoke swirling from the exhaust pipe into the sky, which clouds over with blacks and grays instead of with clearing blues and radiant yellows. She waits until the bus turns left, its engine loud, roaring, to putt around the corner. Disappearing from view.

I hope he calls later, she thinks with a pang, with an iota of hope. We need to talk soon.

Rory’s eyes want to keep traveling with him long after he’s gone. So do her feet. They seek to follow along wherever Jess has gone, to ride beside him until they’re able to make sense of this mess between them and fix it. Fix them again.

Unfortunately for them both, they don’t. And it’ll be some time before they can, let alone before they do.

[abundanceofsoph]

SkyFire 3: Chapter 7

Harry at the BBC, Flicker Sessions & the other side of marriage: August/September 2017    

Word count: 3.4k

SkyFire 3 MASTERLIST

I’m finally back! December really kicked my ass: I moved house, and I’m a manager in retail so christmas is always a nightmare but covid definitely made it worse. Anyway I’m back with another chapter and I’ve got the next few blocked out so hopefully I can get back to semi-regular updates :) Please help this story find new readers by reblogging and commenting.

As summer neared its end, Harry and Aurora travelled north to Manchester where they met up with the rest of the band as well as Jeff and Nick Grimshaw. It was hard for both of them to be back in town for the first time since the funeral, and even harder to be staying in Anne’s house which now felt far too empty without Robin’s infectious laugh and booming voice. They had arrive in town two days before the taping and both Aurora and Harry found themselves immensely grateful for the extensive soundchecks and filming obligations that kept them in town most of the time, only returning to the house in the evenings and turning in for bed relatively early to avoid the uncomfortable atmosphere in the home. On the day of the performance, after all Harry and Nicks segments were filmed and the band was ready to go, the doors were opened, and the small crowd was welcomed into the venue and prepared for the procedures of the taping.

The show was a huge success, with the crowd absolutely loving the entire thing. Aurora found herself unable to hold back her laughter several times while Nick interviewed Harry and she was often grinning as he danced around the stage, revelling in the infectious atmosphere of the crowd. Following the last song, well after the crowd had left and the only ones left inside were the band, Nick Grimshaw and their families, the crew worked on breaking down the set and everyone milled around with drinks in hand. They laughed together, sharing stories and eagerly discussing the upcoming tour. Aurora was tucked up against Harry’s side, his arm thrown comfortably around her shoulders as she lent her head against one of the swallows hidden beneath his shirt. She caught Anne’s eyes across the small group and the two women shared a soft smile as Harry’s booming laughter filled the air. In that moment she felt that despite the pain still felt in Robin’s absence, at the end of the day Anne was going to be ok. Both Harry and Rori had worried about heading off on a world tour and leaving her at home, but now Rori was confident that while her mother-in-law still had plenty of healing to go, she would be just fine while they were away from her. It was with clear consciences that the young couple were able to pack up their car and return to London the following day.

xXx

A few days after returning home from Manchester, Aurora took the opportunity to do something she had done quite often back in New York before she and Harry got married and made a permanent home for themselves in London. Life had been so busy since Jays passing the previous year that she hadn’t had a chance to start back up again in London and with the tour only weeks away she knew this was her final spare moment.

It took the better part of an hour for her to arrive after first taking a bus north to Knightsbridge from which she caught the Piccadilly line over to Russell square. She paused for a moment in the small patch of trees of Queen Square Gardens to collect herself before heading up the front steps and through the entry to the Great Ormond Street Hospital. An administrator was waiting in the lobby for her and after a quick greeting and handshake, Aurora was led upstairs and onto one of the kids' wards.

No matter how many times she made these visits, the first moment was always confronting. It was always upsetting to see so many tiny kids so sick and the exhausted, shattered expressions on their parents faces. No matter how often she did this there was always the briefest moment when her eyes threatened to tear up and she had to bite the inside of her cheek before plastering a bright smile on her face.

She spent most of the day there with the kids, admiring their drawings, singing songs for them, and playing with their toys. She spoke with the parents too, trying as best she could to brighten their day even if just a little bit. By the time she left she could feel the tears threatening to fall and instead of subjecting herself to crying on the tube, she ordered an Uber to get her home to where Harry was waiting with open arms and hot cup of tea.

She fell into those arms the moment she stepped into their living room, her entire body shaking with the great heaving sobs breaking through her chest. He didn’t say anything, knowing exactly how painful these visits were, having made enough of his own over the years. Whenever it had been his turn, his wife had been the safe harbour for him to return home to and now it was just his turn to help her weather the storm. He pulled a blanket over them as they settled into the sofa and he hummed softly, rubbing her back until her breathing finally slowed and she drifted to sleep, laying on his chest.

xXx

They hadn’t seen much of the boys since the wedding, so with Niall’s album launch fast approaching, Aurora was immensely excited to join him on stage to perform their duet Seeing Blind at his second stop on his Flicker Sessions tour. Following the first show in Dublin on the Tuesday evening, Niall flew into London early the following morning and Aurora met him at the Shepherd’s Bush Empire to rehearse ahead of the show the following evening. After a full day of rehearsals, Niall joined Aurora on her drive home, hugging Harry tightly as they arrived back at the Battersea Flat.

“Alright, alright,” Harry chuckled as he finally let go of the Irishman. “Get in here before dinner gets cold.”

They all sat down around the dining table, digging into the pasta dish Harry had made, catching each other up on the summers between bites.

“Can’t believe we’re both off on solo tours,” Niall said as Aurora cleared the table. “Seems mental to not all be cramming ourselves into the bus together.”

“I know,” Harry agreed sadly. “Feels weird to be making all the decisions on my own. Exciting though.”

“Agreed,” Niall chuckled. “Can’t bloody wait. Last night was absolutely buzzing and tomorrow’s gonna be so bloody great with Rors.”

“Gonna be so much fun Ni,” Rori echoed. “Been looking forward to this for weeks.”

“Speaking of,” Harry said. “Gem said she should get back into town about an hour before the doors open so I’ll probably wait for her and we can head over together. That work for you two?”

“Sounds good mate,” Niall nodded.

“Works for me baby,” Rori agreed, kissing Harry on the cheek. “I’m planning to arrive a few hours before doors open so I have time to get dressed and get hair and makeup done.”

xXx

The following evening Aurora waited backstage as Niall stepped out into the spotlight and began the show with The Tide. The crowd sounded electric and Aurora found herself far more excited than nervous to soon been joining him. The minutes flew by and Niall was quickly welcoming her out into the spotlight to a round of applause. He was smiling brightly as he started playing and sang the opening lines of the song, before Aurora joined him, a matching smile lighting up her own face. As they reached the chorus, Rori found herself dancing across the stage, the hem of her dress flaring out above her knees as she twirled. The song was over far too soon for her liking and she found herself more eager than ever for Harry’s own tour to kick off.

xXx

As September began, the stress had been building between the Styles’ for days. With the tour only  weeks away Harry was already overworked and exhausted. He was so full of anxiety, waking in the middle of the night to call Jeff to check on some tiny detail he’d just thought of and it had just kept piling up. Aurora had wanted to help him, wanted to calm him, and tell him that it would be ok, but she was consumed by her own fears. Despite how much she had enjoyed singing with Niall and how well their TV performances had gone over the past few months, she hadn’t lied to Liam all those months ago when she’d shared her fears with him that her disability would make her a liability to the tour. She couldn't use her prosthetic every waking hour of the day; it wasn’t healthy, both on a physical and mental level. Physically the prosthetic was never entirely comfortable, leaving her constantly aware that something foreign was attached to her body and mentally, while the transmitter was a technological marvel, using it for longer than a few hours left her exhausted and if she kept it on too long she was assaulted by the worst migraines imaginable. The fear of being unable to perform, of failing Harry, of not being what he needed was drowning her. She knew he loved her of course, but they had barely been married 5 months and she was terrified of being a burden, or worse still, of disappointing him and hurting his career.  

All of this was building up between the two of them, the stress feeling like a thick fog filling their flat and weighing down everything in it. A week after Aurora performed with Niall in Shepherds Bush, and two weeks before they were set to fly out to San Francisco, it all came to a head, boiling over in a fit of anger and frustration; both of them saying things they didn’t mean just to win a point against the other. She wasn’t even sure what had ignited the flame but as soon as it sparked, neither could hold back until Rori knew she needed to leave before either of them said something they couldn’t recover from. Somehow, she managed to hold back the tears until the door closed behind her and she crossed the hall to the elevator, leaving her husband in their apartment, angry and alone. She let the tears fall as she rode the lift down the underground garage, thankful that it didn’t stop to pick up anyone else along the way. She was gasping for breath, sobbing hideously by the time she climbed into her car and started the engine. She wasn’t even sure where to go but she knew that she needed to go somewhere.

She was furious and she was hurt. They'd bickered over the years, they wouldn’t be human if they hadn’t, but he’d never raised his voice at her the way he did tonight and she’d crossed the line too, said things she didn’t mean and things he didn’t deserve. She wasn’t paying attention to where she was going but didn’t find herself all that surprised when she pulled up out the front of the Golden Stag. She parked the car in the side alley to avoid getting a ticket the following morning and made her way inside, attempting to wipe her tear stained cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater with her right hand, her prosthetic long forgotten back at the apartment.

It was nearing midnight and the place was mostly empty, only a few stragglers left in a booth by the fireplace. Helen was behind the bar, not looking up as she heard the door open. “We’re closing up,” she called out.

“Sorry,” Rori mumbled, causing Helen’s head to snap up, her face pinching in worry as she took in the young woman’s expression. She rushed out from behind the bar, pulling Rori against her chest and tucking her under her chin.

“What happened sweetheart?”

“Harry and I had a fight and I just had to get out of the house,” Rori admitted. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

“Of course baby,” Helen soothed. “How about we get you settled in your old room upstairs?”

Aurora nodded and allowed herself to be led towards the staircase and up to the small apartment where she’d grown up. She toed off her shoes and climbed under the duvet, while Helen sat on the edge of the bed and ran her hand over Rori’s hair.

“Do I need to go knock some sense into that boy of yours?” she asked.

Aurora shook her head. “He didn’t say anything worse than what I said to him.”

“Do you want to talk to me about it?”

“No.”

“Ok sweetheart. Try to get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.” Helen stood up and headed for the door. Just as she was about to step through, Aurora's voice gave her pause.

“Thank you, Gran,” she mumbled.

“Get some sleep baby,” she repeated, closing the door softly behind her.

When she woke the next morning, she crept downstairs, noting the missed calls from Harry when she checked her phone. The pub wasn’t open yet, so it was deserted but for Helen and Greg cleaning up and preparing for the day ahead.

“Good morning sweetheart,” Helen greeted as Aurora perched herself on one of the many bar stools. “You hungry?” Aurora shook her head. “How about a coffee?”

“Yes please,” she mumbled, smiling softly.

“Helen said you didn’t want us giving Harry a piece of our minds,” Greg added while his wife turned to the coffee machine, “but if you change your mind you just let me know. If he hurt you...”

“He didn’t,” Aurora cut him off. “At least not how you mean.”

She was interrupted from explaining further as her phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket, glad that it wasn’t Harry’s face on her screen. She answered the call with a soft “Hello?”

“Rori, where are you? Are you safe?” Louis asked, worry clear in his voice.

“I’m fine Lou,” Rori promised. “I’m at the pub.”

“Thank god,” she heard him sigh. “H called this morning to see if you crashed at mine, said he’d already checked with El. He’s worried about you.”

“Well he can worry a bit longer, I’m not ready to talk to him.”

“He feels terrible for what he said,” Louis said.

“Don’t,” Rori sighed. “Please don’t get in the middle of this.”

“I won’t, sorry,” Louis replied. “Just promise you’ll text him and let him know you’re safe and that you’re not ready to talk. You and I both know he’ll spiral if he doesn’t hear from you soon.”

“I will,” she promised. “I gotta go.”

“Ok, love you.”

“Love you too Lou.”

Once she hung up, she did as she’d promised and texted Harry to let him know where she was and that she needed some time alone before she was ready to see him.

After finishing her coffee, Aurora left the pub and drove back home to Battersea after promising to call Helen later to let her know that everything was ok. She parked the car in its usual spot but instead of heading to the elevator and up to where she knew her husband would be waiting for her, she instead headed out to the street level and wandered along the banks of the Thames until she reached the Peace Pagoda. The sun was shining but there was a chill breeze blowing in off the water, not uncommon for autumn in London and Aurora pulled her thin cardigan tighter around her, lamenting not having a jacket while she walked. After staring at the familiar pagoda for a while, she turned left and headed into the park, passing the bandstand until she reached her favourite section of the park, the subtropical garden. She found a seat on a nearly dry bench and sat, watching people as they roamed between flower beds and posed for photos. The previous night’s argument played through her head. It was far from the first argument she and Harry had ever had. They’d been together for almost 4 years and it was only natural to bicker and disagree, but they’d never really had a smack down, drag out fight like this one before. He’d never yelled at her the way he had, standing across from each other in the kitchen, and she’d never stormed out the way she had. This was uncharted territory for them both and while she regretted what she’d said, she worried that Harry would not be so quick to forgive. He wore his heart on his sleeve and she had witnessed over the years how unwilling he could be to forgive when he felt that he had been betrayed. For much of the year, Louis had been trying to convince him to mend things with Zayn and while Harry was happy that the two men were reconnecting, he had no intention of forgiving his ex-bandmate after all these years.

It was all of this that was running through Auroras head as she sat in the park, trying to figure out how to apologize for the terrible things she had yelled. She already forgave Harry for his own hurtful barbs, but she was feeling so unprepared and out of her depth when it came to repairing the damage rendered to her marriage. Not only did the thought of Harry hating her or resenting her cut at her like a knife, but the start of tour was only 2 weeks away and she knew that they needed to address what had happened and try to fix it, or the tour would be doomed before it even began.

Eventually Aurora accepted that she had stalled long enough and headed for home, finding the apartment worryingly silent when she finally stepped inside. She padded along the hall, peering into each room as she passed, eventually finding Harry at the piano in their studio, his shoulders slumped and his hunched back to the door. She leaned against the doorframe as she watched him run his hands along the keys, only moving forward when she noticed the way his shoulders shook with every shaky breath. He stirred when he heard her footsteps, immediately lurching to his feet and she felt her heart break a lit bit more at the look on his face. The moment he turned to face her it was clear that he had barely slept since she left the night before. His eyes were red and puffy and filled with so much sadness that Aurora felt her own eyes grow warm with tears seeing the man she loved more than anything in so much pain.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, quickly closing the distance between them, and throwing her arms around him.

Harry held onto her just as tightly, whispering his own apologies in her ear as they both cried. They simply held each other for long minutes before finally pulling apart and looking into each other’s eyes.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Harry said. “God I’m so sorry I love. I never meant to say any of that.”

“I know H,” Rori replied softly. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said any of what I did either. We were both stressed, and I know it doesn’t excuse what we did but I know that you didn’t intend to hurt me, and I hope you know I’d never want to hurt you either.”

“Of course, I know that,” Harry gasped. “Never doubted it for a second.”

“So, what do we do now?” she asked. “How do we fix this?”

“We can’t pretend it didn’t happen,” Harry admitted. “Think we need to sit down and talk about what we said. Figure out why, so we never get there again.”

“Ok,” Rori agreed. “Think maybe we could just snuggle up on the sofa for a bit first?”

“God yes,” Harry sighed. “Maybe a little nap too. Couldn’t sleep at all without you and I’m bloody exhausted.”

“A nap sounds pretty great,” she agreed with a small smile, intertwining their fingers as they headed down the hall together. They both knew the conversation awaiting them wouldn’t be easy, but they both knew that they belonged together and they would get through this speedbump just as they had overcome ever other obstacle that had faced together over the years.

NEXT CHAPTER

OR CONTINUE READING ON AO3

[danyka-fendyr]

Absence of Good - 7

Chapter Seven: Naked

For once in my damn life I actually got inspired and this is what became of it. Basically I was thinking about Taylor Swift and rewatched the Miss Americana trailer (I’m waiting to rewatch the movie so I can do it with my aunt) and I just like...ended up in my feels? So I actually kind of really like this chapter and I hope you guys do too. Also shout-out to that one anon who binged the last six chapters and sent me an ask about it! I live for moments like that, truly.

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli

AoG Taglist: @pancakefancake @prettyboyspenerrr @youreasnack @alioop3818

Wordcount: 3290

Warnings: Dark themes throughout. Death. Murder. Some body horror. PTSD. Flashbacks. Trauma. Discussion of torture and kidnapping. Brief mentions of sexual assault.  

“I often don’t say things out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you’d never guess from looking at me.”

-Gillian Flynn

It was official. You were cleared for active duty again. You had passed every test they had thrown at you, and by every empirical measure you were fine. It was like nothing had ever happened. And so that’s how you decided this was going to play out. You were just going to act like nothing had ever happened.

You were going to bluff like your life depended on it.

Your first day back at work had to be perfection. You envisioned it in your head the night before, you built it, like building up a shield or a wall. Pristine, beautiful, strong. You got up extra early just to execute it, just to put on the pencil skirt, the red heels, the crisp blazer and the flawless makeup. All of it planned out, right down to the skinny vanilla latte with oatmilk. Just like a costume.

You were prepared for the barrage when you stepped back into the BAU. Penelope Garcia never let anyone come back from a long absence without at least an absurd amount of enthusiasm. Usually there was a surprise party involved. You prayed there was not a surprise party involved in your return today.

In fact, you were hoping there wouldn’t even be a case. That, just this once, the bad guys would see fit to give you a break. That maybe they wouldn’t kick a woman while she was down.

Your hopes were too high though.

Penelope’s squeals of delight and everyone’s sickeningly pitiful looks were cut short by Hotch.

“It’s good to have you back, Y/L/N.” Even stone-cold professional Aaron Hotchner looked softer, if that was at all possible. “That being said, I’m afraid we have a case.”

He didn’t patronize you by asking if you were up to it. He knew that you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. In a way, you were glad for the work. It would be distracting.

You were glad for it until the second you walked into the briefing room and saw the photos Penelope pulled up on the board. Then you were holding back vomit and taking careful, even breaths because nobody could know you were panicking. Three different women, all of whom had been tortured, then dumped. Sure, they hadn’t been tortured the same way you had been, or even by the same guy. That didn’t stop every last one of their faces from turning into your own.

You were under a magnifying glass here though, and you couldn’t break composure even for a second. They couldn’t know. So you practiced your breathing techniques, took careful, measured blinks, and listened the best you could. You swallowed perhaps a little too rapidly, relying on your latte to hide that you were just stopping yourself from crying. In a room full of profilers, the stakes had never been higher.

“Alright team. All of these women were found in the last month in North Dakota. As you can see, there are clear signs of torture, and there is also evidence of sexual assault. It appears the assault was ante-mortem, but there are no signs of remorse in the way the bodies were dumped. All of these women were in different, clean clothes, and their bodies themselves had been cleaned up. You can see that injuries were stitched back together, and the only blood on the body appears as stains from where it sat on the skin too long and couldn’t be properly removed.”

“So we’re dealing with a doctor?” Morgan asked.

“I don’t know about that. These don’t look surgical. They seem pretty messy to me,” Rossi said.

“The coroner’s report from the first victim would indicate that this isn’t professional work.” Hotch folded his hands in front of him.

“It’s entirely possible this guy’s a germaphobe though.” You made an easy contribution, something to satisfy everyone without drawing suspicion.

“You know, it’s not unlikely.” Spencer leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together thoughtfully. “Approximately 9.1% of American citizens do have phobias. It wouldn’t be too radical to suggest that maybe our unsub does as well.”

“Okay, so we’re dealing with a germaphobe who can’t sew. Doesn’t narrow it down much. I’d say we need to get out there and see what’s going on ourselves,” Prentiss said.

“Wheels up in 20.”

 The plane ride was long enough that you were able to sleep through most of it after tossing around ideas. You found your own quiet little corner of the plane and promptly pretended to sleep so that no one would bother you. In reality you hadn’t slept well in weeks and couldn’t risk sleeping now in case you woke up out of a nightmare, but as far as the team was concerned, you were to be left alone. 10 minutes before landing you “woke up” to listen to Hotch giving out assignments.

“Morgan and JJ, I want you checking out the dumpsites. Prentiss and Y/L/N, go talk to the M.E.”

“Hotch, I really think I should go with Y/N.” Your entire body tensed at Spencer’s words. ��We tend to work really well together and especially with a case like this I think my medical knowledge could come in handy. I might be able to figure something out from looking at the bodies and examining the stitches.”

Hotch paused for a moment. “Alright then. Reid, you’re with Y/L/N, and Prentiss you can stick with Rossi and I.”

“That works for me.” Prentiss shrugged. “I have an old buddy who used to work for the Bismarck police department. I’d like to see if he still does, see what I can find out from him.”

“Good. Then it’s decided.”

 Hotch could not have picked a more awkward person for you to be trapped in a car with. Of course, you supposed Hotch hadn’t picked him, he had volunteered. You wondered if he could tell something was up with you, or if it was just instinct. If sharks could smell blood in the water, Spencer had a nose for you being in any kind of emotional distress. Right now you wished that he didn’t.

5 minutes into the drive he spoke up.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

“Yeah. Just tired.” You lean your head back further into the nook between the seat and the window frame.

“You sleeping okay?” Spencer’s brow furrowed as he glanced over at you.

“Yeah, fine.” Lies, lies, lies. “I was uh…out late last night.”

“Oh.”

You stared out the window, watching the scenery. This time of year there wasn’t much to see in North Dakota. Just frigid, icy wasteland. You dreaded getting out of the drowsy comfort of the nice warm car.

“On a date?” Spencer’s voice sounded off somehow.

“What? No.”

Maybe too quick an answer, but it was a ridiculous suggestion. You? On a date? In your dreams.

“Some friends of mine from college were in town. We went out and got a few drinks before they had to head back.” Always make sure the witnesses are conveniently unavailable.

“That must have been nice.” Spencer smiled.

“Yeah. It was good.”

“So other than that, how have you been?”

“Good. Great, really. Itching to get back to work though.”

“Really? Wasn’t the break nice?”

“Nice, but boring.” You pulled your sleeves over your hands.

“I guess.”

Spencer pulled into the parking lot, safely sliding into one of the available spaces before coming around to open your door. You frowned slightly. He had never done that before. If he was babying you now just because of what had happened you were going to kill him.

Mad. Mad was new. Mad was good. You decided to pursue that.

“Why open the door? I can do it myself, you know.” Your voice carried more hostility than was warranted.

“I know,” Spencer said, blushing. Blushing? “I just thought it might be nice. Plus with all of this ice you could get hurt. Did you know that 1 million Americans are injured slipping on ice annually?”

Ah. So he was babying you.

“I’m fine. I can handle a little cold, Spencer. Now come on, we have bodies to look at.”

You stormed ahead, determined to leave him standing there alone in the cold. What happened instead was far less triumphant and dignified. You slipped. On ice. And Spencer caught you. And then subsequently did not slip.

“See?” A smile played on his mouth as you looked up at him through your snow-coated lashes. “Dangerous weather conditions. But you’re right, we should get inside.”

He righted you, unfortunately causing you to leave his warm embrace, and looped his arm through yours as you two headed into the coroners.

 Seeing the bodies in person was worse than you thought it would be. The smell of the formaldehyde felt like it was seeping into your pores, like it would never leave you. The gleam of the metal tables seemed to whisper, “This could have been you.” The icy cold Bismarck air turned your skin to something lifeless, something that belonged underneath one of the sheets hanging over the victims. After all, what was one more dead girl?

It took everything you had to keep it together. Even then you let Spence do most of the talking.

“So these stitches, they’re not surgical,” he established.

“Well see, that’s what’s interesting about this. The first ones certainly don’t seem surgical. They’re far too messy. The technique is good, but the execution is falling apart. But the second body is far more orderly, and the third is nearly perfect.”

“So our unsub has been practicing.” The horror in your voice shone through.

“It would seem so. But here’s what else is interesting. The chemicals used to clean these girls up? They make the same progression. At first, household cleaners, hence all the staining. But then they move to medical grade stuff.”

“Wait…could we be dealing with a medical student here?” You asked.

“It’s entirely likely. However, I would bet that whoever did this is looking less to be a surgeon and more to be a coroner themselves. Look at the cut patterns.”

You froze. You didn’t want to look. You couldn’t look. You could feel your scars burning in your sides, white hot, the metal slicing through you, tearing you to ribbons.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

“As the victims progress, the pattern becomes more and more organized, until it almost looks like…”

“An autopsy,” Spencer finished.

The coroner nodded. “So I certainly wouldn’t rule out medical students, but if I had to take a guess…”

“We’re not looking for a candy striper,” You supplied.

“We have to get this to Hotch. Thank you so much for your help.” Spencer took the folders offered before following you back out to the parking lot and into the car.

 As it turned out, your suspicions were correct. The unsub had been studying to work as an M.E., until they discovered that cadavers just weren’t enough. Sublimation can only take you so far.

They began seeking out more lively victims, their psychopathy making them seem no different than a cadaver. To this unsub, people were just meat to be used and then hacked up. He would never be seeing his medical license though.

You should have felt good. Should have felt on top of the world about solving a case, especially being able to do it so quickly. Instead, you just felt a cold sense of dread about having to go home to your nightmares. On the plane, you once again feigned sleep, with the goal of slipping away from the others when you touched down. No such luck.

“Good, you’re all back! I have a surprise for our favorite returned agent. That’s right, it’s tequila time! We’re all going out for drinks, totally non-optional. And when I say all of us, I mean all of us.” She glared pointedly at Reid. “Even the good doctor.”

“Penelope, I’m not sure this is such a good idea.” Spence looked over to you.

For the first time that day, you allowed yourself a moment of weakness. You had gone through a lot, you had sat through that briefing, you had looked at those bodies. You could have a little bit of emotional vulnerability. As a treat.

You looked at Spencer hopelessly, practically begging him to save you from your surprise party fate and somehow get Garcia to call the whole thing off. You couldn’t do this. All you wanted was to go home and take a nice hot shower and curl up alone.

“Okay,” Spencer said. “I’ll go.”

Penelope cheered, overwhelmingly excited about the development.

Morgan chuckled. “Baby girl, we better go before he changes his mind.”

“Oh! Right!” And with that she was off.

 The very last thing you could have possibly needed right now was a bar. It was loud and noisy and crowded and all together far too much for you to handle. You supposed you should be thankful it wasn’t a club, but you couldn’t find it in yourself. You didn’t want this right now.

You didn’t want glowing neon lights or the wine cooler you were pretending to drink to make Garcia happy. You didn’t want music that was slightly too loud or a football game playing in the background. Most of all, you didn’t want all of these people touching you. Every graze was like someone was running nails down a chalkboard. You would have rather had a cheese grater on your skin, would have rather peeled it off and torn it to pieces.  You had to get out of there.

Your salvation came from the source of your doom.

“Well guys, I think I’m going to head out,” Spencer said. “It’s getting kind of late and I have a documentary I was hoping to catch.”

“Alright, well, we’ll see you soon okay boy wonder?” Morgan raised his glass in salute.

“Actually, perfect timing Spencer. I was wondering, do you think you could drive me home?” You had originally carpooled with JJ, having taken public transportation to work that day. Oddly enough, you knew Spencer had brought his car. “I’m totally wiped out after last night.”

“Oh, right, you had your thing with friends!” He remembered. “Um, sure, yeah. I guess your place is on the way to mine. The more the merrier!”

Garcia tried to convince you to stay, but Spencer maintained the role of a beautiful, beautiful excuse. With your combined efforts you were able to navigate your way out of the clutches of Penelope Garcia and into the cool, quiet car, where mercifully no one was touching you.

Your apartment wasn’t far from the bar, but you were irritated to find that Spencer insisted on seeing you up. You were tired of this patronizing behavior. You didn’t need to be coddled, you needed to be respected. You thought he of all people would be the one to always respect you, but apparently not.

You stopped outside of your door, keys in hand as you looked up at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“What?”

“Why are you treating me like I can’t be left alone for 5 seconds? You’re babying me. Stop it.”

“I’m not babying you,” Spencer said. “I’m concerned about you. You just came back from a traumatic experience, and I just…don’t think you should be left alone right now.”

“So what, you don’t think I can handle myself?” You turned to face him, livid under the glow of the overhead light. “Because I have plenty of scars now to prove I can. I’m a survivor, Reid. I think I can walk myself up a few stupid stairs and unlock my apartment door without supervision. Did Hotch put you up to this? Wanted to make sure I was ready to be back in the field?”

“What? No! Of course Hotch didn’t put me up to this. He would never do that. He respects you and believes you’re more than capable of doing this job.”

“Then what? Who’s telling you to do this?” You took a step closer, getting in his face.

“No one! I’m doing this because I care about you, Y/N, and when you were taken it was one of the worst moments in my life. I’d never been that afraid of anything before, not even when I was kidnapped. And I just kept thinking how scared you must have been, how alone you must have felt, and I…I don’t want you to feel that way now. I don’t want you to feel alone. No one is making me do this. No one is watching you, waiting for you to breakdown. It’s just me, Y/N. It’s just us.”

You wanted to melt into the way he said us. Wanted to tell him everything, wanted to let him count your scars and tell him you were afraid, you were alone. You wished that you could.

“Well thank you for your concern, but I don’t need it. Everything is fine. I’m fine. We’re…we’re fine.”

It was the last words that gave you away. The tremble in we, the unsureness.

“Why won’t you let me in? Why can’t you let your guard down. Take all of this composure and just…lose it a little?” Sweet brown eyes snuck their way in, securing themselves around your heart.

All day, you had been trying so hard to keep it together. To put on a mask and pretend that everything was fine, because that was what you needed everyone to think. You needed all of them to see you as competent and capable and someone they could look up to and respect and love, but it was just…it was just so much pressure, all the time, and normally you could handle it but now? Now it was too much, all of it all too much.

“Do you know why I can’t just lose it? I can’t fall apart because people are watching and it doesn’t matter to them what happened to me. Nobody cares about anything but right now and right now what I know is that they take your pain and they turn it into a joke. Because that’s what people do Spencer. That’s what people do when they don’t like you. When you get hurt, that’s funny. When something terrible happens to you, it doesn’t matter how bad it is, you deserved it. Gosh, can’t you understand that? Don’t you get it? It’s not just that I don’t want people seeing me hurt, it’s that I can’t let them. Because you know what hunters do when they see a wounded animal? They kill it. And I’m…I’m…” You choked.

You choked on all of it. Not just the words, but the fear, the horror, the overwhelming gut-wrenching spiraling episode you were falling into. You didn’t understand what was happening to you anymore. You just knew it hurt. It hurt so bad.

“Look at me.” Spencer spoke softly, not daring to touch you. “It’s okay. It’s okay to be hurt. It’s okay to feel it. You don’t have to stop.”

“I can’t…I can’t…”

You couldn’t stop the tears from coming down your face, the tight ache in your chest, all of these feelings catching up to you like you never could have imagined before this.

“He hurt you. He hurt you very badly. Nobody expects you to just bounce back from that. Nobody needs you to be okay right now. It is not your job to be okay.”

You fell into him. Collapsed into his body that caught you like he had been waiting, like he knew this would happen, like he knew you better than you knew yourself. Knew your body, knew your pain, knew your heart, and was holding it all together, even raw and bleeding and naked as it was.

And you let go.

“The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.”

-Lois Lowry