#Bring Your Smile Along 1955

[hollywoodcomet]

Musical Monday: Bring Your Smile Along (1955)

It’s no secret that the Hollywood Comet loves musicals. In 2010, I revealed I had seen 400 movie musicals over the course of eight years. Now that number is over 600. To celebrate and share this musical love, here is my weekly feature about musicals. This week’s musical: Bring Your Smile Along (1955) – Musical #780 Studio: Columbia Pictures Director: Blake Edwards Starring: Frankie Laine, Keefe…

[kelcemenow]

Playing With Fire - Chapter 2.

Pairing Travis Kelce x Reader x Joe Burrow

Words 1955

Warnings A bit of fluff and a bit of angst. And some strong language because it's me.

So, y'all seemed to enjoy this request so much, I thought I'd crack on immediately with a second part! "have you ever thought about Travis kelce x reader x joe burrow just a thought"

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

You stood frozen, rooted to the spot, staring up at Travis' face. Your eyes were beginning to sting from the lack of blinking and your hands had gone numb.

"I...I didn't realise how much I missed you until I saw you. And when I held you, it just made me want to hold you forever. I should've never let you go."

You finally closed your eyes, your head dropping to your chest and a burning feeling covering your skin. You hadn't realised that you had been holding your breath until your lungs eventually gave out and a loud gasp escaped your lips.

"Travis-"

He bent down slightly, searching for eye contact, "And don't tell me that you and Burrow are a good fit. You can't tell me that he makes you happy."

"He does make me happy." You whispered.

Travis brought his hand up your face, cupping your cheek gently, "As happy as you were with me? Does he make you feel the way I used to?"

Your mouth opened but when you attempted to speak, nothing more than a small croak left your lips.

"Well, does he?" Travis repeated, his eyes widening.

You looked deeply into his eyes, tears building against your lower lids. Travis ran his thumb under your eye, wiping away the moisture.

"I still love you, Y/N, I always have." Travis' voice shook with emotion, "Will you let me show you how much you mean to me?"

You cleared your throat, "I always wanted to hear you say that for so long."

Travis smiled, his eyes creasing.

"But, I just don't know. I think too much time has passed."

His smile faded slowly but his hand on your face remained steady.

"Travis, it took me years to get over you. I think a part of me will always love you, I can't just turn those feelings off."

"So, give me another chance."

"It wouldn't be fair to Joe."

"Fuck Joe!"

You stepped back, his hand dropping away from your face, "See, this is the Travis that I don't like. I am so mad at Joe for hitting you, but you really don't help yourself sometimes. This cocky, arrogant man I see in front of me, I don't want that."

Travis pressed his lips together and looked down to the floor. You waited for him to respond but he didn't, he just shook his head.

"I can't believe I'm fucking this up again, man." His voice cracked again.

Your eyebrows pushed themselves together, a concerned expression on your face as you watched him rub his eyes.

"I'm just so desperate for you." He looked up at you, his cheeks stained with tears, "I'm desperate for the life we dreamed of, what we used to talk about late at night when we couldn't sleep...and we'd look out of the window and you'd wish on the stars." He reached forwards and gently took your hands in his, bringing them close to his chest, "Remember what you used to wish for?"

You closed your eyes again, a futile attempt to stop the tears from falling, "I wish for us, forever."

"You can have forever, I'm giving that to you." Travis whispered.

Your thoughts were suddenly clouded by memories of countless nights laid with Travis holding you close to his chest, your eyes fixated on the sky outside. Even though it meant that the morning sun would wake you up, Travis always left the drapes open at night so that you could see the stars if you couldn't sleep. Travis would gently run his hands along your back as you watched the hundreds of bright dots glittering across the dark sky, making dreams and wishes for your future together.

After a moment of silence, you took a breath, "How long are you in town?"

Travis cleared his throat, "A couple more days."

"Okay. How about we meet for coffee...tomorrow? We can talk."

A small smile crept up on his face as he nodded slightly, "Yeah, sure."

You reached up and pressed a gentle kiss onto Travis' cheek. As you slowly pulled away, you looked deeply into his eyes, getting lost in them like you always used to. Your lips parted subconsciously, your breathing beginning to speed up. He tilted his head slightly, moving closer to you so that your faces were only an inch or so apart. Your lips touched his lightly, almost not at all and Travis' breath hitched. His fingers gripped yours, squeezing them with desperation. Your eyes fluttered closed and you lifted your chin, bringing your lips closer to his. His body pressed into yours, the unbearable tension building.

"I should go." You whispered, your eyes still closed.

Travis sighed gently, "Yeah...I know."

You stepped back, his fingers still interlocking with yours. You smiled before slowly turning away and finally releasing his hold on you. The cool air surrounded you and only added to the goose bumps that were flecked across your skin.

______________________________________________________________

You loved Sundays. Your usual routine was a morning run followed by a cool shower and lunch. You'd often spend the afternoon catching up on some reading, listening to music or meeting up with friends. It was your day to relax and recuperate for the new week ahead.

But not this Sunday. This Sunday you were sat in your kitchen with Joe, having a conversation that you had been dreading. He had showed up early in the morning, begging you to let him in, apologising and blaming Travis for provoking him.

"I just saw red, baby. I shouldn't have punched him, I know that. But he kept testing me."

You sighed gently, "Travis can't keep his mouth shut. You know that, so why did you let him win?"

"Win?" Joe's eyes widened.

"He got what he wanted...a reaction out of you. And a big one at that."

Joe looked to the floor, "I know. I know. What can I do to make you forgive me?"

You narrowed your eyes, "You can't make me do anything, Joe. I'll decide what I'm doing when I decide." You took a deep breath, "And seeing as you want complete honesty from me...I'm having coffee with Travis later today."

Joe looked up at you quickly, his jaw clenched, "What?"

"We have unfinished business and I need to clear some stuff up."

"You can't be serious."

"Joe, you've got the stop with this jealousy. Travis was in my life for a long time...we were crazy about each other."

Joe stood up from the stool and took a step towards you, "But he lost you."

"I know." You said softly. "But I need to speak to him."

"Did he not say enough last night?"

You brought a hands up to your temples, a stabbing sensation beginning to develop in your head. Your brain was aching with thoughts and doubts. Joe was kind and sweet, recent behaviours aside, and always put you first, which you appreciated and valued. Travis was funny, adventurous and wild, traits that you shared and found attractive in him.

Your thoughts were interrupted by Joe reaching out and taking your hands in his.

"Y/N, baby. Please, think about this. Think about what you're doing here. He lost his chance, he let you down. You can't give him another shot."

You looked at Joe, your exasperation building, "Don't tell me what to do, Joe."

"But you're being stupid." His words came thick and fast before he had time to think and you watch as his eyes instantly signalled regret.

He opened his mouth to apologise for his comment but you shook your head and pulled your hands away, "I think you should leave."

"What?"

"Joe, I need time to think about all of this. I need to do what's right for me."

He waited for a short moment, studying your expression, desperate for any sign of wavering. When he noticed that you were serious, your arms tightly folded across your body, Joe gave an almost unnoticeable smile and placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, his lips leaving a tingle in their wake as you watched him leave quietly.

You swivelled around on your stool, resting your elbows on the breakfast counter and collapsing your head into your hands. You ran your fingers through your hair before deciding that you were going to skip your run as you didn't have time, or the focus for it.

The warm water ran down your face as you stood still in the shower. You carefully washed your hair, hoping to rinse all of your stresses away but instead, your mind was running on overtime. As you dried off with your towel, you grabbed your phone and called for some help.

"Hey bitch!" Harry's voice sang into your ear.

"Travis or Joe?"

"What?"

You sighed, "Travis or Joe."

"Ooh, this is a fun game. Can't I have them both?" He laughed.

"Harry, focus. Out of the two, gut instinct, Travis or Joe."

There was a small pause before he spoke again, "Joe is an absolutely beautiful man. He's romantic, reliable and that jawline...my God, just kill me. I'm inclined to say him...but-"

"But what?"

"Travis is hot. Like unbelievably hot. He's strong and big and Jesus, I want to climb him. You seemed to be crazy for him, so I'm assuming the sex was good. I honestly can't decide."

You hummed, "That's the problem I'm having."

"Oooh, a love triangle? Lucky bitch."

"I'm serious. Travis was there last night and told Joe that we used to date which obviously made Joe completely lose it. Then, I took Joe outside to calm down and Travis followed us and then Joe punched Travis and then Travis told me that he still loved me and wanted me back."

"How did I miss all of that?!"

"Not important, Harry. What do I do?" Your voice thick with uncertainty.

"Okay, when you're with Joe, what do you feel?"

"I feel warm and cared for, which I love. I...I feel happy and safe and comfortable, like I'm truly myself."

"Right, good. Now how do you feel when you're with Travis?"

You quietly thought to yourself, "It's different. Travis makes me feel sexy and wanted. I feel confident and...loved."

Harry sucked in some air through his teeth, "It's a tough one. I don't think I can answer this one for you, honey."

You rolled your eyes, "You're right, I know. I just needed a second opinion." You opened your closet, your fingers running across the rail of outfit options, "I just want to be happy, Harry."

"In that case, I think you know the right answer." You could hear a smile in Harry's voice.

_____________________________________________________________

You took a deep breath as you walked along the sidewalk. The afternoon sun was beating down on your face, causing you to squint your eyes so that you could see the street name that you needed.

Your hands pushed the door of the coffee shop open, the invigorating scent hitting you instantly. Your eyes scanned the patrons, searching for the tall, handsome football player that you were there to meet.

Pretty soon after your conversation with Harry, you had made up your mind and felt confident in your decision. So, you were here to meet the man you wanted to be with, hoping to spend your life with him.

Your gaze settled on him, sitting with his back facing you, a large coffee cup in his hand and staring out of the window next to him. You approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He immediately stood up and embraced you tightly, his thumb rubbing circles in your back. You buried your face into his chest, grinning with a lump forming in your throat.

"I want you, Joe."

______________________________________________________________

Well, that was fun. I won't lie, I was so torn between the boys that I needed extra help to make the readers decision for me! So, a huge thank you to @killatravtramp for your rational and helpful advice! I won't lie, I struggle with the 'love triangle' trope as I never want to make anyone the bad guy but I enjoyed writing this, especially as I didn't know which one to go with!! Anyway, I'll be back to finishing some more requests for a while and then I've got another series in mind! Drop a comment or a message to be included in my Taglist!

Taglist @rd14 @dandelionwrites8 @keiva1000 @fantasywritersstuff @caelipartem @anacarangel @she-lives-in-her-dreams @kkrenae @kristencochefski1125 @countrygirl120983 @killatravtramp @charmed2000 @nouis-bum @cixrosie @delicateearthquakellama @wordsaresimple-imnot @amylouwho9 @queenisa17 @talicat713 @luvvtrent @purecinnamonextract @savaneafricaine @caelipartem @beyxgrande @caitdaniels @ezgirl1108 @vir-tual @lightsoutstyles

[c0ffee-stain]

Whispers

Five Hargreeves x f!reader

Navigation • Previous Chapter: Chapter 6 - 1.06 • Chapter 7 - 1.07 • Next Chapter: Chapter 8

Warning: Contains: fighting, blood, the usual swearing

Nothing But a Puppet

Date: REDACTED, 1955 Location: TEMPS COMMISSION HQ Time: REDACTED

Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.

The shattering of glass rattled the Commissions first floor and everyone nearby. I reached for anything closest to me, in this case a stapler, and threw it with a great force through a large glass barrier dividing a few analysts and their seniors.

I dragged the back of my hand across the gash cut along my cheek bone and winced slightly after discovering yet again another bruise.

My tongue throbbed slightly, trying to distract my mind from formulating a well-planned murder that involved two people. A blonde with no wish other than to make my life a living hell, and- I couldn’t even finish the thought as it seemed so ridiculous in the first place. Not my plan that’d bring me nothing but glee, but the fact that I had to deal with this asshole in the first place.

I scoffed as blood slowly pooled into my mouth, the rich metallic taste forcing the corners of mouth to twist upwards in rage, forming a smile which didn't reach my eyes.

I took my gun out of my pocket and sighed inwardly, quickly remembering I was out of bullets. But that was fine. It wasn’t like a certain Handlers office was a fully loaded arsenal.

Plenty of weapons to use in there.

With every step I took, a group of eyes would avert my way, whispers of gossip accompanying their intrusive stares as they layed their eyes on my bruised, battered, and bloodied body.

Envy of my past reputation overtook my mind and any ounce of self-respect I once had left was long gone. Before, those pathetic workers didn't dare lay their eyes on me for too long in fear of my reputation and I was able to slip under the radar unnoticed and undisturbed. But it seemed that my previous engagement had circulated around the headquarters faster than I could've disposed of the evidence.

Finally reaching her office, I slammed my bruised fists against her door, repeatedly, trying to keep myself from wrenching the door out of its place and grabbing her by the neck. I slammed my fists once more until the door was pulled open, my eyes meeting the woman’s stare that was clearly trying to hide her irritation. Whether it was the fact that I was alive or that I had interrupted her beauty sleep, I would never know.

“Oh, It's you.” She looked me up and down, forcing a smile onto her red coated lips. “Come in. Or are you unable to control yourself with so many weapons present? It’ll be a shame to cut our deal short.”

“If I didn’t have any self control you would’ve been six feet under from the very moment I met you.”

The woman chuckled bitterly, her eyes drifting to the crowd now roaming behind us, waiting eagerly for her response.

“Why don’t we take this to my office. I’ve got a jar of candy calling your name.”

I followed her in, The Handlers white glossy heels clacking audibly before taking a seat behind her desk.

“You’ve got something on your teeth.” She spoke, watching her nails momentarily after inspecting my dishevelled figure. “Blood, to be precise.” With a manicured hand, she pushed a crystal vase that held mountains of hard candies towards me.

"I'm hoping you're here to tell me how..." The woman's lips faltered into a smirk as she tried to keep her expression neutral. "successful you're assignment went."

“How successful my assignment went...” Exasperation was clear in my voice.

"Yes, I suspect that everything went according to plan."

My teeth clenched as I seethed, "So being on the receiving end of an assassination order from one of your henchmen was part of my fucking mission?"

“Whatever do you mean? I helped you. Put one of the Commissions best assassins by your side.” The Handler leaned back, brushing invisible lint off of her 80’s styles dress. Her electric blue eyes narrowed as an annoyed smile pulled slightly at the tips of her mouth. She watched as I menacingly leaned in and planted my hands firmly onto her desk.

I dragged my tongue along the red staining the white of my teeth. “Now tell me,” A mocking smile adorned my lips. “why the fuck did you send one of your puppets to kill me?”

— ONE HOUR AGO - Date: 2nd of April, 2002 Location: Unknown Location, England Time: 23:55

I tied the cord around his plump neck, watching him squirm and gasp to get as much air as he could into his lungs, his blue veins bulging against the papery white of his skin. The moment the newly lifeless body dropped onto the filthy carpeted floor joining the 5 others, I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and sighed.

Here they were. The main members of the Lionheart Mob.

Dead.

I looked around the damp living room, signs of break in and fighting evident in the knocked over and broken furniture, and blood splattered along the walls and already dirty carpet. My nose scrunched automatically at the stench.

I picked up my weapons and slid them back into my pockets, letting my eyes wonder around the crime scene once more after wiping down and ridding any evidence for the police to use from the house, except from one particular strand of hair.

I had instructions to leave the bodies as they are to let the police find them. Two of them had died from strangulation, three from blood loss from stab wounds to the kidney, and the other dying from blunt force trauma to the back of the head.

Just as I was ordered.

I, on the other hand, suffered no injury of any sorts. Some may say silently bragging to the dead would bring one horrible misfortune and fate. Not that it would stop me.

With light movements, I exited the house and closed the door gently behind me, finally being able to breathe in the fresh country air.

The sky had darkened from a soft navy blue to near black, the only source of light being the distant gleams of stars and the half crescent moon hanging idly in the sky. I covered my head with the hood of my jacket and proceeded to walk down the street that dipped downhill, stuffing my hands into my pockets to hide the blood splattered over my palm and under my nails.

For a while, my near silent footsteps were all that could be heard in the midst of the abandoned countryside of England, apart from the occasional drunken screams and wails. But no matter how peaceful the country posed itself to be, the eerie feeling that someone or something was watching me never faltered once.

The blade of my dagger was placed strategically under my jacket, and my gun strapped against my side. Funny how even my most useful and deadliest asset came nowhere close to the sturdiness and swiftness of my weapons.

‘So you think a few rusty pieces of metal compares to the abilities of a God?’

My body jumped at the sudden deep vibrations rattling at the back of my skull.

“Then you shouldn't be surprised that a human like me can't control a God like yourself.” I retorted, my words dripping in sarcasm. "At least I have control over those 'rusty pieces of metal'."

No matter how satisfying it felt to snap back, I immediately regretted my decision as millions of laughs, each barely above a whisper, echoed off of the walls of my skull.

It felt like millions of needles being stabbed into my brain repeatedly.

‘What makes you think you don't have control?’

I kissed my teeth and tried to distract that little part of me that wanted to reply and engage with its forbidden words. I could hear the amusement in its question. "Everything", Was what I wanted to say. But I kept my mouth shut and looked ahead.

They laughed once again.

I didn’t reply but pondered quietly. I had never been religious. My mother had always believed in a higher power. Whether it was the all-powerful being we call God, or many more of His names, or something different all together. Nevertheless, she believed. Something I just couldn’t find myself doing.

The only person I could have faith in was myself. A proportionate fate for someone like me.

It could tell I was deep in thought, my mind wavering from one conclusion to another, oblivious to the threat mere metres away from me. Usually, the voices would warn me when something strange was afoot or of any potential dangers. But it wanted to wait. To see how long I could go without the assistance I had gotten used to having my whole life.

An experiment.

Just like my thoughts, I couldn’t keep my eyes fixed on one place for too long. Every moment my gaze was fixed on something new as if expecting something to jump out from the shadows and swallow me whole.

Finally my suspicions were confirmed once my gaze ended its useless wavering and locked onto another a pair of eyes. My mind immediately flashed back to my case file of known associates of the Lionheart Mob.

The man I was ordered to frame.

The man and I kept eye-contact longer than intended, thoughts of fight or flight running through each of our minds.

There was nothing I could do or say to prevent this from becoming a tiring chase through the isolated region of the country, so I decided on the next best option.

Before the target could give into his flight response, I removed my gun from its once strapped position and began to shoot, a bullet just grazing his cheek before he could make a run for it.

My legs had a mind of their own, sprinting towards the target the moment he ran with my arm stretched in front of me, gun in hand. I took a shot, then another, then another, each missing as the man swerved with the endless streets branching off of the main road.

I was quickly out of bullets.

For every step I took forcing me further into the chase, the feeling of danger deep in the pit of my stomach only grew. My breathing began to deepen as drops of sweat slowly pooled down the side of my head, only to be dried by the ruthless wind whipping against my face.

I watched as he jumped over a fence, and I quickly followed, a grin curving on my lips once a large gate came into view. The man was rather short, so it should take him a few seconds extra than normal to cross the barrier. More than enough time for me close the gap between us.

I grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him harshly towards the ground, smirking as his sliced cheek broke his fall. I threw my foot back and slammed it against his ribs. He released a pained groan and I kicked him again, and again, and again.

“A well deserved punishment for someone making me run for so long, don’t you think?”

The man began to cough violently after another strike to his ribs, blood splattering onto the ground with every cough.

“Seems like I’ve broken several ribs.” I kneeled beside him. “They’ve punctured your lungs. Soon you'll start to drown in your own blood, and well... die.”

“I can help you. Relieve you from your pain if you tell me how you knew I’d be here.” The man watched me cautiously, flinching as I held the back of his head, gripping his hair tightly. “All I need is a name.”

The man swallowed thickly and averted his eyes from one side and back. “It…” He opened his mouth, hesitation clear. I dug my nails into the flesh of his skull, breaking through the layers of skin.

He winced as tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

“It was...”

His eyes shifted to the side.

“…him."

BOOM

I spun my head around the direction the bullet was shot, only to be blinded by a flash of blue and a foot being swung at my face. I barely had any time to react, but was able to evade just in time.

I fell on my back and quickly leapt onto my feet waiting to be greeted by another attack which never came. I furrowed my brows and my forehead creased, letting my eyes scour the area only to come up empty handed with a mutilated corpse right beside me.

The common feeling of blood had drenched my palms in an instant once the bullet was shot through the side of his skull. My brain hadn't fully registered the moments part of his ear were blown off, making way for the bullet to exit his body. I peered down at his mutilated head, the only emotion consuming my body being annoyance and hatred for the man.

This situation, right now, right here, was supposed to be impossible. This mission was crucial to the deal. It was the only chance I had left. Without it, I was back to being The Handlers little bloodhound on a leash, ready to execute all orders with no hesitation. Back to being a creature of sin that couldn't possibly stray any further from God.

In the midst of my endless train of thought was when I saw it. The dim light from a lamppost hit against a small piece of metal a few metres away from me. I approached the bullet, taking it into my hands and held the bloodied object towards the light.

My lips parted as my gaze met a familiar imprint. "You've got to be kidding me..."

The words left my lips in a hurried whisper while I inspected the awfully familiar crest imprinted on the reddened copper. There it was, clear as day like the thousands of alter-egos that bitch of a Handler was housing.

The Commissions crest.

My lips pressed into a sneer. I dug my canines into my tongue to stop myself from saying three specific words that would end this fucked-up situation I've been living my whole life. Three simple commands and the beasts I've been housing for a lifetime would shred The Handler into pieces.

'What are you waiting for, bloodhound? Her permission? Just end it all.'

No matter how much my mind craves to see The Handler kneeled before me and begging for her life, I couldn't do that to him. I had to remind myself that I was doing this for him. Not for my own selfish gain.

It was for Jasper.

I took a deep breath in attempt to reel in my thoughts.

My fingers travelled through the knotted mess of my hair. I couldn't help but scoff. "Of course it was a fucking set up."

"So then you know what happens next." A voice spoke behind me, followed by a cock of a gun.

I didn't bother turning back to meet the hard stare of my attacker, but proceeded to watch the crest deeply, as if trying to fool myself into thinking I was dreaming. But the stench of the corpse, and the rush of the wind yanking me back to reality said otherwise.

I threw the bullet to the side and wiped the blood on my hands against my sides.

"No, I don't know actually." I slowly turned around on my heels to face the man, confronting his hard glare with my own uncaring one. I cocked my head to the side, challengingly. "Why don't you remind me?"

I felt a rush of adrenaline sore through my veins as the whispers began to get louder..

The click of his tongue rang through the alleyway. The man scoffed in agitation.

"Gladly," He began, slimming his deep green eyes, and watched my reaction once the distance between his finger and the trigger narrowed.

A familiar source of power devoured my body. The shadows that stretched against the concrete and towering brick walls shifted manically, dancing in celebration to be alive once more.

My hazed stare flickered from one thing to another as I relished in the tingling sensation burning through me.

'Kill him.'

My pupils dilated.

'Kill them all.'

My heart was racing.

'We know you want to.'

"Any last words?" He called, as if taunting me.

I snapped my head up and focussed my eyes on the target, then at the collection of abandoned buildings a good distance away.

"I think I should be asking you the same thing." My body moved on autopilot, my mind too preoccupied on the sensation burning through my veins. I was now a few measured steps closer to the assassin. "So tell me, then,"

The hardened gaze that I kept sternly focussed on the male hadn't faltered once, opposing the restlessness and unease of the shadows "any last words?"

My wrist snapped upwards before I could properly register what I was about to do. The shadows beneath the mans feet rose around him and the world seemed to stop spinning.

My eyes were pulled wide while I watched in anticipation. The shadows merged into hands as they rose from the depths of the darkness and latched themselves onto the agent, covering his body faster than I could blink. I stepped forwards, pulling my arms back before pushing them in-front of me. The shadows followed suit, launching the man they held captive into the buildings nearby.

Dust and rubble exploded from the collision, along with splatters of blood on the loose debris.

I licked my lips and sighed glad to have squished another pest crawling around in my way.

Next was The Handler.

I picked up the gun he had dropped and walked towards the collapsed building, releasing the bullets on top of the bloody debris while strolling to the agents 'burial site' as I doubted he would be anywhere but smashed under the concrete.

"Rest in pieces, asshole."

I took in several deep breaths to level the adrenaline I felt myself drown in. I couldn’t lose control. No matter how much I itched to dive deeper into the ins and outs of my abilities like I did years ago, it was too risky.

It was too soon. But it wasn’t too soon to kill The Handler as I did to her puppet. I turned around, the taste of freedom fresh of my tongue and my guard lowered.

A fatal mistake.

A hand slammed into my shoulder blade from behind to stop me from moving any further.

"Now, where do you think you're going..." A raspy voice spat behind me. "...bloodhound?"

I twisted my neck to the side just enough for my peripheral vision to catch the large pair of green eyes bearing into mine. Blood dripped from a large gash on his forehead, painting his whole face a deep crimson. His laboured breaths hit the back of my nape making my hairs stand.

"What do you propose we do then," I licked my lips. "number five."

His grip on my shoulder tightened, and I could practically feel the rage radiating off of him through the wide smirk etched across his lips. My body began to respond to the adrenaline pulsing through my veins as the corners of my mouth and fingers twitched in anticipation for another fight. Another excuse to use my powers. The only thing I wanted to do right now, right this second, was-

A flash of blue light engulfed the area, blinding me for a moment before I was able to notice the large piece of concrete being launched towards me, held tightly in his cut hands.

I shifted out of the way, relishing in my increased reaction time, and span on my heel, sending a spinning hook kick to the back of his head. I made contact but it was short lived with his fist suddenly in front of my face and punched my jaw forcing my head to snap to the side, small pools of blood building up in my mouth.

Before his knuckles could leave my face, I latched my hands onto the assassins arm, spinning on my heels so my back faced him and threw his body over mine, slamming him onto the ground. I reached for my knife and towered over the boy, ready to plunge it into his heart, but in a blink he was gone and behind me, holding a long metal pipe and smashed my head in. I stumbled forwards but quickly regained balance before he could repeat his action.

The agent was now in front of me and aimed the pipe to strike the side of my head. But I was faster.

I blocked the pipe with my lower arm and palm-striked the assassin in the nose simultaneously, preparing an elbow to his face only for him to disappear into the air leaving me to bathe in frustration once more.

Blue then caught my eye in the distance. I rapidly slammed my palms onto the earth beneath me, raising an arsenal of shadows and launching them towards the light, smirking with the thoight I had dealt serious damage and possibly killed him.

But a hand latched onto the back of my collar and I knew I had fallen for a trap. Suddenly, a gut-wrenching feeling flooded my senses and my head was being smashed into something hard. Calloused palms were wrapped around my neck as Five prepared to jump again after slamming my head into a wall as many times as he could.

"You won't escape them." Was all I said before the mans grip was torn off of me from the missiles of shadows following his silhouette and launched him into the distance.

I got up, flexed my jaw and sneered at the sight of the man still standing, covered head to toe in blood, bruises and cuts. I could tell he was tired. His shoulders were slumped and head tilted downwards. His Adams apple bounced as he swallowed thickly and took in several deep breaths.

Number Five finally looked up, and I had never been more excited in killing someone than I had now.

FWOOSH

I raised my arm and slashed it through the air, sending a rapid wave of darkness slicing towards him, allowing myself to succumb deeper into the web of voices echoing off of my skull, each of my strikes increasing in power and precision for every time he'd teleport out of the way and into a wave of new danger.

Tired of the constant game of cat and mouse, Five blinked above me, carrying yet again another large piece of rubble and released it. I sent another cut through the air for the shadows to follow, shattering the rubble into pieces.

A gasp left my lips as another gut-wrenching sensation overtook me while a pair of hands grabbed my ankles tightly. My eyes widened and jaw dropped in a mixture of shock and confusion as I felt myself being dangled upside down and mid-air from the roof of a building that was over ten stories high. I tore my eyes away from the daunting scene several hundred metres below me and snapped my head up to see the man dangling me by my ankles.

The first thing I noticed was the slyness coating his eyes as he knew he had the upper hand- literally.

"I'll ask you one more time," Five spoke calmly, trying to contain the anger desperately trying to rip through his throat. The grip on my ankles faltered slightly but tightened just as fast. "Any last words?"

"Yeah," I breathed out in a ragged breath as a plan slowly began to form in my mind. I pulled myself up as much as I could towards the man and seethed between bloodied gritted teeth, "Suck my d--"

The man released his hold before I could finish with a disgusted expression as if he had just killed a bug, sending me plummeting towards the ground.

I raised my hands beside my body as I approached closer to my demise and quickly raised an army of shadows. I twisted to face the assassin, mid-air, throwing my arms towards him with the shadows following suit.

I looked back down and landed on a cushion of molten energy raised from the patches of shadows hovering just above the ground. The shadows had plunged into Five's stomach and forced him off the roof, his body being tackled towards the ground only for a blinding flash of blue to consume him.

My eyes slimmed in annoyance and brows furrowed to the sight of the assassin stood before me with a large knife pressed against my neck.

"You look tired." I eyed him up and down, very clearly mocking him, while I admired all the damage I had inflicted as if it were a piece of art.

Five's black suit was dirty and torn in several places, more prominently at the front, revealing the blood and bruises on his stomach and muscles. His red tie was barely hanging by a thread and the white blouse underneath was all torn up and practically non-existent.

His nose was purple and blue from the palm-strike, with smudges of red streaked across his forehead and upper lip.

Five stepped dangerously close towards me and pressed the knife deeper into my neck, almost drawing blood. He was less than a few small steps away from me and by the looks of it, he seemed eager to close the gap and assert the power he desperately yearned to hold over me.

I looked up at him with a devious grin, daring him to do it.

"How about I slice those lips off of your face. Will you be grinning then?" The man snarled and glared daggers.

I raised a brow. "How about I carve out your larynx so I won't have to listen to that aggravating voice of yours?

My neck began to sting from the knife cutting deep into my flesh, drops of crimson now gracing my collar bone.

The assassin forced out a low chuckle and shook his head slowly while his hold on the knife stiffened. His forest green eyes followed the blood pooling down my neck and raised them to meet my stare.

"Who are you."

"I thought you knew who I was, number five. I'm a bloodhound, remember? Or has all that damage affected your memory--?"

I was caught off guard. Five grabbed my collar and slammed me against a brick wall, pressing the knife deeper into my wound. My nose scrunched in disgust to the smell of blood radiating off of him and the sudden boldness washing over the man.

"Listen hear you piece of shit." Five seethed. His veins bulged against his neck and his teeth were clenched and bare. "As you see, you have no fucking where to go. So you better answer my questions if you want to live the rest of your vulgar, pathetic life in peace. Got it?"

A tense silence fell between us. I felt the mans warm breath fan over my lips and his knuckles press against the end of my neck as he held my collar tightly. The distance between us was almost non-existent, causing discomfort to stir in my stomach.

I wanted to vomit.

But I did the next best thing.

I held eye contact with the assassin before I descended into laughter right in his face. I took a deep breath in and titled my head up towards him, watching his expression slowly unravel through hooded eyes.

"Even after beating you relentlessly, you still don't have the slightest idea of how dangerous I actually am. I seem to have overestimated your intelligence, Hargreeves." I neared my face up towards his, smiling cruelly at the anger he poorly contained.

I spoke before he could cut in. "Yes, I do know who you are, and you don't know who I am."

"And we're going to keep it that way."

Date: REDACTED, 1955 Location: TEMPS COMMISSION HQ Time: REDACTED

"Did you kill him?" The concern was evident in The Handlers voice, making me raise a brow. Nevertheless, I knew her concerns were directed at her future plans, not the welfare of some field agent. But then again, Five Hargreeves wasn't just some field agent.

My lack of response seemed to fuel her agitation, my eyes noticing the quick clench of her jaw and flex of her fingers as she awaited my reply. In retaliation to the assassination attempt, I decided to not ease her fears.

Not one bit.

A deep sigh caught her attention, followed by an amused scoff.

"You're seriously asking me, the bloodhound, if she spared some second rate assassin?" A twisted smile pulled at my lips and I sighed again dramatically. "After years of working together and you still don't know me at all."

"Stop playing these games and answer my question." The Handler, who usually handled things with a certain measure of grace and passive aggression, snapped clearly annoyed at my antics. She quickly realised her mistake however. The woman cleared her throat and took a long drag of her cigar, blowing the toxic fumes right at my face.

With a few steps towards the display of weapons sitting behind The Handlers figure, I decided to test the already fragile boundaries of the situation.

I traced my finger along the surface of the weapons. "I've always been jealous of your collection." My voice held a certain playfulness. One I knew the woman behind me despised. "Especially ever since I saw this glorious artifact hanging on your wall and collecting dust, never to be used again."

The sound of a blade being unsheathed echoed through the room. "The very Turkic-Mongol sabre used by Genghis Khan in battle."

The Handler flinched ever so slightly at the press of the cold blade against her exposed neck. A significant movement that most would miss.

She proceeded to look ahead, not faltering once as she said, "You know very well that even if you kill me, I'd just be replaced by another desperate senior waiting to have their shot at such a powerful position in such a powerful organisation." The woman turned to face me and a shiver ran down my spine. Even when confronted with death, her expression was void of emotion. And for a moment I saw someone I wished to have long forgotten. And The Handler knew that. "Take this cog out of a machine and it will soon be replaced by another. But they won't give you the same leniencies as I have with your dear Jasper. So I recommend you consider your decision very closely, darling."

She took the weapon from my hands as I stood there, mimicking a child frozen in a trance, realising they were in no control of their fate.

A hand crept on my shoulder and a pair of lips whispered against my ear, "Because this is the best you'll get."

She took her seat and released a relaxed sigh. "Now then, you were about to tell me what you've done with little Number Five?"

“His heart is beating.”

“Good.” She purred, coating an extra layer of lipstick on her lips. “Did you use—”

“Yes.”

I felt her tense for a split second before her shoulders relaxed once more.

This time her voice is serious. “Does he remember your… abilities?”

“No.”

“So he remembers the fight but not the powers. Interesting.”

A loud alarm screeched from outside the commission, followed by a woman's scream and the slam of a car trunk. That's when an echo of a recently familiar FWOOSH rang in the room, revealing the asshole I longed to kill.

"You." His voice came in a growl. The mans eyes were wild, like those of a predator stalking their prey. His hair was a mess with random strands stuck onto his skin from the sweat and blood in his face.

"Five Hargreeves," The Handler's voice pulled the assassin back into reality. "Meet your new partner."

I could hear the smirk and utter joy in her voice as she spoke my name, forming the deadliest partnership the Commission had to offer.

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The taglist has been bugging and for some reason some accounts that want to been tagged, aren't. Sorry if this is you.

Thank you all for your support and patience waiting for the next chapter. I know how annoying it is when fanfic writers are on some hiatus for ages but I'm finally back!

I don't have a strict writing schedule but I will notify you as accurately as I can for when the next chapter comes out.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter and if you find any errors let me know.

[thebiographytribune]

John Gavin

Everything Explained About the Gorgeous and Highly Successful Constance Towers

Introduction

Constance Mary Towers was born in Whitefish, Montana, on May 20, 1933. She is an actress and singer, most known to the public for her portrayal of Helena Cassadine on the soap opera "General Hospital," which she played from 1997 to 2017. She also had prominent roles in the late 1950s and early 1960s, including those in "The Horse Soldiers" (1959) and "Shock Corridor" (1963), among other shows.

Early Life, Education, and Career

The sole child of Irish immigrants Ardath L. and Harry J. Towers, she was selected as one of several young actors for radio shows when a talent agent found her when she was just seven years old. The search was carried out in Montana. For the next three years, she began her career doing child voice acting in radio shows in the Pacific Northwest. When her father was transferred, Constance and her family relocated to New York City, where she studied singing with Beverley Peck Johnson and attended the Julliard School of Music and the American Academy of Dramatic Arts.

Establishment of a Robust Career

Constance Towers began her acting career at a young age, had a brief hiatus, and then came back in 1955 in the supporting role of "Bring Your Smile Along" and again in 1956 in the supporting role of "Over-Exposed," a crime-thriller movie. Her first major part came in the American Civil War film "The Horse Soldiers" (1959) directed by John Ford, which also starred William Holden and John Wayne as Hannah Hunter. Her career as an actor continued when she starred in the 1960 movie "Sergeant Rutledge" and the 1963 mystery-drama "Shock Corridor," costarring Gene Evans and Peter Breck.

Ascent to Fame and Success

Constance's career advanced and her name gained popularity as the 1960s went on. Consequently, Constance Towers played alongside Anthony Eisley and Karen Conrad in the crime-drama film "The Naked Kiss" (1964) and had a supporting role in the Academy Award-nominated picture "Fate is the Hunter" (1964), which starred Glenn Ford, Nancy Kwan, and Rod Taylor.

Bottom Line - What Is She Doing Now?

At the conclusion of the 2017 season, Constance's portrayal of Helena Cassadine was killed off, therefore she won't be returning for the upcoming season. Where is she now? Constance Gavin lost her spouse, John Gavin, and took some time to grieve. She hasn't done much acting since thus she doesn't currently have any acting credits to her name because she was preoccupied with her husband's condition. I hope Constance makes a comeback to the entertainment industry soon. Visit biographytribune.com/where-is-actress-constance-towers-today-her-bio-husband-john-gavin-net-worth-health-divorce-career for more information.

[grogusmum]

IRL

Part 2 : of festivals and food

JAVI X F!PLUS SIZE!READER

WORD COUNT: 2200ish

SUMMARY: Set before the events of The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent. Javi and Reader are friends online, and after a year of DMing, they decide to meet. (The only change is that Javi and Gabriela are just friends)

WARNINGS: Reader has insecurities about her size and appearance, Lucas continues to be a fatphobic jerk, and that's about it in this chapter. Worries about food and eating. Javi is adorable, be warned.

Part 1

Javi watches you closely after the encounter with Lucas. He got the feeling your translation was very basic, and on the surface, it might not seem rude. When you pull on an entirely unnecessary cardigan, he knows you know it was at your expense.

“Just in case the air conditioning is - um, you know too cold, or whatever,” you mumble.

He thinks you are just beautiful and not in spite of your size. Your ample curves and softness were just… all he can think about was running his hands up and down your plush arms.

Javi opens the car door for you when you reach the carport and comes around to the driver’s side.

Dropping into his seat, he fills the void-

“So along those lines, this is a 1955 Porsche 356 Pre-A Speedster, Nick-”

“Oh right Nick had one until he sold it because of his 'IRS problems',” releieved to have something else to talk about, you grab onto what feels like a lifeline, a conversation far from what you are thinking about, then your eyes widen.

“Wait-”

Javi smiles and nods animatedly, as you point just as emphatically at the car with your mouth hanging open.

“Is this his?!”

“I got it on auction! I was only too happy to help Nick with his financial difficulties.”

At the restaurant, the Materdi seats you and Javi in a ridiculously romantic alcove with an open window overlooking the beach. You carefully slide onto the semi-circle bench, and Javi slips in after you. There are faerie lights strung above you and a low candle in stained glass mosaic holder on the intimate table.

The server brings water and gives you the chef’s specials. When he returns for your order you do your best to order in Spanish.

Of course Javi knows he doesn’t know how you eat normally, but when you spoke online, you expressed a love of trying new things and experimenting with cooking, though you admitted you failed spectacularly on many occasions. But here you are in Spain for the first time and you order a salad. A side salad and some prawns.

“How would it be if I ordered for the both of us? Javi tries, “that way, you can try a just little of everything, if, you know, you are not very hungry. I would hate for you to miss out on the tapas Roberto’s is so famous for.”

He watches you nibble self-consciously at first, though Roberto’s tapas wins the day. Soon, you are making yummy noises, and Javi can’t get enough of them.

“Have you tried this one?” Javi asks, getting a fork full of Patatas Bravas and guiding it toward your mouth. Your little smile just before opening your mouth gives Javi butterflies low in his stomach. Your lips close around it, followed by your eyes as you savor it. Then you give the cutest whine.

“Is that potato?”

“Mhmm,” Javi smiles, “with garlic, hot sauce, and- ”

“Smoked paprika!” You finish together.

“Oh it’s all so good, thank you Javi.”

“For what?”

“Not letting me just have a stupid salad and steamed shrimp.”

After dinner, Javi takes you for a walk along the beach. Wondering if he can take your hand again, when you try to stifle a yawn, the time difference is getting to you.

“To bed!” he declares, seizing the opportunity to take your hand under the guise of directing you toward his palatial home. “We have a big day at the festival.”

“I’m not really ready to say good night, Javi.” You give his hand a squeeze, “But you're probably right, I’d be mortified if I fell asleep during one of the movies.”

“Well, we will head back to the house slowly.”

But you find yourself in front of your bedroom door far too soon. Before you could overthink it, you give him a kiss on the cheek and a shy goodnight and disappear into your room. Javi leans on the door, his hand going slowly to his cheek. He’s brought back to reality and chuckles to himself until he realizes what or rather who pulled him out of his reverie.

“Cousin, you have a beautiful woman for an assistant, with an incredible body! How have you never-”

“Lucas, stop, will you? Gabriela and I are just friends.”

“And you prefer the heifer?”

All he wants to do is clock Lucas right across his smug and arrogant face more than he has ever wanted to before - and Lucas has a natural ability to pull this reaction from Javi- often. But that will only make things worse. He knows he needs to stand up to his cousin, for many things, but it’s frankly dangerous to do so, so he brushes past and enters his bedroom, just relieved that between the closed door and the rapid Spanish. You probably did not hear what was said.

Bzzzzt bzzzt

You look at your phone

JAVI: Good night. :)

YOU: lol Good night Javi

YOU: sweet dreams

JAVI: I have no doubt. ;)

You stare at the last text. With confused astonishment, your face heats up. But, maybe he’s joking or…

YOU: cheeky

YOU: see you in the morning

JAVI: See you.

Javi looks at his screen, not sure what to say next or if he should say anything next. After a few moments just staring at it, he puts his phone in the charging dock and his hand goes back to the place you kissed it, it was just a little kiss, but he could still feel your soft lips there. He undresses and slides between his cool, crisp sheets and clicks off the light. Laying in bed awake, he listens to the waves crashing on the beach below. Javi thinks of you listening to them, too. He’s glad he chose to put you in a guest room on the same side of the hall. His mind goes over the day, wandering to your arms again, then your hips… how he would explore you if you were to allow it. His imaginings switch over to dreams of you in his bed, tangled in his sheets, breathing heavily as he feasts on you.

You wake to the sounds of seabirds, making you smile. It makes you want to wrap yourself in the incredible sheets and snuggle down into the soft pillows, but you fully remember where you are and what today is, so you roll off the bed, with a little skip as you hop in the shower. You and Javi are spending an entire day at the film festival, you’ll get to nerd out together over favorite writers, actors, directors, and the films they’ve made before anyone else has seen them. Even though you’ve never gone to a fancy festival with film creators or anything, you feel that maybe you will feel more in your element with Javi. Thinking less about what he thinks about you now that he’s seen you and just be the person he befriended because of your shared interests.

After showering and putting on the sleeveless summer dress, a light shrug of a sweater, and sandals you had picked out for the event. You put on a little lip stain, leaving your eyes make-up free (who knows how much crying you may do. It looks like there may be a tearjerker or two on the schedule). You look in the mirror a beat more, and give a sigh. Swinging your bag over your shoulder, you go to meet Javi for breakfast.

Following the delicious smell of coffee to the dining room, you find the table is ladened with a beautiful spread of fruit, toast with tomato and olive oil or jam and butter, churros, empanadas, juices, and the smell of fresh coffee, all making your stomach rumble. But it’s Javi that makes your mouth water, he is dressed simply in a white linen button-down shirt and a blue blazer, his hair a little more tamed brushed back away from his face, but still curling around his ears. How is it that the orange of yesterday's shirt looks so amazing and now the light blue too? His brows go up when he sees you, his mouth opening just a bit. Then he breaks into his wide warm smile distracting you from the desire to run your fingers through his hair, for a moment anyway.

“¡Buenos días, mi sol!” good morning, sunshine

“¡Buenos días, Javi!”

Javi brings over a carafe of coffee to the table and pulls out a chair for you. You smile and shake your head, murmuring a thank you as you sit.

“We can have omelets made or…”

“Javi, all of this looks amazing.”

You both tuck in and chat about the schedule, what you are looking forward to, and the things you don't want to miss. Finding yourselves mostly in alignment.

“Do you,” you fall quiet, biting your lip, “Do you think I’m dressed okay, I wasn't sure how dressy-”

“You look incredible!” Javi says instantly. Then he waves his hand dismissively, “You know celebrities are going to do what they do, but for the rest of us? Perfecto!”

You look down at the patterned dress and smile, as Javi adds quietly, “Plus I like sunflowers.”

After both a boat and car ride you arrive in Barcelona-Saint Jordi, you get your passes and people watch. But it seems as though Javi is elsewhere.

"Javi? Is, um,” you worry your bottom lip, “Is everything okay?”

With a sigh, Javi looks at you next to him on a small bench, then looks down.

“I am sorry for my cousin’s behavior. I am so embarrassed. He is the literal worst."

Your laugh turns to a little cough of discomfort-

“I- well, thank you Javi, I appreciate that. But I’m used to it. It, well…”

“That does not make me feel better. You should not be used to such poor treatment. I should have said something”

“Well,” you swallow, ”thank you Jav-”

“I want you to be used to hearing how beautiful you are.” Javi’s words come out in a rush, then his eyes widen slightly at his own daring. Finally, he gives you a sidelong look to assess the damage.

At this you laugh like it's joke and a little absurd, giving his arm a little hug.

“You are the sweetest.”

Javi looks at you again, wondering if you think he's just being a supportive friend. Your tone makes him think so, and it leaves him at war with himself. He's not sure how you feel. Part of him is relieved in a way, and part of him desprately wants you to know. He wants to be courageous, to take the plunge! But maybe now isn't the time. While he's thinking about courage and plunges, you start to pull at his sleeve. When he looks at you, you give a little nod with your eyes going to the right. Javi looks, and there was Randell Cobb. Javi’s eyes go comically wide, making you giggle, and he starts flipping through his program.

“I did not even know he was still acting, “Javi hisses. “He was in-”

“Raising Arizona, I know,” you say excitedly.

“Of course you do,” he squeezes your knee, which is bare since the skirt of your dress is slightly hiked from sitting. It sends a shot of warmth up your thigh. “I mean he’s done other things but that was by far the best…”

“Is he in one of the films? He must be, right?”

Javi dives back to his program, and you keep watching everyone arrive.

After the opening remarks and the first film, you head to lunch and just walk around taking everything in. Javi has an almost permanent blush from the amount of people wondering what movie he's in, if he is an actor or model.

“It is very complimentary, of course… but all I want to do is tell them, ‘no I am a screenplay writer, read my script!!! Please!’”

"Well, you look like you belong here, no doubt. Handsome, tan, beautifully tailored clothes…"

Javi tugs you into an alcove, warm hands running up and down your arms.

"You belong here. You are a wonderful writer, and fantastic film and character analyst. Your breakdowns are one point!"

"I am a chubby (at best) woman, in a fifty dollar dress and a haircut that cost about the same, and I was splurging…"

"You got this lovely dress for fifty dollars? Wow."

You purse a tight smile and then laugh.

"Yes you can get one at TJMaxx, at a strip mall near you!"

A pair of glamorous willowy actors pass your little hiding place.

"You could fit two of these actresses in one of them."

"I like the one who is filling it right now," Javi says shyly, "and how she is filling it."

His hands traverse your hips.

Javi feels the soft plush curve of them, and his sigh carries a small, pleased hmm with it.

"Is this alright?" He whispers.

Your brain's throwing up .exe errors.

Your breathless "yeah" is almost a gasp. Javi is touching you, and liking what he feels through the gauzy fabric.

"We've got two more movies and then we go back to the hotel… but um-"

You mouths crash together. You both do your level best to be quiet, as Javi crowds you into the corner of the alcove behind a palm of some kind.

Part 3

💚THANK YOU FOR READING💚REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE MUCH APPRECIATED💚

If you care to read more Javi G or any of my stories, you can find my masterlist here, and if you would like to be tagged for any of my fics, you can find my handy dandy taglist form here.

[morganofthewildfire]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tied Me to You - Prologue:

Seven

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

masterlist

~4.5k words

an: It's beginning! Me and @rowanaelinn are super excited to share this with you, and we can't wait to bring you along the journey that we've created! We'll be switching off posting chapters, so look between our two blogs to stay up to date! And let either of us know if you want to be added to the taglist!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Doranelle, 1955

At seven years old, there was a lot Rowan Whitethorn didn’t know about the world. He didn’t know why the sky was blue, or why it got cold in the winter, or what taxes were. But he did know something. Aelin Galathynius was his best friend in the whole wide world, and that would never change.

He also knew that his favorite game was to play pirates, and that Aelin’s new costume was absolutely brilliant. The dark around her right eye, the little cuts on her lips… He was jealous of it. He asked her how she got ready for their play date, because he wanted to do the same next time. But she got pissy, and only told him to mind his own business. 

She could be so secretive at times. Being pissy was a major part of her personality, he didn’t mind it. He did mind the secrets, though. She knew everything about him, he thought it was only fair that he knew everything about her too. 

But he didn’t push, and after she told him to shove off, he just shrugged and went to get their swords. The summer day was nice, though a little hot, which meant it was a perfect day to keep their game going.

Yesterday, they’d left off with Captain Aelin and First Mate Rowan being chased down by evil pirates, not good pirates like them. They were on their ship, The Fireheart, and had to get ready to fight the pirates and defend it. Aelin had come up with the name, and it’d stuck, though she didn’t tell him where it came from. 

Another secret.

But he liked the name, so he didn’t really care where it came from. Especially not now, when they were about to be attacked!

Rowan ran back toward the shed in his backyard, trekking barefoot through the dirt as he went to go grab them. He wanted a real sword, but his dad had said no, so he’d gotten two wooden swords instead. One for him and one for Aelin. And he grabbed them both quickly, hurrying back out to where his best friend was waiting.

He found her on the swing by the creek on the other side of his house, sitting there staring at the water. She looked a tad bit sad, her lips were usually curled upward, not the other way round. But that look on her face faded the moment she saw the swords in Rowan’s hands. She got up and snatched one from him, before turning around and running toward their ship, screaming something along the lines of slaying their enemies and bathing in their blood. 

That seemed a little gross, but he’d do it for her. 

A smile pulled at his lips when he remembered the day he met Aelin. That had been gross by then. She was dressed all in white, her school uniform. Rowan had been playing outside, and he heard the sound of branches breaking over his head. He let out a little scream of surprise when he saw a girl of his age, five by then, with her arms and legs around a thick branch like a koala. 

His noise of surprise had been enough to surprise her, too, and she let go of her grip on the woods. And then, she fell into the creek, ruining her perfectly white outfit. She’d said, “Have you never been taught to not scare the ladies?” 

She had a missing tooth in the front, slurring her words. He just answered, “Have you never been taught to not trespass into someone else’s property?” 

She snorted then, such an unlady-like sound. “Trespass? What are you? Fourty?” 

He frowned, his head cocked to the side. “You’re awfully rude. Where are you from?” 

She rolled her eyes, standing up and straight as if she didn’t fall in dirty water. “Clearly not from your side of town, posh boy.” 

His eyebrows shot to his hairline, “Posh boy? Rude isn’t a strong enough word to describe what you are. I do not what to be–”

Cold water hit his skin as he spoke, some of it entering his mouth. He opened his eyes to find the improper girl splashing water at him and giggling as he did. He should be angry at that. The clothes he wore that day were very fine and soft. And yet, he only squinted his eyes at her, entered the water and started splashing her back. 

And just like that, Rowan found his best friend. So, no. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d have an experience with staining liquid, and just like that day, Rowan would follow her. 

-----

They spent the rest of the day playing, planning their war against the enemy pirates before-

“Rowan!” His mother called from inside the house, yelling through the front porch door. “It’s time for dinner!” A frown grew on his face, his wooden sword slumping as he dropped his arm. Dinner meant it was time for Aelin to leave.

He looked over at his best friend, ready to share in the misery. But she was looking away, back through the trees toward her house, only her hair visible. Rowan liked her hair. All the other girls on their street had their hair in such tight little curls, with ribbons hanging down from them like Yulemas gifts. And they could never get that, or their prissy dresses, dirty. 

Aelin’s hair was blonde and wild, almost gold in the sun. It wasn’t usually tied up, but if it was she never cared if it came loose.

Her hair looked soft, and he sometimes wanted to touch it to see if it was, but he never did. 

But that thought went completely out of his mind when she turned to look back at him, her wide blue eyes shiny with what looked like… tears? Was she crying? Though it was annoying, dinner happened every day, what was so bad about today?

He still didn’t know how she’d gotten that dark stuff around her eye, but he barely focused on that, looking at the tear that slipped down her cheek. Something in his chest tightened painfully at the sight.

“You should just stay here for dinner,” he offered, shrugging. Maybe she didn’t like what was for dinner at her house? “My mom is making a great meatloaf.” Then a great idea struck him. “You should just move in!” He smiled at her, thrilled by the idea. Then they wouldn’t ever have to stop playing pirates. 

The words succeeded in making a small smile grow on her face. But then it fell, and his mood fell with it. “You don’t have another room for me,” she said, eyes dropping to the ground. She dragged her sword through the dirt. Rowan thought about that, furrowing his brows at the problem.

His mom definitely wouldn’t let her stay in his room, that wouldn’t be proper. He thought that was stupid, but he couldn’t argue. But -

“I could build you a treehouse!” He said, perking up again. “I can put it right between our houses so we can meet there when you don’t want to go home for dinner. I can bring you whatever food I’m having! It can be our own little spot.” 

He grinned, proud of himself for the idea, and she smiled back, brighter than a thousand suns. 

She opened her mouth to respond when -

“Rowan!” His mom cut her off, calling again, and he sighed.

“I better go,” he said, “but see you tomorrow right?” He swung his sword up to rest on his shoulder, beginning to walk backward toward his house. Aelin nodded, wiping at her face.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, “to whatever end.”

“To whatever end,” he replied back, waving at her before bounding off back toward his house. It was a phrase she’d read in a book apparently, and decided it was going to be their phrase. They said it every time they said goodbye, knowing that they’d always see each other again. 

Rowan had made fun of it the first time she’d said it, and she’d threatened to beat him up for it, but now he liked it just as much as her.

He ran up the front porch steps, taking off his shoes as he walked inside, like he was supposed to, but carried his sword into the dining room, plopping down in a chair across from his dad, who was reading the newspaper.

“Hey dad?” He asked, “can we build a treehouse?”

----

“That is not fair.” 

Aelin rolled her eyes but asked with a smirk, “Do you think pirates are fair?” 

He shrugged, “No. But we’re good pirates.” 

“We are.” 

“Then why are we punishing the entire crew only because their captain is our enemy?” 

Aelin crossed her arms. She was smaller than he was, but there was something in her eyes that made him feel as if she was taller. Out of his reach. “If someone was my enemy, would they be yours?” 

“Of course,” he answered. Why did she have to ask? Early this morning, he’d forced his father out of bed to drag him in the woods not far away from their house, and they collected some of the wood they would use to build the treehouse. 

But Aelin didn’t know that. His father said it’d take time to build, so Rowan decided that it would be her Yulemas present. 

“Then, it’s the same for them. If their captain is our enemy, they all are.” 

Rowan was about to answer something along the lines of things are not always being either black or white. His father always said that, even if Rowan didn’t always understand what it meant. He felt like it fit at that moment. 

But Aelin’s stomach growled, loudly. They looked at each other before laughing, joking about how Aelin’s belly would scare their enemies away from their ship. 

“What’s so funny here?” His mother asked, Rowan didn’t hear her coming. He was too busy laughing with Aelin. He told his mother what happened and she smiled. His mother had the kindest smile in the entire world. She also gave the best hugs. But he was a big boy, now. He didn’t need her hugs anymore. Except before saying goodnight, in the privacy of his bedroom. “You hungry?” She asked Aelin, who only shrugged, a shy look on her face. His mother winked at them both, “Come in, it’s time for a little snack, what do you think about that, little sea-terrors? I’ll even let you have some cake, does that sound good?”

They both nodded rapidly, and followed his mom as she turned to head back inside, her long skirt wrapping around her legs. Rowan didn’t usually like cake all that much, but the one his mom made was delicious. 

And Aelin loved cake, and sweets of any kind. He looked back to share a look of excitement, but she had lagged behind a bit, hesitating almost. Rowan slid his hand into hers, the one not holding a sword, and squeezed it once.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s go.”

She smiled lightly at him and followed this time as they went up to his house, climbing the front porch and entering through the front door. It wasn’t much cooler inside than it was outside, but Rowan barely noticed as he headed toward the kitchen.

“Rowan, sweetie,” his mom said, stopping before she entered the kitchen and turning to face them. “Why don’t you get the cake ready for us? I want to talk to Aelin about something real quick, okay?” 

Rowan looked at both of them, curious to know what he was missing out on, but he didn’t ask. Instead he just nodded and headed into the kitchen, his wooden sword in tow. 

He’d just ask Aelin about it later.

——

Aelin’s hands turned moist when Rowan’s mother asked him to leave. She was half tempted to ask him to stay, or to help him get cake ready. But, from what she knew about Rowan’s mom, she was sweet but she always got what she wanted. And what she wanted now, was a conversation with Aelin. 

She wiped her hands on the pants she stole from Rowan as she followed her into the hall bathroom. They were too small for him now, so he let her borrow them for one day. She never gave them back. No store was selling pants for little girls, not that she ever went to a store to buy clothes. She got what was given to her, that was all. 

She winced, having entirely forgotten that her clothes were disgustingly dirty after playing for hours, and now her hands were dirty, too. It wouldn’t bother her normally, but she didn’t want to get anything dirty in Rowan’s house. 

“Can you sit on the counter for me, dear?” Liana Whitethorn asked, and Aelin nodded, eyes on the floor as she climbed up to sit next to the sink. “Do you mind if I brush your hair?” She asked, her voice warm and kind, and Aelin looked up hesitantly, meeting green eyes so similar to the ones she was so comfortable around. 

That made her calm down a little bit. 

She shook her head, and followed her gesture to turn around, crossing her legs as she faced the mirror. She watched as Rowan’s mom leaned over and grabbed a hairbrush. 

Mrs. Whitethorn began pulling it through Aelin’s wild blonde locks, smoothing it in soothing strokes. 

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” She asked softly, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I didn’t see you yesterday, but Rowan came in last night asking if I could help him figure out how to get his face like yours for your pirate game.”

Aelin looked away, her face burning. 

“Was it your father?” Rowan’s mom pressed, running her hands down her hair to smooth it further. 

“He’s not my dad,” Aelin interrupted, shaking her head. No, he wasn’t her dad. She hadn’t seen her real dad in a few years, or her real mom. She still didn’t know why they’d had to leave her, but they did, so here she was.

But at least she’d been able to meet Rowan.

“No, of course not, I’m sorry,” Rowan’s mom confirmed, and Aelin met her eyes in the mirror again, blinking at the woman’s warm smile. “How about I braid your hair for you, how does that sound?”

Aelin nodded hesitantly, her mouth once again shut. She’d never had her hair braided before, not like those other girls on their street with their hair in pretty curls and twists and buns. 

Mrs. Whitethorn just smiled again and pulled back all of Aelin’s golden hair behind her shoulders, beginning the braid. 

“You have very pretty hair,” she complimented, and Aelin fidgeted, looking down. She didn’t know what she’d done to deserve how nice Rowan’s mom was being. She didn’t deserve it, she heard it every day. 

“Thank you,” she said quietly, “I have my mother’s hair.” She didn’t remember much about her mom, just flashes of golden hair, the smell of smoke, and the name fireheart. 

“Do you know where she is?” Mrs. Whitethorn asked, her touch soft and comforting in Aelin’s hair. It felt motherly. 

Aelin only shook her head, before apologizing. She didn’t want to ruin Mrs. Whitethorn’s braid, she was already so generous to use that time on her. She could be doing more useful things instead of braiding hair that hadn’t been washed in days. Shame crippled inside of her, and she prayed to every God she knew that Mrs. Whitethorn wouldn’t see the dirt on her scalp, or that she wouldn’t ask questions. 

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and Aelin shrugged. She didn’t think about her parents often, it hurt too much when she started down that road. 

“What flavor is the cake?” 

Mrs. Whitethorn chuckled softly, the sound like a melody and Aelin’s entire body stiffened when she kissed the back of her head. Thankfully she didn’t comment on her reaction, and only answered, “Chocolate, of course.” 

She smiled, her grin hurting her cheeks. “I love chocolate.”

She looked up to find Liana looking at her through the mirror, and even if Aelin didn’t know her too well, she knew her eyes were filled with worry and sadness. She bit the inside of her cheek, a habit she’d taken through the years to avoid crying. Physical pain distracted from the emotional one. “I’m fine,” she said. 

Mrs. Whitethorn cocked her head to the side, a small smile pulling her lips up, “You don’t have to pretend here, you know?” 

Her bottom lip wobbed and her eyes burned with tears, and yet, she said nothing. 

“Do you want to stay here for the night?” Rowan’s mom asked, her light brown brows furrowed. “You can take Rowan’s room.” 

Aelin was about to open her mouth and respond, a tear streaming down her bruised cheek, when a soft knock sounded at the door. They both turned to look and saw Rowan standing in the open door, looking concerned as he saw her tears.

“Are you okay?” He asked her, and if anything it made her cry more. She buried her face in her hands, doing her best to sniff back her tears, not wanting to cry in front of either of them. “Your hair looks nice.”

A sob escaped her at the sweet words, and she felt warm arms come to hug her, Rowan’s mom squeezing her tight. She hesitated a moment before sinking into the embrace.

It was the first kind embrace she’d felt in years. Even Rowan hadn’t hugged her like that, he couldn’t. This was the hug of a mother. 

“It’s okay, honey,” she murmured, “it’s all going to be okay.” 

——

“What do you wanna do when you’re older?” Aelin asked Rowan as he stood watch on their little ship. He stood higher than he usually did on a brick he found in his father’s shed. She said he was the first one to stand watch, and as her First Mate, who was he to refuse?

He shrugged, “Dunno. It’s so far away. What about you?”

She looked far away, as if they were truly at sea and was looking for land to sail to. She took a deep breath, gripping her sword harder. “I don’t know. Not much for me to do, is there?” She asked, a little sadly. “All I know is that I want to do it far, far away from here.”

He frowned, remembering to look ahead from time to time or she’d have his butt for not being careful enough. “You don’t like it here?”

Another shrug. He’d noticed she always did that when they talked about her. “I like you.”

That had him smiling. He liked her too, but he didn’t say it. Other boys at school would make fun of him if he did. Instead, he said, “Where do you want us to go?”

She turned around, stars shining in her eyes. “Us?”

He grinned. “You said to whatever end, right?”

He saw her open her mouth, but hushed voices make them turn suddenly, their gazes finding his mom talking with their neighbour, Aelin’s foster dad. 

His brows furrowed. His parents didn’t like him, why would they have a conversation? Maybe to inform him that Aelin would spend the night here, though Aelin said that he likely wouldn’t mind. 

But their conversation didn’t seem enjoyable, at least not from the way his mother’s back was stiff. She only stood that way when she was angry at Rowan, or when his father made jokes she hated. 

Rowan had never met him really, definitely had never talked to him, but something must really be wrong for his mother to be like that. 

“You’re just another bored housewife,” he spat. “Use that time to raise your kid and don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“No,” Aelin breathed, her eyes wide. “No, no, no.”

Was he talking to his mother that way? And why? Rowan tightened his hands into fists. He wasn’t a violent boy, words were usually his weapon of choice, but hearing someone talk that way to his mother… It had something burning in his throat. 

And the tears in Aelin’s eyes didn’t help. His father always said that it was the man’s role to care and protect the women he loved. Aelin, she was the strongest person he knew, his captain, but he still wanted to protect her. She was his best friend, after all. 

And his mother, too. It was his role to protect her if his father wasn’t there. Not that she couldn’t do it herself, he knew she could. But he didn’t want her to have to reach that limit. 

He almost went over there, to do what he didn’t know, until he felt a small hand clutch his tightly. He looked over, seeing Aelin’s wide eyes, and decided his place was right there by her side.

He squeezed her hand in comfort, but watched the argument from across the yard, unable to hear most of it. Aelin took a few steps back, almost hiding herself in the bushes before he called out her name. Loud. 

She still hadn’t let go of his hand, he would feel her shake. What could cause her such reaction? Adults arguing was the way of life. He didn’t particularly like it when his parents were involved but it was their business. Not the kid’s ones. 

He screamed her name again, and her back stiffened before she walked out and let go of his hand. He was right behind her, eyeing warily the man who disrespected his mother and scared Aelin so much. 

“Home,” he barked an order, pointing to their small house. “Now.” 

“Don’t talk to her that way,” his mother said, anger burning in her eyes. 

The man hissed, pointing to Rowan, “Your responsibility.” Then he pointed to Aelin. “Mine. Now, go home.” 

Aelin swallowed, “I-I was going to spend the ni–”

He didn’t even let her finish before saying, “No. I won’t repeat myself a third time.” 

What was his problem? He didn’t have to agree with their plans, but did he have to be so rude? His friend was obviously afraid. He opened his mouth, but Aelin stopped him with a hug. “It’s okay. I’ll go to sleep and we'll play tomorrow?” 

He looked up at his mother. Surely, there had to be a way for Aelin to stay over? She pinched on her lips, shaking her head. So Rowan hugged Aelin back and asked, “Same time?” 

She gave him a smile, but he didn’t think this one was real. She was too good at pretending for him to be sure, though. “Yes, First Mate.”

——

Rowan idly swung back and forth on the wooden swing, dragging his foot through the dirt as he looked over at the trees on the other side of the yard yet again. Just waiting for Aelin to appear. It was three hours past when they were supposed to meet up, past when she came over every morning without fail.

It was summer, which meant no school, which meant she could show up early in the morning and leave just before dinner. But the sun was slowly rising above the trees, and his best friend wasn’t there.

Rowan picked at a loose piece of wood from Aelin’s sword, resting it on his lap as he looked yet again.

Where was she?

The creek gurgled in front of him, and he watched a fish swimming by, a spot of bright yellow in the blue water. Like Aelin’s eyes.

He huffed miserably and stood up from the swing, deciding to go inside and figure out what was going on. He trudged through the yard, kicking up leaves on his way. It was hot outside, but his yard was well shaded, a whole canopy of trees above him. 

There were always a lot of birds flying around, chirping in the mornings, and he listened to their singing mournfully as he hurried in to ask his mom what was going on. 

But as he walked inside, the screen porch door clacking shut behind him, he found his mother sitting at the dining room table crying, his father sitting next to her trying to comfort her. Her head was in her hands, her elbows on the table, his dad’s hand on her back. 

“What’s wrong?” Rowan asked cautiously, dropping both swords down to his side. His mom looked up, her green eyes filled with tears, looking at him so so sadly, and in that moment - he knew.

He dropped the swords onto the floor, turning and running back outside, ignoring the “Rowan!” his mom yelled from inside. He didn’t hesitate a single second as he turned left, running straight for the treeline and straight toward Aelin’s house. 

He’d never been there, he never went over there, but today he was going to. 

It was a tiny house, looking like it might fall apart if a bad wind hit it. It was dark, and a little sad looking, and seeing it now made Rowan realize why she always wanted to come over to his house, where it was warm and bright, and there was always fresh lemonade. Not like this. 

But he didn’t pause as he ran toward the shack, hurrying up the front steps and knocking on the door rapidly. She was here, she had to be here.

No one answered. 

He tried again, banging his hand on the front door as he tried to catch his breath, tears he would never admit to burning his eyes. 

Still, no one answered.

“Aelin?” He yelled, moving over to a window. “Are you in there?” The curtains were open so he could see into what he guessed was the living room, though all he saw was a beat up couch and an old TV. There was a threadbare rug on the floor, and… one of Aelin’s books lying askew by the wall. That was it. No sign of anyone inside.

“Aelin?” He tried again, a tear dripping down his cheek. “We’re supposed to play pirates! I stood watch all this morning, just like I promised!”

He went back to the door, moving to knock again, when a warm hand closed around his arm gently. He froze, hoping it was her, but he turned around and it was just his mom, looking down at him with those sad eyes. 

“I’m so sorry, Rowan,” she whispered, pulling him in for a hug. “They moved away. I heard this morning.” Rowan stood there in disbelief, standing still in his mother’s embrace. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated, smoothing a hand down his hair. “She’s gone.”

His mother handed him a little pink piece of paper, one that he recognized as Aelin’s. She’d already left him notes with the same paper. She wasn’t a girly girl over all, but she’d confided in him that pink and red were both her favorite color. 

With shaking hands he opened the note. 

I’m afraid I have to go on other adventures, I would have stayed if I could.

The Fireheart is yours, Captain Whitethorn. 

You are my favorite sailor and my favorite friend.

To whatever end, 

AG.

And that’s when he let himself cry, sinking into his mother’s arms. And the tears came quickly, spilling down his cheeks as he sobbed. He didn’t know he could hurt this much. He always thought the term heartbreak was an exaggeration, but standing there, right then, he could feel his split in two.

Because that man, Mr. Perrington, took her away from here. Took her away from him. 

Because Aelin, his best friend in the whole wide world, was gone.

~~~~~~~

taglist:

@leiawritesstories

@elentiyawhitethorn

@backtobl4ck

@thegreyj

@anniesbookshelf

@ladykreads

@tomtenadia 

@violet-mermaid7

@emilyoftheshadows

@khildreth

@justreadertings

[knickynoo]

Hello! I absolutely love your posts and they always put a smile in my face!

I have a question, what if Marty was diabetic? I know it's a strange question but I was thinking about it the other day.

Would he be able to access insulin throughout his journey?

Hi there! Glad you enjoy my posts :) I enjoy writing them.

This question is very interesting to me, because it is not the first time I've come across the "Marty is diabetic" concept. I've seen it being discussed on Reddit and have encountered it on here as well. It's truly one of those headcanons that sort of makes me scratch my head, but it does fascinate me. From what I've seen, people usually pull the headcanon from 1. The chocolate Marty keeps by his bed, citing it could be his go-to method for moments his blood sugar is low (particularly if it's dark chocolate, which is good for keeping blood sugar levels stable) and 2. The scene in Lou's diner when he asks for something without sugar, citing that he generally has to be careful he doesn't indulge in too much sugar during the day.

Fascinating. I love those ultra-specific, fringe headcanons where people take a little detail and spin a whole story with it.

Anyway, to address your question: thankfully, Marty would be good to go as far as accessing insulin for (most) of his travels. Insulin was administered to a diabetic person for the first time in 1922, and it became widely available shortly after. By the 1950s, disposable syringes became available, whereas metal ones had been used previously. (Thank you website detailing the history of insulin. Very helpful.)

Now, assuming Marty wouldn't have brought any supplies with him to the mall parking lot, one of his top priorities upon arriving in 1955 would be to get his hands on whatever he needed. However, I don't think he would have had the opportunity until he found Doc, at which point--upon finally earning the man's trust--he would have had to recruit Doc's help in procuring insulin. Do I think they would have been able to do that in that first night? Sure. So, Marty would have been okay in 1955.

Same for 2015. Since Doc went to pick up Marty to bring him to the future, he likely would have had the foresight to bring along insulin and whatever else. In this "Marty is diabetic" headcanon world, Doc would absolutely be on top of things and have supplies of his own for "just in case". This would leave Marty taken care of for 1985A as well.

1885 is a different story, obviously. Diabetes during that time was a slow and painful death sentence. BUT! 1955 Doc surely wouldn't have sent Marty to the Old West without ensuring he had a large supply of insulin and whatever else he needed, having factored in the possibility of the trip lasting longer than a few days. Doc wouldn't want to take any chances.

So, overall, Doc would have all the bases covered and Marty would be okee dokee.

Thanks for the ask!

[notpulpcovers]

Lucy Marlow, for the 1955 film "Bring Your Smile Along"

[gatutor]

Frankie Laine-Constance Towers-Keefe Brasselle "Venga tu sonrisa" (Bring your smile along) 1955, de Blake Edwards.

[missblissy]

Human Alastor x reader playing Bowling? (Idk i just like that type of date hhaha) Maybe just them or maybe with friends

((>W>.............................. js I hate bowling. But I love you nonny, so for you..... I made this. ENJOY!! Sorry for the wait *cries*))

How goes bowling these days? Is that even still a thing? And why would anyone want to go bowling other than to drink? But no one drinks have the time... people just go for the pin and balls. Maybe it had to do with long and round phallic objects and balls rolling around. Regardless, your friends had dragged you to go bowling for whatever reason. And you decided to drag Alastor along because if you had to suffer, so did your boyfriend. It was also a bonus that he got along with your friends as well... some of them at least.

It was Charlie's idea mostly. She was someone who always wanted to go out and try new things. It was something she lived by apparently because this week's new activity was bowling at one of those dark neon allies with an arcade built-in. Charlie managed to talk her girlfriend, Vaggie, into coming too. Angel came because he also assumed there would be drinks but found out there wasn't a damn bar inside. You honestly had no idea how or why Husk was even there because he was completely and entirely miserable. If you had to guess it had something to do with you forcing Alastor to come.

Anyways, you and your little group of friends had found themselves staring down an alley with those silly little shoes on. Angel wouldn't wear his though, he wouldn't let their piss shade of yellow clash with his outfit.

You were sitting in plastic chairs next to Angel as you watched Charlie and Alastor go up next. You had two lanes so they went together. Angel sat next to you, he grabbed an arm behind you on the back of your chair and leaned in, "Five bucks says Allie gets the gutter," He whispered loud enough for Alastor to hear. You giggled as you saw your boyfriend's brow twitch and ignore the comment.

There was a second there that you were tempted to say something back to Angel but you were interrupted by the loud clash and computer saying "Strike!" You looked up and saw that Charlie was still holding her bowling ball. But walking away with a smirk on his face, Alastor's smug pride gleamed off him. The shock on everyone's face only made him boast to himself even more. When did Alastor find the time to get good at bowling.

As he sat down next to you, he threw Angel's arm away from you and replaced it with his own, though he was sure to wrap his fingers around your shoulder and bring you closer to him. He never liked Angel, and he was always so overly protective when it came to you anyways, so it wasn't welcomed that the boy was so close to you. Even if he was a guy. Competition is competition, it doesn't matter who they are, Alastor didn't like sharing you. Period.

"How... Did you do that?" You asked him.

Alastor shrugged and watched as Charlie threw her bowling ball right into the gutter, "I'm perfect at everything I do, dear." That was supposed to be satire.

Angel rolled his eyes and with a huff, he crossed his arms, "You can't fuck." He deadpanned.

Instincts kicked in and you ducked seconds before Alastor nearly climbed over you and punched Angel in the face. He missed and got him in the shoulder instead.

"Leave Alastor and his fuckless life alone," Husk said as he got up from his seat, "Some people are just better than the rest of us sexual deviants," He took his turn bowling soon after saying that. Vaggie went next as well. She choose to keep her mouth shut on all this.

But even Charlie had something to say, "Come on guys," She awkwardly waved her hands, trying to calm everyone down, "If you're going to fight take it outside this time. I don't want to get kicked out of another place of business..."

"He won't fight me, he'd know I'd deck him in the head and give 'em a one-two combo real quick like last time." Angel reminded everyone, and you all collectively remembered Angel clocked Alastor in the face at a bar after a heated argument. Alastor went out like a light and broke his nose on the way down. You looked at him and saw the little kink in his nose from that night.

You sighed and reached down into your pocket and pulled out your wallet. You grabbed a random twenty and handed it to Angel, "I'll give you this and two cigs if you go outside for ten minutes."

Angel gave you a snotty look, somewhat offended that you'd even offer such a thing. But he knitted his brows, snatched your twenty-dollar bill, and stole two cigarettes from the pack you left laying next to you on your seat, "I'm gonna find a bar on this fucking street- I'll be back later, losers."

You could still feel the rage simmer off Alastor even after Angel left. Though you didn't have time to say anything to him. It was your turn to go up. And now that Angel was gone, you didn't want to go up there and make a fool of yourself alone... Half your plan was to have Angel bowl next to you so that no one would notice how bad you were.

"Um-" You said as everyone waited for you to go, "I'd...uh... Um. I don't know hooow-" You were cut off as Alastor quickly got up and pulled you up with him.

He dragged you to the lane and got a bowling ball for you, "Hold this," He said. You noticed his anger from before had all but melted away. Alastor gave you a charming smile and stood beside you, "Copy me. Like when we dance."

You blinked at him a few times then did was he said. He held his hand up, pretending he had a ball. You copied him and did the same. He brought his hands to his chest, stepped forward, swung his arm back then forward again. You smiled at him and did the same, but you actually threw a ball. It rumbled down the lane and crashed into a couple pins. At least you didn't get the gutter.

"See? That easy," Alastor smiled at you. He place a hand on your arm and pressed a kiss on your cheek. He grabbed your hand in his and asked, "Do you want to see if they have any vending machines in the arcade? We can get some snacks?" Which was code for do you want to sneak away for a second?

"Sure," You quickly agreed while locking your fingers with his. The two of you scurried off with him. The second you were out of eyesight and safe behind a wall, Alastor gave you a more proper kiss.

He pulled away and asked, "Why did we come again?"

You shrugged, "Charlie asked." You simply said.

Alastor let out a huff then started walking with you towards the vending machines, "You can't really say no to someone like her..."

As you pulled out a few loose coins from your pocket and slipped them into the machine you laughed, "No, you can't." You both dearly loved your friendship with Charlie... But she could be a bit bossy sometimes.

The two of you collected an arm full of snacks and started walking back together, "Well, I say when we get home, we have a proper date."

You laughed and even lost a few snacks. You picked them up quickly and said, "You mean you cook us dinner and we watch a movie? That's not a proper date either, ya know."

Alastor smirked at you then nudged his arm into yours with a grin, "It is too because it'll be just us. Alone."

You rolled your eyes but still chuckled to yourself, "Alright, alright," You said, "What do you want to watch?"

He shrugged, "Don't care. I just want to make fried rice tonight."

You let out a huff of a laugh and passed out a snack to each of your friends while Alastor gave them a drink of some kind, "Fine. But I'm picking a TV show then because I just started watching something on Netflix."

"Aw, are you guys leaving?" Charlie asked with way too much sadness on her face.

"No, no-" You waved a hand slightly, "Alastor just doesn't think this is a proper date, so he has to make one up at home."

"What do you mean this isn't a proper date?" Vaggie threw a hand in the air, "All of us brought our partners! I mean- Angel left... So Husk is more like a third wheel at this point. This definitely counts as a group date or whatever."

"Call me old-fashioned, but you don't bring your friends on a date and there is no such thing as a group date," Alastor said as he cracked open a can of cola.

"What about a double date?" Husk asked from his seat while he tore open a bag of chips.

"This isn't a double date and even then those aren't real dates either. You're supposed to be somewhere nice, havea nice meal, share a few drinks. Share some stories and laughs with the one person you're interested in courting, then call it a night, done!" Alastor smiled to himself while everyone else collectively sighed. He was old-fashioned. (But you liked that about him.)

"This isn't 1955, Al. You can go on a date anywhere. Like here. What about going to the zoo? Could that be a date?" Vaggie asked.

Alastor thought about it, tapped a finger to his chin then gleefully said, "Nope! That's an outing!" Several people groaned but no one went on to feed into his banter.

You did hear Husk grumble under his breath "You need to go out to go on a date," But Alastor must have not heard it or choose to not say anything.

The rest of your night there wasn't that bad either. Angel did end up coming back, but not without his arms full of booze bottles of all kinds. They didn't serve drinks here but at least Angel was wise enough to buy some solo cups too. No one was really paying attention to the bowling anymore either. (You lost, not that you cared or anything.... You did.) Instead, you and your friends had gathered around in the arcade, drinking, laughing, playing games, and picking on each other harmlessly. You enjoyed every second of it, much to your surprise. Alastor did as well, though... He still insisted on his proper date once you got home.

[nebulousfishgills]

A Day for Just Us

Request by: @nyx-aira : When I saw you wrote for Agatha I had to request something so could you write an Agatha x reader where they just take a day for themselves, go on a walk, have a movie night. Basically just you and Agatha having a good time. Cuddles, kisses and fluff please.

Yes, I write for Agatha now. Let me simp in peace, internet.

You want Agatha, then Agatha you shall have!!💜

Also, since you and Agatha are in Westview, you both have your pseudonyms, hers being Agnes, and yours indicated by the (f/n) tag, standing for "fake name." (y/n), of course, stands for your real name.

Warnings: Fluff

ฯฯฯ

Life in Westview, New Jersey was largely calm. The people went about their days, enjoyed each other's company, and were just generally happy... Even after Wanda enveloped the whole town into her Hex. The people were happy, but were they really happy?

Well, you knew you were happy, at least. Being Wanda and Vision's neighbor to the right (your right, not theirs) made things... Interesting, to say the least. But it made things fun also. The boys were just the icing on the cake. Always asking their mom to go over to yours and Agatha's house. During a day when Wanda was feeling the 90s vibe, all four of you played tag in the yard for hours.

You and Agatha were immune to Wanda's chaos magic, but it was just so much fun to play along.

One particular day, Wanda and Vision wanted to take the boys out for some family activities. You noticed them leaving on bicycles when you were out in the front yard tending to Agatha's beloved azaleas. You gave them a pleasant wave before taking off your gardening gloves. Agatha came out of the house with a tray holding a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.

"Azaleas look great, buttercup." She said happily as she passed you a glass.

"I have to say, while it's weird waking up in different decades based on Wanda's mood, it's nice that we never have to mow the lawn." You laughed, gesturing to the fresh cut grass with your lemonade.

"Yeah, exactly. Hey, since Wanda's gonna be out for the day, what say you to a nice day on the town? A whole day just for us? We're probably not gonna be on her broadcast for a bit." Agatha suggested with a smirk. She poked her finger into her drink so the mint leaves she had put in got trapped underneath the ice in the glass.

"Aw, sweetheart, that sound great. I'll just get cleaned up while you get the bikes from the garage." You said.

"Alright, just don't take too long." Agatha grinned as she booped your nose. She went for the garage while you went back inside your house. You tossed your gloves onto the table and grabbed a pair of sunglasses.

Emerging back outside into the bright sunlight, Agatha waved you over to the garage with both of your bikes in her hands, hers a light lavender color with a basket and yours a (f/c) one that had a matching basket. You both smiled at each other before kicking up your kickstands and pedaling down the street.

The town was a bustle of life as people enjoyed the day's pleasures. Children ran after the ice cream truck and played on the playground while the adults watched or had lovely outdoor picnics.

"What's on the marquee today?" You asked as you and Agatha passed by the movie theater.

"Looks like Jaws and Star Wars. Wanda's good, I'll give her credit for that, but she still meshes together her dates within the decades like a fruit salad in a whirlwind." Agatha said back as you rode by. You laughed as you both trailed down the path into the park. Opting to leave your bikes on the bike rack, you decided to take a lovely stroll down the paths talking about whatever came to mind.

"Howdy, neighbors!" A voice that matched Vision's called over. Looking in the direction of the voice, you saw Wanda with Vision and the boys having a picnic like several other families.

"Fancy meeting you here." Agatha said cheerily, the two of you walking over arm in arm.

"Enjoying a day on the town?" Wanda asked, picking up a strawberry from the bowl on her blanket.

"The weather's just too perfect to be inside all day. Seems like you all are having fun, too." You replied.

"Just a wonderful time. Your azaleas are looking beautiful as well, (f/n)."

"Well, they're really Agnes' azaleas, but I do have a green thumb for these things. Once they're fully grown, we'll put some in a vase for you."

"That's so sweet of you." Wanda beamed.

"Care to join us? There's plenty of food." Vision offered, holding up the paper plate holding the sandwich he hadn't taken any bites of to you both.

"Thanks, but we wouldn't want to spoil your family fun. Maybe next time, though." Agatha shrugged.

"Hm, well, alright." Wanda said.

"Aww, please, Agnes?" Billy asked, finally speaking up.

"Another time, kiddos. Tell ya what, we'll pull out the chalk in our garage and you can come over to draw on the sidewalk tomorrow. Maybe play a few rounds of hopscotch." Agatha said, putting her free arm on her hip and bending down slightly with a cheeky smile.

"Can we, Mom, can we?" Tommy asked excitedly.

"Yeah, can we?" Billy echoed.

"Oh, alright." Wanda laughed. The boys cheered excitedly.

"I've gotta warn you kids, I'm a champion hopscotch player, so bring your A-Game." Agatha bragged. Wanda chuckled as the boys nodded.

"Well, we'll see you then!" You said, waving.

"Bye!" The whole family chorused.

Continuing on your stroll, eventually you and Agatha made it back to your bikes. Taking another loop around the town, you did all the cliche things people did like share a milkshake at the diner (flicking whipped cream on each others' noses, of course) and buying some grains at the supermarket to feed the ducks at the local pond. You also bought some seed packets to hopefully add some roses and (favorite flowers) to your garden.

The day seemed to blow by and soon orange hues filled the sky as the sun started to set. Riding back to your house, you stored your bikes back in the garage and went back inside just as the stars started to poke out. You thought about stargazing on your roof with Agatha, but the shingles on your roof in the 70s setting made your back hurt. Instead, you both washed up and slid into your pyjamas. Extending the pullout sofa, you and Agatha curled up under a few blankets facing the television. You chose to open your selection of VCR tapes (sometimes they were DVDs, sometimes they didn't exist at all) and put "The Wizard of Oz" in.

Agatha said she disliked the movie for its depiction of witches, but you knew she secretly loved it.

"Hey, Agatha?" You asked midway through the movie.

"Yes, dearheart?" She asked in response.

"I wish every day could be like this."

"Me, too, angel. But, who knows, we could wake up tomorrow and it'll be 1955." Agatha laughed before kissing your cheek.

"Yes, but I mean in general. Wanda changes Westview all the time and this town has never been happier. I wish it could be like this forever." You clarified.

"Well, with any luck, it can be. But even if not, we've got each other, and every place is home when we have each other."

"Aww, you always know what to say." You curled closer to Agatha as she kissed the top of your head tenderly.

"You're too precious, dear." She replied.

ฯฯฯ

Hope you enjoyed this, nyx-aira!

As always, requests are open, so send them in!

[bibbawrites]

Underwater Memories - Single Dad!Charlie x Owen

THIS IS PART 3 OF THE SINGLE DAD!CHARLIE SERIES YOU CAN READ PART 1 HERE AND THE PREQUEL (PART 2) HERE

Request: not technically but i had a few comments for more chowen 

Word Count: 1955 words

Summary: charlie, owen and margaux spend the day at the aquarium and charlie realises some important feelings

Warnings: romantic chowen- if you do not feel comfortable please do not read

A/N: you guys asked for more chowen in this series so here you go, i tried to do it in a way where i guess you could still see them as platonic if you feel more comfortable (not that it really worked, its pretty obvious that charlie has feelings for owen in this lol) but if you do want them to be more romantic then here’s your slowish burn haha also please don’t hate on me for posting this this is a FICTIONAL STORY, please remember that! 

Tag List: @happinessinthedarkesttimes​​ @littlemissaddict​​ @vicesvsvirtuesfanfic​​ @headheartbellarke​​ @lovesanimals​​ @bartok-the-magnificent​​ @juliefromaustralia @multi-universe21 @rangerelik @kaitieskidmore1 @katrina765​ @fandomxreaders​​ 

Charlie gripped onto Owen’s hand tightly as they made their way across the car park to the entrance of the aquarium, Margaux held safely in his arms. He had taken Owen’s hand at first, claiming that it was so they wouldn’t lose each other, but they both knew that was a lie, the car park was almost empty. 

Margaux had been begging to visit the aquarium ever since the three of them had watched Finding Dory together on a rainy Saturday afternoon, and Charlie was never one to be able to refuse his daughter. 

So now, on their first full day off from filming, Charlie had found the nearest aquarium and had packed Margaux and Owen into the car for a family bonding day. 

As they walked Margaux chattered away about what she wanted to see at the aquarium, and neither Owen nor Charlie had the heart to tell her she probably wouldn’t find a whale in the middle of Vancouver. Instead they just let her excitedly dream about what she might find in the large white building. 

Reaching the entrance to the aquarium Margaux squirmed in Charlie’s arms. 

“Walk Daddy?” She asked, and Charlie placed her down, taking her hand instead. 

“Hi there, do you have a booking?” The girl behind the front desk asked, a smile on her face. 

“Yeah we do, under Charlie Gillespie.” Charlie responded. The girl began to type before nodding. 

“Awesome, here are your wristbands.” She held out the three bands, which Owen took since he had a spare hand. The girl smiled at them. 

“Have a lovely day.” She told them, and both Charlie and Owen returned her smile. 

“We will, thank you.” Charlie replied. 

They stepped off to the side so that they could put their wristbands on, Charlie smiling to himself when Owen linked their fingers again after Charlie had finished putting Margaux’s wristband around her tiny wrist. 

“You ready Maggie?” Owen asked as the three of them entered the first room of the aquarium. 

“Yeah!” Margaux grinned up at them. She tugged her hand out of Charlie’s rushing over to the nearest tank with a large smile on her face. 

“Look at this one Daddy.” She called, and Charlie pulled Owen along with him as he made his way to Margaux’s side. 

“Do you know what that one is?” He asked, looking into the tank. Margaux looked up at him, eyes full of curiosity. 

“No.” She replied. Charlie smiled. 

“It’s called a stingray.” He told her. Her eyes widened in excitement. 

“Hi stingray!” Margaux smiled, leaning closer to the tank. She giggled, looking up at her dad and Owen. 

“He’s pretty.” She said. 

“He is.” Owen agreed, staring at Charlie, and Charlie felt his heart skip a beat, his mind racing. He opened his mouth to reply, but Margaux was already tugging them towards the next tank. 

He’d figure out Owen later, for now he was ready to watch the excitement on the face of his baby girl. 

- 

“Papa look at that penguin.” Margaux tugged on Owen’s hoodie, her other hand pointing towards a penguin who was swimming in front of her. Charlie’s heart filled with warmth at the name she had for Owen. It was a new adjustment, her dropping Owen’s name and just calling him Papa instead of Papa Owen, but it was one that both Owen and Charlie loved.

Charlie watched the two of them with a smile, Owen kneeling down next to Margaux and the three year old leaning against him. He was so glad that Owen had been so accepting of Margaux, there had been a part of Charlie that had figured that Owen wouldn’t want anything to do with the toddler. He was only 20 after all, and Charlie wouldn’t have blamed him one bit if he had preferred to do normal 20 year old things, but no, Owen had adopted the role of babysitter, and then eventually another parent to Margaux easily. 

Charlie’s heart swelled with an unfamiliar feeling as he moved closer, his hand resting on Owen’s shoulder automatically. He had begun to notice this feeling around Owen quite a lot recently, but he was yet to figure out exactly what it was. 

“Char?” Owen’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he glanced down, finding both Owen and Margaux staring up at him with expectant eyes. Charlie’s eyes lingered on Owen for a moment, the sight of the blond boy on his knees in front of Charlie bringing less than appropriate thoughts into his mind. He swallowed quickly, his eyes focusing on Margaux. 

“Sorry wasn’t listening, what’s up?” He asked. 

“Can we go to the tunnel?” Margaux said, looking up at her father with pleading eyes. 

The tunnel was an area of the aquarium where you could walk underneath a large glass tunnel and watch fish, sharks and more swimming above you and around you, like you were inside the water with them. Margaux had been desperate to go in since they had arrived. 

“Yeah of course we can.” Charlie replied and Margaux squealed with excitement. The family of three headed back upstairs to the entrance of the tunnel, Margaux leading the way happily. 

“You okay? You seem distracted.” Owen asked softly, linking his hand with Charlie’s again. A brief thought flicked through Charlie’s mind that they had been holding hands for longer than they hadn’t been that day. 

“Just got a lot going on in my head.” Charlie replied. Owen gave him a sympathetic look. 

“Wanna talk about it?” He said, and Charlie hesitated. How could he explain to Owen that all of the thoughts in his head were about him? How could he explain the weird feeling in his heart and stomach whenever the blond boy was around? 

“Later.” He told Owen, mostly so that Owen wouldn’t ask any more questions. Owen gave his hand a light squeeze as they entered through the gates of the tunnel. 

“Okay.” Owen whispered, before turning his attention back to Margaux. Charlie did the same, smiling down at his daughter who was looking up in awe. 

“Woah, look, shark!” Margaux grinned, pointing to the large shark swimming above them. 

“What’s the name of the shark in Finding Nemo?” Owen muttered quietly, leaning towards Charlie. Charlie chuckled quietly. 

“Bruce.” He whispered back. 

“It’s Bruce.” Owen said in a normal volume. Margaux looked up at him. 

“No Papa, it’s Daddy Shark.” Margaux shook her head at Owen, an unimpressed look covering her face, and Charlie couldn’t help but laugh at the sass that was radiating from her response. 

“They might be the same shark, you don’t know that.” Owen fired back. Margaux squinted at him. 

“No.” She stated. Owen raised an eyebrow. 

“No?” He repeated. Margaux nodded, turning back to the sharks. 

“You’re silly.” She stated and Owen’s jaw dropped. He turned to Charlie, pouting. 

“Char! Your kid is sassing me.” He whined. Charlie laughed, ruffling Margaux’s curls. Margaux grinned cheekily. 

“So I hear.” He replied. “And she won.” 

“Daddy, carry me?” Margaux asked, and Charlie obeyed quickly, lifting her into his arms. She smiled, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

“Love you.” She whispered. Charlie’s heart almost exploded. 

“I love you too baby.” He replied. “More than anything.”  

- 

Once they were finished in the tunnel, Margaux had started to snuggle into Charlie’s arms, her head on his shoulder, a telling sign that the three year old was getting tired. 

“You tired baby?” Charlie asked softly as they headed up the stairs to the ground floor of the aquarium. Margaux nodded. 

“Yeah.” She replied. 

“Time to go home?” Charlie said, mostly directing his question to Owen, who was walking along beside him, still gripping onto Charlie’s hand. 

“Looks like it.” Owen agreed. They headed through the building, arriving at the small gift store at the exit. 

“Do you want a present?” Charlie rested his head on Margaux’s. The three year old eyed the stuffed toys across the store sleepily. 

“Yes please Daddy.” Margaux smiled softly at him. Owen let go of his hand, motioning towards a display of aquarium branded hats and Charlie rolled his eyes slightly but nodded to let Owen know he understood. Owen headed off and Charlie walked over to the wall of stuffed toys. 

“Which one?” He asked, and Margaux sat up in his arms, scanning the toys. Her eyes landed on a small, white polar bear and she reached out for it. Charlie grabbed it off the shelf and handed it to her. 

“This one?” He questioned. Margaux just hummed in response, already snuggling back into his arms, the polar bear clutched to her chest. Charlie’s heart swelled as he made his way over to Owen, and they checked out quickly before leaving and heading home for a well deserved nap. 

- 

Later that evening, after dinner, a bath and some play time, Charlie was tucking Margaux into her bed, the three year old exhausted from the day. He picked up the stuffed bear that they had bought at the aquarium, holding it out to the toddler. 

“Here’s your polar bear.” He said. She took it happily. 

“His name is Fishy.” She said, and Charlie held back a laugh. 

“Fishy?” He questioned, sitting on the edge of the bed. Margaux nodded. 

“Uh-huh. Cause he likes eating them.” She explained. Charlie made a face of understanding. 

“So we should call you nuggets and pizza then?” He teased.

“No!” Margaux giggled. 

“What about macaroni?” He suggested. Margaux squealed with laughter. 

“No, I’m Margaux.” She said through laughs. Charlie’s heart was filled with love hearing her laughter. It really was the most incredible sound he’d ever heard. 

“Oh, well that’s a better name than nuggets pizza macaroni.” Charlie grinned. Margaux giggled. 

“Silly Daddy.” She said. Charlie laughed at the three year old. 

He lent down, kissing the top of her head gently. 

“Okay, time for sleep baby girl.” He told her. Margaux pouted slightly. 

“Stay?” She asked, snuggling down into her bed, Fishy the polar bear held tightly in her arms. Charlie nodded, he could never say no to that request. 

“Always.” He replied, laying down in the small space next to her. 

“Love you Daddy.” Margaux mumbled. Charlie smiled, placing another kiss to her head. 

“I love you too princess.” He whispered. 

He played with her curls, singing softly, and in no time at all Margaux was fast asleep and Charlie was sneaking out of her bed and heading back down the hall to the lounge room where he had left Owen.  

He sat down on the couch, the blond boy instantly wriggling closer to cuddle into him. Charlie glanced towards the TV, noting that Owen had loaded up the movie they had started watching a few nights ago, but had never finished. He pressed play, leaning into Owen wordlessly, and for the rest of the movie they just snuggled quietly. 

As the credits rolled Owen sat up, and Charlie shivered at the loss of warmth. 

“Thanks for today, I really needed it.” Owen mumbled, clearly sleepy. 

“Me too. I’m glad you came.” Charlie admitted, watching as Owen’s cheeks flushed at the comment. Owen swallowed before talking again. 

“And now I’m exhausted.” He said. Charlie reached out, ruffling his hair. 

“Get some sleep, I want to take you and Mags to this really nice cafe I found for breakfast.” He told the blond, and Owen nodded, standing up. 

“Sounds great.” Owen yawned again, leaning down to kiss Charlie’s cheek, and Charlie felt his heart speed up at the contact. 

“Night Char, love you.” Before Charlie could even reply Owen had left the room, leaving Charlie on the couch, his heart still fluttering from the kiss. 

The kiss. Oh. 

Oh. 

He was so fucked. 

[soliloquiums]

You find him under a bench in Berlin, more skeleton than man. It is 1955. It is winter. It is the post war era. Behind every dingy, squalid corridor you're bound to find a hundred of them, the left over almost-corpses that god just wasn't kind enough to kill. Haunted by a memory of a Germany that just doesn't exist anymore with charcoal padded under their eyes, limbs trebling from one two many needles. You're sure that if you pulled that ratty, dark blue coat sleeve you'd find his similarly pockmarked with cowardice. Still, something draws you in closer, a shiver, something about him seems heavier, denser, like his very body extends with gravity. A planetary mass. His neck snaps up in a lightening motion and he smiles, his mouth a crooked line that resembled a mountain you swear you've seen in the horizon, somewhere in the east. Beggars aren't allowed to be this beautiful. You shudder. And you take him home.

To your surprise, his skin is deceptively smooth. Like untouched snow after a blizzard- and you search him thoroughly, almost desperately, during your intimate moments, for some sort of mark, some sort of human imperfection. He allows you, absently, as if he’s been through this before, and strokes your hair as his mind wanders into places you know you will never reach. But that comes after, first, you seat him on the rim of your bathtub. He is listless, almost bored, as you wipe the river of blood off his shoulder. There’s no entrance wound, exit wound, no highway crossing where it could come from and after 20 minutes of frantic scrubbing, his hand grips yours. “It’s not mine,” he tells you gently, with that same crocked smile, eyes a circle of glowing blue like the hottest kind of fire, and you pretend not to notice as a very, very fresh red droplet runs down your porcelain bathtub and streaks red onto the tile. There’s not enough of him and there’s too much. After a week, his presence on the couch, skeleton hands gripping a book or remote seems commonplace. His place at your dinner table, the second pair of shoes thrown carelessly next to your orderly ones. The permanent, watery brown stain on your granite countertop where he'd spilled tea and that neither of you bothered to clean up. He is an indelible and yet insignificant mark. Most days, it's nice, quaint, the gentle buzz from the television every time you come back home, his coarse laugh punctuating a mediocre sitcom joke, the way he threatens bodily violence on inanimate objects for refusing to bend to his will. Other times, he is something just north of uncanny valley. He is wearing human skin. Sometimes, at night, he doesn't seem to be breathing and every few weeks, for a second at a time, you'd swear his eyes flashed a macabre red. Two months in and he still doesn’t have his own clothes. Doesn’t have his own closet. You offer to take him shopping, to empty out another shelf but he only shakes his head gently, pityingly, “I don’t own things.” You’re not sure if he’s crazy or if he’s one of those communist philosophy types. You’re not sure if you’d care if he was. You press your lips together. Don’t say anything about how his old clothes seemed to have vanished from the laundry altogether. Three months in and you don’t know his last name. You ask once, casually, assuming that a man abandoned to the snow wouldn’t care much for family anyways. (You can relate, your strict, catholic mother and even stricter pastor father are tucked far away somewhere in a mountain village in Saarland. Out of sight and out of mind.) But he says nothing, or smiles in that whimsically gentle way of his, or stares blankly as if he isn’t sure what a last name is. Sometimes he carefully grasps your hands and kisses you as a distraction and in those moments you’re sure you could live without knowing. Sometimes, you see his gaze catch on the window and you know he is somewhere else. Doesn’t feel like he was ever here in the first place, a ghost boy that floats around your apartment and gives you frigid smiles in place of actual conversation. Once, he lays awake in bed with you and asks if you will remember him on your deathbed with an earnest that makes you want to climb out of bed and vomit. His eyes flash blood and pin you to the bed. Yes, you say, without really understanding why, yes even when you are gone I will remember you always even in the smallest things even when there is nothing more to remember. His eyes go back to blue and you drift off into dreams about an achingly vast field with no horizon and crooked mountains shaped like a smile All at once you are disastrously, cripplingly in love. Falling from a cliff. You try every method in the book to ground him. You bring him flowers in the middle of winter, you buy him books, watches, a cell phone, wine, chocolates, a car. You clean up your act, work out, pen him love letters in the candle light when you think he’s sleeping, insist on cooking the food you think he likes. You drive her to parks. A cottage by the sea, take him to every pretty place in Germany that might even slightly interest him. Cologne, Dresden, Munich, Heidelberg, Watzmann, Brocken. You He dismissed every material gift with an apologetic shake of the head, almost disappointed you don’t understand. His fingers wrap around your wrist and you can feel the cold from his skin drip into yours as he pulls you close, whispering gently, a reminder, “I do not own things.” And I cannot be owned, without saying. The places, however, slaps him out of despondency. He puts a hand to an oak tree in a park in Heidelberg and tells you, absently, his voice drenched in memories, “Someone I loved is buried here.” He sees things you do not. He stares at abandoned buildings with a remorse and vindication you do not understand. There is a tragedy under the bridges, in every lake, that he seems intimate with. In cologne, he strikes a match and lights up a car at 9:43 pm. The pretentious, red thing goes up in smoke a carcass of metal and charred leather seats. He is seething with rage and you don’t touch him because you know he’d burn you if you did but you watch. In rapture and fear. He seems to consider doing the same to the house, but doesn’t. It feels empty, the motion, like the brace before firing a gun. Except there’s no bullets. You watch as the dancing flames reflect on his face, still perfect as soot begins to gather like dark butterflies. “Why?” You ask, sacrilegiously. Breaking the silence of that distinctly consecrated night. Even the stars seem to be holding their breath. “Personal despair could never be desperate enough," he tells you, watching as the smoke gathered and swirled off into the open night sky. A translation of pain, “When tragedy happens, it needs to pass down the line, like a disease. There is an innate sin in the blood of some people.” Like most things, this escapes your comprehension entirely, and all you can focus on, even when the police sirens start blaring, is how beautifully the red reflects off his irises. He gives you a wayward grin. Like he’s done this before- and he has, you know he had- as he grasps your hand with a grip that for once feels real and solid as he darts the other way, dragging you along behind him in this mad dash. He laughs, the sound beautiful and loud and perfect, like church bells or sermon. Something holy, pure. You’re just sane enough to stop your ethereal, cackling lover from veering into oncoming traffic. He looks at you were a eerie intensity that makes you stammer an apology, an apology that he quickly cuts off as he pushes you against exposed brick and crushes his lips to yours. Your tongue flooding with the taste of him, a musky wilderness. There’s a sigh, somewhere, and even though you’ve had sex this feels like the most heart trending thing you’ve ever done in your life. You tremble. Your arms slip around his waist, pulling him closer, as if forevermore. As if drinking god. It’s enough to make you forget that it’s the 50s and that you’re both boys and that if any police officer caught the way his fingers were tenderly, tenderly brushing against your cheek, both of you would be carted off to jail for a decade but you don't care, really you don't, for the first time you feel as if you know him. Gilbert. Your Gilbert. - When the story ends, you're on the floor and the coolness of his skin seems to finally have crawled inside you, making a home amongst your other fragile, human organs. He stands above you with his red eyes, disappointed but not surprised. He mumbled something about this before, in the beginning, about what it would be like once you knew, what the pain would feel like. A sigh from him and you know without looking that all the stars outside the glass have blinked out, that every single other person in the apartment besides you and Him have gone still, paused or maybe dead. Maybe it was the whole street, the country, a few million bodies and still, how can it said to have mattered? "Ignorance isn't safety," He quietly tells your quaking form, in some something that could've been kindness, "Tell me, how many poor weeds have you stepped on, unthinkingly, in your lifetime?" The clock doesn't tick but you can feel the universe moving, entropy. You can feel the vastness of it, remember those dreams with out any horizons in sight and the knowledge weighs down on you like a million bowling balls. "You promised to remember me," He reminds you, his voice still quiet but brimming with an emotion that hasn't quiet come to a boil, "We had more than this." All of Germany shifts slightly, as if moving in its sleep, and the stars blink back, your breath releases. "If I've hurt you," he begins, but shakes his head, stumbling over words that he knows you won't ever really understand, won't forgive him if he lets you know. Resignation, tinged: resentment, "You'll go on living just fine." You look up at him once, I love you, your look says, but he does not look back. The door closes. There are no footsteps down the hall.

[papermoonloveslucy]

MEET THE PRESS

August 3, 1969

You are clued into the frank and tough talk to come by the way Lucille Ball swipes away with her handkerchief at the flies threatening the hors d’oeuvres The kerchief almost snaps like a wet towel. 

The scene is the pool patio of her home on Beverly Hills’ Roxbury Drive and a cocktail party is in progress for visiting television editors. 

Lucy has just emerged from the main house. She wears a powder blue double-breasted slack suit and saucer-sized sun glasses. In the blazing sun her orange hair has the color intensity of hot coals. 

She has counted heads. Husband-producer Gary Morton is there. So are Desi Arnaz IV her son, and Lucy her daughter. And her TV side-kick Gale Gordon with his wife. Plus a half-dozen of her staff and CBS emissaries. There have been introductions all round to the newspaper types. It is time, she announces, to talk and she waves everybody into the big and comfortable pool house. A table has been positioned so that she can sit there presiding as she used to do at the stockholders’ meetings of the old Desilu Studios. 

Almost immediately some wag fields her the question: “Lucy do you run the show?” She flashes him that big innocent TV look of hers. A staff member jumps up “Let’s all answer that one for her” There is a resounding “YES” from family-and-cast. Everybody laughs uproariously.

Very few questions are required to prime the pump. Lucy, it seems, has some matters of personal irritation on her mind and as far as she is concerned they come tumbling out without any prodding from her would-be interrogators. 

First of all, she asks rhetorically, what’s all this business about whether she would retire? “I never said I wanted to quit or retire. There was a time when I was willing to quit but nobody asked me. Now I’ve set a date when I’ll retire” 

A lot of ears perk up Somebody asks slyly — when? She’s waiting for that. Her answer is smilingly emphatic: “When I drop dead in my tracks.” 

She turns then without anybody’s questioning to the matter of her longevity in television. This is her 18th year on the tube and it used to be talked about that she traded her popularity to CBS in return for its buying other shows produced by her company. This evokes an almost visible jet of steam out of the top of her carrot locks. “I never at any time sold any of the 20 shows our company produced on the basis of my returning each season. I’ve said that literally hundreds of times and nobody believed it.” 

She went on to make it clear that she also dislikes the “big business” image which has adhered to her over the years. “I never like to talk about big money. I make my deal and that’s all. It’s been mostly a matter of legal procedures.” 

As the star wades into these fiscal subjects your eye roams over the assemblage. Young Desi in tennis togs impassively studies the smoke curling up from a cigarette. Young Lucy clutches her hands around her knees and stares intently at her mother. Husband Gary sitting on a ledge at the back of the room swings his legs and smiles. 

There has been no mention of Desi the elder the former husband Lucy’s co-performer and co-founder of Desilu Studios (now sold). Earlier this writer had chatted briefly with young Desi. He said he saw his father off and on and spends his summers as a rule at the father’s beach home at Delmar, south of Los Angeles. 

The youngster asked if I knew his grandfather Dr. Desiderio Arnaz who lives in Coral Gables.  (1)

But back to Lucy She’s telling us how many years it took to realize that as Lucille Ball she had attained V.I.P. status.

She reviews the years she spent trying to make it in show business, first on the stage, then as a model, and finally in the movies. Much of the time she says she stagnated. Until television came along. 

“I never had any sense of importance. I was very pliable always willing to do what I was told It wasn’t until one day I saw in print somewhere some actress described as a ‘Lucille Ball type’ that I knew suddenly I was somebody and a part of the business.” 

From there on the interview jumps from subject to subject. 

I ask her whatever happened to the project Dean Martin’s producer Greg Garrison had for starring Martin, her, and Jackie Gleason in a revival of the musical “Guys and Dolls.”  (2)

“I never said I would do it. Garrison kept publicizing it, but he never cleared it with me. I do still want to do ‘Diamond Jim’ with Jackie It’s just a matter of finding the time.” (3)

A lady editor wants to know how Lucy keeps her sinuous figure. 

“I don’t particularly like food. I’m not very fond of meat, for example, except in the morning.” 

Which brings a snort of disgust from her husband. “Can you imagine what it’s like to have to watch her eating corned beef or hamburger at 6 o’clock in the morning?” 

The questions now go to the children. What are Desi’s plans? Does he want to make acting his future? “I want to be an actor for awhile but I don’t think I ever want to be one certain thing.” 

Young Lucy, who, at 18, is two years older than her brother, is more sure of her future “I’ll go to college for awhile but I like acting. I’ll stay at it if I can.” 

Would she somebody asks join the campus protest and carry a sign? Only if it says ‘wet paint’ quips she. 

Lucy now introduces her cast veteran, Gale Gordon. He pays her extravagant compliments and talks a bit about his radio and early television days. 

The interview’s late arrival is venerable George Marshall, who is now the show’s director. Lucy introduces him as “our sexy senior citizen.” Marshall goes back to the dawn of movies and is filled with fascinating anecdotes about his years in the business. (4)

The conversation turns to TV’s talk shows. Somebody suggests to Lucy that she would be a highly likely guest for Merv Griffin’s new show starting on CBS Aug 18. (5)

Lucy's answer comes lancing back “That’s what you think. I don’t like him.” Which rocks everybody back. Why not? “Because he doesn’t know how to interview. He’s rude to his guests and he monopolizes the conversation.” 

She doesn’t wait for the next question. “I’m wild about Dick Cavett (on ABC) I think he’s great And I told Bill Paley (board chairman of CBS) he should have him on our network. But Bill said ABC got him first and we’re out of luck.” (6)

Everybody is suddenly distracted by three teen-age girl fans leaning over a fence way up front. They’re begging to be allowed on the grounds. Morton jogs forward to shoo them away. 

“This happens all the time,” says Lucy. “My God they used to picnic right in front of the house until our police department stopped them. Jimmy Stewart, who lives up the street, finally told me how to keep them away. Turn on the lawn sprinklers.” 

Morton returns and takes everybody for a tour of their luxurious but very lived-in home. Lucy tells us a funny story about how Jack and Mary Benny had once been their next door neighbors sold their home then asked her to try to mediate a re-sale of the place back to them. Then we take our leave.

#    #    # FOOTNOTES FROM THE FUTURE

(1) Dr. Desiderio Alberto Arnaz y Alberni II (1894-1973) was a Cuban politician and the father of Desi Arnaz. He graduated from the Southern College of Pharmacy in 1913 in Atlanta, Georgia. Desiderio Arnaz II was the youngest mayor of Santiago de Cuba (1923–32). When president Machado was overthrown in August 1933, Arnaz was arrested and jailed. Six months later, he was allowed to go into exile. He married Dolores "Lolita" de Acha y de Socias in 1916 and had one son, Desiderio "Desi" Arnaz III. He later had a daughter, Connie Arnaz (1932), with Anne M. Wilson, whom he married in 1941.

(2) Guys & Dolls was a 1950 stage musical by Frank Loesser, based on the stories by Damon Runyon starring Robert Alda, who appeared on several episodes of “The Lucy Show” and “Here’s Lucy”.  It was filmed by MGM in 1955. During that time, Lucy and Desi were also under contract to MGM, so they prevailed upon “I Love Lucy” to insert a clip from the film into “Lucy and the Dummy” (ILL S5;E3). After its initial airing on October 17, 1955, the clip was removed from the film print, and for legal reasons, has never been restored. It is unclear whether Garrison’s project with Martin, Ball, and Gleason would have been a film revival, or a stage production. Whatever it was to be, Lucy wanted to have no part of it, perhaps remembering the rigors of performing on stage in Wildcat (1960). During her film career, Ball was in two films based on Damon Runyon material, The Big Street (1942), a film she claimed as her favorite, and Sorrowful Jones (1949). She also did a radio version of Runyon’s “Tight Shoes” in 1942. Ball and Gleason would have been cast as Miss Adelaide and Nathan Detroit, while Dean Martin would have played Sky Masterson, the romantic lead. Those roles were played by Vivian Blaine, Frank Sinatra, and Marlon Brando in the film. Obviously, the project never came to be. 

(3) “Diamond Jim” was a project that Lucy dearly wanted to make with Gleason. He would play Diamond Jim Brady (1856-1917) to her Lillian Russell. Ball even went so far as to have a script written to further grab Gleason’s attention. Despite their best intentions, Gleason and Ball’s schedules never allowed for enough time to make the film. 

(4) George Marshall (1891-1975) had directed Lucille Ball in Valley of the Sun (1942) and Fancy Pants (1950).  He was considered an expert at location shooting, so when “Here’s Lucy” wanted to spend the first four episodes of Season 2 on location, Marshall was hired as director. He stayed on for seven more episodes of the sitcom before bowing out. 

(5) Despite Lucille Ball’s rather harsh public assessment of Merv Griffin (1925-2007) at this August 1969 press party, Ball appeared on “The Merv Griffin Show” four times between 1971 and 1980! During her first appearance, the aforementioned George Marshall was also a guest! 

(6) Lucille did seem to enjoy doing the talking to Dick Cavett, although she only got to do his chat show once, on March 7, 1974, in conjunction with her press tour for Mame. 

[primitivejunketer]

I Want To Tell You- A George Harrison FanFiction

Chapter 1 // Chapter 2 // Chapter 3 // Chapter 4

Chapter 5- Amour Mon Cher Amour

Fic Summary: George and Rosemarie have been next door neighbors their entire lives. As they grow older, feelings grow stronger. Will they fall in love or fall apart? angst/fluff/slow burn

Chapter Summary: We introduce Paul, Rosemarie goes away on a trip and the unexpected happens upon her return...

Word Count: 2380

Rating: T

Warnings: explicit language/minor affection

Note from the author: Things are happening now!!! Get fired up and buckle in y’all, we’re going for a ride. Also I know the gif below is from Stranger Things, that’s just how cute and awkward I imagine baby Rose and George to be.

Listen while you read! xx

---

October 22, 1954

George sat on the school bus staring out the window at the gloomy Speke weather. He lightly tapped his toes to the beat of Tennessee by Carl Perkins. 

“Hi, is this seat taken?” George looked over at the voice towering above him. A tall, pale boy with round rosy cheeks was addressing him. 

George shook his head silently. 

“I’m Paul,” the boy put out his hand for George to shake. 

“George.” He replied. 

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Paul asked.

“Yeh, I came from Dovedale. My brother came here so my parents made me.” 

 “Oh! What's his name? I might know ‘em.” Paul was jaunty. He had a baby face and was rather tall. He had a very warm presence but George was still new to the school and used to bullies from Dovedale, so he kept his guard up around Paul. 

“Harold Harrison,” George sighed, annoyed. 

“Oh, nah doesn’t sound familiar. But is that your last name? Harrison? That’s a good name. Mine’s McCartney.” 

Paul did most of the talking the rest of the way to his stop. George replied with unenthusiastic “mhm”s. 

The bus finally made it to Paul’s stop after what seemed like years. He shook George’s hand again before retreating from the bus. 

“See you tomorrow, lad.” Paul waved. 

George waved back, wide eyed. 

-

Rose was waiting for George on his porch when he returned home. She was leaned back on the steps, reading a book. 

“Good afternoon, Georgie! How was school?” She asked him in an annoying singsong voice. 

“School wasn’t the bad part, the ride home was.” He groaned, sitting down next to her. 

“What happened? Was someone being mean?” Rose became very concerned. 

“Not at all, this bloke sat next to me and was chatting my ear off the whole way to his stop.” 

“Awww George be nice he was trying to be friendly!” Rose swat his arm playfully. 

“Maybe I don’t want any friends,” he scoffed. 

Rose rolled her eyes and got up, “Come to my house, mum is making stew.” She put out her hand for him to help himself up. Unexpectedly, though, he didn’t let go.

The two held hands for the few block walk to Rose’s house. Before opening the door she awkwardly shook his hand away from hers and opened the door. 

-

December 17, 1954

“She is taking FOREVER!” George complained, tugging his coat tighter around himself. 

“Girls always take forever,” Paul laughed, roughing up George’s hair. 

In the past months, George and Paul had become best friends in school. They rode the bus together every day after the first day they met. They even clung to each other during school. Paul was a year older and had access to the music room at the school and introduced George to a few of his new favorite artists. 

Paul watched George, waiting for this mystery girl’s arrival outside of Trinity Catholic Girls school. 

As per usual, Rosemarie’s parents followed the Harrison’s footsteps and decided Rose should go to private school for secondary school. She fought hard against the decision but eventually lost against her mother. 

Rose HATED school. She hated her stupid black and white school shoes, and her stupid long forest green plaid skirt, and her stupid white button up shirt. 

Suddenly, Paul watched as George’s face lit up. He began waving frantically. Paul’s eyes followed the direction George was looking and he was met for the first time by Rosemarie. 

George gently wrapped his arm around her and turned to Paul. 

“Paul, this is Rose, Rose this is Paul.” George laughed sort of awkwardly. 

“Rosemarie Winthrop, charmed.” Rose smiled, putting her hand out for Paul to shake. 

“Enchanté, Paul McCartney,” Paul, flashed a wink at George, bringing Rose’s hand up to his face to gently place a kiss upon. 

“Alright! That’s enough friendliness for today!” George stood between the two of them, flashing a look at Paul that could kill. 

The three began to walk back towards George’s house for dinner. Mrs. Harrison was having a dinner, celebrating that all of her children would be under one roof for the night. Harold and Louise we’re visiting. 

“I’ve heard so much about you, Miss Rosemarie,” Paul mentioned as they walked together. George stayed in the middle so Paul and Rose had to speak over him. He walked with his head down, kicking chunks of snow as they went. 

“I wish I could say the same about you, Paul. George rarely talks about anything but guitars anymore,” Rose laughed, nudging George slightly. 

“I wonder who’s fault that is,” George returned a stifled laugh and motioned at Paul. 

“I can’t help it, my dad’s a musician!” He had a warm and hearty laugh. 

“Really?!” Rose was enthused, “what does he play?” 

Paul went on to explain his father’s jazz background. At this point, the two were getting along all too well. 

When the three arrived at George’s house, Rose went to greet Mrs. Harrison in the kitchen. Paul mindlessly followed, looking around pictures on the walls. 

George cleared his throat from the top of the stairs. 

“A word, Paul.” He spat. 

Paul smiled, already knowing what he was in trouble for. 

George pulled Paul into his room. “FLIRTING!” He whisper-shouted. 

Paul had to hold back his laugh, “I’m sorry! She liked it,” he could barely speak between laughs. 

“Of course she liked it! You were FLIRTING!” 

Paul was amused at how upset George got, he had never seen him this way before. 

“Look, I know you like her a lot. Relax, mate. She likes you too,” Paul placed his hand on George’s shoulder, reassuringly. 

“What are you two talking about?” The door opened and Rose entered, making George jump. 

“Nothing!” He answered all too quickly, making Paul laugh. 

“That’s not suspicious…” Rose said, raising an eyebrow, “anyway, your mum sent me up here to tell you supper’s ready.” 

-

January 18, 1955

Christmas came and went faster than anyone would have desired. George was heartbroken that he’d have to spend a month away from Rose. 

The week after Christmas, Rosemarie and her mother took what her mother referred to as a “girls trip” to France. Mrs. Winthrop was born in France and had lots of family there. She was particularly keen on staying with her younger sister, Dominique. 

The two sisters hadn’t seen one another since before Rosemarie was born. 

Paul had to deal with George’s complaints for an entire week since he insisted distracting himself with Paul’s presence. 

The two sat in a small cafe near Paul’s house, drinking hot chocolates. 

“You’ve got to stop moping, mate. It’s not like she’s gone forever.” Paul consoled George. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been away from her this long in my life.” George groaned and looked out the window at the snowy scene before him. 

“What is it about her that gets you this way?” Paul was genuinely intrigued. He had never really even seen George look at another girl the way he looks at Rose. 

“I dunno. I’ve known her basically since we were born and just- I don’t know. She’s so-,” he stopped and his face scrunched up. He didn’t know how to answer Paul’s question. 

“She’s just my person. She’s unlike anyone else.” That was the only way George could figure to put it into words. 

Paul nodded knowingly. He wasn’t much older than George, but wise enough to know exactly what he meant. 

-

February 2, 1955

“Bonjour! How was your trip?” George was at Rosemarie’s house not even an hour after she arrived home from the train station. 

“I had an amazing time! My aunt Domonique is spectacular! She taught me how to speak some French while I was there!” The two sat in Rose’s bedroom with the record player on. She was playing all of the new music she got in France, showing George how lovely French music was. 

She particularly liked Yves Montand and wanted to show George his record. She turned up the record player when Amour Mon Cher Amour came on and started to dance by herself. She slowly stepped to the guitar and swung around the room following the smooth lyrics. 

George was frozen. Sitting on the edge of her bed he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Something about her was different since she had returned. Of course she was wearing the popular French fashion, much more stylized than any British girl he had seen in the last month. It even appeared that she had rouge on her lips. George had never seen her wear makeup before. 

“Dance with me George” Rose smiled, putting out her hand for him to grab. 

He stood, somewhat shakily, grabbing her hand and dancing around the small room awkwardly.

“What does it mean?” He asked with a smile, showing off his pointed canine teeth. 

“Amour mon cher amour? Love, my dear, love,” Rose smiled and looked right into George’s brown eyes, causing his cheeks to redden. 

He stared at her face while they danced, he noticed everything about her. The way her chocolate colored eyes sparkled in her dimly lit room, the faint tint of red in her dark hair, perfectly tucked into curls that rested just right on her shoulders, and then did the unspeakable. 

He kissed her. 

And she did the unspeakable. 

She kissed him back. 

It only lasted a couple seconds but it felt like an eternity. 

Neither one of them knew what they were doing, there was a combination of George’s lips on Rose’s chin and teeth bumping into one another. But it didn’t matter. 

They pulled away both blushing, slightly out of breath. They couldn’t say anything, the two just sat there smiling goofily and staring into each other’s eyes. 

Then, footsteps were heard coming up the stairs, and before they could react, Mr. Winthrop was standing in the doorway. 

His initial reaction to seeing his daughter just barely an inch away from George was sweet, he knew it was bound to happen eventually and was happy for them. 

After a few seconds of everyone sitting frozen, George popped up, “Well, I best get going, told mum I was only going to be away for a few minutes.” 

“I’ll walk you out,” Rose quickly stepped behind him, walking past her father who had long since forgot what he went to go tell them in the first place. 

Rose followed George down the stairs and to the front porch where he had parked his bicycle. 

“So-“ Rose started. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.” George quickly interrupted. Rose nodded understandingly. 

“See you tomorrow?” She asked, sheepishly biting her lip. 

“Absolutely.” George hopped on his bike and leaned in once more, kissing her cheek. 

George sped down the street on his bike howling at the air.

“Whoooooohooooo!” He giggled as his bike tires skid along the frosty pavement.

-

Rose watched George until he turned a corner, out of sight. She stared dreamily at nothing at all, in a daze. 

She slowly turned back into her house, gently shutting the door behind her and leaning against it. She let out an audible sigh.

“Did someone just get her first kiss?” Mrs. Winthrop was cheekily peeking from behind the kitchen door.

“Mum!” Rose shouted, embarrassed. 

“He wasn’t being too bold, right? Kept his hands to himself?” Mr. Winthrop chimed in, peeking behind his wife. 

“Dad! It’s bad enough you interrupted!” Rose’s face was full red at this point. 

“Interrupted? It is my business who is kissing my eleven year old daughter in my house.” He retorted. 

Rose groaned, “Dad, it’s just George!” She tried to shake off the subject but her own face wouldn’t even let her. 

She couldn’t help the little smile that peeked up and the rosiness of her cheeks. 

She ran up the stairs to her bedroom and locked the door behind her. 

Before kicking off her shoes and lying down in her bed, she put the Yves Montand record on again. 

She grabbed her pillow and held it close to her chest, closing her eyes. All she could see was George.

She had every single part of him memorized. The way his shaggy brown hair laid on his head, the lines he’d get on his cheeks when he smiled big. She let out a sigh, accompanied by a little smile. 

There was a knock on the door. Rose opened it to welcome Mrs. Winthrop. 

“Hi darling, I made you a cuppa.” She held out her gorgeous silver tray with two China tea cups on it. 

Rose invited her mother to sit on her bed beside her. 

“So,” Mrs. Winthrop started, Rose already knew where this was going to go, “how was it?” 

“Mum!” Rose exclaimed, “I don’t think you’re supposed to ask me that.” 

Mrs. Winthrop laughed, “well, I’ll be the first to tell you, my first kiss was not at all ideal.” 

“How do you mean?” Rose asked, sipping her tea. 

“I was about your age, and I went to a public school, boys and girls mixed, you know.” She began, “and I wasn’t friendly with the boys, I had my sister and cousins, no desire to play with anyone else. And one day, this boy came up to me, oh what was his name?” She paused for a moment, but Rose continued to listen intently. “I think it was Jacques O’Hare, yes he was French Irish, anyway, he walked up to me, grabbed me by the arms and kissed me right on the mouth. I was DISGUSTED.” 

Rose burst into laughter. “Oh, mum I’m so sorry!” She tried to stifle her laughs but couldn’t help it. 

“Don’t worry about me, dear, my point is, how are you?” She asked her daughter. 

“Well,” Rose started, and then drifted off into thought. She had never felt this way before and didn’t know how to describe it. “I wouldn’t have wanted it to be with anyone else.” She smiled, satisfied with this answer. 

Mrs. Winthrop hugged Rose tightly, “so is he your boyfriend now?” She began to pry, with an eyebrow raised. 

“Mum! No, he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t know what he is. I don’t want anything ruined,” Rose was solemn. She felt something unexplainable for George but didn’t want it to ruin what they already had. 

-

[potatocrab]

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (15/18)

Chapter 15: The Liar’s Kiss That Says I Love You

A return to New England Medical Center finds Madelyn struggling with who she can trust. She and Deacon have a long conversation about the power of truth and lies, and she learns one more of his closely guarded secrets. At a Railroad safehouse, the two reminisce on their first operation and realize they may have fallen into a cliché after all.

“Kiss me, Mike. I want you to kiss me. The liar’s kiss that says I love you and means something else.” - Lily Carver as played by Gaby Rodgers (Kiss Me Deadly, 1955)

x-x

This chapter contains mild/not-so-mild sexual content. Proceed at your own desire! When you see the French language being used, you have reached the point of no return! 

Major thanks to @glowstickia​ for her help on the French resources. :)

[read on Ao3] |  [chapter masterpost]

May 30th, 1958

Madelyn had hoped she wouldn’t have a reason to visit the New England Medical Center so soon, memories of Nick’s hospitalization and near-death experience at the hands of Eddie Winter fresh in her mind. Yet there she was, struggling to ignore the sympathetic glances from the familiar faces of doctors and nurses as they patched up her arm and provided her with a tetanus shot—undoubtedly more painful than her injury, at least without the surge of adrenaline to dull her senses. Who would have guessed that a needle could hurt worse than a bullet?

The same medical staff allowed her to stay with Drummer Boy in his assigned recovery room, despite the fact she was of no relation. It was likely out of pity for all they had seen her experience in recent months. Between everything that had happened to her and Nick when they went after Eddie Winter in April, Jenny’s death when the hospital was ambushed thereafter, and now an attempted assassination at her own apartment—Madelyn was starting to think her luck—if she had any to begin with—was running out.

By the grace of God—or maybe Drummer Boy’s perfect timing—she’d escaped relatively unharmed. He wasn’t so fortunate, but the commotion of the shooting hadn’t gone unnoticed in her Cambridge neighborhood. When the Boston Police arrived, she was initially surprised to see Sergeant Sullivan, but considering he was the last trustworthy cop left in the city, she was grateful for his presence. He ensured that she and Drummer Boy got to the New England Medical Center in a timely manner while his task force secured the area. Madelyn wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of strange men lurking about her apartment, but she had little choice but to agree.

In the quiet of Drummer Boy’s room, she finally had a chance to process what had occurred and how close she had come to death—again. An unknown assailant dared to attack Madelyn in her own home, where she was most vulnerable. The list of suspects in her mind narrowed down to one as she thought about the agency’s infiltration of Fort Hagen, and the smuggled documents on Kellogg. While there hadn’t been any sightings of him since the late 40s, his vanishing act did little to ease anyone’s mind. The proof was in the casefile—Kellogg had a way of finding the people he deemed unfit for life. It made sense that he’d come for her, especially if he really was an agent of the Institute—they were likely to have their own list of reasons for wanting her dead.

An unsettling notion entered her mind as she thought about the man who had stalked her and Deacon before and again at the Cambridge campus on the day of the demonstration. What if it was him who had attempted to kill her, and not Kellogg as she assumed? What if it was a random android, set up in a building across the street, programmed to shoot into her apartment window at a specific time? Worse yet, what if the would-be assassin was just another one of the Institute’s experiments? Just another name, another face to get lost in the crowd—just as Piper feared. That meant nobody was beyond suspicion, not when it was still unknown just how long the Institute had been performing these so-called brain augmentations—if they were even behind the attack in the first place.

Madelyn clasped Drummer Boy’s hand tight as the paranoia and anxiety settled in. She couldn’t live like that—constantly looking over her shoulder—living in fear. She couldn’t go through life wondering who was or wasn’t worthy of her trust. Not when she’d finally gained back her sense of security—her sense of sanity—her sense of self. After Nate’s death, after Eddie Winter, after everything—the last thing she wanted was to fall back into the endless spiral of despair.

You can’t trust everyone.

The words echoed in her mind like so many times before, her chest tightening under the painful realization of how true they were. Madelyn closed her eyes the moment tears clouded her vision, clenching her jaw so tight she feared her teeth might chip. Anything to prevent herself from crying. It didn’t matter that she was (mostly) alone—she was so exhausted from so many nights of crying. Perhaps it was her concentration that made it difficult to hear the echoing footsteps in the hallway or the soft knock. It wasn’t until the door began to creak open that she reacted, recoiling in a way that she nearly fell out of her chair.

“Charmer?”

“Deacon?”

Madelyn breathed out his name, relieved it was him and not anyone else. While the doctors and nurses provided some comfort, it paled in comparison to the intimacy they shared. Still undefined, still unspoken—but undeniably close.

He hesitated, quietly closing the door behind him as he observed her, eyebrows raised high above the frame of his darkened shades. For as stoic and pensive as she’d seen him be in the past, especially when reacting to various tragedies and disastrous events, he appeared to be faltering now. It was always difficult to fully discern his emotions when half his face was obscured, but he looked curious, if not concerned. His silence indicated he was likely worried too, but Deacon would never say it outright.

Madelyn’s pulse gradually settled, but she had a difficult time fully relaxing under his watchful gaze. In that moment, with her willpower drained, she looked away. She focused on Drummer Boy’s steady breathing, brushing the pad of her thumb across his wrist and hospital band.

“Danny—Sullivan,” Deacon corrected himself, slowly moving to stand near the end of the hospital bed. “He tracked me and Valentine down, took us back to your apartment.”

“I know,” she responded, barely above a whisper. “I had him do so.”

“Ol’ Nick took a lot of convincing to stay behind,” he explained, setting down the canvas bag and glass Tupperware he carried on the small table. “But he didn’t want to leave those cops unsupervised. Even if they’re Sullivan’s men—”

You can’t trust everyone—he didn’t have to say it.

“It figures,” she sighed, closing her eyes again. “Probably looked like somebody died, huh?”

Deacon remained silent, though she could hear him, feel him, approaching. Soon enough, he was standing at her side, causing a tingle to run up her spine—an unexplainable feeling—but her skin suddenly ached for the simplest form of touch. As if he could read her mind (and she wouldn’t be surprised if he could), he rested his hand over hers and Drummer Boy’s. Madelyn immediately snapped open her eyes with a sharp inhale of air, momentarily stunned by the contact.

She needed more.

In an instant she was standing, clinging to him with her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders as she pressed up on her toes, tired feet and aching shoulder be damned. Deacon was quick to return the embrace, holding her close as he kept his arms snug around her torso. Madelyn stayed there, face pressed against the soft wool of his coat—she wanted to tease him for wearing it so near to summer but now she was grateful for the comfort it provided. She didn’t cry, despite the fact that she wanted to, and probably needed to as well. Bristling with quiet desperation, the only thing Madelyn was sure of was that she didn’t want to be alone.  

“I just—” she started after a long stretch of silence. “I’d like to go home.”  

Deacon gradually pulled her away, easing her back so her heeled feet were level with the ground. He swept back a few errant curls behind her ear, fingers lingering along the curve of her cheek. At first, she thought he might kiss her, but he skewed his lips to the side instead. “No can do, Charmer.”

Madelyn sighed—she knew that, but it was worth a try. Her eyes danced over to the belongings on the table. Deacon sensed her curiosity.

“Codsworth insisted I bring you something to eat,” he explained, nodding his chin towards the glass container.

“Better left for Drummer Boy. I’m told hospital food tastes of despair,” she flashed a meek smile. “And the bag?”

“Some clothes for you,” he said. “Any chance to rifle through your naughty drawer.”

If it were anybody else, she wouldn’t have appreciated such an ill-timed joke. Deacon’s smirk relaxed into a gentler expression, his thumb tracing down the angle of her chin towards her mouth. “Let’s get you someplace safe.”

There was a hidden meaning to his words that had Madelyn equal parts excited and trembling with anxiety. He wanted her safe, but also alone—all to himself. They’d kissed, crossed that barrier two weeks prior. But whatever was to come next was to be determined, put on hold, as their focus quickly became centered on finding Kellogg and infiltrating the Institute. Romance could wait—or maybe it couldn’t.

What was she so afraid of?

Finally, she spoke. “Do you trust me?”

“You’ve asked that before,” he responded in a low, contemplative voice.

He was right—Madelyn had poised the question on more than one occasion. And the last time, just as before, he hadn’t given a straight answer. It was always easy enough for her to assume and take his presence for granted. But now more than ever, she needed honesty—if it was even possible. She wanted nothing more than to be engulfed in the flame they’d ignited, but she’d sooner snuff out the fire if he couldn’t give her this one answer.

“I know that lying is your profession. That you’d sooner court death than the truth,” she paused, reluctantly leaning away from his touch, noting the glimmer of disappointment in his features. “Against better judgement, I trust you.”

“But I need to know that you feel the same—that you trust me,” Madelyn expressed, doing her best not to sound like she was pleading. “Not just as your partner in the Railroad, but—”

She broke off, grasping his hand as part of her silent allusion. There was a subtlety to his reaction, but enough of one that told her he understood the inference. Deacon said nothing, eyebrows firmly creased together as he considered her words. The silence dragged on enough that she felt foolish for saying anything in the first place. She tried not to feel overly disappointed or react in a disproportionate way—the last thing Madelyn wanted was an argument.

“There’s an imbalance,” she mumbled, unsure of her train of thought. “You know so much about me, a fault of my own—Nick always said I wore my heart on my sleeve—” She was definitely rambling. Blame it on her grief—she couldn’t stop. “But you are and always have been an enigma, Deacon. Your face, your hair…hell, your real age,” her eyes darted over his face as her heart raced loud enough she could hear it echoing in her skull. “Your name.”

His reaction wasn’t subtle that time. Deacon pulled away, and Madelyn feared she’d crossed a line and offended him. But he didn’t storm out of the room—rather, he dug through his coat and jacket pockets, muttering something incoherent under his breath until he pulled free a leather billfold with a triumphant sort of grin. He placed it in her hands as if she’d asked for it.

“Go on,” he encouraged with a sideways smirk.

Madelyn didn’t move an inch, only taking a quick glance at the wallet before meeting his face again. “What—”

“You could’ve lifted that off of me at any time,” he interrupted, gesturing to the faded black material. “Looked at my ID and taken some money while you’re at it. All in a day’s work for a spy.”

She frowned—it seemed honesty for him was as bad as pulling teeth. Her legal studies were easier than this. Madelyn decided to call his bluff, turning over the billfold in her hand. “A spy like you would obviously carry more than one identification.”

“Obviously,” he agreed with a nod. “But one of them is bound to be legitimate. Even a no-good scoundrel like me needs a clean copy for official reasons—never know when you’re going to end up in a pickle or interrogated by some charming blonde.”

Madelyn, understandably, had doubts as her irritation lingered. Even if she wanted to take a look, could she really open what was akin to opening Pandora’s box? Did she really want to know? What if this was just another elaborate trick? Deacon titled his head just enough that she caught a glimpse of his eyes in the low light of the room. He was serious now, all trace of humor erased from his expression.

“I trust you.”

A shockwave rippled through her body causing a deep warmth to radiate in her chest. He might as well have told her—

Madelyn blinked hard, shaking the idea from her mind. One step at a time. Trust. He slowly circled around her to be closer to Drummer Boy’s bedside, and she turned to watch his movements, still hesitating to flip open the leather billfold. Deacon leaned over the hospital bed, as if to verify the agent wasn’t secretly awake and eavesdropping on their conversation. She sat back down in the nearby chair before giving into her curiosity.

She wasn’t sure what a typical man’s wallet was supposed to contain, but Deacon’s was full of various cards and trinkets—paper receipts and scribbled notes, raffle tickets of undetermined origin. Just as she predicted, and he admitted to, there were multiple state identification cards. Many were for Massachusetts, but there was one for Virginia, and one for Washington D.C.—unsurprisingly with the obviously fake name of George Washington.

Madelyn flicked through the paper cards, finding humor in some of the clever names and disguises—Horatio Williams from Worcester County, Simon Rock from Plymouth, Guy Granger from Richmond, and Harry Morgan from Nantucket. It wasn’t until she settled on a well-faded card that she gave pause. The Deacon in the black-and-white picture was recognizable, but only because she’d seen him without his usual pompadour wig and sunglasses. The full name wasn’t visible, worn from many years of handling but she saw enough of the bold lettering—Johnathan Daniel. She knew immediately it wasn’t a fake.

“Old testament,” she muttered, half-jokingly, under her breath. At least he hadn’t lied about his Catholic upbringing. Madelyn looked up to find him whispering—praying—as he gently held onto Drummer Boy’s arm, his other hand resting against the other man’s shoulder. The sight was unexpected, to say the least, and gave her insight that perhaps their relationship stretched beyond the Railroad too.

“Drummer Boy—Robby,” she corrected herself. “He wasn’t lying when he said John D formed the Railroad.”

Deacon shrugged, glancing at her over his shoulder, as if he expected her to say that. “He wasn’t,” he confirmed, plainly. He didn’t even ask when, or why Drummer Boy told her such information. “John D didn’t do it alone.”

“No,” Madelyn knew the history, thanks to the stories and a little digging of her own. “But Wyatt isn’t around anymore, now is he?”

“He isn’t.”

“And John D?” she asked tentatively.

Deacon grinned, if only for a fleeting moment. “He’s around.”

It was confirmation enough, and Madelyn decided not to pry for a straight answer—she’d gotten plenty from him already when he confirmed his trust. Now was not the time to cross boundaries, even as more unanswered questions rattled through her mind. With a deep and steadying breath, she allowed herself to become content with the knowledge that she was one of the lucky few—if not the only one—who knew this truth.

The silence was interrupted by a soft grumbling as Drummer Boy gradually regained consciousness. Madelyn abruptly stood, dropping Deacon’s wallet into the chair and rushing to the bedside to ensure he was okay. It took several moments for him to blink the exhaustion from his eyes, and he cleared his throat a few times before relaxing against the pillows again. The Railroad agent lazily glanced up at the two, flashing Madelyn a groggy smile. When Drummer Boy looked at Deacon, his face scrunched up, stuck between a frown and a glare.

“You still owe me,” he mumbled, causing Deacon to softly laugh. “Two dollars.”

The moon still hung high in the sky by the time Madelyn and Deacon left the New England Medical Center, though she wasn’t entirely sure of how much time had passed since she first left the agency, visited Nate’s grave, and returned to her apartment, only to be shot at by an unknown assailant—it had been a long day. All she knew was that her body ached, and that she was desperate for sleep.

After a short taxi ride into the Fens district, Deacon navigated the two through a nondescript area. She lacked the energy to comment on allowing handsome men to lead her into strange alleyways, but the amusement still brought a smile to her face. Outside an old, brick apartment building she noticed two Railroad insignias itched into the wall—one for safehouse, and another for ally.

“Mercer?” she assumed.

He nodded, escorting her inside the building. “Home sweet home.”

Unlike her Cambridge apartment, the elevators there were in working order. Madelyn couldn’t help but yawn as she leaned against Deacon’s shoulder, hoping the safehouse had an ample supply of pillows. He slowly guided her drowsy form down the hallway to the correct door, propping her under his arm as he fished through his pockets for his keys.

“Do you want me to carry you over the threshold?” he teased as soon as he pushed the door open.

Madelyn snickered, and snagged the bag of her belongings from his arm. “Haven’t you learned by now I’m a capable woman?”

He laughed, allowing her to enter ahead of him into the apartment. It was just about the same size as hers, with a mirrored layout and less furniture. Seeing as it was meant as a halfway-house for weary and temporary travelers, it made sense that it wouldn’t feel as lived in. There was a couch, a record player, and a small bookshelf with an assortment of books. The kitchen was modest as well—a small island bar with a few leftover coffee cups and newspapers, as well as a cardboard box from the nearby pizzeria.  

Madelyn followed the pathway of the hallway to the bathroom, glancing over her shoulder to find Deacon loitering by the refrigerator. As soon as she was alone in the tiny, tiled room, she took several moments to examine herself in the mirror. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the last time she found herself covered in blood—a macabre thought—the hospital staff had done a decent job at cleaning washing away the evidence from her skin. But there she was with another ruined dress, stained and torn from where the bullet had grazed her shoulder.

She thought to check her wedding ring for streaks of red when she realized she wasn’t even wearing it. A flicker of guilt washed over her as she remembered she’d removed it before the undercover operation at Fort Hagen. Maybe she should be relieved it was still safe and sound at her apartment—not like Deacon would’ve snagged it off her jewelry stand. Madelyn decided to look through the bag to see what he did grab. There were two dresses and stockings that complimented her current pair of heels, and she was grateful that they were appropriate for the May weather. Tucked beneath that was one of her silk nightgowns and matching robes, along with some undergarments. Rather than feel embarrassed, she could only sigh, appreciative that she had something comfortable to change into.

She quickly kicked off her heels, leaving them at the foot of the sink as she removed the rest of her clothes. She draped her discarded dress and stockings over the shower curtain rod before slipping on the pale blue nightgown, securing the robe around her body with a tight knot. She wiggled her toes against the cool floor and sighed. With one last glance in the mirror to ensure she hadn’t missed an errant mark of blood, she flicked off the light and left the bathroom.

In the kitchen, Deacon was preparing two glasses of whiskey as he stood by the island bar, pausing in his actions to watch her slow approach. “Well now I feel overdressed.”

Ironic, considering she’d never seen him so relaxed. He had discarded his wool coat and suit jacket, left hanging over the back of the living couch. Even his shoes were missing, and a cursory scan of the room didn’t give her any indication of where he’d placed them. Madelyn could only mimic his expression.

“You’re the one who packed my bag,” she replied. “I sense sabotage is at play.”

Deacon mocked offense. “I’d never.”

“Before you take the bed and resign me to the couch,” he continued, gaining her attention. He gestured to the freshly poured drinks and the pizza box. “I made a promise to a very pushy Mister Handy unit that you’d be fed, and I’m one to keep promises. Even if they are to robots with British accents.”

Madelyn laughed, imaging Codsworth’s worrying pestering. When her stomach growled, she decided that as tired as she was, sleep could wait. Deacon pulled out the barstool for her so she could sit before occupying the set next to her, sliding her the glass tumbler of whiskey and cardboard box of leftovers. She’d had worse meals but in that moment, cold pizza and alcohol was like heaven. Still, she could sense Deacon watching her carefully from the corner of her eye, and she sighed into her glass.

“I don’t want to talk about what happened,” she explained, nervously meeting his shielded gaze. “Not now, not when I’ll just have to repeat it all over again when we meet with the others in the morning or—” she glanced to the clock hanging on the wall and groaned. “In a few hours.”

Deacon didn’t push. “Whatever you need, Charmer.”

“How does the line go?” he mused. “You know how to whistle…”

“I thought I was Bacall,” Madelyn joked mid-chew. “Mr. Bogart.”

She hadn’t forgotten that conversation from their first meeting, a flirtatious tease of falling in love like two Hollywood starlets in the latest noir film. Madelyn would’ve never guessed that all these months later, it had played out exactly as predicted. She smiled, and so did he.

“Looks like we fell into the cliché after all,” she whispered, eyes darting across his face, lingering on his mouth. “What do you think?”

Deacon finished off his whiskey with a slow sip before answering. “Tu as de beaux yeux tu sais.”

Madelyn was momentarily taken aback, suddenly wishing she’d taken French as a foreign language in school instead of Gaelic—all her Irish relatives were deceased anyways, what was the point? Was Deacon deflecting again? Something about his tone and the way he turned towards her said otherwise. He used his legs to scoot her barstool closer to him, the movement causing her to lean forward and brace her palms flat against his chest so she wouldn’t smash her forehead against his nose. His hands came to rest on her waist as he gradually eased her closer.

“Si je te disais que tu avais un beau corps, tu m’en tiendrais rigueur?”

A question whispered against the shell of her ear that sent her heart racing, mind going blank as she only thought about Deacon’s heated breath along the column of her throat. Madelyn allowed herself to edge nearer to his body still until she was practically straddling his thigh, teetering on the edge of her chair, arms loosely wrapped around his shoulders.

He continued murmuring what she assumed were sweet-nothings against her skin—though they could be nonsense and she’d still be melting in his hands. “On devrait t'arrêter pour excès de beauté sur la voie publique.”

“Est-ce que tu fais partie du menu?”

What about a menu? She pondered if what he was telling her bordered on filth, but the idea only excited her. Madelyn sharply inhaled, angling her neck to give him greater access despite the fact his lips hadn’t made direct contact with her skin. When he finally reached her mouth, he paused, one hand reaching up to hold the side of her face steady.

“Dis moi ce que tu veux,” he said. After a beat, he repeated himself, this time so she could understand. “Tell me what you want.”

Madelyn didn’t hesitate to move her hands to his face, fingers wrapping around the metal frame of his glasses before gently removing them, setting them down on the kitchen counter. She held his face with her palms, taking a long moment to stare deep into his steely blue eyes. It had been more than a month since she’d seen them like this, and yet it felt like she was seeing them for the first time—brilliant, vibrant and beautiful.

“You,” she breathed the answer, the most honest she’d felt in years. “Deacon, I want you.”

There was a glimmer to his eyes she couldn’t place as he briefly smirked before wordlessly closing the distance between them with a slow, but needy kiss. It didn’t take long at all for it to grow heated, the hand on her waist silently encouraging her to scoot closer until she was fully seated across his lap, knees on either side of his thighs. Deacon balanced her against him as they hungrily kissed, a groan echoing in his throat as she frantically pushed the suspenders from his shoulders before moving her fingers to undo the buttons of his shirt. It seemed that now that the damn was broken, Madelyn couldn’t wait for the rush—patience be damned.  

He matched her fervor, one hand darting to the silken knot at her waist and blinding tugging until he broke away from their kiss to glare down at the confusing tangle. With a curse he pulled open her robe and she shrugged it from her body, softly moaning as his lips instantly collided with the outline of her collarbone before the garment reached the floor. As Deacon kissed a trail along her skin, Madelyn threaded her hands through his hair, breathing a laugh when she remembered it was a wig. He didn’t seem to mind as she removed it—too preoccupied with leaving patterns on her neck—exposing the ginger locks she admired. Just as she returned to run her fingers through those soft waves, he leaned back out of reach. She didn’t have time to be confused as he hoisted her into his arms as he stood, holding her as if she weighed nothing.

Madelyn gasped and still clutched his arms in the fear that she’d be dropped. At first, she assumed he would carry her to the couch, or the bedroom, but he simply placed her on the island bar instead. With a sweep of his arm, he pushed away the clutter to make room for her body, thrilling her to the core. She watched as Deacon peeled off his dress shirt, moving her hands to his belt on the assumption—and perhaps eagerly—that they were to make love right there. He covered her hands with his own, stopping her with a soft chuckle, but it wasn’t meant to taunt her.

“Lie back,” he instructed, voice laced with desire.

Madelyn complied, swallowing down the last traces of anxiety as she eased back onto her elbows. She was so entranced by his actions that she almost forgot to breathe, eyes locked onto his face as his gaze raked over her body and the length of her legs. Deacon’s hands were soft as they traced up from her ankles to her calves and eventually to her thighs, gradually spreading apart her knees to make enough space for his body. Those striking eyes of his found hers as his hands trailed further, past the lace trim of her nightgown until heated fingers traced the outline of her underwear. Those same deft fingers pulled away the fabric just enough so he could touch, an agonizing drag along her already dampened folds. It was enough for Madelyn to completely collapse against the cold tile of the counter, tossing her head back as she moaned loudly. Just how touch starved had she been?  

“Don’t close your eyes,” Deacon said, and she desperately fought to snap them open as he continued, and then stopped.

She whimpered, almost against her own volition. He was already gradually sliding her underwear down her legs until they slipped off and to the floor. Instead of his hands, it was his mouth that followed the trail up her legs, and Madelyn was sure her heart was going to burst right out her chest. It didn’t take a detective to know what he was planning, and the pure eroticism of it all—splayed out on a kitchen counter—made her skin prickle with arousal.

Deacon pushed up the silken fabric of her nightgown before hooking one knee around his shoulder, spreading her other thigh out so that his hand could easily trace along her skin. His fingers found her wet heat again, far from teasing as he probed her entrance, eliciting loader groans from her. Just as he found a steady rhythm, he replaced his hand with his mouth, and Madelyn could feel her stomach coiling at the sensation already. She was writhing, uncaring how unhinged she appeared, completely lost to the passion he was inflicting upon her. It was only fitting that the man who was so gifted at intrigue would be this talented with his mouth—Deacon was through, relentless.

Madelyn’s mind was a haze, and she couldn’t hear anything besides her own rapid pulse and intense breathing. No doubt she was chanting his name like a prayer, whispering quiet praises and pleadings that he wouldn’t stop because—oh God—she was so close, and—Jesus—she hadn’t felt so alive in years. There was more blasphemy and curses, and she was sure she was going to hell—maybe it was worth it—if this was what sin felt like.

When she came, it was blinding, and her entire body trembled uncontrollably as Deacon’s hands moved to cradle her, mouth unmoving from her core until she was spent. Madelyn still took several minutes to regain her bearings, staring up at the ceiling in delirious wonder.

“Deacon?” she titled her head to find him resting against the counter, arms draped across her body as his hands rubbed slowly up and down her sides. He glanced up at her with a lazy, self-satisfied sort of smile, and she decided he deserved it.

“I’m here,” he answered.

She softly laughed. “I’d like you to carry me now.”

Deacon was slow to move but eventually leaned back, grasping her hands to help her gradually sit up straight. He hooked one arm under her knees, the other around her torso and gave her a sideways glance so she’d hold onto his shoulder for balance. Madelyn again found herself amused at how easy he made it seem, pausing on his way out of the kitchen to turn off the front room lights. They made their way towards the bedroom in the darkness, though Deacon didn’t appear perturbed, as if he had every inch of the place memorized by touch.

Compared to the rest of the apartment, the bedroom filled more belongings and looked like it had a regular visitor. There were more books scattered there than in the front room, and several bags of clothes that had been diligently organized. Madelyn didn’t have to ask to know the regular tenant was Deacon. The shades of the window were open, allowing the light of the moon to cast a soft light of white into the room and across the unmade bed. He placed her there, and she stared up at him with curious eyes as he seemed to hesitate for the first time that evening as he slowly unbuckled his belt, sliding down his pants when there was enough slack.

“We can stop, if you want,” Deacon suggested. “The bed is yours. Couch is more comfortable than it looks.”

Madelyn was surprised, and while she appreciated the gesture, she’d expressed her desires. “No.”

“Thought you might say that,” he smirked. He removed his undershirt and tossed it to the floor before sitting on the edge of the mattress, reaching down to pluck the socks off his feet.

When he turned to her, Madelyn was struck by the man she saw in the glow of the moonlight, practically a stranger and yet somebody she trusted her entire life with. Against common sense she’d gone and fallen in love with a beautiful mystery of a man, and nothing thrilled her more. She sat up to meet his advances, kissing him desperately as he worked to lift her nightdress up and off her body.

Madelyn removed her own bra, uncaring if he could do it just as quickly. At this rate, she just wanted to be naked and beneath him as soon as possible. Deacon must’ve found the action amusing, softly laughing against her mouth as he broke away from their kiss to lift off from the bed to discard his briefs. She took the opportunity to lean back against the pillows, pushing back the sudden realization that she was about to have sex for the first time in years—the first time since—

No, she reminded herself, closing her eyes tight. There was no time for that kind of guilt, or for those kinds of memories to permeate this space. With a steadying breath, she blinked open her eyes to find Deacon perched over her, the warmth of his body causing her earlier excitement to spike anew. He lowered himself closer, and she let out a shudder at the feel of his hardened arousal at the junction of her thighs.

“Je t’adore,” he whispered against her ear.

Madelyn turned her head so that she could look at him, lock eyes—blue on blue. She wrapped one leg around his, silently encouraging him as she hooked her arms around his shoulders. “Deacon, please.”

That’s all it took for him to slowly sink into her, the air stolen from her lungs as he became fully seated within her. Deacon moved slow in those initial moments, almost agonizingly so, staying close to her body as he steadily rolled his hips against hers. It wasn’t until she let out a strangled moan and grasped the hair along his scalp that he dared to increase his speed, fully retreating with each thrust before pushing back in. There were more hushed, incoherent and foreign words exchanged, more silent prayers and whispered names against mouths between hungry kisses.

Eventually he leaned back onto his haunches and the angle created a delightful increase to her pleasure and judging by the way Deacon panted and struggled to keep his groans contained, he felt the same. Madelyn felt admired under his gaze, her skin aflame as his blown pupils darted across her naked flesh, fingers digging tightly into her hips as he gradually lost control of his thrusts. She’d been so caught up in her own past that she hardly considered—or remembered—that it had possibly been a long time for him as well.

“Come here,” she beckoned him back to her arms and he practically collapsed against her, their limbs tangling together as they lost themselves to each other.

It didn’t take more than one, two—three punctual thrusts for Madelyn to snap, crying out as she came with a trembling force. Deacon followed shortly thereafter, clinging tightly to her as he snapped his hips tightly to her with a guttural groan. The two stayed coiled together for the next several moments until the spasms passed, Deacon pulling away with a deep exhale as he withdrew to collapse at her side.

Neither said a word as they came down from their individual highs of ecstasy, the room slowly growing quiet as their breathing returned to normal. Madelyn was the first to roll onto her side to face him, and for all that they had shared in the past and just now, she felt strangely bashful. Deacon was already gazing at her with an expression she couldn’t place, the moonlight twinkling in his eyes. Still, the two remained quiet, only regarding each other with similar smiles. He silently urged her to snuggle close against his chest, wrapping their still warm bodies in a thin sheet.

Madelyn still wasn’t sure what the nature of their relationship was, but that was a conversation for another day. She wasn’t about to ruin the moment with a potentially tremulous conversation—not everything needed to be talked through, not everything needed an immediate answer. It was well enough to just be happy in the moment. And despite all the other worries in her life—God—was she happy. She could feel sleep finally calling her into the darkness.

Before she succumbed, she smiled, content to be wrapped up in his arms. “Goodnight, Deacon.”

She convinced herself she was dreaming when he responded minutes, or maybe hours later.

“Goodnight, Madelyn.”