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moondirti · 2 years ago

Text

cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton.

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom.

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause.

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago.

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing.

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings.

You wish he’d hang around more.

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained.

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in.

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence.

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.”

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities.

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows.

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt?

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative.

A dead end.

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends.

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried.

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas.

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight.

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still.

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore.

He’s jus’ taking the piss.

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do.

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command?

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.”

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it.

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli.

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh.

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day.

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling.

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken.

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?”

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze.

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room.

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.”

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor.

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?”

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.”

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts.

Then –

“You don' drink?”

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested.

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees.

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.”

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church.

I’d murder for a whiskey.

You mean scotch?

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees.

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout?

Negative, sir.

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did.

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water.

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid.

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?”

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line.

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one.

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it.

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less.

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side.

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from, too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you.

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.)

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise.

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it.

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile.

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.”

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?”

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning.

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon.

You spit the first thing that comes to mind.

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.”

And still with the revelation of what you just said.

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance.

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards.

“Afraid she’s not my type.”

And that’s all he gives you.

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin?

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead.

Fuck.

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb.

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy.

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.”

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves. You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo.

read at 3:25 am

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood.

“Didn’ know what you liked.”

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart.

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient.

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin.

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes.

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush.

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red.

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant.

Anxiolytic.

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache.

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him.

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now?

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud.

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks.

Atta’ girl.

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars.

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes.

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door.

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp.

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder.

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long.

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.”

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart.

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once.

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.”

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him.

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin.

“Alright?”

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be.

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal.

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.”

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums.

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.”

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask.

“We’ll be ready for them.”

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team.

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls.

It’ll be hard not to miss it.

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun.

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you.

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes.

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command.

What did he mean by that? Bad timing?

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths.

He can’t know. Can he?

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun.

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag.

I’m good.

You’re not. Drink.

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak.

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors.

He doesn’t miss a thing.

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless.

He draws a deep inhale.

He knows.

“Didn’t finish, pet?”

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid.

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness.

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into.

“Turn around. Face the window.”

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says. Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour.

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms.

“Keep an eye out. Got it?”

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine.

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant.

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves.

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts.

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught. It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone.

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut.

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?”

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire.

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–”

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss.

“We can be quick,”

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.”

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more.

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world.

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,”

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper.

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs.

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust.

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street.

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.”

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone.

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.”

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl.

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat.

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried?

It was only a shadow.

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it.

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour.

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss.

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures.

But your name is not for nothing.

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green.

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid.

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you.

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest.

Sniper.

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before.

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you.

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price.

Never at you.

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb.

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed.

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat.

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back.

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash.

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns.

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base.

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else.

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety.

No, that’s not quite right.

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate?

You need a cigarette.

Not embraced.

Your eyes fly open.

Simon.

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers.

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead.

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine.

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left.

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf.

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.”

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will.

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand.

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.”

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages.

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards.

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus.

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here.

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe.

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like.

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind.

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out.

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location]

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill.

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway.

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach.

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him.

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema.

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough.

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down.

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?”

He takes a step forward. “Your head–”

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound.

“And Johnny?”

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?”

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated.

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle.

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel.

“Sent on some other mission, then?”

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde.

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches.

You think you know why.

“It’s not your fault, Lt.”

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you.

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.”

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness.

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you.

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that.

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks.

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon.

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity.

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.”

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head.

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.”

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…”

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless.

“I still–”

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls.

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t�� haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.”

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.”

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles.

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-”

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low.

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava.

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask.

“You’re quivering.”

“Huh?”

His thumb swipes over your hole.

“Oh–”

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you.

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth.

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit.

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper.

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper.

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers.

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall.

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise.

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him.

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs.

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia.

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks.

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex.

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him.

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.”

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you.

“Chocolate?”

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon.

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.”

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

4K notes · View notes

my313 · 6 months ago

Text

spring cleaning ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ choi beomgyu

now playing 𝄞₊⊹ sukidakara - beomgyu (og: yuika)

⋆ pairing: high school sweetheart!beomgyu x gn!reader

⋆ summary: in an attempt to declutter your home for the spring, you find an old camcorder filled with beautiful memories of your first love.

⋆ warnings: fluff, mentioned past heeseung (enhypen) x reader, jealous beomgyu, established relationship, italics are flashbacks, beomgyu is a musician? so technically kind of an au, insinuated that beomgyu and reader were high schoolers in the 2000s

⋆ word count: 2k

a/n: LISTEN TO HIS COVER NEOOOWWW!!! god i love him so bad...... this is also not proofread sry i wrote this out of pure delusion LOL. stuff might sound bad omg i just wanted to write fluff 😭 banner by @/saradika <3

it's nearly midnight when you decided to rummage through your drawers, cabinets, and now, your closet. while dipping your head into the various sets of clothes, you reach for a heart-shaped box with a matching pink ribbon sitting on the lid.

inside, you find an assortment of trinkets from your days in high school. lilac envelopes with silly faces drawn on the seal, addressed to you; postcards from your distant relatives; your university acceptance letter; even a nasty tube of your favourite (expired) strawberry lip balm.

what really distracts you from your spring cleaning antics is the silver camcorder that sits in the very middle of the box.

the clunky piece of technology is covered in dust and mismatched stickers, obvious once you bring it out of the black hole that is your closet and into the warm light of your bedroom.

you don't expect it to start up with the way it's been abandoned for years, but the familiar jingle fills the silence and you're met with a pixelated view of your carpeting. you habitually click on the gallery, immediately flustered with the thumbnail that greets you.

a fond smile makes its way to your lips as the video plays. it's shit quality, as expected, but even with all the pixels distorting the boy's face, you recognise him. it comes easy, with beomgyu's round eyes nervously shifting from the falling cherry blossoms and onto the lens.

you recall this specific spring. the one right before you were set to graduate. you remember how odd beomgyu seemed the entire walk back to his house until he clumsily led the way to the little park a few minutes away from his childhood home. your impromptu shoot now becoming a memory to savour.

beomgyu keeps his distance from you as you take the longer, more scenic route to his house. he had it all planned out. today would be the day he'd tell you that he liked you. the first week of spring, the cherry blossoms falling perfectly; it was as if the universe and the gods of romance were aligning everything to his favour. he even got your favourite strawberry yogurt drink on-hand, poking the straw through the film and handing it to you proudly when you gasp and proclaim your gratefulness to him.

unfortunately, that didn't play out the way he fantasised the night before, sprawled out on his futon with a dopey grin on his face until morning came. even so, he didn't let his sleep deprived self peek through for a minute since you exited the school gates.

that was until you mentioned lee heeseung.

"heeseung asked me to the internet cafe this weekend," you begin, harmlessly conversing about your day like you usually do. you take a sip of your drink, then extend it to beomgyu, offering a taste.

he leans down to catch the straw between his lips, heart fluttering ever-so-slightly at the thought of your lips just being on that flimsy plastic a few moments ago. clearly, that gesture wasn't enough to keep his mind distracted from the mention of lee heeseung.

beomgyu tries to remain calm. internet cafe? surely, a thing friends do. you've tagged along with him and soobin a few times.

"he said it was a date."

which explains your current predicament. it's obvious that beomgyu is upset, lips jutted into a pout and brows furrowed. his hands stay stuck in his pockets as if they'd been glued there, so unlike his usual behaviour. on days like this, beomgyu typically links arms with you, or tugs on the top hook of your backpack to ease the weight off you, or even sling his arms around you with a mischievous grin. right now, you're sure this is the farthest beomgyu has been from you.

the silence drapes over you two like a stuffy blanket. you're thankful for the loud honks and bicycle bells in the background, even appreciating the yelling of the street vendors as your typically boisterous peer is quiet.

a bike chaotically speeds through your side, the rider repeatedly hitting the bell as they make their way to you. beomgyu quickly grabs your arm and trades places with you before the bike catches up, him on the road-side and you by the fences. once the bike passes with a hurried apology, beomgyu lets go of your arm and maintains the former distance.

"...sounds like a shit date, to be honest." the silence shatters. he mutters, huffing out a breath as he walks just an inch closer to you, as if trying to be a barrier between you and the road.

you blink at him, lips flat and eyes unassuming. just relieved he's talking to you. "you think?"

"yeah, why would you wanna be inside when the streets look like this.." he motions towards the cherry blossom trees surrounding you both. "..right now. d'you even like him enough to say yes?"

"i dunno. he's cool, i guess. isn't he your friend?"

"just played a few games together."

his responses are straight to the point. none of his beomgyu bullshit spinning your conversations through circles, which you admittedly did enjoy.

"is something... wrong? did you guys fight? i can beat him up for you if i go." you try to joke, your eyes never leaving beomgyu's face to catch his reaction.

he winces, "uh, no, not really. that- that's not the problem..."

your silence prompts beomgyu to keep talking, but his eyes don't meet yours. instead, he's staring at the pavement, picking up the creases on his shoes he'd never seen before, distracting himself by counting the petals he comes across. none of it calms his heart or clears the lump in his throat though.

he abruptly lifts his head and stares back at you. a pleasant surprise that causes you to blush at how his eyes sparkle so brightly. he sighs defeatedly, not wanting to be upset any longer. with one look at you, beomgyu's stubbornness weakens, a small smile on his lips as he closes the distance between you both.

his shoulder purposely clashes into yours, "it's really pretty at the park near my house right now. wanna see?"

you pause the video upon hearing the doorbell ring. with a knowing grin, you take the camcorder with you to the door. once you pull it open, the comforting sight of your boyfriend floods your vision.

"m'home~" he greets in a sing-song tone, arms spread wide awaiting your welcome home hug that he always craves after hours at the studio.

beomgyu's eyes travel from your sunken but excited eyes to the familiar thing in your hold. he blinks repeatedly, craning his neck up stiffly to look up at you again. comically, he brings an accusatory finger to the front with a nervous chuckle.

"is that...?"

"yup!" you beam enthusiastically, like you had waited for him to step foot into your shared apartment to eat him up.

knowing what was inside the camcorder, beomgyu could say it was similar. his face feels warmer despite the late night breeze still whisking him away from behind. you tug at his outstretched arm and pull him inside, shutting the door.

usually, you'd ask how work was, or pester him to let you listen to a new song he worked on. tonight though, none of that.

beomgyu sits next to you on the sofa, cheek nuzzled against your head. his downward gaze is alert to every button you press on the camcorder, cringing slightly at the memory of his partly successful confession.

beomgyu leans in closer to have a better look at the viewfinder. he chooses to focus on something else entirely even as you're sucked into the pretty pinks of the sakura flowers and the shaky footage of his round head.

the wind was just slightly unforgiving that day, petals swirling around the park. you're a few steps behind beomgyu. he's biting the inside of his cheek, stare stuck to the pavement, desperately wishing you'd speed up and start walking beside him.

impatient as ever, beomgyu decides he'll just slow down for you. he's not very subtle about it though, opting to halt entirely and turn his head in your direction. beomgyu wants to see the surprise in your face; eyes wide and cheeks pink. instead, what greets him is the lens of your camcorder, a hand-me-down from your relatives that you couldn't stop talking about over text just the other week.

beomgyu strides forward and you stay still in your spot, tightly gripping the camcorder. "beomgyu, say hi to the camera!"

your voice echoes with excitement, beomgyu doesn't have to peer beyond the camcorder to know that your lashes are kissing the apples of your cheeks with the way you're smiling widely. he wants to be the one to keep you beaming like this for years and years on end.

you're about to back away as beomgyu gets too close for the camcorder to film him and the view. then, you feel beomgyu's lithe fingers over your own, tugging on the camera, extending your arm by result, and raising it to his eye-level. beomgyu makes sure you're looking at him through the viewfinder. with a lopsided smile and head cocked to the side, beomgyu braces himself for what's to come, "hey, i like you."

your arm falls limp as he releases his grip on you, shocked by his confession. he doesn't let you process it, though, running towards the opposite direction. it takes you a moment to run after him, camera long forgotten. "choi beomgyu..! you!"

"why are you running away from someone you like, huh?!" you huff out, catching your breath.

when you look up, you can't help but point the camera at beomgyu again. with plenty of cherry blossom trees in the background, beomgyu center in the frame, wind trying to pull his necktie away, how could you not? the boy you like, the one that just confessed to you on one spring day, looked too beautiful.

the camcorder manages to pick up your words amidst the scratchy noises of the wind. in a whisper, one can hear your voice, "i like you too, beomgyu."

"wow, i was really handsome since birth, huh?" he poses confidently, his lips and warm breath kissing your hair as he speaks.

you roll your eyes with a smile, and you don't disagree. you never do and it makes beomgyu blush and grin. if he wasn't too comfortable in your warmth, he would be laying down on his stomach with a coquettish smile and his feet kicking up and down.

"yeah, s'why i'm engaged to you, no?" you blow a raspberry at him.

an exaggerated gasp paired with a dramatic drop of his jaw has your stomach hurting from laughing too hard. "i thought you loved me!"

"i do!" you giggle, biting down your lips to stop more fits of laughter spilling out. you squish beomgyu's cheeks together, lips pursed and begging to be kissed. so you do. "you and your pretty face, baby."

your laughs settle down into echoes of contentment, beomgyu's palm rubbing against your belly as if soothing your self-inflicted ache. plus, beomgyu would stick his limbs to your body if he could.

he presses his cheek against your head, "did you know i liked you even before that spring?"

you hum in thought, resting your hand atop the one on your tummy and filling in the gaps between his fingers with your own. you smile even harder upon feeling the cold metal band of your engagement rings. "nah. i thought it was impossible, honestly,"

"didn't even really think you thought of me like that until then, bomu." you admit shyly, playing with your interlocked fingers. beomgyu's lips purse in thought, "i thought i was pretty obvious though,"

"was buying you strawberry milk everyday and carrying your backpack home even if we lived in opposite directions not obvious enough for you, honey?"

"well... it's obvious now!"

"yeah," he beams that sweet, silly, sly beomgyu half-smirk that you've always loved. he releases your hands momentarily to raise his fingers to the light, showing off his ring. "we're so locked in now."

#from.313 #313.softhours #313.beomgyu #beomgyu fluff #choi beomgyu x reader #beomgyu x reader #txt x reader #txt fluff #beomgyu soft thoughts #beomgyu soft hours #txt soft thoughts #txt soft hours #txt scenarios #txt imagines #txt x you #beomgyu scenarios #beomgyu x you

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the-kr8tor · 5 months ago

Text

What is Normal for the Spider is Chaos to the Fly

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader, CW violence and gore, CW blood, TW death, CW guns, CW food mention.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

Navigation

CHAPTER 3 >>> CHAPTER 4

Eyes closed, you breathe in the fresh spring breeze, the first of many this season. Pollen makes your nose itch, bees buzz around the field of flowers, yellow dots kissing the soft petals. A babbling brook sits near you, perfect spherical rocks worn down by the waters makes you want to skip them across the transparent clean water where fish lie and swim right under the currents.

The bright sun above shines down on you, its light fighting through your eyelids and through the canopy of the oak tree. Its strong trunk provides the perfect back rest, the wood is stable and protective of your relaxed form. Like the softest carpet, the green grass below is splayed under you. Blades of grass and wildflowers swaying amidst the wind just like how your lashes flutter with every soft blow of the cool air.

“Why'd you stop?” Hobie asks from below. You crack open your eyes to see his lopsided smile, jade eyes crinkling in the corners. His head is resting on your lap, fingers absentmindedly playing a tune on the beaten up guitar on his chest. There's flowers in his hair, courtesy of you. “C’mon, lovie, I was just starting to fall asleep.”

You chuckle, and he smiles wider. The sun bathes you in its glow, a halo of light around your head, a heavenly sight for a mere mortal. “You're spoiled you know.” You realize your fingers are in his hair, soft fingertips paused on his skin. Your vision goes blurry, with a blink, everything shifts back. “So spoiled.”

“Says the one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.” He says it with no ounce of malice.

“How'd you know about spoony?” You joke, he laughs, a sound better than anything you've ever heard of. “How was work?”

“Lonesome, you didn't come by.” You tilt your head, lips pursing into a soft smile. “Do I still smell like gunpowder to you?”

“No, you smell like flowers.”

“Is it too late to say that I'm allergic to ‘em?”

You giggle, “No you're not. You haven't even sneezed.” Grabbing a daisy from his hair to wiggle it under his nose, his face scrunches up comedically, and then he fakes a sneeze. The loudness of it startles the birds nesting by the branches, wings fluttering rapidly further away.

“Good job, you scared the birds.” You look down at him, hand inching closer to the daisy ring you've made a while ago.

“What? I can't sneeze?” His eyes are glued to you, the sun paints a pretty picture of his viridescent eyes shining in the light.

With a deep inhale, you take his hand away from the guitar, slipping the flower ring you've been itching to place on his finger. Hobie seems to freeze up either in your touch or the sight of the makeshift ring. You show him your hand, an identical white flower whose stems are wrapped gingerly around your middle finger.

“Ta dah.” You say shyly. The tightness around your chest clenches at his silence. “I'll take it off, I'm sorry. I thought—”

Hobie quickly reaches up to shield the ring away from you, “No, don't—it’s brilliant. Thank you.” You beam at him as he intertwines his fingers around your own, the rings in full display. “Suits me, I think. But it looks better on you.” You inhale, the comfortable warmth is replaced by icy air. Everything shifts.

The breeze is colder now, the grass is frozen under your feet, frost clinging to each blade. The canopy is no more, only dark angled branches with tiny leaves hang off the precious oak tree. A puff of smoke billows out of your dry lips, Hobie hugs you closer, hand rubbing up and down your arm, body heat shielding you from frost bite.

“Cold?”

“Yes, very.” You shiver, and he holds you closer. “This sunset better be worth it, Hobie, I had to put down a really good botanical book for this.” You say, cheek pressed atop his chest, breath warming his neck. You'd choose him over any book.

“First sunset of the season, love. It's worth it, I promise.” Without a second thought, he takes his coat off to place it over your shivering shoulders. You huddle closer, wrapping yourself around him. Sharing your warmth.

Blue slowly ebbs away as he pulls you closer. The clouds part ways for red and orange, pink splashes across the sky, a watercolour painting that leaves you gasping for air. Or was it his lips upon yours for the first time that has you heaving for air?

Hobie kisses you with the gentleness only a lover could provide, yet with the tentativeness of someone who isn't sure you'd kiss back. The pads of his fingers brush along your jaw, ghosting over your flustered flesh. With a sigh and a pull on his jacket collar, you kiss back. Lips pecking the corner of his own, clouds of smoke mixing in, hands warm on your searing cheeks— he slowly leads you towards the same oak tree. Your back hits the wood with an almost silent thump, his hand protecting the back of your head. Eyes closed, you memorize his lips by kiss alone. Your hands knead at his nape, he shivers not from the cold.

“I'm in love with you.” He says it confidently, like he's been saying it to himself for years. He feels like he has.

“I've been waiting to hear you say that.” Your eyes meet his own in a dance. Eyes flicking down to his lips, jade eyes looking between your blown out eyes and your quivering lips. “I've been in love with you. For a really long time.” You feel his lips open, mouthing the three words back against your own. It's barely above a whisper but you know that he'll scream it if you asked.

A flash of his warm hands around your own, a glimpse of a knife carving yours and his initials on the wood that you both call home. A muffled promise lingers in your ears, soft, just like his lips on yours.

You open your eyes and you see him above you. Hobie pinches your nose with a laugh, calloused fingertips squeezing lovingly at you, emerald eyes swimming with affection. The warm air passes by, humidity stuck in your nose. The sweat of your brow is quickly wiped away by him.

“Stop sayin' that, yeah?” You don't remember what you said. “You're bloody gorgeous, she doesn't know real beauty even if it hits her powdered arse.”

“Hobie!” You laugh, hands planted on his hips, the fabric of his shirt is hitched up for easy access. “She's still my aunt, and my legal guardian.”

“Unfortunately.”

Your smile agrees with him, but if you say it out loud you're afraid that the ground will swallow you alive and Hobie will be ripped away from you.

“It's a nice day today, you plannin’ on gropin’ me the whole afternoon?”

“Yep!” You look down at where his hands are placed, palms cupping you right above your ribs. “You planning on doing the same to me?”

“Say otherwise and I'll take my hands away from you—”

“No!” You say quickly before he could finish.

Hobie guffaws loudly, face leaning closer to yours. You close your eyes, expecting the expected. Instead, his head falls on the crook of your neck, blowing warm air into your skin.

Your laughs echoes around the clearing, fading into the sound of leaves crunching under your footsteps.

Orange leaves fall down on you like rain, a puff of breeze settles in your muscles, rattling your bones. Despite the cold, you inch your way closer to him, his smile beckons you over, grassy spring coloured eyes lighting up at the mere sight of you. His back resting on the strong oak tree that carries both your names.

“You know, we could always meet up at your place now that you're the up and coming associate.” You hold your hand out towards him, his fingers slide on your palm so naturally that you think you're made for eachother. “We can stop sneaking around now thanks to you.”

Hobie feels like he can finally breathe once he has his hands on you. He twists your wrist gently, leaning down, he presses a quick kiss on your pulse, eyes meeting your own. Years of being together, and he still makes your heart race.

Warm lips on your skin, he pecks it again for good measure before leaning away and pulling you closer. His hands are around your hip, while you wrap yours over his shoulders. “We could. But even after all my hard work, your aunt still doesn't—won't approve of us together. I'm me and you're you, love. What would they say when they see their heiress skulkin’ around the harbour, hm?”

“They won't say anything because I'm good at skulking around.”

“Or they'd say you're hurtin' your prospects of a good husband.”

“Fuck them! You and my garden are all I need.”

He calls your name solemnly, “we have to face the fact that—”

“What? That I'll be stuck in a loveless marriage in the near future?” You shake your head. “I refuse.” A humourless laugh breaks through.

“Good thing you said that or this will be awkward.” Hobie takes out a pair of gold rings from his pocket, it shimmers in the sunset, cold metal upon his warm trembling hands. “It took me a hundred days to save up for them, they're scraps from the factory. All melted together to make a pair.”

“Y–you're stealing from us now?” You could barely finish your joking sentence with the sob fighting to escape your throat.

Hobie laughs, a breathy one that has you mentally making up another joke just to hear it again. “Been at it since they hired me.” He hands you one, not sliding it down your finger, no, he places it right in the middle of your palm. “Remember those daisy rings you made years ago?” You nod, eyes brimming with tears. “I've made ‘em real this time. But the next one would be pure gold, none of the mixed ones I've melted with it.” He bounces on the balls of his feet as you glance at the gold ring that is a hodgepodge of different shades of yellow gold. Some seem to be darker, some lighter. “You deserve real ones.”

“You could make me a ring out of grass and wood, and I'll still wear it everyday.” Taking the ring, you slide it into your middle finger, a promise, he says in your ears, a promise, you repeat against his lips as you slip his own ring around his finger. A promise you both carved out into the tree and into your hearts, a promise that you'd carve out into your skin if you could.

The smell of burning wood wakes you up with a start, You've woken up with tears trapped in your eyelashes.

Your eyes open to a boiling pot of brown liquid. It's familiar, awfully so that you've hated it, it reminds you of someone you'd rather not remember. Looking up at the sky that is darkened to a pale blue, turning the orange and green plains into its royal colour— The roaring open fire is the only bright thing in sight, a yellow glow amidst all the bitter blue.

The amber flames screams among the dead silence and the vast emptiness, ‘Someone’s here! Someone’s alive over here!’ yet, you don't feel like you are.

You cough from the cold, throat itching from dryness. Lifting your hands up to tug the blanket further up, you now notice the deep crescent moons left on your palms. Some even bled through the night, dried blood decorating the lines on your palms and under your fingernails.

“You're awake. Good.” Hobie's voice hits you like a carriage, sleep ridden mind still hazy. For a second you thought that you're still dreaming of him. But his solid form and smoke from his cigarette resting on a stone says he's real. Your mind can't dream of something so tethered to reality like this. “You want some?” He rattles the now empty tin cup, brown liquid dripping from the rim to the ground below.

“You're offering me a cup?”

He furrows his pierced brows. “‘course, there's plenty.”

“No, thank you. Do you have something to eat instead? Or water?” Sitting up, you wipe the sleep off your eyes. Your joints hurt, stomach gurgling, and ankle aching. You hate it here, he's the only one that's making everything bearable even though he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than be with you. It still hurts, thinking that he does.

“Yeah.” Standing up with a groan, it seems like sleep didn't agree with him either. There's bags under his eyes, worsened by the shadow from the brim of his hat. Taking something from his pack on Buckeye, who still slumbers quietly, he holds out a canteen and a piece of dried meat wrapped in cloth. “‘ere.” The familiar scar on the back of your hand has him reeling away. He remembers the day you got it, he remembers how his hand trembled as he stitches your hand back together.

“Thank you.” You say, stiffly smiling. He nods, returning back to his seat.

Breakfast went over fast, with dawn turning into morning, and the crisp air warming down, you take the blanket off your shoulders. Bucky trotts on the road, coyotes chirp on your left and a tumbleweed passes by on your right. It feels like you and Hobie are the only people on the road, or even in the whole world.

You clear your throat, attempting to break the quiet after riding for hours in absolute silence. “So…are you an outlaw? A mercenary for hire, or even a trapper?”

“‘m one of those things, yes.”

“So mysterious. You know you're still an open book to me.” Looking over your shoulder, he grabs your chin to make you look away and to keep your eyes on the dirt road. To which you laugh at. “Yep, still an open book.” It's true that you still know him for the man that he was, but there's missing pieces of him in your mind. You intend to dive to find the pieces so you could piece together who he is today. Before you go home, before you part forever again.

“How would you know?” Hobie tamps down a smile even though you won't be able to see it. “Maybe I've changed in those five years.”

“Oh you have.” You'd know. “But I can still see through you. I know you, Hobart Brown. Or did you also change your name too?”

“It's Larry now.”

“You serious?” Looking behind, you see him sporting a smirk. A smile spreads across your lips at his playfulness, a semblance of the Hobie you once knew.

“For example?” He asks, something he might regret. “What do you see through me?”

“Well, you put this big bad façade up because it's what everyone expects you to be. But in truth, it's so you could survive here. I bet it's working well since you're still here breathing.”

“I don't care what anybody thinks, Y/N.”

“I know that too. But you still do it because you don't want them talking to you, coming close to you. I remember how hard it was to even get you to speak to me.”

“I was a kid, we were children, and I was new in town.”

“I got you to talk though. Still proud of myself that I got to see the real you.” You puff out your chest. “This place is just like our old town, you know. Harsher, yes, but this time you don't bother to try, not like last time.” Your voice lowers into a murmur. He knows why he doesn't bother, because there's no one out here that could get him out of his walled up shell just like you did. There's no one like you. “I still know you, after all these years. Even if you think I don't, or at least the version of you that you left me with.” The sky gets darker, grey clouds floating next to white fluffy ones, and you still remember how he held you the first time you shared a bed. “You've changed and I confess that I barely know this side of you. I don't know what happened to you in those five years but could you let me try to get to know you again? Just like last time?”

The clouds above darken his green eyes, something passes by them, something that has his hands gripping tighter around the reins.

“It's goin’ to rain.” Is all he could say. “We should hurry and find shelter, there's a shortcut I know.”

You inhale the sharp familiar smell of petrichor, letting it settle in your lungs, letting it drown you, letting it seep through your skin so you can focus on it rather than the flatness of his voice that lacks what you're used to.

“Sure,” you swallow thickly, nails digging into your hemp bindings instead of your flesh.

Hobie clicks his tongue thrice, a sharp almost whistle, and out runs Bucky faster on the sandy lonesome road. Hooves thudding like the rumble of the heavens above, a lightning storm races behind you, sparks of light flashing and clashing on the mountainous rocks of the west.

“Hold on,” Hobie whispers close to the shell of your ear, goosebumps spreading through you like poison ivy on skin. He leans forward, leather clad body shielding you from the harsh howling winds that approaches quickly. “This storm's comin' in fast.”

Wind whips your cheeks, cool air making you narrow your eyes into slits to protect it from the dusty debris. A silhouette of a person appears at the end of the road, you feel Hobie stiffen up from the suspicious man. Arms cage you in, the mysterious man's shadow gets closer and closer as Bucky whines and halts to a stop. Hobie hides your hands with his own, a small act that brings your mind a minute of peace.

“State your business.” Hobie says in a practiced tone, commanding like the one he used with the man who snatched you.

The old man walks with a twisted cane, a makeshift one made from an old branch. His eyes are dull and almost silver, blue rings around his irises, eyebrows thick and white, beard bushy and hair almost gone. Right behind him lies a dip in the road, a chasm from where you sat, a deep gorge from what you surmise. Right next to the road sits a dingy solemn cabin, roof looking like it's about to collapse under its own weight, hinges creaking, window shutters opening and closing harshly from the wind. A border collie barks at you, mismatched eyes unwavering, warning you of something to come.

“Just ‘ere to warn you, son.” The old stranger trembles, either from the cold or from his bad leg. “Anyone who come ‘ver down that road doesn't come out unscathed.” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his yellowed shirt. “Just tryin' be a good samaritan.”

“Yeah? Penance for the war then?” You give Hobie a look. He glances over to you in return.

“I was on yer side, son. I won't be out ‘ere warnin’ you and the missus if I wasn't now eh?”

“Thank you for the warning.” You pipe up, the brief silence has made the whole situation more awkward. “We'll try another route then—”

“No,” Hobie stands his ground, “just like she said, thank you for the warnin’ but that's the closest route to Strawberry.”

The man takes his hat off even with the intense shaking of his hand. He then places it on his chest like he's already mourning you. “Safe travels. Don't say I didn't warn ya.” With a whistle, the dog runs over to him before helping him walk home.

“Wait!” The man stops in his tracks, even the dog turns around to face you. “A storm's coming, you'll be cold. Here.” Sliding your hands away from Hobie's, you take the blanket from your lap.

“My eyes are bad but do I see you givin' me your coat?” He smiles toothily.

“Y/N—” Hobie warns.

“Yes, but it's a blanket, not a coat.” The man chuckles deeply, cheeks red and warm.

He whistles again, and the dog walks over to you. “Give it ‘ere to ol' Nellie.” The dog wags her tail, tongue lolling.

“Hi, Nellie,” you giggle as you lean down to place the fabric in her mouth. “Take good care of it. Good girl.” Hobie's hand is holding your waist, single handedly preventing you from falling over.

He remembers your kindness, how you don't falter when you see someone you can help. You're unequivocally kindhearted, a stark contrast to himself, and what he has become in those five years he wasn't by your side. He remembers how much he loved and longed for you. He needs to know who sent the letter on his behalf, but it can wait, maybe he'll thank them when he does find them.

You don't notice him look at you with the same expression he had years ago.

With a happy wag of her tail, Nellie skips over to her owner, handing him your blanket. “Thank you, miss, you've got a kind soul.” There's warmth in your chest, nodding towards the man. “You take care now. And you.” He looks over your companion. “Better watch her back and protect her kind soul eh?”

“Get inside, don't want you gettin' my blanket drenched.”

A laugh billows out as he waves you away. Entering his humble abode with a loud bang of his door.

“I think we should listen to him.” You say above the winds.

“We'll be fine,” Hobie's voice is softer. “I've been ‘ere before. Just listen to me, yeah?” He kicks gently, and Bucky takes his cue to run in the same direction again.

“If I listened to you back there then the poor man would've shivered from the cold.”

“And now you'll be the one shivering from the cold.”

“He needed it more than I did.” You almost scoff as you hold on tighter around the horn of the saddle while Bucky trudges downward on the slope and into the gorge.

“Don't expect me to get you a new one.”

Now you scoff. “Then don't.” Yet, your chest clenches from his words.

Buckeye finally slows down halfway through the gorge. Hobie inhales deeply, jade eyes flicking above the rocks. The walls seem to close in on you, fifty foot tall walls of ancient stone looming over you. A stream runs along the path, murky brown water splashing with every movement.

“Why'd you slow down—?” Your eyes widen at the moving figures above. “There's people up there.” You whisper as you watch them observe you. The bows on their back gather your attention, eyes piercing through you than the sharpest of arrows. Hobie suddenly grabs your chin, still gentle but with a sense of urgency this time. He turns your head towards the road, rough leather sliding from your chin to your hands.

“Keep your eyes on the road. And keep your mouth shut.”

“Will they let us pass?”

“Yes.” He says immediately.

“Do you know them?”

“Yes, now keep quiet.” Tipping the brim of hat in respect, you do as you're told. “Or they'll be the one askin' me questions. And we don't have time for friendly banter.”

When he says those words, you hear a whisper of his name from above, then a bout of laughter echoing downwards. Subtly looking over your shoulder, you see him crack a small smile.

You turn back towards the road, a soft morose smile on your lips from how much you've missed from his life. You want to know what happened to him in those five years, to be told stories of his adventures under the campfire. To be part of those stories once more, not whatever you're in with him. An afterthought, a burden.

You're starting to feel all the love he once gave you was just from your mind. Made up by you, dreamt and imagined.

—

The cave you've found shelter in is perfect. It's big enough to house you and Hobie, even Bucky rests inside, dry and happy while his dark eyes follow you— as if trying to keep an eye out for you. The cave protects you from the hammering rain outside and from the lightning that pierces the clouds. You lean on the rocky mouth of the cave, hands reaching outside to cup the rain and feel the sharp water droplets drench your skin. Lifting your head up, you watch the sky. The storm has no end in sight, yet, there’s a bit of light passing through the grey, a ray of sunshine that brings hope, blue peeking in between the dark clouds.

Water splashes against your flesh, cleaning the tiny gashes and dried blood that you're not sure is all from your body. The rope that binds you is soaked, weighing heavy around your wrists like steel bracelets.

Wind howling, lightning cutting through the sky like a bullet through skin— You don't feel his heavy gaze on you.

The roaring fire behind you provides warmth just like the man tending to it. And like the fire he's tending, he realizes that his affection for you still burns him inside out no matter how he tries to snuff it out.

The fire crackles, you watch your shadow dance with the flame's movements. You still don't feel his heavy stare on your back.

With a forced smile, an idea pops in your head. You let the water on your palms fall, flicking away the droplets, making your own patch of rain.

“I've got a proposition.”

“Come eat, smelly” You both speak at the same time, amusement flashes behind his precious emerald eyes that's illuminated by the embers.

"I don't smell." You laugh in between, loving the fact that he seems to be in a better mood. Sniffing at yourself, you scrunch up your nose from the smell. "That much. You're not any better.”

Hobie shakes his head, hiding the curl of his lips with the brim of his hat. He places a can of peaches in your direction. “We'll be in Strawberry by late afternoon. There's an inn there where we can rest and bathe.”

Sitting down next to him but still giving him enough space, you tuck your legs under you, wiggling your hands in front of him.

“Can you untie me now? I'm not going to run, Hobie. Where will I go?”

“Tell me about your so-called proposition.” Hobie raises a brow, teeth biting down and clenched around the leather before fully yanking his glove off. You suddenly feel hot when he unties your hands without another word.

There's no identical ring around his finger. Your happiness is snatched away at the sight of his empty finger. What was once a promise is now gone from his flesh that you used to trace with your own hands.

Clearing your throat, you watch the shadows on the cave walls flicker behind him. “W–we take the scenic route. I want to see the sights the new world has to offer. Before returning.” You don't even want to call it home anymore.

“The new world? You sound like a grandma.”

“You saying ‘state your business’ wasn't any better, grandpa.”

Hobie's eyes meet your own, green eyes aglow. A remnant of the Hobie five years ago. You could get used to this, his warm gaze that soothes you from the inside out, something that you never took for granted before but never thought you'd miss dearly. You welcome it back with open arms. Even if it was brief.

A flash of bright lightning hits outside your cave, startling you, free hand placed on your quaking chest.

“It's just lightning, love.” A freudian slip, a term of endearment that travels you both back in time. Now that he said it once more, he finds that it still fits you like a warm hug on a cold winter's day, or a first kiss, one of many.

Slowly turning your head, your lips tremble, eyes watering from a silent cry. You try to reach for him, but he deflects your touch by twisting around on his seat, taking a swig from his canteen. The only one that he has.

Quietly eating, your insides are yelling for you to hold him close, to be near him, to hug him until the screaming stops. You can't satiate the feeling, it bites at your bones, chewing, eating at you, going hungry, starving. You stand up, leaving the can of peaches on the ground, returning to the mouth of the cave so the feeling will ravage you alone once again like it always has for the past five years. You've survived this long, but there's barely anything left of you now— a husk, barely a speck, so you cry and cry, sobs muffled by the rain.

You don't feel his gaze on you. He feels the same gnawing feeling in his belly, crawling up to his chest, eating what's left of his heart like a vulture that carries all his grief and guilt.

—

You're back on the road again, the ground is wet and muddy. Clay and grass sticking to Bucky's hooves as he trudges along the soil. You purposely don't remind him about the missing rope around your wrist. Loving the freedom the lack of it brings, you brush your fingers through Buckeye’s hair; dark wavy tresses that reminds you of fine silk.

“You take good care of him.”

“You said that already.”

“I know, I'm just saying it again for emphasis. I hope you're taking care of yourself too.”

You feel him shift in his seat, fatigue rattling his bones that's exacerbated by the rocking movement.

“Do you feel alright?” You ask, looking over your shoulder. His eyebrows are furrowed, sweat dribbling from his forehead.

“‘m fine.”

“You don't look fine. Riding bareback this long hurts, we can switch places—”

“It would be better if you had your own horse.” Hobie groans, stretching his shoulders. Buckeye seems to notice the conversation, huffing and staring back at his rider. “‘m not replacing you, Bucky. Not yet anyway.”

The dark horse neighs, a high pitched sound that makes you laugh. “He was not happy with that.”

“He's not happy with anythin'” Hobie shakes his head at the horse, you're amused by the whole situation. “Picky eater, always demanding sugar cubes instead of a carrot or an apple. Fuckin' spoiled.” Bucky neighs again, louder this time, clearly annoyed.

“Just like his rider.” You giggle, Hobie stifles a roll of his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his pierced lips. “Careful with your comments or he might buck you off and have me as his rider instead.”

Hobie's amusement fades, his eyes hardens, a sight that has your heart thrumming loudly, a sight that you're very familiar with back at home.

“I‘m sorry— I–I didn't mean to.” You frantically apologize, shaking your head, hand reaching for his own, palm hovering over his gloves.

“Look ahead.” He gestures forward. “Nothin' to apologize for, love.”

“Are you sure?” You can't seem to slow down your breathing.

Hobie notices, blinking, he tentatively takes your hand in his. Squeezing once, jade eyes searching your hurt face. Guilt passes through him.

He should've come back for you.

“Yes,” he swallows thickly, slowing down Bucky's steps. “Breathe for me, yeah?” You nod, inhaling and exhaling. “Good, keep doin' that.” Inhale, exhale, “atta girl. Now listen to me, I need you to hold on tight, and do what I say.”

“What's wrong?” Did you do something wrong again? You hold on tight just like he asked.

“Eyes up front, sweetheart.” The floodgates open, he can't stop himself from calling you those honeyed names. And you can't stop looking at him. With a gentle hold to your chin, he carefully moves it forward. You see five people waving you over further down the road. They're accompanied by a broken down carriage, three wheels missing, no oxen in sight, just a few horses hitched near them.

They call you over, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh thank God!” You hear them say, their forms getting closer and closer.

“They need help.” You say, Hobie's hand around the reins tightens.

“And we're not goin' to give it to ‘em.”

“What? Why?”

“That's bait, we're not fallin’ for it.” His eyes don't leave the strangers’ hands.

“Bait—? They genuinely look like they need help.”

“We're close to town, and they have horses. They could've gone over there instead of flagging down an armed stranger.”

“I'm not armed.”

“Yes, but I am.” With a swift kick, Hobie guides Buckeye to a mad dash. Your back hits his chest from the sudden momentum. A dull ache on your spine, a tingling sensation on his ribs.

Buckeye passes by the broken carriage, leaving dust in their eyes. “C’mon, Bucky! Get us out of ‘ere, boy!”

Wind in your eyes, you look behind, your heart falls in your stomach when you see them follow immediately on their horses, guns drawn, aiming at Hobie.

“Oh fuck!” A bullet whizzes past your head, missing you by just a few inches. You feel it's hot searing metal fly past, “they're shooting at us! Why the fuck—!”

Hobie twists, with one hand on the reins, and the other on his gun, he shoots down one man with precision. The bullet hits its mark, right in his heart. A fountain of crimson splashes from his wounded body, his feet still strapped in the stirrups, flinging the now lifeless body around like a window shutter in a storm.

Hobie shoots again, a horse falls, another bullet, and one gets iron in their gullet. And another and another, one on the leg and one on the shoulder, but they still ride on. Until Hobie's gun clicks, its chamber now empty, in slow motion, you see the remaining survivors use the opportunity to aim at Hobie's head. With quick thinking, you twist uncomfortably, body stretching behind to grab the hunting rifle strapped on Bucky's back. Within a second, you sit upright with the barrel pointing at them.

Hobie sees it all happen while he frantically reloads. His gun jams from carelessness, heart beating like a snare drum, fingers frantically trying to fix it. The sun is in his eyes as he sees you cock your head over his shoulder, the long barrel of the rifle is placed atop his leather jacket, finger itching to press the trigger.

“Duck.” Your voice is calm as Hobie follows through your command, the firing pin ignites, sparks fly, the smell of gunpowder permeates the air, bullet whizzing and hitting your mark— Right in between the eyes.

Gore explodes from what used to be a head, then a scream from the remaining target. Hobie steers Bucky, whilst you fight. Fight for him, and for yourself.

Pulling the bolt handle, without missing a beat you release the shell with a clink of metal. The remaining man looks at his dead companion in horror, still riding on next to him, now missing a head. Just like they did, you use the opportunity to reload, hand reaching for Hobie's gun belt, taking what you need, reloading with an expert hand. You pull the bolt to place the bullet, pushing it in, you aim once again. At the same time, the man screams, aiming at you. But you're faster.

Inhale. You shoot, hand steady, eyes focused.

A wet squelch can be heard, then a body thuds harshly on the ground as a horse neighs, crying and trotting wildly. You finally exhale. Hobie reins Bucky in, hooves digging in, he stops.

“Holy shit.” Hobie stares at you with a growing smile, cheeks aflame, not from the adrenaline nor the fight. “You can shoot.”

“You taught me.” Your eyes doesn't leave the violence you left behind.

“Yeah, but not like that!” He laughs in disbelief. His heart hammers in his chest, and he remembers all the times he held your hand in his while he teaches you the basics.

“What do you think I've been doing since you left?” You swallow thickly, nerves catching up, hands trembling around the rifle. “My books can only take me so far until I've read the entire library.”

Hobie holds your cheek, face concerned, thumb running along the tear you don't notice slide down your cheek. “Can you look at me, lovie?”

Slowly but surely, you turn your head. “We manufacture guns, Hobie, it's important for me to learn.”

“I know, but shootin’ it at people is different.” He would know, he worked at the same place. “Are you alright?”

“Now you ask me that?” You hand him the rifle, breath shuddering. “Can we go now, please?”

Hobie could only nod, hand itching to hold you again.

—

You finally reach Strawberry, it has a sweet sounding name but it's anything but sweet. The streets are thick with mud, the smell is much better than the other town but it still makes your nose itch. The place is situated on the foot of a mountain, the air is cooler with heavy winds persisting. Rows and rows of establishments lie along the road, a saloon with a balcony on your right, a doctor's office on your left. Convenient, you think.

A brothel sits next to the saloon, women gathered around on the porch, smiling and hollering at the people who pass by. Hobie garners their attention, (who wouldn't be?) despite riding with you on the same horse. He doesn't give them any attention, a disappointment on their part. His eyes are too busy looking over your profile and the inn that's situated on the hill.

You flick your eyes over to him, as if he has a sixth sense, he stares back. “What?”

“Nothing.” You whisper.

Hobie hides a small smile over your shoulder. He stops Buckeye at the front of the inn, hopping off, he hitches his horse first before giving you a hand, surprising you.

Without a second thought, you take his outstretched hand, bare against his leather clad one. You land carefully on the soft ground, cringing at the wet squelch of mud on your shoes.

“I need a bath,” you stomp over towards the porch and out of the mud. Hobie's hand finally leaves your side once you step foot on the steady planks. “And a nice bed.”

“That's why we're ‘ere.” He says while he takes his pack from Bucky's back. Giving the horse a pet and a much deserved sugarcube. He whispers something to the horse, to which Bucky neighs in reply. Stepping on the porch right next to you, the dark horse nods at his rider.

You laugh at them. “What'd you tell him?”

“I promised him a place at the stable so he could get a proper rest. ‘m gonna take him once you're inside.”

“Are you gonna leave me here?” Panic sets in your stomach.

Hobie furrows his brows, “no, ‘course not.” I'd never do that. He thinks, but he already did, years ago. “C’mon.”

Bucky neighs to you this time, tail swishing behind him. “G’night, Buck.” You give him a small wave. “You did a good job today.”

Entering the inn, the smell of pine and something fruity catches your nose. Its walls are all wooden, lined with old photos and animal furs. There's a fireplace in the common area where a couple of people sit and chat by the fire. The place is cozy, it's the first time you feel like you can finally have a nice comfortable place to sleep in since you landed in America.

Hobie knocks on the reception desk, leaning on the table, clearly tired and weary. Whilst you try not to think about what you did earlier, you roam your eyes everywhere in an attempt to push all the thoughts away, to kick the gore you saw, and the act that you've executed far far away from you. Your hand trembles at the sight of a deer head hanging on the wall. Then you remember the man whose head you blasted to pieces. Heart beating faster, breath stuck in your throat, Hobie suddenly takes your hand— squeezing, reminding you to breathe.

Before he could comfort you further, a middle aged man appears behind the desk. Shoulders broad, mustache well maintained and curled at the ends. Blue eyes wide and full of wisdom.

“Welcome to Strawberry inn.” He says in a comfortable yet deep tone. His eyes flick towards your intertwined hands, lips smiling faintly. “The name's Finn, room for one?”

Hobie clears his throat, taking his hand back on his side. “Yes, two beds.”

“Ah, a conservative couple eh?”

“Sure,” Hobie acts, nodding along.

“Name?”

“Larry Smith. And baths for the missus and I.”

Finn nods, showing him a sign on his desk. “three dollars for a regular one, five for a deluxe bath.”

“Deluxe?” You ask, curious.

Hobie beats Finn to the punch by explaining it himself. “It's when a woman helps you scrub down.”

You blink twice in quick succession. “Oh.” Cheeks warm, you awkwardly bounce on your feet. “A–are you going to take the deluxe one, Ho–Larry?”

“I might.” He says with a smirk, eyes shining.

“Okay.” You crane your neck towards Finn, “what's our room number?” Your tone inches towards something that has Hobie amused.

“Uh, three—” You're already snatching the keys from him and then quickly speed walking up the stairs. You turn to the right, Finn calls after you. “Left side, ma’am.” Frustrated, you walk the other way. He then turns towards Hobie with a shake of his head. “Happy wife, happy life, english. Don't tease her like that or you'll end up sleeping in the stables.”

Hobie bites his tongue so he couldn't laugh. “I know that now, thanks, mate.”

—

You feel nice, nicer than you should be after what you did. There's a pebble inside you that keeps growing and growing in the pit of your stomach right next to the boulder that has resided there for years. You have no idea what is, but you want it gone just like how you disappear under the tepid water of the tub.

Hobie has laid out clothes for you, it sits on the chair in the corner. A white work shirt that smells like him and a pair of clean socks. Your skirt hangs on the doorway, days worth of dirt and dust clinging to it. The walls are thin, you hear the hinges squeak in the next room, the arguing couple above; and a child's cry from below. The water laps at your chin, now cold and icy on your slowly freezing skin. Like muscle memory, you hold your hand up, the jagged long scar across the back of your hand has you tracing the remnants of the injury— what he used to do to remind you that he's there, that you're safe. But when he left, when he disappeared into the night, leaving you to the horrid predetermined life, you had to do it yourself. You had to carry yourself everyday with the heavy boulder in your heart, surviving each day without him, hurting, rotting in that damned empty mansion you never asked for.

You thought you could finally take the boulder out of you and place it down once and for all when you saw him. it's still there, weighing you down like a hundred ton steel of grief and longing. You don't resent him for what he did, running away, leaving you when the night before he promised you sweet words, words of freedom, words of an escape. No, you don't hate him. Yes, there's days where you would curse his name, but it never lasts. It never does, even now. You still love him even when he doesn't feel the same way anymore.

Your eyes prick from all the unshed tears, everything makes you cry nowadays, even the old lonesome man you met on the road brought a tear to your melancholy eyes. But you can't seem to find the courage to cry in front of him, to let him see your salty tears flow out of you like a raging river of sorrow. And moreso, you're afraid, afraid of home, afraid of what's waiting for you at the end of the road. Whether it be a coyote with its maw opening to lunge at your neck. Or a rattlesnake ready to strike silently at your open wound.

You're not afraid of him, you're afraid to lose him again to the coyotes and rattlesnakes.

Lifting both hands, you watch the blood that collects within the lines of your palms. Rubies ebbing into your life line, your love lines, and into your death— you'd carry the life you've taken until you're six feet underground, decaying, milky bones turning to dust, food for the worms. And yet, the blood in your hands would stay there, even when your hands are eaten by the soil, brought back to where you once came.

Hobie's right, this place changes you. Molds you into something that can survive its harsh environment, just like the plants you once read about. And just like the coiling vines, the flowers that wait and bite their prey; the leaves that kill when cut— you intend to survive the harshness of it all.

With a deep inhale, you leave the metal tub. Water splashes across the floor as you stand up, the even colder air leaves goosebumps in its wake. You dry yourself and dress like an automaton, movements rigid, eyes blank.

Opening the door with a creak, you're met with Hobie standing in the hallway, just across from you. His hand still lingers around the doorknob, viridescent eyes blinking slowly at you.

For a second that felt like hours, you watched each other. How his eyes flick over your form and over his work shirt that you wear. How water still clings to his chest, soaking parts of his white shirt. And how his finger twitches around the doorknob whilst steam escapes from the slits in the doorway. He observes you with vigilant eyes, how your lips are slightly parted, chest breathing heavily. And how much your legs are begging to run towards him, feet pointed in his direction, heels lifted up slightly, but you don't. You don't run to him, instead, you toss him the keys to the room before he could ask for it himself. He catches it with ease.

“You're closer to the room.” Walking closer, you rub your arms for warmth.

Hobie sniffs, hand wiping a stray droplet from his forehead, pack slung over his shoulder. He unlocks the door that's a few steps away, with a click, he opens it for you.

“You look like you're about to pass out.”

You push past him, trying to smile, but you fail. “I feel like I will in a second—” pausing by the doorway, you sharply inhale. “You asked for two beds right?”

“Yeah— fucker.” Hobie clicks his tongue at the sight of the single bed standing in the room. “I'll go get our rooms changed.”

“I'm fucking tired, Hobs.” You lumber your way towards the inviting bed, too tired to even check the room and its sparse décor. “Complain tomorrow. It's not like we haven't shared a bed before.”

“That was different—”

“How is it any different?” Shucking off your shoes, you blink at him through tired eyes. “It's just sleeping next to each other. We were doing anything but that back then.”

He curses breathlessly under his breath. “Fine, don't hog the blanket.”

“Don't kick in your sleep.” You smile for the first time since you pulled the trigger. Slithering inside the warm covers, you lay your head on the lumpy pillows. Heaven to you after sleeping but nothing on the ground or hay for the past few weeks.

“I don't kick in my sleep.” Hobie does the same, laying next to you, giving you enough space in between. “You're the one who kicks in your sleep. Like a fuckin' donkey.”

You lay on your side, inching closer to him. “Please, I'm more of a mustang, not a donkey.”

“Back then you were more like the rider than a horse.” He jokes with a smug smile across his lips.

Your cheeks are aflame, laugh creeping up your throat. The heaviness in your chest subsides, the blood in your hands thins. “You wanna bet?”

Hobie's joking expression is replaced by something else. Flustered, amused, and a mix of an emotion that he has only felt for you. “Fuckin' hell, love.” He turns away from you, lest he lets his thoughts get to him. “Good night, you fuckin' minx.” He hears you laugh, immediately he wants to turn back around and meet you face to face, just like before. But he doesn't.

You're met with his back. The feeling comes back, like a cockroach that wouldn't die even with how much you try to stomp on it. It was foolish to think that he'd love you forever. It was foolish to think that he'd greet you with open arms after years of being apart. How foolish, they'd always whisper to you, naive, and stupid, always standing on the edge of the crowd, eyes always looking for something, someone. Someone that lays before you now.

“Good night, Hobie.” He mouths your next words like clockwork. “Only dream of good things.” You refrain from doing the next thing, a kiss for sweet dreams, a whisper of the three words to remind him of you in the dreamworld.

Hobie silently wishes you did.

Soon enough, soft snores can be heard from behind him. Peeking over his shoulder, he makes sure you're asleep before quietly standing up. Sheets rustling, he tiptoes over the noisy planks, breathing silent. Hobie takes a chair from the corner, propping it under the doorknob, shaking the chair, he makes sure that it's locked up tightly. He can never be sure with the simple singular lock on the door.

Once he's sure that it will hold up, he takes his gun from the hanging gun belt, checking the chamber, he keeps it on the waistband of his trousers. After checking all the windows and the fireplace, he finally joins you back in bed. Gun placed on the bedside, ready to be used just in case. Laying on his side, he faces you, observing how the moon shines just across your face. You look peaceful, relaxed, and he remembers how much he has missed you. Like an impossible itch. A craving that cannot be satiated. Incurable, until you're within reach.

His tired eyes stare at the glaring scar across the back of your hand. Hobie remembers how you got the scar on your hand, it was warm that day, searing hot whilst you ran into the woods frantically to meet him. As a result of your unmindful actions, a sharp branch takes a chunk of your skin; leaving him to sew it close for you. He reminisces of how your face contorts to pain with every suture, and how you grip his shoulder to tamp down your screams. He wasn't careful, or even thinking about how it would scar, he just wanted to get it over with so you'd stop hurting. He held you for hours after, held you more after your great aunt saw the damage. She called you broken that day.

He blinks and he's back to the present. He can never go back. You can never go back. So he inches his hand closer to yours, pinky brushing along your skin. Finally, he curls his pinky finger around your ring finger. Linking his life line to yours. Just like he always does to the identical hidden ring around his neck. Your scar peers from the side, a reminder that everything that happened before was real. That all those saccharin touches and words were flesh and blood. He wishes he could go back, to take you away the moment she called you broken.

In his sleep he dreams of you.

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eikonoklast · 1 month ago

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Day 28 (Deleterious): Silver and Gold

“So you come to an underground spring. The glowing ethereal blue water shimmers and a faerie rises from the depths. She implores you to offer up your Silver Axe and if you do so she may grant you favor. Do you accept?”

Minimas narrated dramatically, using a tiny electrope board to simulate the lights and setting of the cave he'd placed Silver's player character in. They were sitting on the floor of Minimas’ apartment waiting for Alphinaud and Alisaie to get there so they could go to the arcade. In the meantime, Minimas wanted to introduce his friend to a game he liked. He held up a light under his face, his red eyes gleaming mischievously as he no doubt considered ways to trick his quarry.

Silver decided not to bite. “What if I like my Silver Axe?”

Minimas paused, annoyed, “Dude it's just a Silver Axe. It could be a Gold or Platinum Axe instead if you roll high enough. It's much easier to kill monsters with a better weapon,” he explained.

“Silver's a nice color.”

Minimas opened his mouth but no words came out. He sat there for a moment, clearly trying to figure out what to say, and Silver laughed. “What do you want me to say to that!?” Minimas finally responded, flustered. His ears were red with frustration. “That it's ugly?”

Silver leaned forward, his large dark pupils gleaming in the shadowy room, reflecting the light like mirrors. “You sound like you also prefer the Silver Axe,” he said, grinning.

“This isn't about aesthetics, you dork. But if you perish, then so be it,” he said the second phrase in his narrator voice, closing his eyes and folding his arms in a haughty pose. “You-”

“Can I still give the faerie something?”

“What?” Minimas deflated instantly, like a popped balloon.

“She's alone down here, too,” Silver explained. “Is there something she'd like? I found a bead necklace in that chest. I don't need it back or anything, right?”

Minimas massaged his temples. “She's not a person, man she's an NPC. Non-Playable Character. She is just a random chance event that you lucked into and decided to not take advantage of.”

“Why would I take advantage of being lucky enough to meet someone?”

“Are you being obtuse on purpose?”

Silver grinned, “Maybe. It's a valid question though.”

Minimas considered for a moment. “Alright. So you want to offer up your Lost Necklace? What if it's a quest item?”

“Well maybe she's the one it belongs to.”

The lalafell rolled his eyes and balled his fists. “Playing games with a wiseass, over here,” he said to no one in particular through gritted teeth. Silver flashed him another grin. “Ok so you toss the necklace into the spring. Roll.”

“12.”

“With your luck modifier that's still just a 12 so…” Minimas thought for a moment. “She returns the beads to you in a chain - all clean and new. She braids them in your hair and thanks you, but she is worried no one will be able to see her under the water. So she thinks it will be better off with you. It has a strength bonus attached with her enchantment.”

“See? A new Axe really wasn't all that necessary, was it?” he smirked, resting his chin in his palm with a toothy smile.

“You are incorrigible.”

“Oooh, big word, little man.”

Minimas flung himself across the board, tackling his friend. The two rolled themselves up into the nest of blankets that sat on the floor, Silver covering Minimas and sitting on the edges, laughing.

“Do you yield!?” Silver yelled, feeling self-assured.

“Why would I?” Minimas shot back, indignant. His voice was muffled under the sheet and Silver laughed, staying put.

Under the blanket Minimas heaved upward, sending Silver sprawling across the carpet. The miqo'te lay there, trying and failing to catch his breath from laughing, Minimas finally joining him. The lalafell walked over and put a foot on his friend's chest, proudly proclaiming, “And so it was that our poor hero lay defeated at the feet of the Demon King! Never again would this realm see the light of day!”

“Alright, alright, you got me,” Silver breathed. He lay his arms on the floor and tilted his head to the side with a smile, still panting. His eyes wandered around from his low vantage point and he sighed, turning back to the ceiling. Minimas removed his foot, collapsing onto the carpet next to his friend.

“Hey Minimas,” Silver asked suddenly, “Have you ever actually seen the sun? Like, not a hologram. The real one.”

“Nah,” Minimas said. He closed his eyes. “I hear it feels warm. It's always been storming though. So the sun just doesn't get through.”

“I'd like to go outside the barrier and see it,” Silver said, smiling.

“You can't look at the sun, moron.”

“Why not?”

“It'll burn your eyes outta your skull or something like that.”

“So you're telling me that there's a shining thing that people can't look at just…up there behind the clouds? Wouldn't that make just looking up dangerous?” Silver mused. “The hologram doesn't hurt my eyes. I could take it,” he joked.

“I mean I guess so. I don't think I've ever thought about it that hard,” Minimas responded, rolling over onto his belly and propping his head on his arms. “You're kind've asking the wrong guy here.”

Silver turned his head to look at him. “Let's go find out sometime. Might be nice to go check out Shaaloani. I hear there's some high-up spots you can go to. Look down on the world under you. Like a tall building with a view.” He looked back at the ceiling thoughtfully. “We'd be closer to the sun up there.”

“I'll go with you this time,” Minimas promised. “I know you don't remember but I didn't join you before and...I regret it. So if you don't mind me tagging along we could go together.”

Silver sighed. “I'd like that. Together, then.”

Author's Note: Just gonna use today to take a brief breath and enjoy the moment. Tbh maybe it's a bit of a swing but the word ‘deleterious’ is like, this whole story I've been doing lmao But it ties into this in an interesting way. I want to sort've…shine a light on a different kind of harm, here. Specifically the immense harm we can cause through our actions even when our intentions are good and honest and pure. I'm being critical of Chiteni here: there's a whole lot of people who - in his desire to protect them - he himself ended up harming. And however you perceive Silver in this, it's important to understand my WoL hurt himself in a way, too. Because he's going to carry the weight of it. He's a deeply flawed person just like anyone, and it's important to look at the consequences of your actions and take responsibility for them, even if you didn't mean something the way it went down.

I think it's just as easy to see in these happy little moments. Just how much it would hurt.

#ffxivwrite2024 #original character #ffxiv #silver bullet #jabberwocky #ffxiv arcadion #day 28

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lovebillyhargrove · 1 year ago

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Wake me up when July is around

Chapter 16/?

Falling, burning, like a star

Billy's listening to "Trapped under ice" and "Fade to black" by Metallica (album "Ride the lightning" released in 1984)

***

The way February rolls in, it's moody, ill-tempered.

There are strong piercing winds stinging Billy's face, cutting through his jacket, making him shiver with bitter cold. Their dreary howls constantly remind him of how much he wants to escape from this place.

And how much he can't.

Ice rains come together with the gusty winds. They cover everything in an icy crust, and

Tommy wasn't kidding. Black ice that happens, is the worst thing possible.

On a day like that Billy slips and almost falls down the second after leaving the house, then the moment he starts his car and sets it in motion, it begins fucking sliding. Billy's never tried skating, but that's probably how it feels - skating and spinning on a fucking ice-rink. What he's experiencing cannot be identified as driving.

Tommy has been going on about changing tires since November - for winter ones, but Billy didn't listen. He didn't want to spend money on the new tires that he would only need for three months, and there's no point in buying them now with only one winter month left to survive.

He probably should've paid attention to Hagan's words, shouldn't have been so careless about it.

After reeling to school, Billy then almost wipes out on the way to the building. Shit, that would've been embarrassing. Years of surfing and always finding the balance have helped him, but it's a formidable challenge.

Sullen skies that have swallowed all of Hawkins drive Billy up the wall. He needs sunshine, but there isn't a single ray of it.

The low heavy sky, overcast with colourless clouds, weighs down on him, like a coffin lid that's gonna close soon.

The fuck is this weather. When is it gonna finish.

The goddamn frozen land - wherever you look - puts Billy into comatose slumber but sometimes his lethargic state is disturbed, and he's woken up from it only to choke on his own bile.

He's already on edge, but it feels like everything around is pushing him further and further, he no longer has any ground left under his feet, he can hear the stones falling down, the cliff is biting the soles of his shoes. He's just an inch away from going down.

It's supposed to be sunnier in spring.

***

Neil is just perfect at making Billy's mood better. Always bringing that vibrancy in, you know? Shaking the gloom off, keeping him entertained.

This time Billy gets an after-dinner dessert, brought to his room, no less, on a fucking silver platter.

The moment Billy closes the door to his room, it's being thrown open again. Neil storms inside, seizes his son by the scruff of the neck and pulls. Like a naughty little pet who made a mess on the carpet. When Billy was younger Neil often dragged him like that by the ear. He has stopped with the ear, that's good. But Billy's collar, neck, sometimes even hair is still an option.

Billy doesn't even understand why this is happening, he's scrambling to remember what he has done wrong today.

His dad drags him into the kitchen where Susan is putting away what was left after dinner in the fridge.

"Son, say thank you for the food and apologize for your behaviour."

Oh, that. Did Billy not thank Susan?

Crap. That's right, he forgot.

"Neil, honey, please, it's okay, really." Susan is looking at her husband, smiling nervously, hoping to dissolve the tension. She is not looking at Billy.

"Who cooks for the family?"

"Susan." Billy's voice is quiet. He didn't expect any of that

"Does Susan also clean the house?"

"Yes."

Neil is so quick at giving him a little backhanded slap in the side of his head

"Speak up, like a man, not like a damn pansy!"

Billy's raising his voice. Like a man

"Yes, sir."

"Do we provide food for the family?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do we pay for the house? Keep the roof over your head?"

Billy wants to scream. Yes, goddamn it, YES !! you do all these things, for fucks sake

He's taking deep breaths through his nose, trying to collect himself.

"You do, sir."

"That's right. So where is your gratitude, son?"

"Thank you. Sir. Thank you, Susan. The dinner was delicious. I am sorry I forgot to say it right away. It won't happen again."

Billy talks staring down, at the floor. He can't look up at Susan or he'll burst into fucking helpless tears.

Everything that he's been working so hard at .. his muscles, his strength

His badness

All his ideas about taking responsibility for his own life. Being adult.

It all goes to shit every time Neil shows his power.

Billy feels so small

He's almost 18, and he still feels like a little kid who is morbidly, gut-wrenchingly

Afraid of his dad. Whose heart crumbles in the face of his father. He freezes up, paralyzed with fear

What does dad want from him? What does he want ?? It was just once, that he forgot to say the fucking thank you, why does it feel like he's commited a fucking crime??

Why is Billy such a coward? Why is he so scared? Why can't he stand up for himself, fucking once?

He's not strong enough for that.

Who is he trying to fool. Until he's out of here, he'll always be a snotty kid getting slapped around by his dad for every tiniest thing, it'll never change

"Go to your room, you ungrateful bastard. And don't you ever forget to thank those who make your useless life possible."

Billy shuffles back and quietly closes the door.

Susan, how can you love him, don't you see who he is, how can you sleep in the same bed with him

Susan doesn't have a problem with this. Billy is not her son. Billy is nobody to her.

The thing is, he, indeed, forgot this simple routine. Left the table without showing courtesy.

It was all Harrington's fault, of course.

During dinner Billy kept racking his brain over the possibility of it being Steve, slipping the damn note into his pocket.

The whole weekend that follows finding it

Billy is not himself. He's working on the beamer in Old Joe's garage, but everything is falling out of his hands, he literally has to force himself to concentrate on the job.

"Are you okay, kid?"

"Yeah, never better. Thanks, Mr. Dailey."

Get the fuck away from my head, Steve

Why the fuck does this jackass keep throwing him off balance?

Why is Billy so sure it's Harrington who left that note?

He isn't. It can be Jennifer. Or Alison, a pretty junior who they've been exchanging interested looks with for quite a while now.

But I really want it to be him.

Of fucking course Billy doesn't call. He still respects himself that much.

At home, he comes near the phone, stares at it

Itching to dial the number. Almost slapping his own hands away.

He can just call and hang up. Just uh .. to hear the voice on the other end of the line.

Make sure it's Steve.

No, this is stupid.

Billy is dying to pick the receiver up, and feels extra fucking stupid too. Look at him, turning into a pining bitch. His heart sinks when he imagines that he is calling and Harrington answers, says something pretentious like

"Harrington residence."

And Billy's gonna say

"Hey dickhead. Why did you leave your number in my pocket?"

What do you want?

And then Steve will ask him

"You wanna come over?"

No he's not gonna say that. Maybe his parents are home for the weekend. Hargrove has heard it from Tommy that Steve's folks are often away, dad has a business in Indianapolis or something like that.

He'll probably say

"Want to hang out?"

Want to kiss me again?

And Billy will be like

"Why not, dumbass."

He'll smile into the receiver as he will hear Steve's soft

"Alright .. uhm .."

Stop ! The fuck is this? He's having imaginary conversations with Harrington, for real now??

It's like there's this want .. this confusing yearning, the inexplicable hunger, rising from within, spreading all over his insides.

That's new.

Fucking hell in flames.

Calm the fuck down, Billy.

It’s not at all clear who put the note into his pocket. Maybe it’s a chick, maybe it's some kind of a prank, Vicky can be plotting something against him, cause Tina once said she's still heartbroken, it can literally be anyone and anything, but Billy is already drooling over the idea that it's Harrington.

Hargrove, seriously man, you need to chill. Take a step back. Switch gears. Be careful. There's black ice on the road. You need to get back in control. Drive with caution.

Let's fight fire with fire.

On Sunday evening, after driving himself to the point of madness, and after finishing his shift, Billy goes behind the repair shop, takes out the note, puts it in a bucket and flicks the lighter. It burns bright for a second, and Billy kicks the bucket, letting the wind blow away the ash.

***

So Monday is another Ice day. Let's roll, motherfuckers.

When Max jumps into the car to get her spoiled ass driven to school, she bangs the camaro door too loud, and Billy hits the roof.

Grabs her by the hand, squeezes like he wants to break it and tells her in a sweet menacing voice

"Bang it one more time, Maxine, and I'll cut your fingers off. Or will chop off your whole hand, do you hear me?"

And like, okay he can slam the door too. Any time.

Billy loves his baby but he's not gentle with it

But Max shouldn't do it. He drives her around, adjusts his own schedule to fit hers and she fucking slams the door? As a thank you?

Just recently the meaning of gratitude has been explained to Billy, and Max looks as if she's in need of a demonstration as well

The little rat glares at him, hatred in her feral icy blue eyes

"God, you're such an asshole!"

She's on the verge of crying, but she's not gonna. They are similar this way.

She just rubs her wrist pitifully and mutters quietly

"I have no idea why El .. Jane even likes you. You're a total dick."

Billy doesn't give a shit what she's mumbling there. Just stop banging the fucking door, Maxine, be on time, and we'll be alright till summer. After July comes we'll be perfect because we won't ever see each other's faces again.

He turns the car stereo on, inserts the tape.

I don't know how to live through this hell

Max groans, closing her ears

"Oh noooo, turn it off !!"

Frozen soul, frozen down to the core

Break the ice, I can't take anymore

Hargrove cranks the volume to the maximum.

No-one knows, no-one hears what I say

"BILLY !!!"

Cry out, I'm trapped under ice

He shows her the middle finger.

Max pulls the hat down her ears and face, covers her head with the hood of her winter jacket, throws arms over it and slumps in the seat.

Yeah. That's better.

Wrapped up tight, cannot move, can't break free

Cry out, I'm trapped under ice

***

Also on Monday he skips the last class - Español - and smokes pot with Tommy. It's freezing under the bleachers with all the blustery winds whistling around, so they take it to Billy's car. It's a fucking smoke house on wheels, the camaro, shaking from the deep bass

Life it seems, will fade away

Drifting further every day

Windows all fogged up, and the two boys get so stoned, they don't even understand someone's knocking on the windshield to get their attention.

Getting lost within myself

Nothing matters no one else

It's Carol.

"Oh hey baby." Hagan opens the door, a goofy smile spreading over half of his face. "How you been?"

Carol sizes him up and sighs

"I've been fine, Tommy." There's no point in mocking a stoned boyfriend

Emptiness is filling me

To the point of agony

Growing darkness taking dawn

"Jesus, what are you even listening to?"

Billy's turning the music down

"Did Delgado give us shit for not being in class?"

"Nah. Not much."

Tommy is turning to Hargrove who's just sitting there staring at the roof of the camaro

"See, I told you man."

They are both giggling and Tommy is reaching out for a fist bump

"We got away with it. I think we're just lucky."

Carol's rolling her eyes like, you dumb idiots.

"It's not pure luck, Tommy. I told Ms. Delgado you have diarrhea," -

both guys are close to asphyxiation cause they are wheezing

"And Billy had to drive you home cause your car wouldn't start in the morning and you had no chance of driving home yourself. Now get the hell away from the parking lot before she sees you two."

"Yes, ma'am."

Hagan wipes off the tears and gets out of the Camaro.

"Also, I don't think she's gonna go after you, Billy. You aced the last test."

Tommy is looking at her with a question in his eyes

"You didn't, baby."

When Hagan drapes himself over his girlfriend and they walk away in the direction of Tommy's ford, Max materializes near the passenger's door.

"Billy, open the windows! It stinks! I'm underage, I can't be breathing this smoke!"

Stop fucking pestering, Maxine.

"You can't drive when you're stoned. I don't want to die because you're a drug addict."

Tough luck, Maxine.

"Are you gonna say something?"

First, enough with the damn yapping. It's the gremlin's annoying mouth just going yap yap yap yap

Jeeesus.

Also.

He kinda wants to really say something to her to make it a bit better between them after he so violently grabbed her wrist in the morning. But then it's like fuck no.

Max throws her hands up in a desperate cry out to dull leaden heavens to ask for .. what? To pierce Billy with a lightning bolt?

And drops onto the seat.

Billy suddenly wonders if he's gonna miss his dad when he gets out of here. After all, it's his only family. Maybe there will come a time when Billy's gonna call Neil for Christmas.

Weed makes you think weird things, huh

***

These days Billy gets another disturbing dream about his mother. They never even happened so often any more. He almost stopped having them during the last year when he was still in California, but here the wound seems to have started bleeding again.

It's perplexing too, cause it's not like Billy started thinking about his mother more. He's made peace with his situation, if you can ever make peace with something like that. All the tears are left in childhood. All the pain has dulled itself.

Billy is six or seven, a little happy boy, he can feel happiness living inside him

He is running on the beach after his mom, they are playing catch, that's what they are doing, right? But it's the same like with the dream where he was trying to reach her in the cold ocean,

He's running and chasing her till he can't anymore, but no matter how hard he tries, he's not able to catch up with her. She then vanishes out of sight completely and Billy is left standing on the shore all alone. He can hear his heart breaking, like shattered glass, like a little explosion within. He presses his hands close to his chest trying to hold his heart together. It hurts, everything hurts, and when he looks down at his hands, they are covered in bright red blood. He can still hear the sound of glass being crushed when he opens his eyes in the middle of the night.

Billy involuntarily touches his chest.

Everything is fine. He turns the bedside lamp on, looks at his hands. Of course, there is no blood.

It's just a bad dream. It's okay.

The happiness is gone, but at least his heart beats like it usually does.

***

Steve's watching Nancy smile at Jonathan. They are standing near her locker, talking about something, Byers' hand cupping her elbow.

It's not jealousy, no. King Steve and princess Nancy, they weren't meant to be. End of the fairy tale.

He doesn't have a problem with it anymore. Their story wrote itself and came to an end.

It's more like emptiness.

Nancy seems happy with her new boyfriend. Shared trauma and everything. Harrington wonders, who's gonna share his frigging trauma?

Steve's feeling good, all things considered. He has come round a new mind set to follow - if the world is close to ending he might as well enjoy his every day and not turn himself into a paranoid crybaby, hiding in the corner of his room.

Every morning he rises and spends not less than an hour on making himself shine. He looks extra good, he's stopped brooding.

Steve Harrington is a total catch, nothing has changed that, and the senior year still means that he has the right to have fun. In fact, it's written in the constitution. Pursuit of happiness, or something.

On Saturday evening Steve does what he's been meaning to do for weeks now - he takes Nicole out on a date. Steve's without the car temporarily but that's what friends are for - Tommy lends him the ford. They go to a diner and kiss for half an hour in the backseat of Hagan's Lovemobil, as Tommy called it before handing the keys over to Harrington.

Steve is excited and super horny, and his cock definitely wants to go all the way, Nicole doesn't seem to mind, but his parents are at home, and it's not very comfortable in the Lovemobil, after all.

So they take a raincheck. It's even better this way, Steve has always preferred to prolong the feeling of chase.

Hargrove doesn't call at the weekend.

Of course it was Harrington who slipped the sheet of paper with his phone number in Billy's jacket pocket. Duh.The dude left it on the bench in the locker room, while he was soaping up his ass in the showers, and Steve acted on impulse.

After the date when Steve's back home, he asks his mom

"Hey, did anyone call me while I was out?"

"Yes, honey."

Oh my god, really? He actually called ??

Californian badboy took the bait, he is hooked

"It was uh .. Mr. Dailey? From the car repair shop?"

Oh.

Oh okay.

"Did he leave a message?"

"Yes, he said they had a delivery today in the morning. Your new windshield has arrived."

"Great! It means I'm going to get my car back soon! Yesss! Thanks, mom."

On Monday morning his parents are leaving for Indianapolis, and Steve's sort of glad they are.

He throws a small private party on Tuesday, for close friends only - Tommy, Carol and Nicole.

While Tommy is like

"Let's invite Hargrove, yeah?"

Steve is not psyched about the idea

"I was thinking, it's only couples this time, Tommy. I've got plans."

Hagan winks at him in understanding and lets it go, although he really likes it when Billy is around.

The party turns out great. Just what the doctor ordered. Nicole lied to her parents that she's having a sleepover at Carol's, so they have all night.

***

Once again, Hawkins high has something new to chew on.

Steve Harrington finally got over the painful breakup with Nancy Wheeler who's full on dating Jonathan Byers now.

He's free and on the market again .. or .. wait a second? Is that Nicole Anderson who King Steve is kissing on the way to school on Thursday morning?

Uh-oh, ladies, looks like one of the most popular guys at Hawkins High is taken again. Unless, it's nothing serious? Stay tuned to find out!

So it's Thursday, and something else happens in the parking lot, something that is not for everyone to see.

It's only a couple of minutes before the first period, most people are already inside the school, and there are only a few students left, in a hurry to get to class. Nobody wants a tardy.

Steve's walking with Nicole towards the entrance, right arm thrown over her shoulder, new lovebirds alright, and he's turning his head, spotting Hargrove smoking near the camaro, watching them like a hawk. The guy's puffing as if he's mad at the cigarette.

Why didn't he call?

Harrington's not gonna lie, such indifference has wounded his pride a bit. Maybe Hargrove needs a little incentive. Maybe he didn't understand it was a note from Steve.

He double checks that no-one's around to accidentally catch sight of what he's about to do.

The parking lot is clear.

Harrington's deep hazel meets Hargrove's changeable blue, and they hold the gaze. Steve brings his left hand to his face and makes the "phone" gesture with it, mouthing "call me" and smiling.

Fucking smiling. Fleeting, lustful. Like a personal invitation.

Like the fucking asshole that he is.

Billy can't believe what he's seeing. The cigarette stub burns his fingers.

Is Harrington for real ??

So it was him, whose phone number Billy slapped himself from dialing. Hargrove's sixth sense didn't let him down.

Fucking "call me"? In broad daylight?

The rich brat is completely off the rails. What if someone else sees it? He's hugging a girl, for fuck's sake!

Billy has heard the rumours. He knows that Nicole stayed overnight at the king's castle from Tuesday to Wednesday. Maybe it's gonna turn into a regular thing. By the looks of it, it might, and there's a sour taste spreading in Hargrove's mouth.

He doesn't wait long to start fighting the black snake coiling in his chest.

Jennifer's face lights up when he catches her by her locker before the second period

"Hey, sweetheart."

Billy leans on the nearby locker and looks at the girl like he's head over heels in love with her. He hates doing it to her, but he also needs it for his own sanity.

They go out to a pizza place on Saturday evening, Jennifer is sparkling with joy, she's been waiting for it for ages, apparently. The pleasant evening leads to kissing in the camaro, and Billy's letting the girl believe they are at the start of something wonderful.

He doesn't forget to ask for her phone number.

On Monday the whole situation gets a bit ugly, cause Vicky who, in all likelihood, still hasn't recovered from their breakup with Billy - it wasn't a breakup, they just stopped seeing each other -

Intercepts Jennifer on her way to the table where Billy's sitting waiting and

Oopsie, Hargrove's new girl's tray goes flying up and while her lunch is on the floor, the cola is all over her fluffly white sweater

"You skanky bitch! You think you can get away with stealing someone else's guy like that?"

Jennifer turns out to be no coward and gets her sharp claws in Vicky's frizzy hair

"He was never yours, you stupid cow!"

Fucking shit. Billy's springing up to his feet, trying to hold Jennifer back and thinks he might be done with girls altogether.

Of course, teachers interfere and both screaming guilty parties get taken to the principal's office.

Tommy watches Hargrove in awe. No girl has ever fought over him like that.

Even Harrington's lips are parted in amusement like he's watching a very entertaining performance.

***

For the record, Hargrove wasn't only busy breaking girls' hearts these days. He's also been working like crazy on Harrington's beamer. Billy promised him a week and a half, two at most.

On the same Monday during one of the breaks between classes, when Steve is hugging his new fucking girlfriend near the science lab, Billy comes up to him

"The car is ready, Harrington."

He hates the name.

"Come pick it up."

Steve's smile blinds Billy, stuns him. For a couple of seconds he can't see anything around him.

"That's awesome, man! I'll come by after school, yeah? Can't wait to get it back!"

He kisses Nicole on the cheek

And it's like. A fucking dagger in Billy's throat

He hates, hates, hates him so much.

***

In the afternoon Steve and Tommy arrive for the beamer.

Harrington looks like a little boy opening a Christmas present he's found under the tree. Billy can see, he's happy with the result of - mostly - his work.

There's some .. intangible tension in the air. Like .. the two boys want to say something to each other, more than what they are actually saying, but Tommy is there, and unspoken words electrify the air around.

Tommy could totally get into his ford and drive away. He's not catching on.

Steve settles business with Mr. Dailey and leaves some extra money. A tip for Hargrove.

Billy's eyes follow Harrington getting in the beamer, the asshole waves his hand at him. He's over the moon, it's obvious. Who wouldn't be, Billy's done a terrific job.

Hargrove doesn't want a tip, what he wants is to jump in the car with Steve, ride shotgun, watch his movements while he's driving, his hands on the steering wheel, and one on the gearshift

Does he look confident when he's on the road, does he look different

Even prettier, even hotter than he is

A generous fucking tip, actually. It burns his hand, the 100-dollar bill.

Fucking rich people. Billy deserves it, and more. He took care of every fucking inch of that beamer, it looks brand new now. So why does he want to shove this money deep into Harrington's preppy ass? Why does he feel uneasy accepting it?

Billy doesn't put it with the rest of his stash at home. He puts it in the glove compartment instead,

And curses the unceasing inner turmoil that's been fraying his entire being.

***

They are sitting at different tables in the lunch hall. Billy is surrounded by people, his hand is on Jennifer's shoulder. They are smiling and laughing and, except for Vicky's agonising gaze across the hall, everything is good.

Harrington is with his usual company, hand around Nicole's waist. They are talking about some unimportant stuff, and yeah

Life is nice and easy.

Not a single soul notices

All the side glances, thrown casually

An invisible thread, thin as a cobweb

Connecting them, so fragile, so easy to be torn.

They are nobody to each other.

They've put lips on lips three times

Each one for his own reasons.

If you ask Harrington, he'll say he was - probably still is - looking for distraction and generally can't be held accountable for anything these days. Aside from the usual problems every senior student has to face, he went through a rather earth-shattering breakup and, also, on top of that, learnt that monsters are real.

Steve would honestly just say "monster" as an excuse for anything now

"Mr. Harrington, why haven't you done your project assignment? It was due yesterday."

"You should've seen the monster, Ms. Babcock. Massive. Terrifying. Can you push the deadline for me a bit?"

"Steve, honey, why didn't you unload the dishwasher? I asked you to give me a hand?"

"The monster, mom. Can we install bullet proof everything in the house, I actually think it might help me sleep better at night?"

"Harrington! Why the fuck did you suck face with Hargrove for the third time? You gay, or what?"

"Tommy, my brother. Gay or no gay, it makes no difference for the monster. You should've seen the thing."

Too bad he can't talk about it with anyone. The creature, and the kisses.

Obviously, no living soul should know about the kisses, all three of them.

It seems as if Steve has so many secrets these days.

***

If Billy was the one to open up, it would be something like

It's only to make the year more bearable and

I have this need sometimes and

Did you know that about Billy Hargrove -

I always do what I want, no-one's the boss of me.

But, honestly, Billy doesn't quite know anymore. The excuse to make the time go faster in this shithole sounds especially weak.

Something else is happening, and Hargrove doesn't like it.

He might be kissing a new girl, but Harrington is always on his mind.

In classes, depending on who is sitting behind

The gaze of that boy every once in a while lingers on the broad back of the other.

Eyes quickly averted to find another object to look at.

They are both so young

Both so clueless

Of fate, having set certain tiny gears, cogs and wheels in motion

And of how the future might unfold.

***

Billy's eyes are closing, his lids are heavy, heavy with exhaustion. It's a seesaw, just like on a kids playground. Billy's down, feet touching the ground, and he's trying to talk some sense into his own self.

Realistically, nothing can come out of it, right?

Realistically, Billy doesn't need it.

Realistically, Harrington is just a capricious bitch. He kissed Hargrove on a whim cause he was going through stuff with his ex-girlfriend. It's not gonna go any further than than. Maybe Steve's still in love with Wheeler, and that's just part of his game while he's trying to win her back.

Billy is a rational person.

When the night comes, before falling asleep Billy replays the finishing day in his head, recalling its various moments. What Harrington was wearing, how he smiled, how he took a drag of a cigarette, standing near his shiny BMW, how he answered some stupid shit in Literature class and sneakily pulled out a cheat sheet during the test in History, how he again jerked his long hairy legs in front of Billy's nose during basketball practice.

Billy also wants to smoke with Harrington and chat about something. Tell him how he took his time levelling out the dents on Steve's car, how carefully he was spraying the paint, almost lovingly, making sure everything looks great, impeccable. How glad Billy was when the windshield was delivered on time, as it had been planned.

Hargrove even kisses Jennifer while hugging her in the lunch hall, only for Harrington to see, to make him look his way.

Pay fucking attention. It's not like you mean anything to me. Are you jealous, pretty boy?

Cause I'm not.

Everything is fine with Jennifer, she’s a nice-looking girl, with her full lips and soft bouncy tits. She sometimes talks too much, some bullshit Billy's not even listening to half the time, and again, just like Vicky, she loves discussing prom, what the fuck is wrong with chicks going insane over stupid prom, all these conversations make Billy sick and tired.

That's okay cause he couldn't care less.

There's absolutely nothing wrong with Jennifer, but for some reason Billy's dick doesn't get as hard for her as it does for King fucking Harrington.

Billy really wants to punch him in his beautiful face.

Why does the asshole have to be so beautiful.

Billy has seen more handsome guys in California, but he's never found anyone's face so beguilingly attractive.

Then grab him bullyingly by his stupid polo or his expensive fucking cashmere sweater and drag him into an empty room, a lab or the janitor's closet, rough him up a little, push, squeeze

And kiss him to death.

Tug him closer by the waistband of his pants. Unbuckle the belt. Unbutton. Unzip. Pull the pants down a little to make space for his movements. Slide the hand in Steve's underwear, into the heat.

Put his hand on his dick and make him cum in his boxer briefs

Watch how he closes his eyes during orgasm, how his Adam’s apple dances and twitches under the skin, the tender skin of his neck, smooth like velvet, thin like silk when he moans quietly and trembles under Billy’s hands,

Listen to the sounds escaping his pretty lips, kissing them, kissing them, kissing them

The seesaw soars up, Billy's heart drops, and all sensible thoughts go to hell.

There is nothing rational about him thinking about Harrington. There is no point.

And yet,

Billy is hard again.

He knows the drill.

#harringrove #harringrove fic #harringrove slow burn #billy x steve #harringrove high school shenanigans

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lupismaris · 2 years ago

Text

The Opening Act of Spring- a Black Sails Fic. Chapter 2

Welcome to Chapter 2 (yes its been a long time coming its been a helluva year) in which Anne comes collecting a very defeated Silver and brings him a little more up to speed on everyone’s lives five-ish years after the Urca Gold Heist

A harsh spray of ice water woke Silver the next morning, the skies opening up in a thunderous downpour. It left him gasping for air as he tried to sit up, his one good leg slipping on porcelain as he threw his arms over his face, muffling the flustered curses he uttered.

“Morning,” came a dry voice, dripping with thorough amusement. “You look like right shit.”

The water shut off and Silver, after a moment’s hesitation, given that he entirely expected the downpour to resume the second his arms lowered, peered over his forearm.

A woman stood there, slim and androgynous in her loose fitting men’s jeans with torn up knees and boxy t-shirt, cuffed at the shoulders. Her long red hair, fine as a spider’s web, was pulled up in a careless bun atop her head. On her hip, looped through the belt loop of her jeans, hung a black trucker hat with the name of a bar, and a carabiner heavy with keys and pepper spray. A heavy industrial chain hung on the opposite hip, her street legal answer to brass knuckles, Silver guessed. She smiled down at him, if the sharp toothed grin of an alley cat could be considered a smile, and crossed her tattooed arms over her chest as she leaned against the bathroom wall.

“Anne?” He croaked by way of greeting.

“Morning, jackass. Your sister wants to see you. Rise’n’fuckin shine then.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“The fuck did you turn the shower on for?”

“The fuck you sleeping in the bathtub for?” Anne replied. “Practically begged me to douse you. Was it the old better to puke in here than the carpet bit?”

Silver groaned and tried to sit up, grabbing at the sides of the bathtub to pull himself forward. His vision swam a little but he could see the bottle of whiskey sitting at the other end of the tub, three quarters empty.

That would explain the pressure behind his eyes then, the pulsing rhythm in his temples, the dryness in his throat, heaviness in his limbs.

“Seemed smarter,” he said. “Not a good time, hopping n’crawling to hurl on something you can clean n’all that shit.” He sighed and looked up at her again, then at the shower. “Actually can you just-”

Anne switched the shower on and Silver sighed as the cold water washed over him, soaking through the pillows and blanket that he’d had the presence of thought to grab the night before, to make passing out in the bathtub a smidge less miserable. He’d slept in less comfortable places truth be told, bedrooms floors, back rooms of bars, store closets, dingy bathrooms at rest stops. This tub was practically a queen size bed in comparison, he told himself, rolling his neck and savoring the click of vertebrae releasing one by one.

After a few minutes he waved a hand and the water switched off, Anne dropping a towel on his head unceremoniously.

“I’d recommend a proper shower if you can be quick about it. You smell like cheap booze.”

“I feel like cheap booze.” Silver held out his hand and without a word Anne took it, bracing her boot clad feet against the marble floor so Silver could leverage himself up onto his good foot, his other hand gripping the artistic safety rail on the wall. “Just grabbed what was easiest from a shop on the way.”

“Clearly,” Anne said. Once Silver was steady on his one foot she reached down and grabbed the sodden pillows and blanket, tossing them aside. Silver was grateful she didn’t comment on his lack of clothing, even to just make fun, but then living with Rackham and Vane she was probably used to a certain level of uncouth male nudity. She passed him the light-weight bathroom stool the room had provided, and once that was situated, a mug of black coffee. Silver guessed it came from the hotel room, it was nice enough to have a little kitchenette corner though he hadn’t bothered to really look it over the night before.

“Shower,” she said firmly. “Drink your coffee. I’ll find you some clothes.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep.”

Silver pulled the curtain shut and switched on the water, before taking a seat. The tub was pressed against the wall with a window at the head of it, thick tinted privacy film covering the glass so that, even with the lights on the view from outside would be obscured. Silver set his mug on the edge of the tub next to the bottle of whiskey and opened the window, breathing in the cool spring air. They were high enough up on the 28th floor that the smog was mild, the traffic sounds below muffled some into an ambient drone.

He’d fled back to his little midtown hotel room the night before, taking a winding route from The Village, on foot, on the train, just in case Flint had decided to follow him after all. After two hours of wandering and a sense that while he wasn’t safe he at least wasn’t being followed, he grabbed his things, checked out, and headed for the address printed on the card Rackham had given him. Some swanky place on the Upper West Side as it turned out, not quite in the same neighborhood as his sister’s condo but an easy enough walk, or better still an easier Taxi ride.

So he reasoned he must have checked in, but how it had gone he didn’t clearly remember. The dissociative fog that had carried him into a taxi in Midtown, oversized duffle under his arm and his only suitcase with his collapsible crutches carefully stowed in the trunk, had persisted all the way until Anne had woken him. There were clearer moments than others, sure. Greeting the pretty brunette at the front desk, who welcomed him as Mister Robinson and asked how his flight in from San Francisco had gone. The feel of the bottle in his hand, bourbon from the second to last shelf, as the man behind the counter passed it and a two packs of cigarettes over the counter to him. He vaguely remembered the smell of fried food- had he eaten dinner?

“Get a move on Silver!” Anne called from the next room.

Silver sighed, wiped water out of his eyes, and chugged half of his coffee. He reached for the bottle of whiskey and poured a shot or two into the mug and sighed.

He was already considering his return to the Western Hemisphere a mistake.

Twenty minutes later, Silver was lighting a cigarette on the street corner, freshly showered, medicated, and dressed in the old jeans and off-white Henley that Anne had dug out of his duffle. He’d pulled his curls up with a claw clip and hid his aching eyes from the morning sun behind old over-sized shades he’d stolen from someone at a party once.

Anne snagged his lighter and pack of cigarettes, helping herself to one. “There’s a decent egg’n’cheese shop on the way. She’s working so you’ll probably have to wait for lunch.”

“S’fine. By the way I get one good shot in at your man. He deserves it.”

“Dick is off limits or else Chaz’ll be cross but yeah, fair enough.” Anne puffed at her cigarette before offering him a grimace. He took it for the sympathy it was. “Break his nose though and I’ll rescind my blessing.”

“Fine. Did you know he was gonna pull that?”

“Nah. Thought he’d do something stupid but didn’t think he’d go just- full blitz stupid. Thought Flint was gonna skin him alive and send him home to us in deli paper,” she laughed as they fell into an easy stride. Anne had always been good about Silver’s somewhat slower gait, never making it seem like a nuisance or hindrance, always being the first to fall back with him on nights out.

Silver looked up at the sky, watching as slivers of clouds fought their way through the towering rooftops of stone and metal. “And did he?”

“Nah, Jack just said he seemed shaken, so much so that he forgot to be angry. Didn’t even say anything to Jack just said goodbye to that chef guy and bolted.”

“Hilarious.”

Anne shrugged, turning them down a side street of residential buildings. “Maybe. Not like he’d have done anything, can’t risk the attention. And he knows better, his husband would have his cock in a vice faster than he could utter his safe word.”

She smiled around her cigarette as she said it, glancing sideways at Silver for his reaction. The idea that anyone, let alone the great Pacifist Saint that Thomas Hamilton was rumored to be, could have Flint on so tight a leash was laughable to Silver. Even he, when they had been one malformed creature, hadn’t managed to keep Flint on a leash like that, nor would he have wanted to. You didn’t cage a wild and beautiful thing after all, you found it a proper home, etcetera, etcetera.

“Why can’t he risk the attention?” Silver asked instead. “He’s got a clean record, same as you lot. Nothing would flag if he got brought in on disturbing the peace.”

“Just because you got a clean record doesn’t mean you can go ‘round tossing known associates off rooftops whenever they piss you off. Much as we all wish that weren’t the case some days.”

“Then why bother keeping tabs on each other at all?”

The street opened up onto Broadway, where they stopped for bagels and coffee before turning southward. Anne led the way, keeping the route somewhat winding. It was an old habit, one Silver maintained, one that he knew Flint likely practiced as well. Even if they weren’t being followed they still threw an extra block or two into the route to avoid congested areas and obvious details to their end destinations.

So when their path took them to the South end of Riverside park, Silver wasn’t all that surprised. It was a nice change from the concrete and polished glass, the midmorning crowds emerging from offices for their coffee runs or early lunches, the tourists pouring out of the 72nd street station.

He felt steadier with food in his stomach, the greasy perfectly balanced egg’n’cheese (he’d bought two of them and inhaled the first before they reached the park) soaking up the last of the bourbon with grace and flourish. He lit another cigarette and sipped his coffee, the slightly burnt taste a perfect accompaniment to tobacco.

Alright maybe, just maybe, he’d missed the little details of life in a grungy city.

“Why are you keeping tabs on Flint?” he asked again, once Anne had finished her food.

She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. “We’re not.”

“Bullshit.”

“Nah it’s not keeping tabs, it’s more like- tentative alliance.”

Silver stopped in his tracks. “A what?”

Anne rolled her eyes. “Oh don’t look at me like that, it’s just this thing your sister and him agreed to- same city n’all. We keep an eye out for him, he keeps an eye out for us, for old times’ sake, and no one gets hurt. No stepping on toes, sends info our way if theres anything we should know about, clients for your sister to pitch designs to, shit like that.”

“Flint doesn’t help people for no reason.”

“I’m not saying he does.” Anne shrugged. “I’m just saying he’s mellowed out a bit, you know, know he’s getting a good fuck regularly?” Silver scowled at her. “Was that mean? That was mean wasnit?”

“And you all trust him because?”

“He’s got no reason to fuck around these days. He’s retired, same as us, plenty on the line to lose.” She shrugged again. “So we help each other out a bit. Not gonna say it’s trust, but It does mean we get invitations to their swanky dinner parties n’shit.”

The face Silver made sent Anne into a short fit of wheezing laughter, hiding her mouth behind her coffee cup.

“Dinner parties? Jesus fucking Christ- who are you Martha Stewart?”

“Oh you think thats bad? Chaz has a fuckin job now-”

She timed it well, waiting until Silver took a swing of his coffee, knowing it would would garner so much genuine shock that he would likely choke on it. Anne’s laughter, crackling and rough-edged, rang out loud as Silver coughed, trying to clear his throat.

“He has a what? The old bayou bastard has a what?” Silver demanded. “You’re fucking with me! You have to be fucking with me- Anne please tell me you’re fucking with me-”

A world in which Charles Vane had an honest job was not one in which Silver wanted to live, at least, he was pretty sure of that. Charles Vane was the last bastion of hill country, bayou basin, working class freedom, white man edition, who held no job, no credit cards, no permanent address, and no legitimate Government ID. His Fakes were better than any you could buy but Silver would wager a hefty sum that he didn’t have a social security number and if they went looking, probably wasn’t even listed in the citizenship records under a legal name these days. He’d burned off his finger prints as a teenager to make sure they’d never be found at a crime scene, just in case he happened to slip up badly enough that the cops would track him down. Why would he be at a crime scene you ask? None of your concern, he’d answer. To Silver’s knowledge, the likelihood of cops catching him was so slim that Vane had to start the fight himself for the cops to even know he existed most days.

Or at least, that had been the Charles Vane Silver had come to know, in a dusty beach hut in old Nassau, quietly day drinking while Flint tried to convince him of the greater good. That conversation had ended, as most did back then, in a brawl. Silver didn’t remember the winner.

“I am not.” Anne shook her head. “He has a fuckin’ job. Wanna guess where?”

“Not really. Still having trouble wrapping my head around them finger printing a man without finger prints. Or making him sit through HR Training, can you fucking imagine?”

“I don’ think they have HR training for line cooks.”

Silver made a face as he thought about it, trying to picture Vane in a busy kitchen, surrounded by equally stressed out and strange people, tattooed and strung out, with their own code of ethics known only to them.

“Actually no that- that I can absolutely see. Line cook suits him. Constant access to sharp dangerous objects. Something always on fire. Questionably legal substances. Only demographic more bat shit than he is.”

“Flint gave him the job.”

“Oh fuck off, what?”

Anne smiled, the small almost grimace. “Yeah. At his bar.”

“He- he owns a bar.” She nodded. “That’s his big retirement gig? A bar?”

“Yeah he opened it few years back with that old quartermaster of his, wass’is name-”

They made their way through the park as they talked, passing little pods of nannies with their charges in brightly colored designer strollers, joggers out with their dogs, the occasional remote employee making use of the open lawns and calm spring day to get some work done outside of their shoe box apartments. Silver felt more queasy than he had before his breakfast, all the new information racketing around his aching head, his stomach churning with confusion and a sense of- well, unreality. Everything he had been certain of, everyone he had been sure of, was suddenly beginning to unravel around him in the strangest of ways and he felt as if he was left to grasp at the threads, flimsy and fraying in his hands.

“His quartermaster? You don’t mean Gates do you?” he asked. It couldn’t be Gates, there was no way in hell that Hal Gates, of all men, would be in New York running a business with James Flint of all people.

“Mm yeah that’s the one, short bear of a man, bald? Mutton chop sort of thing?” Anne asked, running her knuckles along her jaw to mimic the rather iconic facial hair of the one and only Hal Gates. “Yeah he and Flint co-own a place across the river. Flint gave Chaz a job last year when he got picked up by the-”

Silver felt dizzy, his prosthetic aching as it pressed against his knee. He wasn’t listening to Anne anymore, as she explained, no doubt, the very interesting story of how Vane came to work for the man he once hated and who had once hated him in turn, tentative alliance aside. No, Silver was having too much trouble processing the fact that Hal Gates, father to all and longest suffering man alive, who had walked away from a fortune all because Flint required, if Silver remembered his words correctly, “too much heartbreak to believe in these days”, was not only back in Flint’s life, but committed to him again in anyway shape or form.

He could still clearly remember the way Flint’s hands had looked wrapped around Gates’ throat, the empty, wild look in his eyes, the softly spoken words that had made Flint stop before it was too late.

“You good?”

Anne’s voice cut in on his thoughts with sharp precision. Silver blinked, the world around them coming back into violent focus, leaving him reeling. Anne was watching him patiently, her eyes tired with a lifetime of ghosts behind them. He knew he didn’t have to explain, knew she got lost in her thoughts as often as he did. But even so, it never felt good to get lost so easily. He prided himself on his ability to be present, to keep his wits to tightly controlled that his will was greater than any god’s, and yet-

He was rattled.

“I wasn’t ready. For him,” he admitted in a small voice. “For Flint. For anyone to have just… Forgiven him for everything and moved on.”

Anne nodded. “S’fair. None of this is gonna be easy. Wasn’t easy for us in the beginning. Still weird at times. But, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that they win if we let them. And we let them by holding on to these wounds, these… failings.”

They.

What a simple all encompassing term. It could mean the world at large, it could mean Rogers and the the Bankers who had tried to run them all into early graves. It could mean Flint.

Whatever it meant to Anne, whatever it meant to Silver, the point remained. It was for Silver to decide what victory he allowed them, what space he made in his life for them. If he chose to face it, chose to do what Anne and the others had done, in whatever way he saw fit, chose to face the things left unsaid rather than running, then at least it would be on his terms, and no one else's.

“Besides. I can’t speak for Gates, or the others, I’m not them. Ain’t never had much Issues with the man. But Flint- he’s been alright.” Anne continued, once the distraught look on Silver’s face lessened and they began to walk again. “Mind’s his manners well enough. If you need information or resources he’ll get you what you need. My money says he’s done the therapy gauntlet a bit with his husband but that’s just a guess. You know how you can tell when people use them big words n’all?”

Flint in Therapy, that was almost more ridiculous a thought than Vane with a job.

“All I’m saying, retirement suits him well enough, you may find yourself pleasantly surprised.”

“That’s if he doesn’t strangle me on sight,” Silver replied. “You all seem to be forgetting things didn’t exactly end a la When Harry Met Sally for us.” Anne frowned. “I ditched and he’s pissed, remember? Not exactly a rom com ending that’s gonna make him swoon when I walk in his front door, carrots.”

Anne rolled her eyes at the nickname. “Not if you keep avoiding him it’s not. That’s just gonna goad him on, I tell you right now.”

“Let it. I think if anyone can avoid him it’s me. Been doing it just fine for the past five years I think I can manage just fine a bit longer.”

The curve of Riverside park brought them back up to street level, alongside the elegant prewar buildings that lined the boulevard, wrought iron balconies with the first shocks of spring greenery reaching out to the morning sun. Anne tossed her empty coffee cup into the bin on the corner and held out her hand, Silver passing her his pack of cigarettes and lighter without pause.

“Sure you can,” she said around a cigarette, pausing to light it. Silver watched as the sparks lit her face, embers glowing against bright sea glass eyes, freckles turned to ash across the bridge of her nose. She lifted her head and looked skyward, looking for something unknown to him, finding it, and smiled sadly. “You’ll keep running, he’ll keep chasing you. His husband will let him, even.”

She pulled out another cigarette and passed the pack back to Silver, waiting until he opened his mouth to argue, knowing he would, to place the cigarette in his mouth. Rackham, who wasn’t a smoker in the traditional sense, fell for the trick often and really, Silver should have seen it coming. He fixed her with a tired look behind his sunglasses as she lit the cigarette and continued.

“You’ll run and run ‘til your heart gives out or he dies of old age n’grief, which ever comes first,” she said casually, as if they were the only two in the world, unbothered by the people walking past, “and the guilt you tell yourself goes away, eventually, will finally catch up with you when you get the obituary in the post, or he turns up at your deathbed confessional. Whichever way you like it, Silver, you’ll get it, you always do.”

“I didn’t want this, Anne.”

“Yes you did. You convinced yourself of it, because it was easy, because you couldn’t cock it up,” She scoffed, “can’t cock up what you don’t commit to, mm? Please, you ain’t the only one who’s been running for a lifetime. Ain’t the only one who knows the tricks. Don’t act like you and your neurosis are somehow all that unique.”

“You didn’t leave Max. Or Rackham,” he reminded her. “You had the chance to do both.”

“Didn’t have to. They both tried it with me,” she replied, taking a long drag from her smoke.

Silver stood there in silence for a moment, letting his own smoke burn out in his fingers. There had always been and uncanny familiarity between the two redheads. They were incredibly different, no mistake to be made about that, unbearably different. But there had been moments, since the inception of it all, when shadows would cross Anne’s face, or a light might hit Flint’s eyes, a weight in her slim shoulders, a grace in his hips, a violence and a loneliness in them both- and Silver would be struck by an unnerving sense they should have, in another world, been siblings.

Of course the notion that Anne was, in this moment, able to sympathize more readily with his Ex than himself was less of a comfort than he liked and the unnerving familiarity was bordering on slightly terrifying, if Silver was going to be honest.

“Face him, or don’t. Fuck if I care in the end, unless you drag us into it and then I will have you by the balls,” Anne said flatly. “But you’re wasting a hell of a lot of time, aren’t you? Running? And for what?”

She turned and kept walking before Silver could reply, making it abundantly clear that the conversation, and any advice she was willing to give, was over. Silver was left standing on the street corner for a moment, watching fellow pedestrians hurry past, cars crawl along the boulevard with their echoing engines, the cigarette still burning out in his fingers.

He sighed and took a drag from it, waiting for a gap in traffic before jaywalking across to the next block to rejoin Anne, who was lurking in the shadows of a flower shop awning, buying a bouquet of irises.

He was far too hungover for this.

#my fic #Jamie's Fic Prompt Fills #opening act of spring bs mdau fic #black sails fic #john silver #anne bonny #black sails modern au #james flint #so i ended up breaking the chapter into 2 and 3 it was neater than one massive chapter #but god i loved writing anne so much this bit was so satisfying #yes theres a lot of people telling silver hes being an idiot in the beginning or telling him their view of matters because he didn't listen #it lightens up in the after the next chapter somewhat though he keeps making assumptions

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