#Finally I don't start a chapter with a handwritten note

[localplaguenurse]

Falling Head over Heels (Pantalone x Male Reader) pt 6

So ever since my last update, I've gotten a new laptop because deadass the same day I posted chapter 5 like "oh hopefully I'll get it back soon," they told me my old acer aspire is so old they don't even make the parts for it anymore. This has nothing to do with the fic, I just thought it was funny.

Notes: still sfw, semi dysfunctional/controlling family dynamics (I assure you they will get progressively worse), ableism in the form of reader being coddled and patronized by his parents. Check masterlist for previous parts, will eventually make an actual masterlist for this fic.

@thedeimoshimself @eli-chris

You did not immediately tell your parents about your interaction with Pantalone when you finally returned, as once again they were in the midst of an argument. Your mother’s scoldings about how your father knows better, and your father’s arguments about how you’re a grown man who should fend for himself by now could be heard the moment you stepped through the door. Colleen gives you an awkward, sympathetic smile as you shuck off your coat. Before the maid can hang it up, you fish the letter from your pocket, and seeing your name in the Guuji Yae’s handwriting fills you with nervous excitement once more. 

You can’t really hear the fighting from your study. If you try to listen, you can, but otherwise it is very peaceful. You open the letter again and set it next to your typewriter, while also tucking the briefcase with your manuscript under your desk. You proceed to load your typewriter, ready to type a response, when it occurs to you that maybe you should hand write this letter. Would it be disrespectful to just type a letter? Maybe. A handwritten letter is more personal, after all. 

By the time you finish your letter, there are six other letters crumpled up in your bin, and you hear your mother’s voice informing you that it’s dinner time. The tense atmosphere of dinner keeps you from talking, let alone telling your parents about Pantalone. You really don’t want to set off yet another argument with how much these two have grown apart. As horrible as it is to think or say, you will not be surprised if the word divorce comes up in their next fight, and that next fight is probably tomorrow. 

This tense silence continues the next day, and the day after that, until a full two weeks have passed where you have not heard a single argument. Not because your parents made up, mind you, but because they have barely spoken to each other. Nothing beyond standard small talk or informing the other person about meals or receiving something in the mail. The air is oppressive, and you try not to let it show how much it is starting to stress you out. Instead, you have been waiting patiently for a letter back from the Guuji, hoping to surprise them with some good news for once. 

(You’ve also been replaying your last interaction with Pantalone in your head, because you know you did not mishear him.)

The silence breaks when your father throws your bedroom door open one morning, when you are in the midst of getting changed out of your sleepwear. 

“You!”

You jump, having just put on your pants. Your face heats up in embarrassment. “Would it kill you to knock?” you snap. It’s not even ten. 

You hear your mother somewhere behind your father. “Darling, calm down.”

Your father storms inside and an envelope is shoved in your face. “Do you care to explain this?”

You step back and take the envelope. You rub your eyes, shoot your dad a dirty look, and read the envelope. That’s your name and address, but you don’t recognize the return address in the corner. The name, however, you do recognize, and your father does too.

“Why is it that I haven’t had contact with the Regrator in two weeks,” your father asks, “but when I finally get a letter back, it’s for you?”

“Yes, why is Pantalone writing to you?” your mother asks in turn. 

Your brow furrows, and with your father glaring daggers at you, you break the seal on the back of the letter. Before you can actually open it, your dad snatches the letter from you. He tosses the envelope aside and unfolds the paper within. 

“Hey!” You grab your father’s arm. “If you’re going to barge into my room, at least let me read my own mail!”

“There has to be some mistake,” your father says. “There’s no reason for the Regrator to talk to you.”

“While I disagree with his approach,” your mother says, “your father has a point.”

“Maybe if you let me read my mail, I could tell you,” you reply sarcastically. Your father rolls his eyes but hands the now crinkled letter back to you. You straighten it out and let your eyes scan over the words.

Your father’s voice is impatient. “Well?” 

You squint. “It’s an invitation.”

“An invitation?” your mother asks.

“What the hell for?” your father asks.

“An invitation for tea,” you answer, “for… tomorrow, at two.”

“Anything else?”

You flip the paper over. It’s blank. You flip it back over. “No, it’s just tea at two at his estate.”

“No, you fool,” your dad says, pulling the letter out of your hand again. “I meant if he mentions your sister or myself, because I find it hard to believe he’d invite you to his estate.”

You cross your arms. “Why’s that?”

“Your father means it’s odd that you would be invited over when you are not, ah, working with him,” your mother says, making up an excuse on the fly. “You’re not working with your father and sister, so if you were to be invited over, then that would include the rest of the family.” Though she’s out of your limited line of vision, you know she’s glaring at your father based on the way he averts his eyes from you.

“Then why is it addressed to him? It doesn’t address anyone else in the family.”

“I’m not sure, dear. Perhaps there’s been a mistake?”

“Pantalone would not make a mistake like this. Perhaps the post office lost our invites, but not his.”

“Or he just invited me,” you butt in.

Your father gives you a look. 

“Think about it,” you say, “if we all got an invite, surely mine would have said something about it, right? Hope to see you and your family, or something along those lines.”

“Perhaps mine would have it,” your father retorts, “as he’s my business partner.”

More like marriage partner at this point, you think and know better than to say. “You’re also assuming this has anything to do with work,” is what you say instead. “What if it’s just tea?”

“No, a man like him wouldn’t invite someone over for just tea,” your mother says. 

Your father goes to put your invitation in his pocket, but gives it back to you when your mom gives him a look. He clears his throat. “Well, we’ll have this sorted when we visit tomorrow.”

You blink. “Wait, what?” 

“We’re not going to just turn down this invitation,” your father says, as if you’re an idiot for not understanding what he was getting at. 

“We? We?”

“That’s right,” your mother chimes in, “we really shouldn’t go if we don’t know his intentions.”

“That’s not…” You groan, annoyed. You point at your father. “You aren’t on the invite.” You turn and point to your mother. “And we’ve talked about the coddling.”

Your mother shakes her head. “That was about when he visits us, I don’t want you alone at his estate.”

“No, no, we’re not getting into the semantics,” you say, “I have told you time and time and time again to stop treating me like I’m seven! I should be allowed to go have tea with someone else by myself.”

“Watch your tongue,” your father snaps, “and our decision is final. If you want to go to the Regrator’s for tea, then your mother and I are going as well.” He turns to walk off, and stops in the doorway. “And put a damn shirt on.”

The door slams shut, leaving you and your mother in your room. She offers you an apologetic smile, and gets the hint you want space when you pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. Her exit is much quiet, a soft apology and a gentle closing of the door. 

It takes you a moment, but you manage to find the envelope your father carelessly tossed aside. It slid most of the way under your bed, only the corner of it is immediately visible. You pick it up and feel your heart thump in your chest.

So this is what your name looks like in his handwriting.

----

While the novelty of Pantalone’s social status has worn off, the estate that comes into view through the snowstorm is a reminder of his intimidating wealth. It’s a beautiful building, and significantly larger than your family home. Your eyes are glued to the sight of it through the covered sled’s window. You can also just see your mother looking at it as well through the reflection of the glass. 

“Remember what we talked about,” your father says, and you make a face of annoyance similar to the face your mother’s reflection makes. “Hey, are you listening?”

“Don’t touch, trip on, or break anything,” you reply, “and only speak when spoken to. I’m aware of the whole routine.”

“And watch the attitude.”

“And you remember what I told you,” you reply, not bothering to turn your head. “If it turns out Pantalone didn’t invite you over, you need to leave.”

“Look at me when you talk to me.”

There’s a thump. Your mother most likely gave your father a nudge with her foot. Silence takes up the last few minutes of the ride as it slows to a stop right outside the snowy steps. You slide over to the opposite end of your seat and open the door, sucking all the warmth out of the sled. You make no effort to wait for your parents before you step down from the stairs. The snow pelting you in the face diminishes your vision, so you only make it a few steps before you trip on the first step. You catch yourself before you tumble forward and smash your teeth into the stairs. 

You hear your mother’s voice from the sled. “Please be careful!” 

You shout back that you’re fine, and climb up the stairs. Pantalone must have just had the steps cleared off before the blizzard hit, as there’s no crunch beneath your feet, merely the puff of snowflakes puffing out of the way with each step you take. Your father calls for you to wait for them as you stand before the door. You grab one of the large knockers and give it a few hard knocks on the door.

You feel your father’s firm hand on your shoulder just as a gust of heat rushes out and envelops you. You find yourself standing face to face with an older gentleman dressed in pristine servant’s attire. The two of you lock eyes, and for a moment he offers a welcoming smile before he notices you’re not alone, then it becomes confusion.

“Oh, hello there,” he says, “this is a little unexpected.”

“We’re here for tea with the Regrator,” your father butts in before you can even open your mouth.

“I had assumed as much, but I was told we were expecting a single visitor,” the man says. He brings his gaze back to you. “Now, you fit the description, but these two–”

Somewhere behind the man, you hear Pantalone’s voice. “Fyodor, what’s going on? Why have you not let our guest inside?”

The man turns around to address his master. “Apologies, my lord, but there seems to be some sort of… misunderstanding?”

You hear heeled footsteps descending a flight of stares and across the floor before your host comes into view. You feel yourself salivate and swallow it down quickly. You’re so used to seeing him in mostly black clothing, so the white lace up shirt with puffy sleeves immediately catches your eye. It’s tucked into a pair of black corset pants, which you make a point to not look at either. His hair is not tied back, and the chain on his glasses seems different. Though he still has his rings, he’s not wearing his gloves. Even in more “casual” attire, the Regrator is the pinnacle of wealth and beauty.

This very beautiful man tilts his head at the sight of your parents, namely your father. “What are you doing here?”

“You… You invited us to tea,” your father says.

“No I didn’t.”

Your father is quiet, and you turn yourself to see the confusion on his face. “You sent an invitation, i-it had our address on it.”

“Yes, and I believe I put your son’s name on it, did I not?” Pantalone asks. When you turn back around to him, you find he’s looking right at you. 

“You did, b-but I presumed you… you forgot to mention us, or maybe the invitations for my wife and I got lost in the–”

Pantalone lifts his hand, silencing your father. “If that were the case, I would have either addressed it to your family as a whole on the envelope, or I would have mentioned it in the invitation itself. Likewise, I did not send this through the post office, I had one of my staff deliver it personally.”

“But, b-but I’m your business partner!”

Pantalone turns to you. “Did you invite them with you?”

You stumble on your words, feeling too humiliated to answer honestly. What’s worse, saying yes, or saying no, but your parents wouldn’t let you leave unless they came along like they were chaperoning a child’s first field trip or playdate? You manage a shake of your head, and fortunately Pantalone seems to understand your plight after having many interactions with your family.

He sighs, and steps aside. “You’ve already made the trip, and the weather is taking a turn for the worst,” he relents, “you may come in.”

Your father pushes past and marvels at the interior of Pantalone’s estate. Your mother gives you an assuring pat on your shoulder. Pantalone whispers something to Fyodor, who nods and goes to help your parents with their coats.

The door shuts behind you, and you turn to Pantalone. You clasp your gloved hands together and lower your voice. “I am so sorry, I tried to tell them–”

“I know,” he replies in a voice as soft as yours, “perhaps I should have seen this coming, but I didn’t think I would need to be more specific in the invitation.”

With that, Pantalone stands up and claps his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Once you’re all settled, please follow me for a short tour on the way to the tea room.” He turns to Fyodor, who is carrying your parents’ coats. “Fyodor, please be a dear and let the chefs know to prepare some extra refreshments for our unexpected company.”

Fyodor nods, and you give him your coat before he leaves. Your mother is already hovering right next to you protectively, and Pantalone gives you a subtly sympathetic smile, which your mother seemingly interprets as an underlying threat judging by the way she wraps her arm around yours. You imagine your father is rolling his eyes.

The tour is short as promised, only staying in any given room long enough for Pantalone to state what the purpose of it is. You pass through the dining room, where Pantalone points out the doors to the kitchen, before you’re in a corridor passing by a ballroom entryway. You try to have a look at the oddly macabre paintings your host has displayed on the walls, but your mother is practically dragging you along so she can get this event over with quicker. You want to ask questions about what the chandelier in the foyer is made of, but your father already asked that in his never ending ramblings of praise for Pantalone and probably isn’t going to stop so you can actually ask the man anything.

Your father finally shuts up and your mother lets your arm go when the four of you step inside the tea room. Something you notice immediately is, while there are paintings on the walls, a table in the centre of the room, and a large cabinet with various tea sets, there is actually very little decor and furniture here. You passed by some sculptures and house plants and other miscellaneous extravagant pieces on the way, but the small room is oddly empty compared to the corridor just outside. 

When Pantalone takes a seat, your parents end up taking a seat on either side of him. Your father is immediately praising the barely furnished room, while your mother acts as barrier. As such, you end up seated across from him. On cue, you hear two people come in through the door behind you. You hear a soft squeaking, and a servant pushing a cart with a tea set on top of it. The porcelain teapot and cups have a vaguely floral pattern, with the handles shimmering with gold leaf. You jump when the second person, another servant, comes up beside you with a tray of food to place on the table. Your father marvels as they get to work setting the table, your mother politely thanks the staff, and you just sit still as your cup of tea is poured.

“This is quite lovely, Pantalone,” your father says for the millionth time, “really, I expect nothing less from you!”

Pantalone gives your father a smile, a polite gesture that does not reach his eyes. “I’m flattered.” When he looks your way, his smile seems fonder. “How about you? You seem to have something on your mind.”

“Oh! Um…” You lean back and glance around the room once more. “I was just… curious about your decor.”

Pantalone tilts his head curiously. “Oh? And what would you like to know?”

You hesitate to answer out of fear you would offend the man.

“Well? Out with it,” your father remarks.

“This room is a little bit… um…”

“Bare?” Pantalone finishes. “Yes, I had some of the furniture moved around in preparation for your arrival.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your eye condition,” he answers, “you said you used to trip on furniture because you didn’t see it, correct? I figured with a room this size, it would be safer to move some of the decor out of the room while you were visiting.”

“Oh, that’s… actually rather sweet,” you say, “b-but unnecessary. I’m not as clumsy as I used to be.”

“Ah, yes, my suit can attest to that fact.”

You chuckle.

Your father chimes in. “Yes, it’s better we avoid any more expensive accidents.”

Pantalone hums. “While I would rather avoid paying for a replacement or repair job, I was more focused on ensuring your son’s safety. I would hate for my guest to get hurt at an event I invited him to.”

You pick up on his passive aggressive comment, and your father does not. That, or he’s elected to ignore it. “Ah, that too,” your father says. He gestures to your mother. “I would have never heard the end of it if that were the case!”

Your father was expecting someone to laugh. He is ignored by Pantalone and gets glared at by your mother. You just grab a couple pastries, honestly wishing you had just turned down the invite altogether.

Your father clears his throat. “So, about that thing I-I had proposed a few weeks ago–”

“How is the book deal?” Pantalone asks you.

“O-Oh,” you stammer, not expecting him to bring up your book, “well, I’ve decided to go for it, and I’ve written back saying I would like to move forward with the deal. Now I’m just waiting for them to get back to me.”

Pantalone smiles and nods. “That’s lovely to hear.”

Your mother looks at you, confused. “What is he talking about?”

Fuck. You swallow, and nervously, sheepishly smile. “Right, um… I was, ah, saving this for when the deal was finalized, but my book might be getting published now.”

“By who?”

“... The Yae Publishing House.”

Your mother’s squeal could shatter porcelain. “The Yae Publishing House?! Sweetheart, that’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

You awkwardly laugh, avoiding Pantalone’s knowing gaze. “They’re just s-such a big deal, you know? I didn’t want to get your hopes up before I knew for certain they were going t-to publish the book.”

“Still, you could have at least told me you sent your book to them! Oh, goodness, I’m getting all worked up now. My sweetheart, being published by the Guuji Yae…”

Pantalone chuckles. “Yes, quite exciting. It warms my heart to see hard work being recognized.”

“I’m very excited,” your mother says, “he hasn’t told me what his new book is about, he keeps telling me to wait until it gets published. I was worried I’d never get to read it when your first deal was cancelled!”

You sheepishly rub the back of your neck. “This one’s kind of, well, different from my usual writing. I wasn’t sure how people would react to it.”

“Your stories are lovely, sweetie,” your mother insists, “you should never worry about what your mother thinks because I will always support you.”

You hear your father lean over in his chair towards Pantalone, and in a room of four people, his whisper is very audible. “He was worried he would have to get a real job, haha.”

“Which would be difficult given my disability,” you add, “seeing as most jobs require you to have awareness of your surroundings, and my eyesight is only going to continue degrading.”

Your father glares, and clears his throat. “... It was a joke.”

“And it wasn’t very original.”

“You’re also one to talk, considering our little deal,” Pantalone remarks. Your mother looks at your father for an explanation, to which he just sips his tea, embarrassed. 

The rest of the afternoon isn’t less awkward. The momentary embarrassment does not stop your father from badgering Pantalone with questions about what he’s been doing the past two weeks (settling some financial matters in Liyue), and praising him for the pastries he’s provided. Pantalone answers out of politeness, but his responses grow shorter and shorter every time your father opens his mouth. Your mother just silently eats, disinterested in conversing with the Regrator. You try to engage in conversation with Pantalone, but despite glares from everyone at the table, your father continues to interrupt you or answer questions Pantalone could not have more clearly directed towards you. You also just keep your answers short, not wanting to divulge too much about your book or true thoughts in front of your parents. 

Your father pops the last cream puff in his mouth. He’s already eaten most of them. There is no more tea, bringing the meeting to a close.

Pantalone claps his hands together. “Well, this has been a meeting!”

“We appreciate the invitation, Lord Pantalone,” your father says.

“What invitation?” Pantalone asks. “Remember? You two never received an invite.”

“... Right.”

Pantalone leans forward, propping his head up in his hands. He’s looking right at you, and he smiles so sweetly. “Would you care to stay for dinner?”

“Oh, we couldn’t possibly overstay our welcome.”

Pantalone nods, acknowledging your father. He then looks back at you. “So? Would you care to stay?”

“We just said no,” your mother says.

“That’s fine, you two are free to leave. I’m talking to your son.”

Your mother and father lock eyes, before your father turns back to Pantalone. “Wait, why are you asking him if he wants to stay, but not us?”

Pantalone sighs, and grins at your father. “Well, I think I’ve played host to you two long enough, so I’ll tell you honestly.” At that, Pantalone drops his smile. The atmosphere immediately grows tense as he speaks, his voice cold. “I invited your son to my home because I wanted to discuss his upcoming book over tea. I did not invite you over to discuss work matters on my day off. Now, I would like to have the discussion I cleared my schedule for, and I would like to do it with the guest I actually invited.”

Your father balks, while you feel your jaw drop to the table and your eyes go as wide as saucers. You slowly turn towards your mother, and she is immediately seething. She stands up, her chair scraping on the floor. Pantalone smiles at you once more.

“So will you be staying for dinner? I have many questions about your writing process.”

“I–”

“Absolutely not,” your mother snaps. She grabs your arm hard and attempts to pull you up to your feet. Your father is torn between being shocked over being called out for his behaviour, humiliated for being scolded like a child, and incensed that your invitation did not extend towards him. Your mother tugs your arm again, and you stand up so you can better shake her off your arm.

“We’re leaving,” your father says. “Come along, you two.”

You brush some crumbs off your lap and sit back down.

Your father shakes your shoulder. “Didn’t you hear me? I said we’re leaving.”

“Have fun,” you reply dryly, “I’ll be home late.”

Pantalone absolutely beams. “Oh, wonderful!”

You flinch at your mother’s shrill voice. “No, you’re not! I am not leaving you with this disrespectful–”

“Violka, he has made up his mind,” your father growls. You feel him glaring daggers into the back of your head, and do not move. You hear your mother start to protest, but then the door shuts behind you.

Pantalone lifts a small plate up off the table. On it is the final little piece of cherry bublanina. He offers it to you with a sly smirk, like forbidden fruit. 

With this in mind, you take it.

[formulaforza]

miss americana and the heartbreak prince

—07. Homegrown —word count: 15.8k —warnings: none :) love, mackie... I don't really have much to say lol... just that I love this chapter and it got a little out of hand. I hope you love it like I do!

Chris takes a personal day at work on the Thursday Charles gets into Georgia. She wants to make sure she’s the one picking him up from the airport, doesn’t want to spend a single second longer than she needs to without seeing him, hugging him, kissing him. 

His flight lands at 10:15, but by the time he gets through customs, baggage, and calls Chris three times after getting lost in the Atlanta airport, it’s 11:30. She finally finds him outside the Maynard Terminal, backpack slung over his shoulders, suitcase next to him. He looks so perfectly like a boyfriend, she thinks. “I can see you,” she says. “Do you see my car?”

“No,” he laughs, and it pours from the car speakers like sweet honey. “I don’t.”

“Okay, well, stay put, then. I’m coming to you.” She manages to make her way across two lanes to be right on the curb, and then he spots her, his whole expression taking shape when their eyes lock. She rolls her window down as he approaches, and slots the car into park. “Oh my god,” she giggles. “Is that Charles Leclerc?”

He rolls his eyes. “Open the trunk?”

“Charles Leclerc wants me to open the trunk?” She says, pushing the button on her door-panel to pop the hatch open. 

“Charles Leclerc wants you,” he says, hoisting his suitcase up into the back of the car, tossing his backpack there, too. “Could have stopped there,” he chuckles, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. She blushes, a cheek-aching smile still on her face. He slams the trunk shut and makes his way around the car, opening the passenger door. “Hi, pretty girl,” he properly greets her. “What’s this?” He asks.

Sitting there, on the passenger seat, is a bouquet of flowers. Red roses, white roses, and white carnations for passion, new romance, and luck. Filler greens and red estelles for encouragement. Manilla and sheer white tissue paper wrap the flowers, a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around the stems. Next to it, is a matching envelope with his name scribbled in purple pen. Inside the envelope is a white greeting card with “just because” printed in simple, black lettering, a handwritten note from Chris on the inside. 

Chris smiles. “They’re for you.”

“For me?” He asks, the hint of a giggle in his tone. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Chris shrugs, watches him carefully pick up the flowers and the card and climb into the car where he further examines them. “It’s not a big deal,” she says, tucking her bangs behind her ears. “I had to go with Hannah to the florist this morning.”

“No, it’s so cool. Nobody has ever gotten me flowers before.”

Chris frowns. “Never?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “my mum once, but that doesn’t count,” and then he starts to open the envelope, but Chris stops him.

“No, please,” she says, her hand covering his. “I can’t watch you read it, I’ll die.”

He laughs, “you’re so cute.”

Her face stays straight and solemn. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” he sets the flowers and the card down securely between his feet. “I’ll wait.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

Chris can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks. God, she feels like such a child. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to kiss you, now.”

“Okay,” she giggles. “You’re going to kiss me, now.”

His lips meet hers in a tender, lingering kiss. It’s like they hadn’t been apart at all, the way their mouths perfectly fit together. His hand finds her cheek, thumb moving carefully over her skin, letting her deepen the kiss. They let themselves just be for a few moments, to let everything else fade away and cling onto their perfect moment. “Seriously,” he says when they pull apart, and then he gives her another quick peck. “Thank you,” and then another on her forehead. “I missed you. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she nods. “Hungry. Very hungry. How are you?”

“Hungry, also.”

“How hungry?”

“Very.”

Chris nods, kisses him again, just because she can. Because she couldn’t for so many days. “I know a place, but it’s a surprise.”

It’s a twenty-three minute drive to Pig’n’Chik Barbeque in Northern Atlanta. Charles is visibly apprehensive of the little red building and the parking lot filled with the aroma of southern barbeque, but he keeps his commentary to himself. Chris knows it’s probably a little overkill, the hole-in-the wall joint being even a little too gimmicky for her taste, but that’s the whole point. The place is supposed to be gimmicky, while also being good. Chris used to love this place as a little kid—Bill would always take the kids there whenever they’d gone to the city. It was his favorite place then, and so it will always hold a place in her heart. 

Charles holds open the door, a bell attached to it announcing their entrance, eliciting a greeting from the staff, a “Hey, guys! How’re you doing?”

“Good, thank you,” Chris smiles, moving through the restaurant towards the diner-style bar at the back. She holds her hand out behind her for Charles, turns to tell him: “You might not have been able to get a seat at your sushi bar, but I can get us up at the Pig’n’Chik bar,” she laughs. 

Charles matches her laugh, a playful eye roll and the shake of his head before they’re sitting down on the red leather barstools. 

She’s telling him before they even have the menus in front of them what they need to order; fried pickles to split, lemonade to drink because it’s not pig’n’chik without their lemonade. She’s going to order the shrimp and grits and he absolutely needs to have the catfish.

When he cocks his head at the idea of… eating… catfish… she tells him he’s not allowed to look it up, and that he also has to trust her. “It’s the best thing on the menu,” she says. 

Charles quirks a brow. “Then why aren’t you eating it?”

“Because the hushpuppies will kill me,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Honestly, you probably shouldn’t eat them, either.” The grease that comes along with eating a deep-fried batter ball isn’t good for anyone’s system, especially not someone who isn’t used to this kind of food. The last thing she needs this weekend is a boyfriend who can’t be more than three feet from a bathroom. 

It’s an hour and a half, at least, until they’re pulling into what Chris affectionately calls her “driveway.” Charles thinks that anyone else would more likely call it a dirt road. A trail, even, that turns into a driveway after the trees clear and you can actually see the house. 

“This is all yours?” he asks, swears her yard is the size of his apartment lobby. 

She nods. “I mean, it’s mostly trees, but, yeah.”

He’s taken on a tour of the old-style farmhouse, which, by the way, is so incredibly her you’d think the place was built for her—lots of beadboard, all this delicate woodworking that a FaceTime call has never been able to do justice. Thick glass windows with the frame painted over, no central heating or cooling, a couple window air conditioners and old radiators to boot. The most like her, though, is the back porch. It’s screened in, has a creek to the floor that the dusty, antique rugs can only attempt to muffle. There’s two couches that couldn’t match less, but still somehow go with each other, both cozy with throw pillows and cushions and warmth. The whole place smells like her, sounds like her, feels like her. He’s immediately comfortable. 

Chris and Charles spend most of their afternoon trying to plan out their evening. Starting tomorrow morning, their weekend is on a strict schedule, so they want to make the most of their free time tonight before their dinner with her family. They want to make the most of it so badly that they can’t decide on anything at all, and end up falling asleep on her living room couch. 

When Chris’ alarm goes off—the one she’d set the first time she caught herself dozing off, realizing Charles was already passed out next to her—they grumpily get ready to head over to her parents’ house. It’s then, while Charles navigates around Chris and the countertop of her makeup, that she tells him all about Thanksgiving, about her mom pointing out the hickey, and she offers up a warning. “They’re going to pretend they hate you for like, half an hour,” she tells him. “Pretend you’re intimidated.”

“And…” Charles begins, running gelled fingers through his hair. “What if they actually don’t like me?”

“My mom likes everyone,” she says, gestures away at his words. “And my Dad, well, you’ve already met him. He liked you good enough then.”

“He liked me enough to talk to me for ten minutes,” Charles counters. “That doesn’t mean he liked me enough to date his daughter.”

Chris smiles in the mirror, carefully applying her lipstick. “Lucky for you,” she says, “he doesn’t get a say.”

– – –

His leg bounces for the entirety of the ten-minute drive, so much so that at a stop light he can feel how much he shakes the car. Despite that, he doesn’t realize just how nervous he is until they’re in the driveway—which is just as long and trail-like as Chris’ is. Their house is bigger, though. Much bigger. 

His palms are clammy, and he wipes them off on his jeans—should he have worn something nicer than jeans? Jeans are really all he brought besides clothes for the wedding, for sleeping, for working out in. Jeans are fine. Jeans are good. Their driveway is a dirt road, jeans are good. 

“Relax,” Chris says, trying (and failing) to hold back a little chuckle. “It’s not that serious.” He rolls his eyes because it quite literally is that serious. You only get one chance to make a first impression on your girlfriend’s parents, and when your girlfriend is as close to their family as Chris is, it’s an impression you’d really rather not screw the fuck up. “And the longer we sit here, the longer they’re going to watch from the kitchen window.”

With a deep breath, he climbs out of the car, walks up the rest of the drive and onto the porch a pace behind Chris. She raises her hand to knock twice, turning the doorknob and letting herself in before anyone could even attempt to answer the knock. He steps in behind her, into a wallpapered entryway with a tall table full of keys and pictures and discarded mail on one side, and a wooden bench with tan throw pillows on the other side. “Mom! Dad! We’re here!” She shouts into the house. 

A woman’s voice calls back, “in the kitchen! Dad’s upstairs in the office.”

Chris slips off her shoes and Charles follows suit, slotting them under the wooden bench next to hers. He hadn’t worn a coat, but she ducks into a hall closet to hang hers up. He’d worn a sweatshirt over a t-shirt, and he’s pretty sure he’d already sweat through the t-shirt. 

He thinks he could smell his way to the kitchen, the way the scent of the home cooked dinner fills the entire house. He follows behind Chris like a lost puppy into the kitchen, and as soon as she turns the corner and walks through the archway, she’s being greeted by her mom, wrapped into an oven-mitt clad hug. He gets a perfect view of her mom, gaze slotted over Chris’ shoulder. She’s not so scary, he thinks. He can recognize more than one of Chris’ features on her face—in the way she smiles and the shape of her eyes, too. That’s where her smile comes from, and her eyes, too. 

Over her shoulder, Chris’ mom opens her eyes, waves a bangle-bracelet clad, oven-mitt covered hand in his direction. Charles steps fully into the kitchen, determined to make a good first impression. “And  I take it this,” her mom says, pulling away from the hug, “is the charming gentleman you’ve been telling me nothing about?”

Chris laughs, catching his eyes when she says: “Yes, Mom, this is Charles. Charles, this is my mom, Cindy.”

“Hi,” Charles offers a handshake. His friends had reminded him—briefed him, basically—that Americans are fond of their personal space, and he figures if Chris is right, and they are going to be playing the intimidation game with him, there’s no chance he’s getting anything more than a— 

“Oh, please,” Cindy laughs, swatting his hand out of the way. “We hug in this family,” and he’s already being pulled in. His surprised eyes catch Chris’, who looks back at him with an oh, my God. I’m so sorry, glance, which makes him chuckle. If this is what pretending not to like him looks like, he’d hate to see what actually liking him is all about. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he hums, finally pulling away from the hug. “I have heard so much about you.”

“I can’t say the same,” Cindy laughs pointedly at Chris. “But what I have heard has all been good.”

“Well, anything you want to know, I came tonight with my life story ready.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Cindy nods. “Her dad’ll like that a lot.”

“Mama, where’s Beans?” Chris asks, and before he knows it he’s following her out into the backyard for the introduction that he knows is actually the most important. As they stepped onto the lush, green grass, a gentle breeze rustled through the trees. In the corner of the yard, the aforementioned Beans, a friendly Golden Retriever, lays beneath the growing shade of an old oak tree. The fur around his snout is a distinguished shade of white, and he looks up with wise, kind eyes as Chris approaches, his tail shaking slowly at her presence. 

“Here he is, my Beanie Baby,” Chris says with affectionate enthusiasm, crouching down to stroke the dog’s ears. He follows suit, squatting down beside her. “Beanie, this is Charles.”

Charles approaches cautiously, fully aware of just how important this introduction was. He extends his hand, letting Beans sniff it gently. The elderly Golden accepts the gesture, the pace of his tail wagging picking up speed. “Hey Beans,” Charles said softly, voice warm. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Beans responds with a content sigh, his old eyes conveying the years of love and happiness he’s had in this very yard. He leans into Charles’ touch, relishing in the attention.

Chris laughs, “I think he likes you. He’s a bit slower these days, but he’s still the sweetest dog you’ll ever meet.”

After much convincing, and the promise (and fulfillment) of several treat bribes, they’re able to convince Beans to come back into the house, where he curls up on his bed with his milkbones. 

Chris’ dad, who joins everyone else downstairs ten minutes later, pops into the dining room while Chris and Charles are setting the table. Chris looks up in the direction of his footsteps with that radiant smile, warm eyes, like always. “Hi, Dad,” she says, her voice drenched in affection. 

“Mums,” the man smiles softly, greeting her with open arms and a gentle hug. 

“You remember Charles,” she says, and he steps forward, leaving the silverware settings on the tablecloth. Charles extends his hand first, is met with Bill’s firm, heavy handshake. 

“Mr. Elliott, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” His voice is stiff, polite, but there’s still a touch of earnestness that betrays his nerves. “Thank you for having me, I’ve heard a lot about you and your family.”

“Now, son, if I’m bein’ completely honest with you. I never thought I was gonna see you again after Texas. I wasn’t feelin’ you out the way I should’a been, if you know what I mean?”

Charles nods, even though he thinks he picked up about seventy-five percent of what was said. “Yes, sir.” He thinks he’d probably answer any question thrown his way, if it meant when he left tonight it was in her parents’ good graces. 

Her parents, Bill especially, do maintain their intimidating presence for just as long as Chris says they will. Sat at the dinner table with all of them, next to Chris and across from Cindy and Bill, he can’t help but feel the weight of the situation as they all eat. 

“So, Charles,” Bill says, wiping his mouth with a napkin and taking a sip of wine. They’re all nursing glasses of wine, even Charles, who despite never having been particularly fond of the drink, was too scared to say no when Cindy offered. He’d glared daggers at Chris to keep her from speaking up. “Monaco, right?”

Charles nods. “That’s right.”

“A racecar driver from the rich and famous��� playground,” Bill continued. His voice is low and inquisitive. “I’m sure you can see why I might be a lil’...” he chuckles, “worried about you.”

Next to him, Chris cocks her head defensively, leans forward in her seat. “What are you trying to imply, Dad?” Charles unconsciously moves his hand to her lower back in an attempt to reassure her silently. He knows why Bill’s asking questions like this, he knows the reputation certain aspects of his life carry with them. It does put a butterfly or two in his stomach that she’s so eager to jump to his defense, though. 

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just quite the party lifestyle you live, isn’t it, Charles?”

“I don’t know if I would say that,” Charles laughs awkwardly. Chris takes a big sip of her wine, leans back in her chair again. He moves his hand from her back to her leg, where she interlocks it with her own under the table. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll go out with my friends when I’m in town, or we have something to celebrate, but… I’ve honestly become more of a home person these last years.”

Bill raises his brows, takes another bite of his food. “Really?” Charles nods. “That must be difficult, son, all the traveling you do. Alotta’ people in alotta’ cities. How d’ya handle that?”

Charles smiles, fully aware that Bill is just attempting to gauge his character. “It can be lonely at times, but I'm committed to a steady relationship. I like to think I’ve learned to balance my racing career and my personal life.”

“A steady relationship with our daughter.”

Chris squeezes his hand, he squeezes back, smiles softly. “A steady, committed relationship with your daughter, yes.”

Cindy takes a sip of her wine, smiles into the red liquid. She seems satisfied. Bill, not so much. “And what is it that you like most about her?” He asks. 

“Dad,” Chris laughs pointedly at her father, a hint of disbelief in the action. “That’s enough.”

“Sorry, Charles,” Cindy interrupts with an awkward chuckle, an attempt to keep the peace before Chris lunges over the table at her dad. Charles isn’t offended by the question, so he wonders if maybe Cindy is apologizing to Chris more than she is to Charles. “He doesn’t mean to come off so investigative. Chris is just our baby, everyone has always looked out for her.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” he nods, takes a bite of food. “As for the question nobody wants you to ask me,” he looks to Bill, remnants of his food still in his mouth. He speaks with the napkin over his lips. “It’s hard to even find a place to start with that, right? I mean, she…” he glances to Chris, finds that she’s already listening to him intently. He smiles, “you are an incredible person,” and he has to look away, because if he keeps going while staring into her brown eyes, he’s going to be as red as a tomato, completely and utterly smitten. “If you really want me to pick something, I guess I would say her kindness, and I’m sure you’re both familiar enough with her heart that I don’t need to ramble on about how lucky I am to have her in my life.”

Chris sinks in her seat, finishes off what’s left of her wine. “Well, now that I’m properly embarrassed for the rest of my life.”

Cindy laughs. “Oh, Chrissy, I haven’t even gotten the baby pictures out yet.” Chris turns to bury herself in Charles’ arm. He can feel how warm her face is through the fabric of his sweatshirt, and it makes him laugh. 

“Oh, my God,” she mumbles.

Charles’ ears perk up. “There’s baby pictures?”

Chris nods against his arm. “She’s a scrapbooker.”

He’s so boggled by the way that they can just switch up after that, the way that they stop trying to intimidate him and welcome him with open arms. He thinks that his Mum could never, that she knows within the first thirty seconds of meeting someone if she likes them or not. When it comes to Pascale Leclerc, you’re forever categorized by her first impression. He didn’t tell Chris that, because he didn’t want to worry her more than she already was in her sweats and messy-hair in Abu Dhabi. 

After the meal had been cleaned up, the four of them sat comfortably in the living room of Chris’ childhood home. Their home is so nice, so warm and welcoming.  He wonders if it’s always been such a comfortable place. 

Chris is sprawled out on the corner-seat of the sectional couch, Beans taking up the seat next to her, his head in her lap while she pets him mindlessly. Charles sits on the floor, back to the corner cushion, legs outstretched in front of him under the coffee table. Bill is in the recliner in the corner, working his way through a newspaper crossword puzzle, half-dozing off every ten minutes. 

Cindy carries a cardboard box down the stairs, sets it down on the coffee table in the middle of the family room. It’s full to the brim with worn, leather-bound scrapbooks, with Christyn Claire neatly written on the side of the box. She sits down on the floor next to him. Carefully, she pulls one out and gently sets it on the table, brushing the dust off the black leather cover. 

Charles watches as she flips open the pages, each one filled with their own vibrant photos, handwritten notes, and little trinkets that tell a story of young Chris. Charles can’t help the smile on his face when he sees the images of her in every stage of life, from a curious toddler with messy, curly pigtails to a teenager with the same smile he can’t get enough of. 

Cindy’s eyes sparkle with pride, and she has an anecdote for each and every photo. He’s captivated by it, not just the snapshots, but also the obvious love Cindy carries for her daughter. 

“This is Chrissy on the first day of school,” She explained, pointing to a picture of a young girl with a backpack almost as big as herself. “She was so excited to learn, has always been eager to take on new challenges.” Charles nods, hangs onto every word she says. “She’s always been a quick learner, even then.”

Cindy continues to flip through the pages, her and Charles silently sharing in knowing smiles at photos they both know Chris would find particularly embarrassing, making sure she doesn’t catch onto their shared moment from her seat on the couch. Cindy reveals photos from family vacations, birthdays, and school events. Her tales of Chris’ adventures—combined with Chris’ personal renditions added in—make for quite a delightful, and humorous, evening. 

“Ah, this one,” Cindy chuckles as she turns the page, revealing a picture of a grinning Chris covered head to toe in colorful paint. “We had an art day in the backyard, and Chrissy decided she'd rather paint herself than the paper.”

He laughed along, felt like he was growing more and more connected to Chris and her family with every shared memory. Part of him wonders if this is still a part of the protective parent act. If it is, it’s definitely doing its job. You can’t be mean to someone when you look at them and imagine the tiny version of them playing dress-up in a princess themed bedroom, or helping wash Dad’s car, or taking a nap at the beach on a mermaid towel. He should get a few baby pictures from his mom, he thinks. To show them to Chris, just so that she isn’t allowed to hurt him. 

“She’s always had a big heart,” Cindy said, her smile warm. “Her friends were like extended family,” she continues, pointing out a picture of Chris and several other little children. She points to a blonde, “You’ve met Hannah, right?”

“We’re going there, next, Ma,” Chris interjects. 

“Oh, well. This is her when she was five. I think Chris invited her to spend the night for weeks at a time.”

Charles nods, everything he knows about her, the way that she makes friends with anyone she interacts with, it all tracks, can all be seen in these pictures. He thinks that he could sit on the floor all night and go through every single picture in every single scrapbook, and still wouldn’t have enough, wouldn’t know enough about her. 

– – –

They leave the Elliott’s house a little after nine, and the air outside is cooler, now, the day fully transitioned into night. Charles sits in the passenger seat, eyeing Chris’ ability to perfectly maintain a speed two under the limit, and the way that she flipped her brights on everytime another car wasn’t cruising down the road. It seemed like this entire town was half-covered in wooded areas, so he supposes it’s better to keep an eye out for any wild animals. The warmth of the evening experience with her parents still radiates through him, but their conversation is now focused on their next destination; Chase and Hannah’s house. 

Chris, in the driver’s seat, is more animated than ever. She was preparing him carefully for the meeting, the anticipation of how her best friend and brother would perceive him hung in the air. She explained on the drive from the airport earlier that day that she’d “promised Hannah she would meet you before the wedding.”

As they rolled to a stop at a red light, Charles cast a quick glance over to her, feeling the weight of her guidance. “What should I know about them? Any advice on how to impress them?”

“Gosh,” she’d said, “I don’t know. Hannah’s easy. Chase is weird, but, just talk about cars or something. He really likes, um,” she pauses. “He races with you… from Australia, I think.”

Charles mulled over the comment, committing it to memory. There’s only one Australian he can think of racing against. “Daniel?”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Daniel Ricciardo. He really likes him.”

Charles absorbs the information, realizing that Daniel would serve as an excellent conversation starter about racing. The light turns green, and she checks the intersection for a comically long amount of time before proceeding. He does everything he can not to laugh, and is hit with a sudden wave of gratitude towards the way he’s been wholly and completely welcomed into her life like this. The night of endless nerves aside, the excitement of learning all the chapters of her life that predate him is something he isn’t going to take for granted. 

– – –

They arrive at Chase and Hannah’s house for a relatively relaxed night in, greeted by the warm glow of a bonfire crackling in the backyard. The air was filled with the smokey scent of burning wood, and the soft lull of a country song pouring from a speaker. 

“Hi!” Hannah calls before the couple is even halfway through the back gate. “Hi, Hi, Hi, oh my gosh!” she squeals, hurrying over to the gate to greet them. “It’s about fucking time,” she adds, pulling Chris into a tight hug. You’d think it was the first time they’d seen each other in weeks, but Charles knew they were together just that morning. “And you,” the blonde continues, “must be Charles. Unlike everyone else around here, I’ve actually heard a lot about you,” she laughs. 

He laughs too, accepts her open-arms for a hug. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“William Chase,” Hannah calls to the man standing over the fire, a stoker stick in one hand, a glass beer bottle in the other. His head shoots up from the embers when he’s called.  He holds his beer up as a welcoming gesture, but Hannah isn’t satisfied. “Get over here!”

He meets them halfway through the yard, in a part that’s unlit by either the house lights or the glow of the fire. “Hey,” Chase says with a relaxed smile, pulling Chris into a side hug, and then approaching Charles with an outstretched hand. “You must be Charles,” he says, the two exchanging a laid-back handshake before pulling each other into a bro-hug. “It’s good to meet you, man. You want a beer or something?”

“I can get it myself,” Charles assures, “just tell me where they are.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hannah scoffs, “You’re a guest,” she insists, and it is already halfway up the steps of the back porch. “You want one, too, Chris?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Chris smiles, her hand finding his in the space between their bodies, interlocking their fingers and pulling him over to the fire Chase has already returned to. 

Chris and Charles find a cozy spot on the porch swing that sits in front of the firepit, a shared bench that seemed to be the ideal medium between two chairs and sitting on top of each other, perfect for family introductions. They sit side by side, thighs brushing against each other, his arm around her nursing his beer. Charles keeps the swing moving with his feet, but Chris has one leg crossed over the other, the base of her beer bottle leaving a darkened ring of condensation on her jeans everytime she picks it up. 

“You want another one, Chris?” Chase asks, shaking his empty beer bottle by its neck when he heads back inside for another round, and per Hannah’s request, to check on Reid. 

“I’m okay,” Chris smiles. She’s turned fully sideways, now, her back resting against his shoulder, both legs off the ground and onto the other end of the bench. “I’m driving home,” and then she cranes her neck to look at him. “Do you want another?”

“No,” he says, because he’s pretty sure he can already feel her dozing off while they swing, is almost certain it’s going to end up being him driving back to her place tonight. “Thank you, though,” and then he kisses the top of her head, pulls his arm out from under her body weight to wrap around her front lazily. She adjusts to his adjustment, leans into him and finds a comfortable curve in his chest. 

Even among the scent of wood and fresh cut grass and smoke, he’s found himself in the perfect position to smell her hair without even trying. He thinks he’s finally nailed her shampoo, coconut and rose, he’s almost sure of it. 

“Mate, Chris was telling me you’re a Daniel Ricciardo fan?” Charles asks, looking for a way to break the ice into a more active conversation, utilizing the very few tools he has at his disposal. Chase and Hannah seem both way lower-stress than Bill and Cindy did, but he'd still like to leave tonight knowing he made a good impression. Or, at least leave knowing he tried his hardest to make one. 

“Yeah, man. We actually started racing at COTA in 2020, and Renault and Daniel did this thing with our team, gave me a little good-luck message and stuff. It was real cool. I’ve been a fan of him since.”

Surprised, and trying to find common ground, Charles asks: “Do you follow Formula One?”

“You know, I tried after the whole Daniel thing, but,” he shrugs nonchalantly, takes another swig of his beer and leans back in his seat. “Honestly, all respect, but there’s just nothing quite like the roar of a stock car at Daytona for me. It’s like thunder, man.”

Charles nodded, an eager grin on his face. He doesn’t know much about NASCAR, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t study up on it during the flight over. “The sound of those engines at full throttle must be crazy. It’s V8’s, right?”

“Yeah, V8. What are y’all running? Isn’t it hybrids?”

“Yes,” Charles laughs. “They’re crazy with the engineering. Basically, you have a turbo V6 combined with energy recovery systems… it all helps keep us lightweight.”

“That’s another thing that blows my mind, how light your cars are! I know you pull crazy downforce, but I swear it’s a totally different game on an oval, dude. Our cars are like, thirty-three hundo.”

Charles’ eyes go wide. He knew they were heavier, but that’s like… it’s more than double, he thinks, or has to be close to it “Oh, my God!” He laughs, taking another sip of his beer. Chris chuckles, too—he feels it in his chest. He also feels the nonsensical shapes and patterns that she traces over his sweatshirt sleeve while he talks, the way she seems completely lost in toying with the fabric. 

“I know, you guys got fuckin’ feathers compared to us!” Chase gins, joining in on the laughter. 

Charles leans forwards a bit, and when he does it, Chris adjusts her positioning. She’s somehow managed to slide gracefully down until she was curled up on the wooden bench, resting on her side with her head on his tights. She’d found a makeshift pillow in his lap, and he couldn’t mind it less. “Yeah, I don’t know,” he says, checking his watch so that when Chris asks him later tonight ‘when did I fall asleep?’ he can give her a proper answer. “We are all about precision, crazy aero packages. It’s not just about speed and downforce, it has to be managed so perfectly.”

“There ain’t no time for precision when you’re wheel-to-wheel at Talladega. It’s all about survival. We’re out there swapping paint and shit. Bumping and drafting are all a part of the game.”

“How crazy is that?” He questions, even though he doesn’t have more than an educated guess as to what drafting is. “The way the air affects your car when you’re always that close?”

“I mean, I guess I don’t notice it all that much because I’m so used to it, but yeah. We’re always pushing the limits, especially in the high-banked ovals. Drafting is both your best friend and your worst enemy.”

“Drafting, mate,” he peruses, taking a shot in the dark when he says: “that’s like getting the slipstream, no?”

“Exactly, yeah,” Chase nods. “All drag reduction shit.”

“It’s crazy, when we’re wheel-to-wheel, we’ll do about anything not to make contact”

“It’s ‘cause your shit weighs ten pounds,” Chase laughs. “It’ll fly away if there’s any contact.”

They go on like that for some time, comparing technicalities. There are few things Charles appreciates more in life than actually getting to sit down and talk racing with someone—true, technical, perfectionist racing. There’s no investigating what the problem with this year’s car is, or what he hopes happens next season. It’s just… how they work. How different formula racing is from stock cars. He feels like this is something he can actually talk about, a conversation he knows he can contribute knowledge to. 

“Riveting stuff, boys, really,” Hannah finally interjects, sitting down into her camping chair. Charles hadn’t even noticed she’d left, but here she was popping the bottle cap off another beer, taking a big swig. “You put Chris to sleep and I’m on my fucking way.”

Charles stills, his movements suddenly gentler as he tries to crane his neck to see her face. “She’s asleep?” He asks, half-whispered. 

Hannah nods, and Chase chuckles, “Dude, she’s been out cold for like half an hour.”

He smiles down at her, shaking his head, and then checks his watch again. 10:36pm, she didn’t even make it an hour and a half, poor girl. Charles brushes her hair out of her face and carries on with the conversation. His mind is completely absent to the fact that his fingers continue their exploration of her hair, a natural masterpiece of unruly waves. Each strand has its own rhythm, defying any form of order. The curls become even more pronounced as they cascade toward the nape of her neck, dancing freely with the erratic breeze. 

At the root of her bangs, there’s a stubborn cowlick, and one side of her face-framing cut has a mind of its own, constantly threatening to tumble into her eyes. Amidst all that delightful chaos, small, intricate braids intermingle with the curls, held together with tiny brown elastics. His touch is reverent as he selects one, playfully twisting it around his finger while he speaks. 

With painstaking care, he slides the elastic from the braid, and doesn't miss a beat in conversation with Hannah and Chase as he carefully unravels it. Their words dance in the air around him, and by the time he becomes cognizant of his actions, he’s on the last little braid. 

When it’s time to turn in for the evening, when the conversations are more yawns than actual questions, Charles wakes Chris up softly. He runs his hand up and down her upper arm slowly, squeezes her elbow to coax the sleep from her heavy eyes. “Baby,” he hums softly. 

Chris stirs with a groan, sits up and stares back at him with empty eyes, like she has no clue what year it is. He bites back a smile at the state of her, raises his brows and waits for her to say something, to scold him grumpily for waking her up. Chris Elliott is a force to be reckoned with when she’s woken up, and it’s something you only have to witness once to be scared of ever seeing again. She doesn’t scold, though. 

Instead, a soft smile pulls on the corner of her lips. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he smiles back. She’s already leaning against the far armrest of the swing, curling up into the corner like she’s going to go back to sleep. She probably will, it’s been far too easy to wake her up. His hand finds her knee, thumb rubbing circles along the denim fabric. “Are you ready to go home?”

She nods, but her eyes are already closed again. Chase is already dousing the fire with water. Hannah’s already inside cleaning up. Charles opts to leave her there, sweet and peaceful, while he collects her things from inside. 

It’s the first time he’s been in the house, and it's just as ambient as the backyard is. The warm glow of the dimmed lights accentuate the charm of their modern-farmhouse decor; wooden shelves bathed in the soft radiance, full of potted succulents, framed photographs, and small artworks that offer a glimpse into their lives. Large, strategically placed windows allowed for a gentle cascade of moonlight to slow, making the entire place feel calm and serene.

Chris has been wearing a pair of Hannah’s slippers since she went inside for the first time, so the first thing he looks for is her shoes. He finds them in the entryway, just outside the door, and finds her keys on a small table there, too. Her phone is on the kitchen counter, the purple silicone case practically glowing against the black granite countertops and pristine white cabinetry. In the living room, he notices a little figure lying on the couch—Reid, he assumes, lies nestled under a Cars blanket, a scene of pure childhood innocence set against the backdrop of grown-up sophistication. The entire room excludes warmth, thanks to an oversized gray sofa and a plush rug, all enhanced by the dull LCD of the quiet television and subtle nighttime lighting. Behind a throw pillow on the same couch, he finally uncovers her purse, carefully slipping it out so as to not disturb the sleeping child. 

“It’s not worth the fight sometimes,” Hannah explains, but Charles didn’t need one. He remembers the age of begging to have a sleepover on the living room couch, to stay out past his bedtime and watch shows on the big television. It was the highlight of his weekends, sometimes. 

“He’s adorable,” Charles says. “I love the blanket.”

Hannah chuckles softly, crossing her arms over each other to hug her small frame. “It’s his favorite movie,” she shrugs. “Wants to be just like his dad.”

He puts all of her things in the car before he even attempts at getting her into the car. Everything is neatly put into a place, her address typed into his GPS by Hannah and plugged into the aux on the radio, and she still sleeps on the swing. 

His humor buoyed by the absurdity of the situation, Charles decided to start with the slippers. He gently slid them off her feet, one by one, and handed them over to Chase, who watched on with the bemusement of an audience at a comedy show. With a soft, nearly conspiratorial tone, Charles whispers: “Chris, baby,” planting a tender kiss on her forehead. 

In response, she produces a mumbling symphony of incoherent sounds. “That’s not French, mon amour,” he chides playfully, prompting a breathy laugh from her lips. His aim is to keep her here, to prolong that delicate state of semi-sleep where she tattered between slumber and annoyance. “Let’s go home, yes?” he inquired. 

Chris, in her hazy state, offered a subtle nod. Charles grinned, heart painfully warm, and said, “Could you help me out?”

In response, she obligingly wraps her arms around his neck, and he effortlessly hoists her into his arms, carrying her in a bridal-style embrace. He guides her to the waiting car with gentle steps, Chase strolling alongside them to open the car door.  She stirs when he sets her in the seat, fastening her seatbelt. 

Chase shuts the door and the two of them exchange a classic, old-as-time bro-handshake-goodbye, a silent acknowledgement of both their meeting today and their future introductions all weekend long. 

It’s not until they’re at her house, the soft purr of the engine falling silent as he properly parked in the driveway, that she’s really awake. Her sleepy eyes flutter open with the automatic cab lights. 

He moves swiftly, circling the car quickly to open the door for her. As she grumpily emerges from the car, he gives her an encouraging smile. “Go get ‘em, killer.” he playfully whispers, his hands working against her shoulders. She meets him with a death-glare he could never possibly be afraid of. 

Chuckling, he plucks her phone from the passenger seat, locks the car before following her up the driveway.

The journey inside concludes shortly in her room. Chris has an early morning ahead, and a late night, too. Charles marvels at the resilience; doesn’t know how she’ll manage tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. As she settles in under the comforter, he can’t help but watch her for a moment, all sweet and sleepy and beautiful, like always. 

Soon enough, the exhaustion creeps up on him, too, and he finally succumbs to sleep’s gentle embrace, entwined with the woman he finds himself cherishing more with what feels like each passing breath. 

– – –

He wakes up when the soft chimes of her alarm break through the morning darkness. The dim glow of the clock on the nightstand reads 6:30 am, and it was clear that daylight has yet to pierce the veil of a southern winter outside. 

He can’t help but appreciate her attempts to tiptoe through her morning routine. The effort is commendable, really, but the old, creaky wooden floors and the protesting door dram betray her intentions. He doesn’t mind, though—How could he? Any moment with her, even early morning ones where she bustles around the space, is better than a moment without. 

Lying in the cozy bed—which, by the way, her bed is so fucking comfortable, he allows himself to fully wake up, knows that her morning rituals would be far more entertaining than any dream he could have cocooned in sleep. 

His sleepy gaze watches her as she moves through the bedroom gracefully, her face illuminated by the soft glow of dawn creeping in from the curtains. He smiles at the little sounds and routines that make up her life, the ones he never gets to see, to savor. Watching her move about is a special kind of beauty, one that makes him feel lucky, insanely so, to experience a life with her in it. 

Leaving the comfort of the bed, he ventures out into the kitchen. He knew she had an early start, a long day away from him, and he was determined to steal every extra moment they could share. 

She’s finishing her lunch, packing it into her backpack when he sneaks up behind her, snaking his arms around her middle and hugging her from behind. “Hi,” she laughs, turning around in his arms to face him properly. 

He gives her a kiss and her lips taste like her morning coffee. He marvels at the ease with which she can make someone’s day—make his day. 

She grins, and there is a special kind of mischief in her eyes when she playfully warns him: “Promise you won’t get lost in the woods and eaten by a bear today,” she says, and then, because she can’t help but add it, “At least wait until I’m there to witness it.”

With a chuckle, he teases, “I can always outrun you, they say you only have to be faster than the other guy.”

Her laughter bubbles out, filling the room, and his chest, with warmth. “You wouldn’t let me get eaten by a bear,” she replies. 

He pauses for a minute, then playfully concedes, “Well, I might.”

“Wouldn’t.”

“Would.”

– – –

After she left work, he found himself helpless in the war against sleep. What was the point if she wasn’t around to keep him up? If nothing was around to keep him up? It was almost eight o’clock before he finally got up for the day, feeling refreshed and ready for yet another evening of introductions. 

His breakfast consists of a simple serving of toast, nothing anywhere near extravagant, but enough to stave off his hunger. Not to mention, he’d rather not make a mess in her house with the very first thing he does all day. 

After breakfast, he heads out for a run, decides he’s going to try and navigate his way around without getting lost. He fails, miserably, because it seems like everywhere he looks has the same landmarks—trees, trees, and more trees. The cool air is invigorating, though, and the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the pavement keeps his mind clear, gives him a certain appreciation for the fact that he doesn’t have to keep his eyes and ears open for anyone who might be watching him. No, here it’s just him, just Charles. There’s nothing special about it, which is what makes it so fucking special. 

Returning home—to her home—he enjoys a shower that washes away the cold sweat of the run. Dressed and ready, he ponders his plans for the rest of his day. It’s hours still until Chris is home and the festivities really kick off. 

As if on cue, his phone buzzes, Chase’s name popping up on the Caller ID. Hannah had insisted on him exchanging numbers with both of them the night earlier. Just in case Chris decides to fuck off to another country again without telling us, she’d said. 

He answers, listens to Chase’s offer to join in on a round of 9 holes with him and Bill, considers it for only a moment, and accepts enthusiastically. He’s in the passenger seat of Chase’s truck within the half-hour. 

“Survived the dragon, I see?” Chase greets Charles with a smile, clearly still amused over the previous night’s encounter. 

Charles chuckles. “Just barely.”

– – –

The day was pristine for golf, with a brilliant blue sky overhead and a gentle breeze. Charles has played at some pretty impressive courses around the world, but something about this one felt special. The green really wasn’t all the lush, and the views weren’t outstandingly picturesque, but. But, there was something that felt so special about it. 

Bill, the most experienced of them, begins the round with an expertly executed swing that has Charles chuckling under his breath. His ball soars through the air, landing with pinpoint accuracy in the fairway. Chase follows with a powerful drive that seems to only gain momentum as it sails. It gracefully lands not far from Bill’s.

Charles takes his stance, feels a bit like a circus clown amidst his partners, but steadies himself nonetheless. He draws the club back, manages a swing with a surprising degree of finesse. The ball leaps from the tee and manages an astonishingly straight shot that lands in a… respectable position. He’s not too far off Bill and Chase. 

Charles would never call himself a golfer, but he’s grateful for Chase and Bill’s attitude—the way they are constantly pretending he’s better than he is, blaming any mistakes (he has a beach full of sand in his shoes from all the traps) on the fact he’s rented his clubs from the course. 

As they stroll down the lush, sunlit fairway on one of the holes, Charles decides he’s brave enough to start a conversation, rather than just participate in one. He turns to Chase as he addresses the only topic he can think of. “So, tomorrow’s the big day, huh? You’re feeling good?”

Chase grinned, golf club slung casually over his shoulder. “Dude, more than anything. I’ve been trying to marry Hannah for a long time. I’m lucky, you know.”

Bill nodded, “Y’all are all but by now.”

“Anything specific you’re excited for?” Charles questions, can’t help but be curious about the details. “Or just a big ball of excited?”

Chase chuckles. “I’m really looking forward to the ceremony. The moment I see her walking down the aisle, it’s gonna be somethin’ else.”

Charles smiles. He wasn’t expecting such a romantic answer, not given what he’s experienced from Chase up to this point. His answer feels more like something you tell your closest friends, not your little sister’s boyfriend you’d just met for the first time the night before. “How about the holiday? Any special plans?”

Chase’s eyes lit up into a laugh. “Ah, the honeymoon. Yeah, we’re going somewhere… sometime. I don’t know, it’s not at the top of our list of things to get done.”

“All I know, Son,” Bill, whose been quiet for what feels like some time now, offers up some wisdom, “Tomorrow’s gonna be real overwhelmin’, but remember it’s your day. Savor all of it.”

Chase nods in agreement, “Don’t worry, Pops,” he chuckles, pats Bill on the shoulder, “I’ll savor it all.”

“And if you get nervous,” Charles laughs, “feel free to let it mess you up out here,” he says, gesturing to the fairway. The whole trio shares a laugh, but Charles seriously wouldn’t mind if the other two suddenly forgot how to golf. 

With Chase excusing himself to meet up with Hannah at the rehearsal dinner venue, Charles is left with just Bill, the pair heading up to the country club’s restaurant for a late lunch. The ambiance inside is refined, and they sit next to big floor-to-ceiling windows that offer views of the manicured greens and vast wooded area they’re situated inside. 

As they settle into their table, Charles takes a sip of his water, wiping the condensation from his hand on the side of his pants. He can feel the weight of the conversation that’s likely to follow—there’s no Cindy or Chris around to keep him in check like there was last night. 

Bill, cutting right to the chase, speaks in a casual tone. “So, Charles, how’re you finding our little corner of Georgia? I reckon it’s awful different from Monaco.”

Charles smiled, appreciating the comfortability of his voice. Maybe Chris was right, he was getting himself worked up yesterday over nothing. “It’s different, for sure,” he laughs. “Home is home, but there is something about the calmness here, the open space. It’s refreshing. And meeting everyone, it’s been great.”

Bill, who’s been nothing but stern in his expression for the entire time Charles has known him, seems to soften, even if just slightly. “I gotta admit, I was a lil’bit… cautious when I first learned about you and Chris. Fathers, y’know, we worry.”

“I can imagine,” Charles nods. He understands. Of course he understands. “You have my word, I have pure intents. Chris means a lot to me.”

Bill seems fully contemplative now, his usual sternness fully replaced when he looks back at Charles. “She’s real happy with you from what I can see, and her brother tells me you treat her real well. That’s the kinda stuff that matters to me.”

His chest feels stupidly warm at the remark. If Chris is half as happy as he is, they’ve really got something here. Something real. Scary real. “I care about her deeply, Sir, and I want her to be happy, too.”

Bill chuckles under his breath, shakes his head softly. “You’re not seventeen, son. You can call me Bill.”

“I care a lot about your daughter, Bill.” It’s an easy thing to do, he thinks. There can’t be a person in this world that knows her and doesn’t care for her. Not when everything about her makes him believe in luck, in something otherworldly—Gods or guardian angels or invisible strings. 

“See?” Bill questions, picking around what’s left on his plate with his fork. “We’re already buddies.”

– – –

Bill drops Charles off just before Chris gets home from work. He’s not in the house for ten minutes, is still moving around the kitchen searching for a glass to fill with water when the door swings open. Chris enters the kitchen with Reid, half a dozen things in her arms and a familiar four-year-old in tow. “Hey,” she greets, lifting her bags onto the counter next to him, setting down all of her belongings. 

“Hi,” he greets, hand finding a familiar space on her lower back, pulling her closer to him, to lean down and give her a quick kiss. “How was your day?” 

“Long… and chaotic,” she sighs, forcing a weary smile onto her lips. Charles frowns. Searching her eyes for elaboration, she just shrugs. “Reid, say hi to Charles,” she introduces. “Charles, this is my little tornado, my nephew, Reid.”

Reid looks up at him with bright eyes and a mischievous grin. “Can I call you Chuck?”

Charles laughs. “No, you can call him Charles,” Chris answers on his behalf, before he gets the chance to tell the kid to call him whatever he wants. 

Reid rolls his eyes. “Hi, Charles,” he huffs. “Auntie Chris says you’re gonna help me get ready.”

Charles smiles warmly. “That’s what I hear. It’s quite a mission to accomplish, do you think you are up for it?”

Reid nodded enthusiastically. “Totally. I’m almost five.”

Chris chuckles, and Charles’ eyes shoot over to her when she does. Hearing her laugh isn’t enough, he needs to see it, to share in it. “Good luck with the tie,” she tells him. Charles winks at Chris, grins down at the kid in front of him. “Reid, you like Cars, right?”

Reid’s eyes go wide, his head snapping over to look at Chris, who matches his expression with a smile on her face. He turns back to face Charles, “How did you know that?”

“So, it’s true?”

Reid nods apprehensively. “I love Cars. My Dad is in Cars 3, y’know? He’s got, like, a awesome race car.”

Charles feigned surprise, “No way! That’s like being a superhero.” He leans down conspiratorially, speaks quietly, just to Reid. “Do you know Lightning McQueen?”

Reid’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he launched into a passionate monologue about the Cars movies, the story, and the characters—paying a special interest to Chase’s automotive-self in the animated world. Charles listens with genuine interest while Chris quietly prepares a snack for the boy. 

He gets ready while Reid eats, moves around Chris in the bathroom. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, using her entire arm to move her stuff off one side of the sink vanity. “I’m taking up your side,” she continues, pulling her curling iron out of her hair, carefully cradling the steaming strands. Charles smiles. His side. He kisses her softly, then— mindful of her unfinished makeup and hair. She smiles out of it, gives him another quick peck, “what was that for?”

He shrugs, reaching for his hair gel, “Just because.” 

– – –

They get to Dahlonega right at five o’clock, thanks in massive part to Charles’ ability to comfortably drive above the speed limit, and in small part to Chris’ ability to finish her makeup while Charles does a poor job at avoiding potholes. 

Every event this weekend takes place at the same place—a vineyard about thirty (if you speed) minutes from Chris’ house, but it’s nothing like what he would usually think of as a quote-en-quote vineyard. It’s more of a… barn put in the middle of a field, but. It’s beautiful nonetheless. 

“How do I look?” Chris asks as they walk up the long drive from the parking lot to the barn. She runs her hands over the thighs of her jeans, straightening them out. 

“Do a spin,” Charles says, and she does. “Hot,” he nods, smiles. Chris rolls her eyes. “Always hot.”

Hannah is running around with a woman wearing a nametag—the wedding planner, he assumes—like a chicken with its head cut off when they get there. Reid bolts away from them as soon as Chase is in his eyeline, chatting with his groomsmen around the bar. Charles trails behind Chris, hand interlocked with hers, as she makes her way over to a frazzled Hannah.

She greets them with a smile, swiping her hair off her shoulders and opening her arms for hugs. “You look beautiful,” Charles comments, kisses either of her cheeks. 

“Oh,” She laughs. “This is new.”

Charles laughs, pulling away from the hug, “Sorry.”

“Oh, no. It’s fun,” she says, looking to Chris. “You should’ve dated someone French a long time ago.”

“He’s not French.”

“But y—”

Chris cuts her off. “Monégasque,” she continues. Charles smiles meekly. “And very proud.”

The setting sun cast a warm glow over the venue as the wedding rehearsal began. Charles found himself sitting in the second row, behind both Chase’s family and with the rest of the partners of the bridal party. 

They’re orchestrated by the meticulous woman with a name tag from earlier, carefully moved through the motions of the ceremony tomorrow. Charles watches with quiet amusement as they navigate each and every step with precision. The officiant guided them through the script, the words blending into a hum that surrounded the ceremony space. 

He partakes in the bland small talk with the other partners—how beautiful, how exciting, how sweet—all the stuff that random strangers with no present connections have to talk about. Charles can't help but glance at Chris intermittently, catching her eye and exchanging silent conversations that only they understand. She’s just so pretty up there, her brown curls cascading off her shoulders while she holds two mock-up bouquets of flowers. She bounces in place, practically, obviously half as tired and bored with it all as he is. 

As the run-throughs progress, he can feel her restlessness like it’s his own. Her wide eyes betray her thoughts when, without words she tells him, this is so boring.

He chuckles under his breath, meeting her gaze with the minute raise of his brows, an unspoken agreement passing between them. So boring.

The repetition of the steps continues, though, each run-through blending together into the next. Charles and Chris share more glances, continue to communicate the same sentiment of impatience to a point of amusement. In the stolen moments, he finds solace in the connection, a reminder that even the most orchestrated events can’t stifle their shared sense of humor. 

As the rehearsal finally drew to a close, the sun dipped below the horizon casting a warm, golden hue over the gathering. The group dispersed, heading towards the dinner that awaited them. 

When Charles catches up to Chris, she’s talking with the best man—Ryan, who the wedding planner kept asking to take this a bit more seriously. He seems nice enough, brother-y enough. Charles thinks he probably has a few good stories about Chris, even more about Chase. 

“Everyone always thought we had a thing going,” Chris tells him after the introduction has finished, while the two of them wait at the bar for their drinks. 

His brows raise, leaning back off the bar to scan the room for the guy. “Do you want me to be jealous?” He asks, lets his hand rest on the small of her back, thumb moving smoothly against the fabric of her top. 

“No,” she says, but the smile on her lips tells him she’d be entertained by the sight of a jealous version of him. “I just didn’t want you to hear it from someone else this weekend.”

He nods, picking up the drink that’s set down in front of him/ “Well, did you?” He asks, taking a swig of the dark liquor. 

“Did I what?” Chris asks, moving her drink closer to her, stirring it with a little black straw. 

“Did you guys date?”

“Oh,” she shakes her head. “Never.”

Charles nods. “Shame, I was going to put on a show.”

The welcome party kicks into full swing after the satisfying sit-down meal. Laughter and chatter fill the rustic barn, the air buzzing with the lively energy of the gathering, of the weekend. Charles, having eaten the entirety of his dinner earlier, finds himself following Chris as she seamlessly navigates the crowd. 

The burger truck, stationed at the edge of the venue, offered a tempting array of late-night treats. The scene of grilled meat wafted through the air, enticing those who weren’t around for the earlier, intimate dinner. 

The barn was alive with the murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, the bursts of laughter. It seems like a million people fill the space, a million strangers—a mix of extended family and friends and coworkers and distant relatives and even distant-er friends. For him, all of these faces are unfamiliar, and he relies on Chris like a lifeline to guide him through most of the interactions. 

She effortlessly leads the way, introducing him with a warmth that mirrors her nature of being. She moves through the place like she owned it, with a grace that seems to come naturally to her, connecting with friends and family alike. Everyone seems thrilled to see her, absolutely beside themselves. He understands them, even if he doesn’t know them, and observes with quiet admiration her ability to make everyone feel at ease. 

She seems to flourish in social settings, her personality shining brightly. She greets old friends with hugs, shares jokes with cousins, compliments grandparents’ outfits, and introduces him to each and every one of them, punctuates every interaction with her infectious laughter. 

He’s always felt like he’s more of a one-on-one guy, that his connections are better made independently rather than in groups. Chris, though, could lead a crowd anywhere with this unwavering confidence. She doesn’t make a single misstep all night, navigating the whole evening perfectly, makes an evening he’d spent the majority of outside his comfort zone anything but unsettling. With her, his words feel valued, important, intelligent. He’s content to be her partner in social settings longer than anyone should be. 

It’s long past midnight when they finally get back to her house, the fatigue of the day well-settled on their skin, casting a convincing sleeping spell that made the prospect of a comfortable bed a welcomed one. 

The house is silent, the hush of the night hugging them as they reach the bedroom, the weariness of their bones palpable. Anything but falling into the comforter seems like quite the ambitious endeavor. 

The comfort of the sheets cradles them as they sink into the mattress, a shared haven offering respite from the busy weekend. “Next time I come here,” Charles yawns, the effort of the evening present in his voice, “we are doing nothing.”

She must be more drained, he thinks, she’d worked almost a whole day before this, but contently, she responds with a gentle hum, snuggled up close to him. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Perfect.” The simplicity of doing nothing seems like the perfect plan, a promise of unhurried moments and the luxury of just being together. He wants more of that. He wants more of her. 

– – –

He wakes up for the first time that morning, if you can really call it waking up, to the shift of the bed as she climbs out of it. He doesn’t check the clock, doesn’t even hear more than the creak of the floor before he’s back asleep. He wakes up for the second time, and you still probably can’t call it that, to her standing over him, fingers running through his hair. She gives him a kiss and comments on something he can’t hear through sleep. 

The third time he wakes up that morning, it’s to the ringing of his phone on the bedside table. Her name is on the screen, a photo of her grinning in front of a statue in Monaco and holding a thumbs-up. 8:34, his phone reads. The sun is shining in through the opening in the curtains. 

She’d forgotten the steamer on the living room coffee table when one of the other bridesmaids picked her up two hours earlier. He says he’ll bring it, asks if the girls want coffee, swears he remembers her order. She texts him the other three girls’ orders. Within the hour, he’s riding with the wedding planner on a golf cart from the parking lot to the bridal suite with four long-winded coffees in one hand and a steamer in the other. 

He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into the bridal suite, but it wasn’t what he found. The chaos hangs in the air like a sweet perfume. He weaves between makeup artists, hair stylists, and bridesmaids to find Chris, talking with Hannah and a makeup artist about what’s about to be painted onto the bride-to-be’s face, fulfilling her maid-of-honor duties. 

Chris looks up quickly to scan the room, eyes landing on him and immediately returning to the conversation at hand before doing a double-take, a heavy sigh leaving her lips when she recognizes him and the objects he carries. 

“Hey,” she greets, takes the steamer from his hand and kisses him. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you,” and she kisses him again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he laughs, pulls a coffee out of the cardboard cup holder and hands it to her. “Your hot dirty chai with one shot of espresso, oat milk, and salted caramel.”

“A man after my heart,” she says, taking a sip of the drink. He winks—anything more and he’d blush bright red—and continues reading the orders off. 

“Brown sugar oat milk latte with blonde espresso for Hannah,” he says, pulling it out and handing it to the blonde and pulling out the next one. “This is the… Iced matcha latte with soy milk and strawberry cold foam, and the…” he holds up the cupholder, one drink left in it, “Caramel brûlée latte.”

The groom’s house—which is where he’s affectionately sent to after the coffee delivery—is a direct contrast to the bridal suite. College football plays on the television, the cheers and groans of the game providing a lively soundtrack to the prelude of the wedding. The girls were all half-ready, but the guys are still shoveling breakfast foods into their mouths on the leather sofa. 

Noon arrives, and with it the collective decision that it was time to actually start getting ready for the wedding. Chase and his groomsmen needed to be ready for pictures at three, which meant that Charles and the rest of the bridesmaid’s boyfriends needed to be ready to be anywhere but the groom’s house at three. 

Between the laughter and the beers and the arguing over the best way to iron a shirt, there’s a knock on the door. He doesn’t even bother to look who it is, assumes it’s a relative of some sort. When Ryan, the never-had-a-thing, you-don’t-need-to-be-jealous Best Man has a hand on his shoulder, telling him “Chris is outside, she wants to talk to you,” he meets the guy with furrowed brows. 

He finds her just where Ryan said she was, pacing outside on the concrete patio, ready head-to-toe for the wedding procession. He can’t help but be struck by her beauty, the way the delicate fabric of her dress accentuates her figure, the way the color complimented the glow of her skin perfectly. Her hair is pulled back off her face, revealing the curve of her neck, her subtle makeup highlighting her features. 

He feels like he’s seen her a million times by now, in a million different ways, but there was something almost ethereal… angelic about her in this moment. The nerves in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders only add to the charm, make her feel more real, more human. 

He’s never looked at her and thought she wasn’t beautiful, but there are moments where he’s particularly struck by her allure. This is one of them. 

As soon as she lays eyes on him, her words rush out in a torrent. No hello, no pleasantries, just— “I’m freaking out, Charles. This speech… I’m just. I’m terrified I’m going to mess it up.”

“You’re not going to mess it up,” he promises. He’s heard Chris’ maid-of-honor speech probably a dozen times by now, and she’s a different level of nervous every time. This might be the most nervous he’s seen her about it, though. “Can you… can you listen to it, please?”

He nods, his gaze steadying her shaky one. “Of course, let’s hear it.”

She unfolds the tiny, half-crumpled piece of paper out and delves into her speech. He focuses on her words, the genuine affection and admiration for Hannah present in each and every syllable. When she finishes, she meets his eyes, a mix of hope and anxiety in hers. 

“Well?” She asked, her lip caught between her teeth. 

Charles smiles. “It’s amazing. You are going to do great.”

“Are you sure? Because the part where I talk about Colorado—”

Charles shakes his head, puts his hands on her shoulders. “It’s perfect,” he says, gives her a quick kiss. “You’re perfect.”

She sighs, relief visibly washing away the tension. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He grins, “You would still do great. But I’m here anytime you need it.” She gives him a quick hug,  and he can feel the gratitude seeping through the squeeze, so he makes it last just that moment longer. He just, he gets such a surge of pride that he gets to call her his, that he’s lucky enough to call her his girlfriend. “Go knock ‘em dead,” he laughs. 

When three o’clock finally does roll around, the wedding party separates to head off for pictures, and Charles, along with the other significant others, joins the convoy heading down to the ceremony space. The excitement among the group was palpable, everyone connected in some way to Hannah and Chase’s love story, ready to witness and be a part of their union.

The ceremony starts at four, and hell if he can’t stop catching Chris’ eyes the entire time. He doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed a wedding quite like he’s enjoying this one. Chase and Hannah are lovely, and the officiant’s words resonate with sincerity, but he’s less attuned to the details of the ceremony itself and more absorbed in the captivating spectacle that is Chris. 

Her laughter, musical and infectious, is all he hears when the entire place laughs, and her discrete attempts to wipe away tears, to pretend they aren’t falling, melt his heart entirely. Even the way she plays with the ribbon on the bouquets she holds—something so small and trivial, it all captivates him.

He finds himself swept away by a tide of emotions, some messy kaleidoscope of feelings that defy articulation. There’s something magnetic about her, an irresistible urge to kiss her that seems to linger in the back of his mind, always. It’s all lined up for him, a million synchronized harmonies that underscore every interaction. 

The changing colors of leaves and the smell of rain on a pine patio, the heartbeat of a conversation, a light in every room. His perception of his own emotions, the way he feels about this fucking woman, it’s so clear it becomes cloudy. Every stolen glance and shared smile is this integral part of their connection, this thing that he can’t let go of. 

There’s something so fucking special about her, and he can’t make sense of any of it.

Cocktail hour is at five, and the whole family—everyone at this entire wedding he knows—are off doing ‘golden hour’ pictures. Charles lingers by the bar, stuck to the outskirts like a wallflower. 

He’s suddenly hit with a wave of insecurity. It’s not often he’s put somewhere completely on his own like this, almost always has someone he can use as a lifeline if he needs to. Everyone here seems to have known eachother forever, and he feels like an intrusion on their camaraderie, worries that if he does manage up the courage to start a conversation with someone, they won’t understand him, or worse—he won’t understand them. 

His social battery is just… it’s drained. It’s been a long couple days of mingling with strangers, of trying to impress everyone. He’s ready to just curl up somewhere with Chris and enjoy the limited time they do get to spend together—alone—this weekend. 

Maybe then, with some more fucking time, he could sort out all his nonsensical thoughts. Make some sense of his own feelings. 

At the reception, he’s seated at the family table with Bill, Cindy, and Reid. Chandler is there, too, but she and her girlfriend Lex seem about as interested in him as they are the dinner menu. They give him a passing greeting, an introduction, if you can call it that, but content to leave it at that. 

They’re only a few feet away from the head table, where Chase, Hannah, and the bridal party are sat. So close, but when you’re as drained as he is, when you’ve been prim and perfectly proper for more hours than you can count, just want to be with the one person around who you don’t need to impress… Chris’ nameplate might as well be a quarter of the way around the world. 

There isn’t some big announcement or introduction for the bridal party, they just filter in after the conclusion of pictures with the rest of the family. Chris is one of the last to filter in, and finds that the rest of the bridesmaids and the groomsmen are all settled in their seats. Chris doesn’t head for her seat. Instead, she makes a bee-line for her family table, for Charles, who is scrolling through his phone and nursing what she thinks is Chase’s signature drink. 

She sneaks up on him, but he isn’t startled by her arms when they wrap over his shoulders. “Hi,” she greets, leaning over to kiss him. It doesn’t take her but a second to feel how tense he is—it’s in his shoulders, in his kiss, in the way he just keeps spinning the liquid around his glass instead of drinking it. Most of all, it’s in the way she doesn’t get even a hello back, just a focus smile and a kiss. Her brows furrow in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m just tired. It has been a busy couple of days.”

“I know,” she nods in agreement. “I was thinking, we should get super drunk tonight, skip brunch tomorrow, and then do nothing all day. What do you think?”

He laughs, and she feels the vibrations in her hands. “Deal,” he says, holding out his hand to shake on it right as the DJ comes over the microphone. Ladies and Gentleman, Chris’ eyes go wide, practically death-dropping into a squat so quickly she nearly loses her balance in her heels. Charles laughs, but she doesn’t miss his hand reaching out to steady her. If I can direct your attention to the barn door, let’s all give a warm welcome to the reason we’re all here tonight. I’m pleased to introduce for the very first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott! Even from her squatted position, she still claps and cheers for Chase and Hannah. 

As the clapping dies down, the instrumental of their first dance song transitions in. She shifts on her feet, from one heel to the other, and thinks about how graceful she would have to be to attempt to slip her shoes off in her current position. When she looks to Charles, she’s met with the clearest what-the-heck-are-you-doing look she’s ever been on the receiving end of, and a nod that all but picks her up and puts her in his lap itself. His arms slip around her waist lazily, like it’s where they’re supposed to belong, like a magnet pulling itself to the fridge.

As their first dance song starts, as Chase and Hannah sway around the dance floor as husband and wife, Charles places a soft kiss into her exposed shoulder. The warmth of his lips sends a chill up her spine. “Are you cold?” He whispers, and she shakes her head even though she’s been chilly since she put the dress on that morning—who the heck chooses one-shoulder bridesmaid dresses for their outdoor wedding in December? He runs his hands up and down her arms to warm her up with the friction. “You can have my jacket if you want.”

“I’m okay,” she says. 

“Okay.” Another kiss, and then he rests his chin on her shoulder. “Let me know.”

After the first dance, Hannah and Chase give a short welcome speech, thanking everyone for coming to celebrate with them, for making their day so perfect. And then, it’s time to eat. 

She offers to pull over a chair and eat with him, and then offers again silently after Bill makes a joke about how we won’t bite him. She doesn’t like to see him like this, so tired, so drained. “I’m good,” he says, “I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, but her return to the head table is hesitant, and she keeps an eye on him the entire meal. 

– – –

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Chris, and for those of you who do, you probably knew this was coming,” Chris laughs nervously, microphone in sweaty hands. She can’t believe she has to follow Ryan’s speech. He had the whole crowd laughing until they couldn’t breathe. “I’m not one for public speaking, which I know you all find very funny considering my career choice, but when your best friend since the oh-so tender age of seven is getting married, you throw caution to the wind.”

She looks at Charles, but has to look away quickly. Just imagine me in my underwear, he’d told her before she got up here. She can’t do that. She can’t look at Hannah or Chase, either, though, or else she’ll burst into tears. So, she just looks at the piece of paper in her hand. 

“So, let’s talk about Hannah. We’ve been through it all together, from the back of a Sunday school class at Grace Haven where two little girls made their first friend, to hiding from customers in the kitchen of the Pool Room listening to Mr. Gordon tell us about his ‘shine days. We weathered the storms of adolescence, rocked the awkward phase, and somehow managed to make it out on the other side with our sanity intact—well, mostly,” the room chuckles. Hannah laughs, and Chris thinks that maybe she can look at her—she can’t, can already feel the tears welling, the frog in the back of her throat. 

“But,” she cracks, “It’s not about the trials we faced in high school, it’s about the triumph that is happening right now. Chase and Hannah, standing—sitting—here, about to embark on a new chapter of their lives.” Chris turns to the next page of her notes, hand shaky when she does it. “It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows getting here. Life threw us some curveballs, as it tends to do. But Hannah, she’s a force of nature. She faces challenges head-on, and with the strength of a thousand warriors.”

Chris’ eyes catch Reid, sitting on Bill’s lap next to Charles. He’s not paying any attention, but what four-year-old would? Instead, he’s swinging his legs back and forth, tapping Charles’ knee with the toe of his shoes everytime. Charles takes turns grabbing one of the attacking feet, his eyes unbreaking from her, before letting Reid wiggle it away, laughing softly at the interaction each time. “My best friend became a mom at nineteen, and there wasn’t much about it that was easy. But, like I always do, I watched her rise to the occasion, and I’ve never been prouder. I work with five-year-olds every day, and as similar as Reid is to Chase, he’s his mother’s son, and I would pay a million dollars to have twenty of him in my classroom. And Chase, you were there through all of it. When things got tough, you didn’t run; you stood by her. You became not just the guy she loved, but the rock she could lean on, the partner she deserved.”

Chris nods, continuing. “Some might say they don’t have the most conventional love story. But what is love if not a journey? One that involves bumps and twists and unexpected turns? Chase and Hannah, you’ve proven that love isn’t just for fairytales; it’s for the real, messy, complicated, and beautiful moments of life.”

Chris looks past Hannah, to Chase. It's just as hard to maintain eye contact with him. Harder, maybe, because he looks like he’s about to cry, too. Chris can count on one hand the amount of times she’s seen her brother cry. “Chase, my big brother,” she laughs through a tear. 

“Fuck you, dude,” he says back, through an equally tearful laugh. Hannah’s hand runs in circles on his back. 

“You are so lucky to have Hannah. Everyone in this room knows that she has this magical quality about her—this remarkable ability to make even the most unlovable people feel like the center of the universe. I’ve seen her do it time and time again, watched her sprinkle her own special kind of magic everywhere she goes.”

“Hannah,” she says, turning fully to face her best friend, abandoning the piece of paper she has memorized and replacing it with Hannah’s hand. “You are my confidante, my partner in crime, my source of strength, and my beacon of light. You are the kind of friend who not only stands by people in the good times, but also holds you up when life gets a little bit wobbly,” Chris feels a single tear fall down her cheek, and then another. She sniffles softly. “Thank you for helping me through the wobbles,” she squeaks. “You’ve been my sister as long as I’ve known you, Han, I’m just glad it’s finally official.”

Chris turns back to address the crowd, raising a glass of champagne to two of her favorite people. “To Hannah and Chase. May your love be modern enough to survive the times, but old-fashioned enough to last forever. Cheers to the messy, the beautiful, and the happily ever after you both so richly deserve.”

Hannah wastes no time enveloping Chris into a bear hug, rocking back and forth on their feet. The lace and tulle from Hannah’s dress scratch against Chris’ arms, but she doesn’t mind. She’s too busy trying not to cry onto the fabric while the rest of the tables clink their glasses to her speech. Chase is next with the hugs, a stupid one that’s stronger than Hannah’s. 

“Dude,” he laughs, “you didn’t have to make me cry.”

Chris sniffles. “I love you.”

Chase pauses, squeezes her a little bit tighter. “I love you, too.”

Speeches are followed by the father-daughter and mother-son dances. Chris sneaks back over to the family table during the latter, makes her dad move over into Cindy’s seat so she can sit next to Charles. He has a fresh glass of the same drink from earlier, and is nursing it the same way he did the first one. 

“You know,” she says, checking the state of her makeup with her phone’s camera. “You’re going to have to pick up the pace if we’re getting wasted tonight.”

He laughs, the side of his foot bumping against hers under the table. She leans her foot back on the heel of her shoe, toys with the hem of his slacks. “Is that right?” He spins the drink, talks into the bottom of the glass, but she’s not fooled. His ears are red at the simple action. 

“Yeah,” she nods. “Let me show you,” and then takes the glass from his hand, downing what’s left without a scowl. It’s dark liquor. She loves the burn. 

Chris is like… she reminds him of that battery rabbit. A constant source of energy. She’s practically bouncing off the walls, giddily introducing him to anyone they come across that he doesn’t already know. She’s just so personable, and the buzz she’s gotten from the champagne and the stolen sips of his drinks only make her more lively. She knows everyone here, he’s sure of it, but she could befriend a brick wall if it gave her five minutes.

It’s impossible for even the most sullen people not to feed off her energy—everyone is swallowed up by her laugh, every conversation brightened by her presence. She’s so fun to watch that he wonders if he’s dreamt her up, created a figment of his imagination in the shape of someone just so good. God, she’s good. 

They survive the newlywed games and the anniversary dances, even make it all the way to the cake cutting before it becomes an Elliott family party—which, if you didn’t know, is synonymous with a drunken rager. As soon as Hannah swipes a finger full of frosting across Chase’s cheek, it’s game over. 

Drinks flow as freely as laughter echoes, and the dance floor is nothing more than a playground for a bunch of drunken idiots. Chris and Hannah, seasoned dance partners, showcase their moves with infectious enthusiasm, dancing the blurry line between elegance and idiocy. 

When the music slows, though, she’s always finding her way to him, heavy arms around his neck, his around her waist. If they know the song, they take turns butchering the vocals and giggling until the other person kisses them. 

“So, how was my speech?” She asks soberly, swaying along to the tune of some slow song he’s never heard of. 

“You made that speech your bitch, baby,” he slurs, even though he has a million and one questions about her speech. 

He’d heard it. So many fucking times, he’d heard it, and not once had he heard the ending. He thought he heard the ending—he did hear the ending. It was just different. Shorter. Sweeter. Didn’t put a confused knot in his stomach. Thank you for helping me through my wobbles. A remarkable ability to make even the most unlovable people feel like the center of the universe. He doesn’t want to entertain them as connected, to live in a world where they’re connected. 

“You think so?” She beams. He can’t ask when she smiles like that. 

“Yeah,” his tongue feels dry in his mouth—cottony. He’s bothered, and he doesn’t understand why. “It was great, very personal.” He shouldn’t let it bother him. It’s a fucking speech at a wedding for people he barely knows. It shouldn’t bother him, it shouldn’t rot his insides, the concept that two sentences could be in any way related to one another. It shouldn’t bother him, really. It does, though. And he can’t stop himself when he’s half-drunk the way he could if he was sober. “Everything you talked about… it’s all you two, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Hannah’s done a lot for me, y’know. I’m sure we’re like you and Joris, just. I cry more than you.”

“Even the, uh…” he clears his throat. “Even the whole thing about, um…”

“Charles,” she laughs, brows furrowed in a way he thinks only he could perceive. 

He sighs. “You know that you’re the kind of person who is easy to love, yes?”

She doesn’t look at him when she nods, or when she smiles, or when she kisses him. “I know,” she mumbles, and it’s the most unbelievable thing she’s ever said. The easiest lie he’s ever spotted, but it’s even clearer that she doesn’t want him to push on it, so he doesn’t. He’s smart enough to know when it’s time to just dance with his girlfriend. 

– – –

They wake up the next morning disgustingly hungover. Like, stare at the white ceiling for twenty minutes talking about how hungover they are and praying they don’t throw up, hungover. Her ceiling is textured, and the pattern repeats every foot-or-so like it’s been stamped on. That’s how hungover he is.

He showers while she makes them prairie oysters, and despite how absolutely horrifying it looks, sounds, and sells, he manages to find enough trust in her to force it down with a grim scowl. Fuck, it’s disgusting. Horrifically so. 

They take an uber out to the wedding venue to retrieve Chris’ car, and she gives directions back to the Dawsonville Pool Room with her eyes half closed, sunglasses over her eyes. Everytime he looks at her he thinks she’s turning green. 

The owner recognizes her as soon as they’re walking through the door. Charles doesn’t understand a single fucking word the guy says. Chris orders “two Bully Burgers, but I swear to holy Heaven if you put slaw anywhere near my plate you’re gonna see the Devil, Mr. Gordon.”

He responds in something Charles could technically call English, and Chris shakes her head, a smile pulling on her lips. “I’m serious, he’ll back me up,” she says, thumb pointing to him. “He’s not from around here, you’re just another stranger.”

The greasiest, sloppiest, most mediocre burger he’s ever eaten is put in front of him five minutes later, and he feels like a new man after. Still absolutely strung out and exhausted, yes, but like his stomach is content to stay inside his body. 

Later that afternoon, when they’re both half asleep on the couch, some stupid sitcom playing as background nose, he’s still thinking about her fucking speech from the night earlier. It’s still bugging him. “Baby?” he mumbles against the skin of her shoulder. He doesn’t even know if she’s awake to answer. 

“Hmm?” She hums. 

“We do not have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but. You are a very lovable person, I think.” He couldn’t give any specific examples of what makes him so sure of this fact, he honestly couldn’t. But isn’t that proof enough? That just her being is enough to answer the question. 

“Babe,” she stretches against him, speaks through a yawn. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I just. I don’t know.”

“No, it’s okay. We can talk about it.” She adjusts, if just slightly, so that it’s easier for her to look at him while they speak. “When everyone has the same complaint, all your old friends and old boyfriends tell you that you’re too much or too little, you realize maybe you’re the crazy one.”

He doesn't like that reasoning. He thinks it’s a load of bullshit, actually. “Why do you think of yourself in this way?”

Chris laughs. “It’s fine, really.”

“It’s not,” he says, because he knows it’s a lie. 

“It is, because I’ve come to terms with it. I accept it.”

He frowns, hates the way she seems so content with this. Like it’s something that is even kind of rational. It’s not, he knows. He pauses, can’t even come up with something to say to her level of absurdity. “I don’t think you should accept that.”

She turns away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, and laughs softly. “I’m sure you don’t.”

“You are not unlovable.” She’s not. She’s not. He knows she’s not. He knows, he knows, because of rain on a pine patio and leaves that change colors. He knows, because if she was unlovable, he wouldn’t love her. And he does, he does love her. 

Wait.

“Well, we’ll see. Everyone always sees.”

No, hold on. Wait. His stomach is tangled, flip-flopping and fluttering like every butterfly this side of the Atlantic has suddenly taken up residence in his insides. You don’t love her, you idiot, he thinks. But he does. Fucking… His heart races. He hopes to God, pays to something he’s not sure he believes in that she can’t feel it against his chest. That he can get away with it. “See what?”

She shrugs. “If I knew, nobody would see it,” she laughs. He laughs along, too, but it’s so forced that it sounds like some pre-recorded bit. She’s so casual about all of this that he feels like he needs to pinch himself. It doesn’t make sense, he can’t wrap his mind around it. But Chris, she’s comfortable enough with her bull-fucking-shit ‘facts’ that she can pull her phone out and scroll through it while they wrap up the conversation. “And before you ask, ‘What if I don’t see anything?’ like everyone else but Hannah always asks, nothing happens.”

“Nothing happens?”

She opens her fucking email. He’s in love with her, and she’s opening her fucking email while telling him it’s not possible. “You win, I guess.”

“I win you?”

“I mean, I don’t like to consider myself something that can be won,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. His heart is beating so loud he thinks the neighbors can probably hear it. “But for lack of a better word… sure. You win me.”

He nods. There’s nothing more he can add to the conversation, not now. Not when he’s just ran face-first into a brick wall of I love you.  Fuck. Fuck. He’s totally in love with her. What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

last chapter masterlist next chapter

[cool-fancier]

Love's Haunting Embrace

Synopsis: In a dream, pre-wedding excitement surrounds a couple deeply in love. Unexpectedly, a twist reveals a heartrending tale of enduring love and profound loss.

A/n: The story involves tender moments shared between the reader, her friends, and her beloved, Bada, within a heartfelt context.The story explores themes of love, anticipation, and emotional depth, leading to a surprising revelation.navigates the complexities of a profound loss and the dreamlike experience that surfaces within the reader’s subconscious.

Word count: 2K

The sunlight danced through the windows, painting the room in soft hues of morning. You sat in front of the vanity, nerves and excitement bubbling within you like an orchestra tuning up for a grand performance. Your hands trembled slightly as you carefully applied the finishing touches to your makeup, stealing glances at the intricate lace of your wedding gown hanging nearby.

Lusher, your best friend and confidante, bustled around the room, fussing over the tiniest details. "You look absolutely breathtaking," she gushed, adjusting a stray strand of your hair. "Bada won't know what hit her when she sees you."

A playful smile tugged at your lips as you tried to steady your racing heart. "I hope I won't trip walking down the aisle."

Tatter, another close friend, chuckled, fixing the final details on your gown. "Trust me, you'll glide down that aisle like a queen. You've got this!"

Meanwhile, in another room, Bada sat, surrounded by her own group of friends—Kyma, Minah, CheChe, and Sowoen. They fluttered around her, teasingly reassuring her and fawning over her beauty.

"You're going to knock Y/N off her feet," Kyma grinned, adjusting Bada's outfit.

Minah nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, you look like the coolest bride ever!"

Bada's usually stoic facade cracked, a faint blush dusting her cheeks. "Stop it, guys. You're making me more nervous."

Back in your room, Lusher handed you a beautifully wrapped package. "A little something to calm your nerves." Inside was a small, handwritten note from Bada—a heartfelt message that instantly brought tears to your eyes. It was a reminder of the love that bound you together, a source of strength on this momentous day.

"You two are just the sweetest," you sniffled, wiping away a stray tear.

Tatter grinned mischievously. "Save the tears for when you say your vows. We don't want to ruin that flawless makeup."

Laughter filled the room, easing the tension that had been building up inside you. As the minutes ticked by, the anticipation grew, mingled with a mix of jittery excitement and heartfelt emotions.

In the adjoining room, Bada opened a similar package from you—a token of your love and a reminder that this day marked the beginning of a new chapter in your lives together. She read your heartfelt words, feeling a surge of warmth and determination. Her friends exchanged knowing smiles, understanding the depth of her emotions even without words.

As the moment drew closer, you stole a glance at yourself in the mirror, taking in every detail—the way your gown cascaded around you, the way your heart raced with a blend of nerves and happiness. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

In her room, Bada stood before the mirror, straightening her tie with steady hands. Her heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and love. The image reflected in the mirror wasn't just her in a suit; it was the embodiment of a promise—a promise to love and cherish you for eternity.

Amidst the flurry of emotions, your friends gathered around you, offering words of encouragement, sharing stories, and reminding you of the incredible journey that led to this moment.

"You two were made for each other," Lusher said, her eyes sparkling with emotion.

Tatter nodded in agreement. "You've weathered storms together. Today is the start of a beautiful calm."

Across the hall, Bada's friends echoed similar sentiments, assuring her that this day was meant to be a celebration of love, of the unbreakable bond between you and her.

"You're not alone in this, Bada," Kyma said softly. "We're all here for you, just as Y/N is."

Minutes later, the doors of the church creaked open, signaling the beginning of a momentous journey. With hearts full of love and a future brimming with promise, you and Bada stepped forward, ready to exchange vows that would bind your souls together in a sacred union.

As the music swelled and you took those final steps toward the altar, all nerves dissipated, replaced by an overwhelming sense of peace. You locked eyes with Bada, and in that shared gaze, you found reassurance, love, and the unwavering certainty that this moment was meant to be—a moment destined to etch itself into the tapestry of your lives, forever cherished and remembered.

Bada, your beloved, stood opposite you, radiant in her wedding attire. Her eyes shimmered with joy and love, a reflection of the unspoken promises between you. Her smile, the one that always melted your worries away, was now a beacon of hope, promising a future of shared happiness.

As the ceremony progressed, your eyes remained locked with Bada's, each moment etching itself into your memory. The exchange of vows felt like an intimate confession of love and devotion, and the anticipation of the impending kiss filled the air with a mix of nerves and exhilaration.

"I now pronounce you partners for life. You may kiss the bride," the officiant announced with a smile, their voice resonating through the church.

You leaned in, ready to seal the vows with a tender kiss. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving only you and Bada in this sacred moment.

Just as your lips were about to meet, a jolt ripped through your consciousness. The warmth of the church dissolved, and you were jolted awake, tears streaming down your face, your heart wrenching with a deep ache.

You sat up in bed, gasping for breath, staring at the empty space beside you. Reality crashed back with cruel force, shattering the fleeting dream that had felt so achingly real.

Bada had been your everything—your confidante, your love, your partner in every sense. But she had passed away years ago, leaving a chasm in your soul that time had failed to heal.

The dream had brought back a flood of memories—the laughter, the shared dreams, the countless moments of comfort in each other's embrace. But with that came the piercing reminder that she was gone, a reality that never seemed to dull no matter how much time had passed.

You reached for the pendant on your bedside table, a delicate silver chain that held a small, engraved heart—Bada's last gift to you before she left. Clutching it to your chest, you felt the weight of your grief press down on you, the pain as fresh as it had been the day she departed.

You met Bada years ago in the vibrant chaos of the city. Both of you were artists, drawn together by a shared passion for expressing the unspoken through your respective mediums.

Your love story unfolded like a masterpiece, filled with shared dreams, laughter, and the quiet comfort of companionship.

Bada's art was a reflection of her soul—powerful, raw, and evocative. She poured her emotions into her creations, each piece a testament to the depth of her experiences. You admired her strength, her ability to convey vulnerability through her work.

Your own art was more subtle, capturing the delicate nuances of life. In Bada's presence, your creativity flourished, intertwining with hers to create a symphony of expression that resonated beyond the canvas.

The two of you navigated the challenges of life as a united force, weathering storms together and reveling in the sunshine. When you faced the world hand in hand, everything seemed possible.

However, fate had other plans. Bada fell ill unexpectedly, a battle against an invisible enemy that neither of you saw coming. The once vibrant and strong woman now fought for each breath, her essence slipping away with every passing day.

— — — — — — —

Bada's illness was a sudden and unexpected intruder into the vibrant tapestry of her life. It began with subtle signs—fatigue that lingered longer than usual, a persistent cough that refused to fade, and an inexplicable loss of appetite. At first, both of you brushed it off as minor ailments, attributing them to stress or seasonal changes.

But as weeks passed, those seemingly harmless symptoms evolved into something far more ominous. Bada's energy waned, her once-lively spirit dimming like a flickering flame struggling against a relentless wind. A trip to the doctor uncovered a devastating truth—a rare and aggressive disease had taken root within her, stealthily weaving its web of destruction.

The diagnosis cast a shadow over your lives, shattering the illusion of invincibility that both of you had once held. Bada's illness progressed rapidly, defying treatment and leaving doctors grasping for solutions that seemed to slip through their fingers.

The vibrant hues of her artwork dulled, reflecting the toll the illness took on her spirit. Days blurred together, marked by hospital visits, treatments that brought temporary relief but never lasting reprieve, and the looming specter of an uncertain future.

For Bada, the hardest part wasn't just the physical toll but the emotional strain—the frustration of being unable to create, the fear of losing the essence of who she was, and the heart-wrenching realization that she might not see the dreams you both had woven together come to fruition.

As her condition deteriorated, the once-bustling home transformed into a silent sanctuary where hope warred with despair. You became her constant companion, holding her hand through sleepless nights and soothing her with whispered assurances that love would conquer all.

Yet, despite the unwavering love and support, the illness persisted, chipping away at the foundation of your shared existence. The treatments grew more desperate, the hospital stays longer, and the glimmers of hope grew fainter.

Then came that fateful winter night when the silent battle reached its devastating conclusion. Bada slipped away, leaving behind a void that could never be filled—a void that echoed with the unspoken dreams, unfinished artwork, and the love that refused to fade.

The illness that stole her away was not just a physical ailment; it was a relentless force that shattered lives, leaving behind shattered dreams and a profound sense of loss that lingered long after her physical presence had vanished. It was a reminder of life's fragility, a cruel reminder that sometimes, even the strongest love cannot withstand the ruthless grip of fate.

Bada had been the light that guided you through life's storms. Her laughter echoed in your memories, and the love you shared had been the anchor that kept you grounded. But fate had cruelly snatched her away, leaving you adrift in a world that felt empty without her.

Days melted into nights, yet the ache in your heart remained unyielding. Each morning felt like a battle, grappling with the painful reality of waking up alone. The world moved on, but for you, time had frozen in that moment of loss.

You sought solace in the memories, in the dreams where Bada felt so close, so vividly alive. In those fleeting moments, she was there, smiling and vibrant, just as she had been in life. But with every awakening, the truth crashed down anew, tearing open wounds that refused to heal.

Friends and family offered their support, trying to ease your pain, but their well-intentioned gestures only served as painful reminders of what you had lost. They couldn't fill the void left by Bada's absence.

In the depths of your despair, you found yourself seeking refuge in places that held memories of your time together. The park where you shared laughter, the cafe where you had your first date—their echoes were bittersweet, a testament to the love that had once filled your days.

Yet, despite the overwhelming grief, a part of you clung to the dream—the dream of that wedding day, the promise of a lifetime with Bada. It was a cruel trick of the mind, offering a glimpse of happiness before snatching it away, leaving you shattered each time.

As the days turned into months and the months into years, you carried the weight of your loss like an invisible burden. Life continued around you, but you felt trapped in a world that no longer held the same allure without Bada by your side.

But amid the anguish and the longing, a tiny spark of hope flickered within—a hope that one day, in some unknown realm or in the recesses of your dreams, you would find solace, find peace, and find Bada waiting for you, smiling that radiant smile that had once been your everything. Until then, you held onto the fragments of memories, treasuring every moment spent in the warmth of her love.

[sl-vega]

✧Sticking to the Script✧-07

⋆｡°✩ 07-rebound already?

"Sorry about that, those were just my friends." you sighed as you put your phone into your pocket. You looked at Xingqiu again. "Thanks for agreeing to help me study by the way, I really appreciate it."

"No problem, anything for you." he replied as the two of you walked into the library. You chuckled and playfully hit his arm "Anything for me huh? Look at you being smooth."

The two of you settled at a table, and Xingqiu pulled out your chair for you. You got your textbook out of your bag, and Xingqiu took out his notes, and two pens, one for him and one for you.

"You need help with your English paper right?" Xingqiu asked as he sorted through his binder, looking for notes that you would find useful. You nodded, giving him your thanks as he handed you some lined sheets.

"You're doing a unit on Shakespeare?" he asked, underlining a few things on his paper. You nodded "Yeah, we're doing a joint unit with the drama department, we're analyzing Romeo and Juliet. And my essay is due tommorow!" you wailed, slamming your head on the table.

Ms. Lisa, the librarian, shushed you from her desk. You whispered an apology to her as you picked up some of the papers Xingqiu set aside for you. "Are you analyzing anything in particular?" he asked, still sorting through more notes, he got out a highlighter.

"Mainly the famous quotes and stuff. Our teacher also wants us to talk about the use of opposites in the play. We're supposed to cover at least one scene from each act." you explained as you watched him take more notes. His handwriting was so neat and pretty, even when it looked like he was just scribbling down words.

He handed several sheets of paper to you, some papers included scenes from the play handwritten by him, word for word. He also highlighted certain bits of the text, and made sure to include modern English translations for you at the back of the pages.

"These are my notes from last year. We did a unit similar to this. Sorry if it's a little messy."

You stared at the page, the blue ink had zero smudges and the sheet had little to no crinkles in it. "If you think that this is messy, just wait till you see my notes." you chuckled. "I know I already said this, but I really appreciate this."

The two of you continued talking, Xingqiu continuing to take notes for you, highlighting important parts of the text and explaining their meanings for you. Once again he had made an hour seem like a few minutes.

"And that's what Mercutio meant when he said 'Ask for me tomorrow and you shall find me a grave man." Xingqiu explained, finishing off his analysis to you.

"That also foreshadows his death doesn't it?"

"Exactly! See, you're picking up on this so quickly." XIngqiu praised you as he started to pack up his stuff, placing his papers into his folders and his pencil cases into his back pack.

You glanced at your phone to check the time. "You have to go already?" you asked, feeling slightly disappointed that he had to leave.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I'll see you this weekend though, I promise." He gave your hand a quick squeeze. You felt your stomach drop as you saw him exit the room.

Promises can be hard to keep Xingqiu

Xingqiu put his phone down and rubbed his temples. "You okay?" whispered Kazuha.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Xingqiu replied.

Archons he was in deep

additional notes:

-FINALLY GOT ANOTHER CHAPTER OUT

-so sorry for all the slow updates y'all

-i'm trying

-i was writing for another smau i have coming up

-my commitment issues will be the end of me

-holy hell this chapter got a tad deep

-KAZUHA CAMEO

-they're both in their english class during the xingqiu + kazuha scene btw

-lol not y/n being a drama queen cuz she's upset that she has to wait three whole days before seeing xingqiu again

-you guys don't have any classes together btw

-that blue flower gif means that i'm switching povs mid chapter btw

-i went thru sm different versions for this chapter

-ty to @EggosForBreakfast on wattpad for proofreading this for me

-you should go follow them

-also ty to all my readers: @washa, @kasasim, @wisteriabl00m, @rebeccavsabrina, @nmriki0, @rainycafereader, @slu7, @melatoninsblog, @anticlarckwise, @esmetrees, @sn1perz, @littleheartbigbrain, @aldertree-g, @thebiggesthutaofanever, @lilac-sks, @amir8623, @freyao7, @mystic-alex, @myaaaajoy, @tartagliascummdumpp, @green-ginkgo, @lillyinfandoms, @charles-braindump, @samsamsam7, @leynita, @uuyuomi/@mwahkazu, @pwrson, @practicoi, @thatoneswordgirl

-names in bold mean i couldn't tag them

-dw that's just a one time acknowledgment to everyone who liked the original master post, you won't constantly be tagged like that, but if you want to be removed just tell me

-i'll totally understand <3

masterlist

<prev ll next>

✧Sticking to the Script✧

Pairing: Xingqiu x FEM! Reader

Genre: fake dating, strangers to lovers, slow burn, fluff, angst (?), high school smau, modern smau

⋆｡°✩-Synopsis: Xingqiu just got entered into a special writing contest, the type that's invite only, the theme this year is love, the only problem is that he has zero romantic experience. but he really wants to prove himself as a writer. meanwhile, you just found out that your boyfriend cheated on you, and you need to show him that you're 100% over him, the only problem is that there's no way you can get an actual boyfriend that quickly. clearly, the solution to both of your issues is to fake date each other. it shouldn't be hard for an actor such as yourself, all you need to do is stick to the script.

(OPEN) Taglist: @freyao7, @thatoneswordgirl, @sn1perz, @latay7, @esmetrees, @nmriki0, @help-whatdoimakemyusername, @httpsrenren, @cupid-spams, @aixaingela, @kaitfae, @luvkvni, @danhenglovebot

[deadpresidents]

I stopped procrastinating and am finally reading Grant's autobiography. A few chapters in, I'm surprised by how readable and relatable they are. Having been raised on Mark Twain, how much influence did he have over the final version? Or are we reading most of Grant's original words?

The Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant (BOOK | KINDLE) really is a great book. It's not always easy to read things written in the 19th Century because the rhythm of the writing is usually so much more formal than we are used to now. But Grant's Memoirs flow really well, and I think anybody interested in the era should have Grant's book at the top of their reading list. I'd especially recommend checking out the annotated edition released in 2017 by Belknap Press/Harvard University Press (that's the version I linked at the beginning of the paragraph). But the beauty of Grant's book is that you don't need annotations because the prose is so clear and easy to read.

As for the authorship, there have been rumors about the part that Mark Twain played in the writing of the book ever since the book was finished literally a few days before Grant died in 1885. And the flames were also fanned by Grant's former military aide Adam Badeau who helped Grant in the early stages of the writing process and was bitter about not getting paid more money, so he also claimed to be Grant's ghostwriter. But while Twain did help with some editing, his major role was in getting the book published in the best way to ensure that Grant's family would benefit financially from its publication. Grant wrote the book because he was broke and dying, and he wanted to make sure his family was going to be okay. Twain didn't think the contract that Grant was about to sign with a publisher to write the book was fair and felt that Grant could make significantly more money selling the book via a subscription service (the original deal was supposed to net Grant 10% of the royalties; Twain's deal guaranteed Grant 70% of the royalties). So the most significant part that Twain played was in regard to the finances, which again was the reason why Grant was writing the book in the first place.

Twain definitely helped Grant with proofreading and literary advice throughout the writing process, but Grant had started writing the book before Twain was involved and had already been writing articles about his Civil War experiences for magazines and serials for a few years. There is a unique voice to Grant's writing style and I think it is clearly recognizable, especially in comparison to how other public figures wrote at the time. So, it's definitely Grant's book. Plus, the Library of Congress still has the original manuscript of Grant's Memoirs (alongside all of his other papers and correspondence) and every page of the book was handwritten by Grant.

•One of my favorite photos in Presidential history is this one of a gravely ill Ulysses S. Grant, who by this point could no longer speak because of the throat cancer that was killing him (he had to write notes to communicate with his family and his doctors), feverishly writing to finish his book at his cottage on Mount McGregor in the Adirondacks of New York:

The photo was taken on June 27, 1885. Grant finished writing his Memoirs on July 19, 1885. Four days later, on July 23, 1885, he died at the age of 63.

[mcschnuggles]

Hello, it's me again :) your response was really nice, thank you!! I decided to start writing the fic I mentioned... Here's a preview for you! The first chapter will probably be out in the next few days.

My age regression side blog is @bee-is-little by the way, but it's still empty right now!

Akira eyed the manilla envelope nervously. It's the first Phansite request delivered by hand. All Mishima said was that it was a "special case" and to "keep an open mind."

He was in the attic, waiting for everyone to get there for a team meeting. Morgana was on a walk so he was alone. He promised he wouldn't open it until the others got here, but...

In a split-second decision, Akira carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a small stack of papers and a carefully handwritten letter addressed to the thieves.

"Phantom Thieves,

If you're reading this, please steal my heart.

I am an age regressor, but not by choice. I don't like it. I don't want it. I don't want anyone else to know about it. I just want to be normal again.

Please cure me.

-Yui"

Attached to the letter was a note written in Mishima's handwriting.

"I included some articles on age regression. I know it might seem strange but after reading into it, I'm not sure Yui needs to be 'cured.' Maybe there's another way?

I trust you to make the right decision."

Finally, more confused than before, Akira started sorting through the articles.

Apparently, age regression is a coping mechanism where someone experiences a more childish mindset. Lots of people choose to do it, but Yui must be an 'involuntary regressor.' Regressors might use adult-sized versions of infant and children's items, such as onesies, pacifiers, bottles, sippy cups, diapers, and toys.

Well, no wonder Mishima said to keep an open mind. Still, Akira could see why it would be a coping mechanism. The regression items showed in the articles looked so colourful and cosy! Just looking at them made him feel... Safe.

He focused on the feeling. His senses seemed duller, but not in a bad way. It felt like being wrapped in a weighted blanket. All his stress was being washed away like waves at a beach, and he was just sitting in the warm sand, listening to the waves crash in the background.

Is this what regression felt like? But... He's felt this way before. Lots of times! Last week, even. And sure, it's not a great feeling when he's trying to *function,* but this is just how he feels when he's stressed.

When he needs a coping mechanism.

...Oh.

OOH this is looking so good so far!!! I love that Yui is the one reaching out this time, and the emphasis on Mishima's character by asking Akira to be understanding and also providing resources!!! Really good job on his character, he just wants to help people!! ouhgghh wowowowow i can't wait to read more of this, thank you so much for sharing it with me!!

[punch-love]

2, 11, 28, 30, 31, 37, 94, sorry for so many but I really love this qna they have so many good questions

2. Talk about a notable time a narrative or character has looked you dead in the eyes and said “fuck your plan, here’s what we’re actually doing.”

I don't have this happen often in fanfiction, but notably, love-punch is always a few chapters off my original story draft. Peter in particular is pretty evasive of hitting any of the "landmark" moments in favor of following his anger. It's very hard to wrangle him in and make him follow a script because he's a very independent, very selfish character who is not necessarily looking to be part of a love story.

11. what’s something neat you’ve learned while doing research for something you were writing? also, how much do you worry about doing research in general?

I learned a lot about drug trade economics recently for a one-shot I'm working on. It ultimately didn't end up adding that much to the story itself, but I have a pretty good understanding of the farm to table aspect of cocaine now. I also read a book on solitary confinement for Black Ace which didn't really teach me anything "neat" but did make my opinions on prison abolition a lot stronger and backed by prisoner's experiences. I am more of a character writer than a plot writer, so much research I do is usual minor details (I recently researched the largest size of Taco Bell drinks in ozs for instance) but I really enjoy the experience whenever I get to flesh out my writing with information that my brain doesn't have immediate access to. I often save research for the final edit so that I can focus more on writing a good story before I start down a rabbit hole.

28. handwritten notes or typed notes?

handwritten! all of my notes are handwritten so I can throw them away afterwards. I hate clutter and my WIP folders are cluttered enough without a backlog of chapter notes. I use sticky notes mostly.

30. most inspirational quote you’ve ever read or heard that’s still important to you.

I am not an inspirational quote person, sorry.

31. tell us about one of your characters who’s an absolute joy to write

I've said it before, but Wade is the funniest character to write. I love writing characters that are physically immune from the narrative. I like that he doesn't have to censor himself in any way, partially because he doesn't care, and partially because it wouldn't really do him any good even if he wanted to.

37. when creating characters, what comes first: appearance, backstory, motivation, personality, something else?

appearance and/or motivation usually - I'm a very visually stimulated person, so I have to like the "look" of a character, but I also have to be compelled by them and their role of their story to keep them around.

94. do you prefer dialogue or description?

dialogue to the moon and back (though I have improved in the description department from frequent notes from my beta asking where the hell the characters are in the scene)

[na-ta-sh-aa]

The way I loved this chapter is indescribable! I loved how you managed to create and perfectly render the anticipation they both feel for every email they send each other, it's truly wonderful. Not to mention how cute the kids are, I love them already!🥹🫶🏼

“He'd spent hours poring over the letters, laughing at some of the questions from the kids and frequently picking up that one photo. He couldn't stop going back for more. For another look at you. Just one more look. Okay, this really was the last one. He had to toss it across the small room toward his duffel so he could focus on something other than your smile and the fact that he might have a tiny crush on a fourth grade teacher who knew absolutely nothing about him. Yet.”

This is so cute! Both the care and passion with which Bradley answers the children's questions and the fact that he can't stop looking at her photo. I love how it only took one photo for him to not be able to get her out of his head🥹

“The best food in the mess hall is surprisingly the meatloaf. And yes, I would love to see a photo of your Cocker Spaniel. Please send one next time. I hope you're studying and doing your best in school.”

He is so sweet🥹

“You seem very inquisitive. That's a great quality to have, especially if you want to be a pilot someday. No, I did not attend the Naval Academy. I went to the University of Virginia. Yes, the Navy is way better than the Air Force. Yes, I can hold my breath underwater for three minutes. Yes, they actually made me do it. No, I don't think I could make it as a Navy SEAL. Yes, I have been staying hydrated and getting enough sun, thanks so much for asking. Keep studying hard, because you have a lot of school ahead of you before officer training.”

I had a smile on my face the entire time I read this response to Violet. I am absolutely loving his responses to the kids!

“He also happened to have your email address memorized.”

AHH I'm so excited!!

“And telling them that was a mistake. Because you didn't know a moment of peace after that. Every morning, you had kids rushing into the room to see if the promised piece of mail arrived yet. Every day you had to disappoint them, but you were finding yourself a little disappointed, too. You wanted to know what this Bradley Bradshaw guy sent back.”

I love how she and the kids can’t wait for the letters to arrive!

“And that was what left you standing at your desk with your mouth hanging open in awe when the padded envelope did finally arrive one morning. Because when you carefully cut it open, you found not just one letter to the class but individual handwritten notes, one for each child.”

This gesture is so sweet, because by doing so Bradley has made sure that every child has their own personal letter and can keep it as a memory, what a wonderful man Bradley Bradshaw is🥹

“Bradley Bradshaw seemed willing to continue to engage with your kids, and you weren't going to stop him. Because starting that morning, he became something of a legend to your class. A celebrity. A real lieutenant in the Navy replied to all of their silly questions, and their love of aviation just grew from there.”

This part made me think that if Bradley ever visits the class after his deployment, the kids would be so happy to meet him, and not just the kids🫠

“You signed your name at the bottom the way you always would from your work email account, and then you attached the photos. After a brief debate about adding the selfie you took with Violet where most of your face was visible, you decided to just go for it. Adding it to the mix wouldn't hurt anything. It wasn't like this semi mystery man would be up all night thinking about you.”

“You were going to have to scrape your jaw off the floor. You had no idea what this man's face even looked like, but his hands were... something else. And his thighs... well, they were pretty great, too. It must have been too long since you got laid, because you were sitting at your desk in your classroom staring at the set of photos in your inbox, currently unable to look away from his right hand. It was wrapped around the throttle of his aircraft. It was elegant with attractive veins and rough calluses. You were sure that you were supposed to be focusing on the cockpit controls, but all you could see was that hand and his thick, muscular thighs below.”

I love her reaction when she saw Bradley's hand and thighs, it was so real, I can't wait to see her reaction when Bradley sends her a picture where she can see his face too. If she already thinks about him a lot without even knowing what he looks like I think when she sees him she will be completely lost for him, and I totally understand her🫠

“The next photo was no better for you. He was holding up his helmet with his call sign Rooster emblazoned across the front, and you were able to see his left ring finger. There was no wedding band. There was no evidence of an outline where a wedding band would belong. There was just his big, strong hand.”

I love how she searches for and analyzes every detail of the little she sees of him!

“We were wondering if you could have someone take a picture of you standing in front of your jet. For size comparison purposes. And also because my students would like to know what you look like. Hearing from you makes our day even better.”

I can't wait! And I think Bradley will be happy to send her a picture of himself so they can get to know each other a little better!

The chapter was amazing! I absolutely love how you structured it and I really enjoy their email exchange. I love so much how they are both curious about each other, how they pick up every little detail in the emails and photos they send, and at the same time how they are both still a little reluctant to go a little further. It seems like they already have some kind of connection even though they don't know and have never met, and I love that so much! I love thinking about how they were meant to meet and I think the fact that they already have a little connection and feelings for each other is proof of that! I love this story and absolutely loved every part of it!💗✨

Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw Part 2 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: The collection of letters that Bradley received from the fourth grade class provides him with entertainment while deployed. He takes the time to answer their questions and send a package back to the United States via air mail. But he has your email address. He also has a bit of a crush and some questions himself.

Warnings: Fluff, language

Length: 4100 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female teacher!Reader

Check out my masterlist for more! Yours Truly, Bradley Bradshaw masterlist

A few days later, when Bradley was done with his training protocols for the day, he returned to his bunk with a different mission in mind. While he unzipped his flight suit, he eyed the box which was taking up most of his nightstand, and a smile found its way to his lips. He managed to find a notebook that nobody wanted along with a thick, padded envelope, and he was going to take the time to respond to the fourth graders who wrote to him. 

He'd spent hours poring over the letters, laughing at some of the questions from the kids and frequently picking up that one photo. He couldn't stop going back for more. For another look at you. Just one more look. Okay, this really was the last one. He had to toss it across the small room toward his duffel so he could focus on something other than your smile and the fact that he might have a tiny crush on a fourth grade teacher who knew absolutely nothing about him. Yet.

The note from Jayden was on the top, and Bradley opened it up and started to jot down a response.

Jayden,

It was so nice to hear from you and the rest of your class. To answer your pertinent questions, I am currently stationed on the USS Theodore Roosevelt. The most disgusting food in the mess hall is easily the cabbage rolls (which taste nothing like cabbage... or rolls). The best food in the mess hall is surprisingly the meatloaf. And yes, I would love to see a photo of your Cocker Spaniel. Please send one next time. I hope you're studying and doing your best in school.

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

The next note he decided to tackle was the one from Violet who had the tiniest handwriting he'd ever seen. The page had at least fifteen questions written out, but he decided to answer just a few for her. He had to squint as he skimmed through them again.

Violet,

You seem very inquisitive. That's a great quality to have, especially if you want to be a pilot someday. No, I did not attend the Naval Academy. I went to the University of Virginia. Yes, the Navy is way better than the Air Force. Yes, I can hold my breath underwater for three minutes. Yes, they actually made me do it. No, I don't think I could make it as a Navy SEAL. Yes, I have been staying hydrated and getting enough sun, thanks so much for asking. Keep studying hard, because you have a lot of school ahead of you before officer training.

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

Okay, so this was actually a lot of fun. Up next was a response to the note from Oliver, which made Bradley laugh every time he looked at it. 

Oliver,

Thank you so much for drawing the different Naval aircrafts for me. I hate to break it to you, but I actually do not fly the F-35 Lightning II. Yes, I know they look 'sickeningly cool'. Yes, I know it would be like 'slam dunking off the back of a dragon'. I guess I never knew I was jealous of those pilots until right now.... But I fly the equally cool if not quite as sickening looking F/A-18 Super Hornet. And yes, I would be more than happy to draw my own version of one for you. See below.

Lt. Bradley Bradshaw

The ten minutes he spent replicating his own aircraft to the best of his ability for Oliver churned out a pretty damn good result. He fished his phone out of the nightstand and took a picture to email to Nat when he had time, because she would find this whole thing amusing. Then he reached for the letters from Harrison, Nia and Jackie. He wrote his responses, and after a bit, he had a decent sized stack of letters all ready to go back to the fourth graders.

After a few more days, he worked his way through the entire class, and each kid would soon have a handwritten response on the way. He just needed to figure out what he wanted to say to you. The pretty teacher from the class photo that he now kept tucked in with his personal items. He worked on that one last, writing your full name at the top of the page and wishing you didn't go by the very non-specific Ms. which gave him zero clue as to whether or not you were married.

The package you sent was the nicest piece of deployment mail I have ever received. Thank you. I'm lucky it ended up in my hands. I'm impressed by how much all of your students have learned about aviation this year. I just hope I did them justice in regards to the questions they had for me.

I also hope you don't mind that I replied to each kid individually. They had some very amusing stories and questions, and I wanted to acknowledge all of them. But there was one question in particular that I was asked so many times, I thought I'd answer it here instead. My call sign is kind of a silly one, so it's okay if you all laugh. I go by Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, and my helmet is mostly red, yellow and black.

Your kids seem like a fun bunch, but I bet they keep you on your toes. Feel free to let them know they can write back to me again, but please include my name on the package this time. I don't know that I'd be lucky enough to have it fall into my hands again by chance. I'll just be here somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a few more months, ready to answer any questions you throw at me. Hope to hear back from you soon.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

The following day, he packed everything up and dropped it off with the rest of the ship's outgoing mail. There was a rumor that a helicopter would be coming to pick it up in the next day or two, and he wanted to make sure it got back to California and those fourth graders as soon as possible. On his way back to his bunk, Bradley stopped by the lounge to see if there was an iPad free, hoping to send a quick email or two. He was in luck. He also happened to have your email address memorized.

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

You yawned at your desk and checked the time on your computer. Within the next ten minutes, your classroom would go from silent solitude to mass chaos, so you took a minute to clear out your email inbox. You had a few messages from some parents and a reminder about Spirit Week from the superintendent. And a random piece of junk mail that must have slipped through the spam filters. You didn't know anyone with a US Navy email address, and you didn't know anyone named Bradley Bradshaw.

As you closed your laptop, you gasped and tried to pry it back open again as quickly as you could. The Navy! The package you sent a few weeks ago! Maybe it was someone writing back to your class! Of course it could just be someone saying they were sorry that they didn't have time to engage with your students, but you figured even that was better than nothing. 

"Come on," you whispered, entering your credentials again before your inbox reappeared on your screen. The email was just a few lines long, but it was addressed to you by name. You were smiling immediately as you read it.

I just wanted to let you know that I got the mail you sent to a deployed Naval Aviator. There's a package on its way to your school for your class. It should arrive in about a week or two. Your fourth graders provided me with several hours of entertainment, and I hope they find my answers to their many (and amusing) questions useful. Thanks for the laughs, and thanks for the photos, too. Can't tell you how much I've been enjoying them. Hope to hear from all of you again.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw

You squealed and pumped your fists in the air. Someone actually got the box! And he actually responded! The other, older teachers thought you were just wasting your time when you deviated from the lesson plans a bit. Literally all of them said there was no way anyone would write back, even though you took the time to go through the proper channels at Top Gun on North Island. But now you could rub it in their faces, all thanks to Bradley Bradshaw who sounded like he'd had as much fun with this whole thing as your class had.

Then your day really started as Violet and Oliver burst into your classroom, calling out your name with excitement in their voices. The rest of your kids followed behind them, already asking about the plans for the day and what kind of adventure you'd be taking them on in each subject. 

When you clapped your hands twice and said, "Good morning," they all clapped and replied with their own greeting, and then they sat quietly with their gazes fixed on you. "Guess who I just got an email from!"

"The president!" 

"My grandma!"

"My Cocker Spaniel!"

"Oliver's grandma!"

You just shook your head and tried not to laugh as you said, "None of the above. But do you remember when we wrote and packed up those letters for a real aviator in the military to read?" Most of the kids nodded, so you added, "Well, he emailed us! And he sent us some mail that should arrive in about a week!"

And telling them that was a mistake. Because you didn't know a moment of peace after that. Every morning, you had kids rushing into the room to see if the promised piece of mail arrived yet. Every day you had to disappoint them, but you were finding yourself a little disappointed, too. You wanted to know what this Bradley Bradshaw guy sent back. 

You'd responded to his initial email letting him know you and the kids in your class were delighted to hear from him and that you would let him know when the mail he sent arrived at your school. He didn't respond, but you figured he was busy. Too busy to constantly muck about with your class while he was thousands of miles away on a deployment. 

And that was what left you standing at your desk with your mouth hanging open in awe when the padded envelope did finally arrive one morning. Because when you carefully cut it open, you found not just one letter to the class but individual handwritten notes, one for each child.

"Wow," you whispered, pulling the note with your name written on the top out of the stack. This man seemed humble and sweet, and his letter made you laugh in more than one spot as you read through it. Then you read it again. He sounded apologetic about responding to each individual kid, but you felt like your insides were melting. Who would do that? Who would take the time to give individual attention to a bunch of nine and ten year olds besides you? And you were technically getting paid to do it. 

Bradley Bradshaw seemed willing to continue to engage with your kids, and you weren't going to stop him. Because starting that morning, he became something of a legend to your class. A celebrity. A real lieutenant in the Navy replied to all of their silly questions, and their love of aviation just grew from there. You figured you were going to have to keep your lesson plans going a bit longer while their faces lit up as you walked around the room and handed them each their notes. You had taken the time to skim them beforehand, often laughing at his sense of humor which seemed to jump off the pages.

"Can we write back to him?" Jayden asked as everyone read their notes from Lieutenant Bradshaw. "I have more questions."

You smiled and nodded. "Yes, you may write back to him." Then you postponed your geology lesson until the next day and let them spend the next forty minutes writing some followup letters. You took some pictures of them diligently toiling away at their desks, excitement on their faces. Then you bit your lip and sat down at your own desk.

As you started to construct an email letting him know the envelope had arrived, your thoughts drifted to what he might be like. Humble and sweet, for sure. But he also made it a point to tell you that the box from your class was the best piece of mail he'd ever received while deployed. Maybe he was a little bit lonely. Maybe he was single. Maybe he was stationed on the west coast. Your thoughts started to get ahead of you, and it was hard to reel them in when you imagined him excited to see another email from you. Smiling when he was handed another box from your class during mail call.

Dear Lt Bradley Bradshaw,

We got the envelope from you today, and my kids are absolutely thrilled! I'm not sure if you know how hard it can be to wrangle eighteen fourth graders all at one time, but they are currently sitting quietly and working on new letters for you to read. Once again, please don't feel obligated to continue correspondence if you're too busy. I'm sure you have other people you could be writing to who want your attention as well. I just wanted you to know they are overjoyed that a Naval officer took the time to answer their questions about aviation.

I have attached some photos as proof that they are sitting still. Thanks again for making their day.

You signed your name at the bottom the way you always would from your work email account, and then you attached the photos. After a brief debate about adding the selfie you took with Violet where most of your face was visible, you decided to just go for it. Adding it to the mix wouldn't hurt anything. It wasn't like this semi mystery man would be up all night thinking about you. 

But you found that you were still thinking about him when you went home to your silent house and made dinner that evening. Maybe he was a little bit lonely, but maybe you were, too.

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

It was amazing how infrequently Bradley found himself thinking about Vanessa. He was busier now with his duties picking up a bit more as his deployment wore on, but even when he was tired and in his bunk at night, his thoughts seldom settled on her like he was afraid they might. He didn't miss her or her half-hearted emails, and he wasn't craving the connection of reunion sex with her. 

Instead, he was thinking about what a group of fourth graders were learning about this week and what their cute teacher was up to. It had been a few days since you emailed him, letting him know that his package was delivered to your school. You made it sound like the kids were excited that he sent it in the first place, and when he really thought about it, he supposed some officers would have just eaten the snacks and tossed the notes in the trash.

He didn't reply to the email yet, still thrown off a bit by the pictures you attached. Your classroom was vibrant, and the kids were absorbed as they worked on more notes for him to read whenever they happened to be delivered to the carrier. But the photo with you in it held his attention longer than it should have. The fact that you were working at a school that was just a handful of miles from his damn house made him feel warm.

But what would he do about it? What could he do about it? Nothing. He didn't want you to think he was creepy. He still knew essentially nothing else about you. The only thing he could do was keep it friendly if not professional. Unless of course you did something to push the boundaries of conversation into a more personal realm. God, if you did....he didn't think he would be able to handle it. 

The next day, when he was heading out on deck to talk to the mechanics who were doing regular maintenance on the aircrafts, he took his phone. "Hey, you mind if I take a few photos of some of the engine parts? I want to send them to a class of fourth graders who will think it's cool."

"Go ahead, Lieutenant," the head mechanic replied. Then he smiled and asked, "You dating a teacher?"

Well. Wouldn't that be something? Bradley would never run out of curious pen pals. He would always have some fourth graders to take interesting photos for and to send notes to. He'd always have a classroom to visit as soon as he got home from a deployment.

He couldn't help but picture you as the teacher.

"Nothing like that," he replied, his voice a little gravelly. "Just writing to some kids who are learning about aviation."

After dinner, when he had a chance to use an iPad in the lounge, he did his best to put together a response to your email that would at least hint at the curiosity he felt. 

If all it takes is mail from three thousand miles away to get your class to sit quietly, then I should probably be writing to you every day. But I'm sure you're a great teacher. That's a given considering how much your students learned and shared with me. And I can assure you that I'm more than happy to take the time to write to your class. And you. Please don't think I feel obligated, because I do not. I want to.

I have attached a few pictures of some F/A-18 engine components as well as some of my cockpit controls. Each photo is labeled, but please let me know if you have any questions.

It was nice hearing from you.

Yours Truly,

Lt Bradley Bradshaw 

As soon as he hit send, he wanted to kick himself. Should he have included a photo of his face like you had twice now? Or did he already sound too desperate to hear from you and your class again?

"Shit," he muttered, looking around the lounge as if there was going to be someone here proficient in the art of getting to know a fourth grade teacher without sounding stupid. But it was too late now. All he could do was wait for the next mail call or hope you decided to write back to his ramblings by the next time he checked his email. 

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

You were going to have to scrape your jaw off the floor. You had no idea what this man's face even looked like, but his hands were... something else. And his thighs... well, they were pretty great, too. It must have been too long since you got laid, because you were sitting at your desk in your classroom staring at the set of photos in your inbox, currently unable to look away from his right hand. It was wrapped around the throttle of his aircraft. It was elegant with attractive veins and rough calluses. You were sure that you were supposed to be focusing on the cockpit controls, but all you could see was that hand and his thick, muscular thighs below.

The next photo was no better for you. He was holding up his helmet with his call sign Rooster emblazoned across the front, and you were able to see his left ring finger. There was no wedding band. There was no evidence of an outline where a wedding band would belong. There was just his big, strong hand.

You whimpered softly while your students worked on their math tests. You couldn't help it as you took one last look before logging out of your email account. And now you needed to know if his face matched the very attractive image you had in your mind. 

When Jayden called your name, you rocketed to your feet like you'd been caught red handed. "Yes?" you squeaked, your voice sounding higher pitched than usual.

"I'm done with my test. May I have the hall pass and use the restroom?"

You handed it to him as the rest of your class finished working through the math problems. A few minutes later, when you collected the papers from them, Violet asked, "When is Lieutenant Bradshaw going to write back to us?"

It had only been a few days since you mailed him the second box of notes and some more snacks, but it made you happy that they were all so invested in learning more from him. 

"It will probably be a few weeks before we get anything in the mail. However... he did email me some pictures of engine and cockpit parts from the aircraft carrier for me to share with you guys." When you looked around the room, the kids were on the edges of their seats, excited expressions on their faces. With a laugh you added, "I was going to wait until tomorrow and use the projector to show them all to you, but if you're very well behaved for the rest of the afternoon, maybe I could pull them up on my computer for you to see them today."

Not two hours later, you were just as excited as the kids were to look at the photos... again. As they crowded around your desk, you opened up the first one of the cockpit to a barrage of questions. 

"Is that really his jet?"

"Is that the throttle?"

"What do all the buttons do?"

"Was this right before he flew it?"

Once again you were distracted, but you managed to click over to the next photo, and the kids gasped in delight. 

"His helmet is so cool!"

"It says Rooster!"

"That's his call sign!"

"Red is my favorite color!"

You just smiled softly and laughed. "Should we go ahead and start working on another list of questions for him?" you asked as you slowly scrolled through the rest of the pictures. "He said we can write back to him as much as we want to." When everyone cheered, you handed Oliver a marker and pointed to the board at the front of the classroom. "Let's start making a list."

You listened to all of your students call out questions for Bradley while Oliver wrote them down. Then Violet asked, "Can he send us a picture of his whole jet? From the outside of it?"

You cleared your throat and added, "Maybe he could get someone else to take the picture so he could stand in front of it. For size comparison."

Violet nodded, but you knew you were a fraud. Sure, it would be great for the kids to understand just how massive the F/A-18s were compared to an actual person, but you were the one who wanted to see all of Bradley. You were itching for it now. 

Later that night, you drank most of a bottle of wine and did something you promised yourself you'd never do. You logged into your work email account after nine o'clock. You skipped over the handful of unread emails from parents and clicked on the icon to compose a new message. With your liquid courage goading you on, you typed up a response to Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw and hit send before you could think twice.

Thank you for the photos. They were very enlightening. We especially liked the ones where you were showing off your cockpit. Or I did, anyway. The kids liked all of them and started on another list of questions for you. Good luck getting rid of us now. 

We were wondering if you could have someone take a picture of you standing in front of your jet. For size comparison purposes. And also because my students would like to know what you look like. Hearing from you makes our day even better.

You couldn't believe how forward you were being with this man who you'd never even met in person, but you fell asleep thinking about his hands and what they might be capable of.

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

This Bradley makes me swoon. I've never wanted to be a fourth grade teacher so badly in my life. There is something that's starting to blossom between them even though they haven't even met in person. Thanks @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

PART 3

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[thecagedsong]

Forgotten Light Chapter 16: Djinni

A/N: Posting this now so I don’t accidentally go back on my word and post the Tess chapter. Seth is up to Shenanagains of the life-threatening sort, just as he ought to be. Baby tries so hard.

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15 / 16

Chapter 15: Djinni

           Unfortunately, they could not leave that afternoon to investigate the poisoned pool like was planned, as the Triclops didn’t give them an opportunity. It spent the whole afternoon and evening swinging an uprooted tree back and forth around the confines of their little sanctuary.

           “All right,” Seth said, that night, “Need a new plan.”

           “The plan is to get some sleep and try again in the morning. This island is big, he’ll go somewhere else eventually,” Warren said, rubbing his eyes, “You’re on Fablehaven’s timezone, right? No way you aren’t exhausted.”

           “But the longer we wait to get a good look at the pool, the more likely we lose our clues,” Seth pleaded.

           “Believe us Seth,” Vanessa said, “We know and we don’t like this. If it is still there in the morning, we’ll change the plan so that Warren and I act as decoys, luring the triclops away so your group can investigate. Preserves are too dangerous at night if it can be avoided.”

           “Maybe too dangerous for you,” Seth scoffed.

           “I understand your frustration,” Vanessa said, “I love Kendra too, and at least she knows that you are her brother. I will not face her having lost her brother, the only one she knows even a little bit, to preventable dangers. Sleep. I have potions for you if you need it.”

           Seth looked behind her to Warren, who gave him a warning look that his arguing was at an end. He looked back at Vanessa’s dark eyes and firm set features.

           “Fine,” Seth said. “I’ll take a sleeping potion, but not one that knocks me out completely.”

           “More of a drowsy solution, I promise,” Vanessa said, going to her dufflebag. She mixed some powders and fruit juice, and held it out, “It will not work right away, so you can get back to your room, even if you drink it now.”

           Seth tilted his head, “Hey, if you controlled me in my sleep, could you use my shadowcharmer abilities? Shadewalking, speaking to the undead, that kind of stuff?”

           Vanessa didn’t answer until he drank the potion, then said, “I do not know. I have controlled wizards and felt their magical cores, but without their knowledge of spellcraft, I was unable to use their magic. Magic is not for the use of mortals. The best comparison would have been controlling Kendra, but her mind was protected, and I could not seize her. I would have to re-bite you and attempt, as Bracken broke off our previous connection. I could not attempt to guess, Seth, and I won’t experiment with you. If your abilities are needed, I trust you to use them well, as I hope you trust me to keep you safe during the attempt.”

           “That’s actually really touching, I’m touched Vanessa,” Seth said, holding a hand over his heart, “I must be the most unique thing you aren’t interested in biting.”

           Vanessa rolled her eyes, “I have bitten creatures of the dark, and they all taste nasty. Creature of the shadows, and teenage boy? That is a very easy pass.”

           “You actually taste people when you bite them?” Seth asked, “Who tasted the best? Was it Kendra? I bet it was Kendra. I bit her once when we were kids.”

           “And we’re done with that conversation,” Warren said, stopping Vanessa from answering. “Forever. Off to bed before the drowsy hits, scoot.”

           “What? You don’t want to know if you tasted better or worse than—” Vanessa started teasing, and Seth was quick to back out of that conversation. Fourteen years old, and he did not need to know biting preferences for Vanessa, and how her boyfriend ranked.

           Seth fell asleep, and woke up to the moon hitting his face, almost blinding. He felt refreshed and awake, not a hint of drowsy. It was rare he woke up like this, normally Kendra was awake first. Seth sat up. Or, he tried too, but sleeping in a hammock made sitting up a test of abdominal muscles. He rolled out of his hammock, took note that Tanu was sleeping across from him, Calvin wrapped up in a handkerchief for a blanket on the windowsill, and Seth quietly made his way out of the hut.

           He wandered until he realized that the whispers of the undead were getting louder. Then he walked with a purpose up spiral stairs and across rope bridges he stopped before a door carved into what had to be the biggest tree in existence. It felt like the Blackwell, though a little less desperate. Instead of suffering pleas, there were questions about directions.

           Left here, and again…or was it right?

           A thousand repetitions of this circle should get me out…

           Does wandering endlessly truly break up the monotony of eternal existence?

           “I see…this is what it means to be a shadow charmer,” Savani’s voice broke his listening, and he saw the woman step onto the platform behind him.

           “Yep, walking around in the middle of the night to figure out where the undead are,” Seth said. “And your excuse?”

           Savani held up a bracelet of three large shells and several smaller shells, “We have three caretaker homes at this preserve, each designed to better weather certain seasons. This is the winter quarter, even though I should have welcomed you in the spring mansion. This bracelet alerts me whenever someone or something approaches one of the prisons at any of the homes, and will transport me to interfere. I assume you were not planning on releasing these entities.”

           “No, just wanted to know where they are,” Seth said, looking back at the door, “They sound different than most of the undead. Like they’re…wandering. They think they are going somewhere.”

           “The spirits here are trapped by a maze, just as much as they are by the barrier,” Savani said. “My people learned how to draw unwanted entities into certain designs, tricking them into wandering those corridors rather than through the village. It is a complicated magic, but one that does not require a wizard if you have the right blood and soul.”

           “So like, at least they get puzzle books with their prison sentence, I approve,” Seth said, “They sound a little less miserable than the undead usually do.”

           “Are you familiar with Djinni?” Savani asked.

           “Genies?” Seth said, the name sounding familiar, “A little. My other Grandma tried to make a deal with one, it got to ask her three questions she had to answer truthfully. When she refused to answer one, the Genie turned her into a chicken.”

           “I lost one of my staff to similar circumstances concerning the Djinni that rests just inside this door. A spirit that wandered here from the mainland; they were not so easily trapped by our mazes, but fell remarkably easily to four walls,” she said, thinking, “My sister, Alma, engaged in the question game, three for three, taking turns, and learned that the sunset pearl had been taken off the preserve before Djinni asked how to unweave spirit mazes and she refused to answer.”

           “They only know about stuff inside the preserve right?” Seth asked.

           “Only when asked can she gain access to her sight, which extends to past and a little into the future,” Savani said. “My sister’s remaining questions that she could not ask were about who took the sunset pearl, and the location of the Weki flute that soothes the triclops.”

           “I can go in and ask her,” Seth volunteered.

           Savani laughed, “I could never ask you to go in with so little preparation!”

           “Seems to me everyone fails at the game because they had too much preparation,” Seth said. “You need to let your non-local idiot walk in with absolutely no preparation. I don’t know anything about this preserve or what might free her. Sure I know some secrets, but nothing that would help her get free. And it’s just information. She can’t ask me to do things for her, right?”

           “The young always risk their lives for so little,” Savani said, shaking her with a quiet laugh. “Even if I were willing to lose another ally to that monster after losing my sister, something I’m sure you understand, none of your protectors would let you go over them.”

           “That’s why we do it here and now,” Seth said, “I’ve negotiated with tougher customers than this. I’ve talked down both the Totem Wall and the Singing Sisters. And I convinced a centaur to let me ride on his back. I’m pretty talented at walking away from these things.”

           “That is impressive,” Savani said, “But even with those dangerous consultations in your past, our situation is not so risky. And wandering towards the most secure prison at night alone does not convince me that you have the discipline to converse with this creature. Any word out of your mouth that is not the answer the answer to her question after you enter her chamber is a lie and gives her freedom to leave. You strike me as the sarcastic sort, and that will get you killed.”

           “Yeah, some of my wraith friends didn’t get my jokes either,” Seth said, remembering Whiner. “I suppose knock-knock jokes are out?”

           “Most definitely,” Savani said, “You are refreshing to speak to. Much like Warren, but less burdened. Does the chill of this dungeon not bother you?”

           “Chill?” Seth asked, looking around, “It’s been ridiculously hot since we got here. It finally feels nice.”

           “The unnatural dread make many fail to converse with the Djinni,” Savani said thoughtfully. “After speaking, I am a bit more inclined to let you try with the Djinni, and hold back my assent almost solely on the rifts I do not wish to cause with the rest of our allies. Should the triclops still haunt us when they awake, I will allow you to present this plan as an option to them.”

           “Sounds like permission to me,” Seth said. He spun and grasped the door handle. In that touch, he found himself on the opposite side of door. Apparently just touching the doorknob was enough to get a mortal inside the prison, though he was willing to bet it would take the caretaker to get out. There was a single door to his right, and beyond that a spiral staircase covered with woven mats of crazy designs. He felt the presence of wraiths and the undead just before him, and it took a bit to figure out that they were trapped inside the mats.

           Then a phantom stumbled up the stairs, and he realized not all of them were trapped in mats. Just to his left was a door with another handle and no hinges.

           Expecting it this time, Seth reached out and grasped the handle.

           “Oh? Two visitors so close together after a century of silence,” the Djinni said. “A baby shadow charmer, no less. I assume you are here to play my riddle game like that last one.”

           The Djinni was surprisingly pretty. Usually Kendra got the pretty ones, and he got the cool ones who were half skeleton half putrid guts. The flowing pink dress threw him for a second. But she had white skin, red eyes, and choppy blue hair. Her skin was smooth, except for the bags under her eyes, and her hair looked like it could use a good washing.

           Seth nodded to the Djinni’s question.

Then he breathed in, and a hand came up over his mouth to stop him from gagging. His eyes left the Djinni  to the ground next to her, covered partially by her cloak. For some reason, when Savani said her sister had been killed by the Djinni, he had never imagined what had happened to her sister’s body. This wasn’t like the zombie farm, or even when Coulter died in his arms. The body was weeks decayed. Skin and organs were liquifying and leeking over the floor, bones starting to jut out on the ribcage and he could only be glad he couldn’t see Savanni’s sister’s face.

           “I have a fondness for little adventurers,” the Djinni said with a rosy smile, watching him watch the body. She even threw in a casual caress of her last victim. “I will recite the rules for you if you nod now.”

           Seth nodded, suddenly regretting everything. He made himself focus on the Djinni.

           “Very well, my rules are simple,” she said, standing up but still leaning against the wall of her prison cell, “You may only speak the answers to my questions and questions of your own. You have as much time as you need to answer. Should you speak else, I may extract a price from you for disturbing me, and as you can see, it includes killing you. Should you speak a lie, I am freed from my prison and will enjoy wrecking the meager protections left to this house on my way out. My sight it limited to this preserve, but it extends to everywhere in this preserve and all the way through the past, and twenty-eight days into the future. You may indicate you are unsatisfied with my answer, but may not ask follow-up questions, I can do the same. Upon being satisfied with my final answer, you will be teleported out of my diminutive abode. Nod if you are ready to begin, little adventurer.”

           Simple rules. Follow the rules, and they can’t touch you. He would just have to think through his answers before speaking. Despite what Kendra says, he can think before talking. At least, that’s what Kendra used to say, and probably wouldn’t take long to say again. Seth nodded and made himself remove his hands and accept the smell. The smell wasn’t worse than the zombie farm, even if the body was.

           “Then I, Skamboli, ask this for my first question: what are the ways out of my confinement that you know about?” she asked.

           Seth thought for a minute, going over each way he thought might work.

           “I only know a few,” Seth said slowly, “if I tell a lie, you are free. I assume that if the caretaker released you, you could go free. I don’t know for sure, but I assume if someone busted down your door from the outside, you would probably be freed. Burned the tree prison down, though you might die that way. And…a trained shadow charmer, not me, could probably unlock your door. People have told me that once I learn control over my powers, I can undo locks, but I don’t know how yet.”

           Skamboli waited, but nothing happened. “Very honest, I approve. Though a wiser adventurer would not volunteer information about their weaknesses. You may ask your first question.”

           Better ask Savani’s questions first. “Who took the sunset pearl?”

           Her red eyes flashed white for a second then went back to red. “The dark unicorn goes by many names, but you know him as Ronodin. He stole the pearl on his first visit to this sanctuary.”

           That was bad and good. Bad, because Ronodin likely put it where he was keeping Kendra, on the Phantom Island, but good because it narrowed their goals and they were already working on getting to the Phantom Isle anyway. Maybe he could use the horn to send a message to Bracken to pick up the pearl on his way out with Kendra?

           Seth nodded at the Djinni, hopefully indicating he was satisfied with her answer. Not looking at the body. She never said he could verbally say if he was satisfied, just dis-satisfied, and didn’t want to risk it. He didn’t want to talk more than he had to.

           “Is there any questions I could ask that you would be unwilling to answer?” Skamboli said. This was the question that left grandma laying eggs for months.

           Again, Seth thought carefully.

           “Plenty of things I wouldn’t want to answer,” Seth decided, “Embarrassing moments, secrets about our plans against the dragons in the upcoming dragon war that I promised not to share, too much information about my friends and family. Secrets that would result in my death if I shared them with you due to other promises I have made. Really don’t want to share that one, it wouldn’t benefit you at all and would end up with me dead. That one is about my dealings with the Singing Sisters, and wouldn’t interest you at all, so please don’t ask that one. But I would share any of it, if you asked, because I need to take the answers to my questions back to my friends.”

           Skamboli waited, then nodded at Seth. Seth hesitated for a moment, because the name of the flute Savani mentioned five minutes ago was already lost from his head. He needed a minute to carefully pick his words.

           “Where is the magic flute that can soothe the currently rampaging triclops?” Seth asked at last.

           Again, her eyes flashed a blinding white.

           “The Weki flute is buried amongst the treasure of the Fairy Queen’s shrine on this island,” Skamboli said.

           Uggh, normally they left the fairy shrine stuff to Kendra, though the Fairy King might let him take something from there. Or maybe getting Fairy Struck Tess to ask would be better. Still, much better news than the flute being lost forever. Seth nodded.

           “What would convince you to free me from my prison, little adventurer?” she asked, sounding tired.

           Seth had not expected that question. What would convince him to free a dangerous being? He took longer to think through his answer to this one than any other. The smell and taste of the last life she had taken all around him, so much worse than the zombie farm.

           “A sincere and binding promise to never hurt another sentient being again,” Seth said, at last, and his eyes finally went back to the body. He saw the swollen, distorted face of Savani’s sister, and knew he wouldn’t ever forget it. “But from everything I know, that is against your very nature and an impossible promise to keep.” He looked away and back at her, “Still, if you were able to convince me you’d do that? I’d do my best to help you. I would do my best to convince Savani that you won’t attack her, help find a nice new lair for you somewhere on this preserve. You could have been a lot meaner, a lot stricter and done more to trip me up, but you didn’t, which makes me like you. I have been double crossed a lot in my life though, so I refuse to free you on anything less than a perfect, binding promise.”

           Skamboli waited, then nodded, a small smile on her lips. Now it was time for the real reason he had jumped into this encounter, the information that would make it all worth it. He thought over his question a couple of times, looking for loopholes or ways to get more information out of it, and asked.

           “Where will my sister Kendra be on the preserve in the next twenty-eight days?”

           Again, her eyes flashed white, though this time they softened slowly back to their red. “The future is not certain, but many futures show Kendra at this preserve in 77 hours and making her way to the sacred pool. She will venture into the domain of a wraith, then leave. It grows hazier, but Kendra will also visit the Bridge Cove, then Baga Lao sometime after that. Leaving Baga Lao, she does not return within the time of my sight.”

           Kendra. Here. Seth almost said something, almost said thank you, then stopped himself with a snap of his jaw. He nodded.

           “That concludes my little game. Congrats, you are the first to pass without retribution in a while. You are right, I cannot promise not to harm in exchange for my freedom. Still, this has been quite entertaining, and in Jighandi even. You have goodness in you, little adventurer, try not to die too quickly on this preserve.”

           Seth was transported out. Savani was standing in the little hallway, arms folded, when he appeared. She grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him towards the exit

           Savani forcibly shoved him out of the prison, where Grandma was waiting for him.

           “So, good news, I wisely used my resources and found out vital information on where Kendra is going to be, as well as the sunset pearl and the flute to stop the triclops” Seth said. “Bad news, I’m going to throw up.”

           Seth rushed to the edge of the platform and started heaving, losing the dinner he had eaten.

           “I understand now what Ruth and Stan warned me when letting you out of my sight,” Grandma Larsen said, putting a hand on his back. “Of all the trouble I was watching out for, you purposefully going to chat up a djinni never even crossed my mind.”

           Tears leaked out of his eyes as he threw up some more. It was horrible, he’d thought that after everything, after regularly conversing with the undead for years, after seeing so many people die, he would never loose his stomach over something like a dead body. But the smell…

           …he gagged some more, even though there was nothing left. He was sticky and gross and the humidity made it feel like the vomit was sticking to him more than he knew it was. Eventually a glass of water was offered, and he used it to rinse his mouth. He nodded his thanks at Savani, and accepted the wet towel as well.

           His breathing evened out and he said, “For Kendra. I did it for Kendra.”

           “Seth, you are part of a team now,” Grandma said, “And you aren’t leading things here like you were back at Wyrmroost. We work together, or not at all. Savani told you she didn’t want you to speak to the Djinni, and you disregarded her. This is her home, hers to protect, and you violated that trust. How is what you did any different than Knox going into the dungeons with Tess to check out the barrel?”

           “Savani said the only reason she didn’t want me to talk to the Djinni was that she worried about setting off everyone’s ‘protect Seth’ sensors,” Seth said, not looking her in the eye, “I thought I figured it out, but you’re right, I didn’t know, I wasn’t ready. It’s what I thought I had to do, and I’m sorry.” Savani’s sister’s body flashed in his mind again, the way Skamboli stroked sagging flesh, and he pressed his face into the towel.

He was stronger and braver than this. He was. He had proved it over and over, and he’d seen people die. He’d seen his sister poison herself into a frothing, empty shell. He’d seen battle wounds from the battle of Zzyzx.

This shouldn’t be worse than that, but it was.

           Grandma sighed and rubbed his back. “What happened? Tell me.”

           “It’s nothing,” Seth said, pulling himself to his feet. “Nothing I haven’t seen before. It just…I wasn’t prepared. I promise I won’t act on my own again.”

           “That is not the answer to my question,” Grandma scolded, standing as well, “I don’t care about how Ruth and Stan let you run about and keep secrets, and I don’t care about what you’ve seen before. We are going to confront a demon for training tomorrow, and you have been unsettled and you have been reckless, so we are going to talk until I trust that you can handle what’s going to happen.”

           “It doesn’t matter if I talk about it or not,” Seth said, “We need to get me trained so I can get to the Phantom Isle, and we need to do it fast. I can handle a demon, I won’t lose it like that again.”

           “Seth, Honey,” Grandma said, and she pulled him into a hug he resisted, “Even those of us who have done dangerous missions on magical preserves our entire lives need people to talk to. People to trust. Time to break down. Mortals aren’t meant for the kind of exposure you and your sister have been through. Special abilities or not. Talk to me.”

           “It’s nothing, I mean it,” Seth said, and his eyes found Savani over Grandma’s shoulders, who had been watching patiently the entire time. “It wasn’t worse than seeing Kendra’s stingbulb kill herself, and I got through that, so I’m okay.”

           “Shadow charmers have a reputation,” Savani said quietly, “Of moving and operating in the dark, with demons who seal their secrets sworn in blood. I would recommend  letting things come to light, if you can. If you are trying to spare me, I think I have guessed what unsettled you. I had hoped this Djinni to favor the clean and quick kill, but we knew the consequences.”

           “I’m sorry,” Seth said, hoping she understood the extent of his apology.

           “Ahh,” Grandma said releasing him, “Death. You have dealt far too much with loved ones and friends dying for your age, and you have dealt much with those long dead, the process in between is…unpleasant, unsettling.”

           “It smelled really bad,” Seth admitted, closing his eyes and seeing the body all over again. “Worse than the zombie farm. I don’t know how I breathed, much less talked. It was just…everywhere in that small cell. I won’t try something like that again, not without a lot more preparation and talking it out with everyone.”

           Savani said nothing for a long moment, “You make raising my own son look easy, Seth Sorenson. I believe your sincere desires, though it will take a while for me to trust your restraint. Gloria, remain by Seth’s side for the remainder of his stay here. He does not understand our magic, and while that saved him from knowing anything that could help the Djinni, it also made him dangerous to the integrity of the Woven Prison.”

           “That is acceptable,” Grandma said.

           Savani sighed, and shook her head, “That being said, the information you gathered is invaluable and I am also in your debt for asking. I was listening at the door and recorded everything. We will work on securing the flute, preparing for Ronodin’s return, and locating the Sunset Pearl. We will have much to discuss when the rest of our companions awake.”

Grandma nodded, “I agree, come Seth. There is still three hours until dawn, and we need what rest we can, even if sleep is gone. You will be sleeping in my room from now on.”

           Seth winced, but it was hardly the worst punishment he could have gotten. Probably better than he should have gotten. The women turned to leave.

           Seth went to the room his Grandmother had been using, to laid down in the second bed, while Grandma Larsen curled up in hers. No more hammock after tonight. He thought he had been past his impulse issues. He had been careful at Wyrmroost to not take unnecessary risks, to consult Kendra in most things, and he had felt good. Like he had learned his lesson and finally grown into someone worth trusting with important stuff.

           Now it felt like he was back to square one. Back to being the dumb kid that captured fairies overnight and trusted demons.

           Seth missed his sister.

[piggy-i-broke-the-conch]

Lord of the Flies manuscript- an overview

Preamble:

(if you don’t care about this, I start talking about the actual manuscript under the cut. but be warned- it is very long)

So as some of you know if you've been following my blog, I have been wanting to go and see the original first draft of Lord of the Flies (handwritten by William Golding in a college notebook and currently held by the University of Exeter's special collections here in the UK) for a really long time now! It took a while, but today I finally went! I'm sure a lot of you are curious about how it differs from the final book so I decided to put together a list of things I noticed. Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to quote anything from the manuscript verbatim due to copyright restrictions, but I'll try my best to tell you what I can without getting into legal trouble (hopefully). Also, I only managed to get through the first 7 chapters before the library closed (I'm truly devastated) partly because I struggled a lot to decipher Golding's very messy handwriting and also just because I'm not a very fast reader and I only had about 5 hours with the manuscript, so I'll just be talking about what I've read so far. I plan on returning in the summer to see the rest so there will be a part 2 to this post eventually!

Also also, at the time of posting it is 3am and I am too tired to proofread this properly so apologies in advance for any mistakes.

Now, onto the part of the post you actually care about- talking about the manuscript!

The majority of differences between the original and final versions (which I'll be referring to as OV and FV respectively throughout the rest of this post) are just minor changes to phrasing and fixes of grammatical errors, but there are a few more pronounced differences which caught my interest. This post will be split into two sections, one for smaller differences which I found particularly interesting and one for major differences which greatly affect the story and characters.

A note on the typescript:

As well as looking at the original LotF manuscript (the handwritten one), I also had the chance to look at a typescript (a later version of the manuscript typed out on a typewriter) while I was there. The typescript is a lot more similar to the FV than the OV so there isn't as much to say about it, but there are still a few interesting things in there which I ought to mention so you'll see me bring it up from time to time. Some major aspects of the OV stuck around for quite a long time before eventually being cut from the FV (although many had already been toned down quite a lot by the time the typescript was made, I'll elaborate later on). You can see that someone has marked the typescript, crossing out references to these features as well as fixing some more phrasing and grammar errors. I'm not sure who did this as while some of the annotations appear to be in Golding's handwriting, others are not. It was most likely a collaborative effort between Golding and his editor, though.

Now that that's cleared up, let's move on to the differences between these versions of the novel!

Smaller differences:

• Some minor characters had different names in the OV. Johnny (the littlun who likes to bully Percival) was originally called Jamie, and Henry (mulberry kid's cousin who also likes to bully Percival) interestingly had a surname, going by Henry Williams

• I'm not completely sure about this one because I couldn't make out everything Golding was saying due to his handwriting, but I don't think Jack's eye colour is mentioned at all in the OV while it comes up quite a few times in the FV. This interested me because I have a vague theory that Johnny is supposed to parallel Jack, which is why they both have blue eyes (no one else's eye colour is mentioned in the book) and their names are both diminutives of John, so I found it intriguing that Johnny's name and Jack's eye colour were added in later. It's a very minor detail so not necessarily what Golding was going for, but cool either way.

• This is kind of the opposite, but while Jack's physical appearance is described a bit less in the OV, Roger's is described a bit more. His skin tone is said to be olive and he has a lean face. His facial expressions are also a bit... weird, but I'll expand on this later

• Percival's address is slightly different from the FV, with his street name being St Michael instead of St Anthony

• Some lines of dialogue are said by different characters in the OV- for example, in the FV's chapter 2 Maurice suggests that the boys should put green branches on the fire to make more smoke, but in the OV Roger is the one who says this

• Similarly, some actions are performed by different characters in the OV- Simon is actually the one who calms the littluns down by making them laugh in chapter 5 instead of Maurice (speaking of which, I think Golding didn't quite know what to do with Maurice at first since he seems a little bit inconsistent to me in the OV and the lines of dialogue attributed to him are almost random at times. I'm happy that Golding later made him into a more consistent comic relief character)

• Some lines that aren't attributed to any specific character in the FV are given to specific characters in the OV- for example, the person who suggests that the choir could be an army in chapter 1 is said to be Roger in the OV (can you tell i was interested in Roger's dialogue in particular?)

• Ralph's age is slightly different- he is 12 years and 1 month old in the OV, while in the FV he is 12 years and several months old. I'm not sure why Golding made this change, but it might be to make Ralph's age less specific.

• Simon is said to be 9 years old, while in the FV his age is never specified

• Piggy's accent is more exaggerated in the OV- for example, every 'h' at the start of a word is replaced with an apostrophe (e.g.- 'is instead of his). This makes his dialogue very hard to read at times, which is probably why these instances have been crossed out and replaced with regular spelling in the typescript.

• When Jack talks about who doesn't deserve to speak at meetings in chapter 6, he includes Piggy and Roger in the OV but not in the FV (i just find it funny that he insults Roger here, don't ask why)

• Another funny one, this time from chapter 5. While arguing about what the beast is, the argument suddenly shifts to whether there are ghosts in the Bible and whether Jesus is a ghost or not. This argument culminates in Jack essentially accusing Piggy of being an atheist, which is treated as being very scandalous

• If you've done a bit of digging into LotF or studied it at school, you might know that an alternate title for the book before it was published was 'Strangers From Within'. The typescript goes by another alternate title- 'This Island's Mine'. However, the title was crossed out on the typescript and had been replaced with the familiar 'Lord of the Flies'

Major differences:

Ok, this is the part I'm most excited to write about. Some of these major differences are already public knowledge (I knew about a lot of them before I checked out the manuscript, and I've talked about some of them on my blog before), but I'll try to elaborate a bit more on these as well as talking about some others

The first chapter:

As I've mentioned on this blog several times in the past, the reason I was so excited about seeing this manuscript is that there is an additional chapter at the start of the OV which expands on the events leading up to Ralph climbing down the rock at the start of the FV, including the plane crash. However, I found out that this isn't actually an additional chapter but an extended version of the first chapter in the FV. This means that the original first chapter is very long, which is actually a big part of the reason why LotF was rejected by so many publishers at first since most didn't read past the first chapter and so didn't really get into the plot of the novel. The extended part of the chapter has been cut entirely from the typescript, which makes sense. Personally I think the original first chapter drags on a lot and probably wouldn't be too interesting to the average reader, but it was interesting to me since it gave me some valuable extra info about the characters I've grown to love over the years.

Here are some of the key things I found:

• As mentioned by Piggy in chapter 1 of the FV, an atom bomb was dropped on England which seemingly destroyed it

• The novel takes place during a fictional war between England (and possibly others) and the 'Reds' (quote from the FV, although a similar name is used in the OV). I believe this is likely referring to the USSR but I couldn't find any solid evidence

• The boys had been on the plane for 10 days prior to the crash, stopping in a number of countries along the way (chapter 1 of the FV reveals that Simon fainted in a lot of them)

• There is a lot of detail about the boys' feelings during the journey and subsequent crash. The crash is described in full, with quite horrific detail at times-we see the boys screaming and panicking as the plane goes down

• Eventually one boy (I'm not sure if Golding gave any details hinting at which boy it was due to the handwriting thing again, but my theory is either Ralph or Piggy) pulled on the emergency lever, allowing the remaining boys to escape from the burning plane

• After the crash, we see the boys all collapsing and falling asleep in the scar left behind by the plane followed by them exploring the scar/jungle in the daytime and searching for food

• The rest of the chapter follows Ralph specifically. We see a lot of him running around and having fun as he eats fruit and explores

• Interestingly, several scenes involving Ralph having fun in the first chapter were crossed out in the OV, including the whole scene where Ralph discovers Piggy's nickname and the one where they swim in the lagoon (although both of these did make it into the FV virtually unchanged). There is a note from Golding by the former scene which suggests he was not sure if Ralph was being too casual about the situation or not, although it seems that eventually he decided it was fine and kept Ralph's characterisation the same

The Coral Island:

This one is another thing I've talked about on the blog before. Lord of the Flies is essentially a fanfiction of a book called The Coral Island by R.M. Ballantyne, which is an adventure story from the 19th century about three teenage boys/young adults getting shipwrecked on a tropical island and converting the local 'savages' to Christianity (it is very racist as you can imagine). From what I've heard, Golding wrote LotF partly out of spite because he felt that TCI was inaccurate and boys wouldn't get along as well as the ones in that book in reality. He also made fun of the imperialism in TCI, with the posh white British boys being the ones who end up becoming savages in LotF.

TCI is name dropped twice in the FV, but it is brought up a lot more in the OV and has a major influence on Ralph's character. To put it simply, Ralph is a huge TCI fanboy. His obsession with TCI actually quite closely mirrors my own obsession with LotF- he's almost memorised the book, thinks about it all the time, and wants to be friends with the characters. I have a lot of examples of Ralph's obsession which I want to talk about so I'll put them into a list to make things easier:

• Ralph's motivation for climbing the rock at the very start of the FV is because the TCI characters do something similar shortly after they get stranded on their island

• Ralph compares the TCI trio with himself, Jack and Simon very frequently throughout the OV. He considers himself to be like TCI Ralph (yes they have the same name, Jack also has the same name as one of the TCI trio) and actively seeks out the remaining members of the trio even before he meets the other boys on the island. Essentially he wants to live out the novel in real life and wants idealised companions that he can rely on and have a sense of camaraderie with. Because of this he really romanticises his situation and becomes very attached to his relationships with Jack and Simon (but also very disappointed when they don't live up to his expectations)

• When Ralph finds out Jack's first name, he becomes really excited just because he has the same name as TCI Jack and automatically considers the two of them to be part of the same trio

• He decides that Simon is Peterkin (the last boy in the TCI trio) for basically no reason. He just looks at him and feels the two are alike without knowing why, although he is disappointed that he couldn't find someone with the same name as Peterkin to complete the trio

• When Ralph says he wants three boys to go up the mountain in chapter 1, he blushes and the other boys don't understand why- it's because he's thinking about recreating a scene from TCI again

• In chapter 3, the 'He wanted to explain how people were never quite what you thought they were' line from the FV is replaced with an explanation that Ralph is sad that Jack and Simon aren't actually that much like their TCI counterparts, with Jack being too invested in hunting (instead of being the responsible, mature leader who cares deeply for his companions' wellbeing like TCI Jack) and Simon being too quiet and good-natured (while Peterkin is a very adventurous and mischievous character)

• Similarly, when Ralph says 'Only-' and cuts himself off in the FV, in the OV this is followed by an explanation that he wanted to tell Jack about how Simon doesn't live up to his expectations but (I assume at least) he didn't think Jack would understand

• One of Ralph's dream sequences (I think the one where he thinks about the wild ponies in his back garden in the FV? the first one anyway) is different in the OV. Instead of thinking about his childhood, he dreams that his father appears on the beach and they have a conversation about the island. I found it interesting that Ralph's dad gets dialogue here (even if it is in a dream) since he doesn't in the FV. One funny thing from this conversation is that Ralph's dad essentially tells Ralph the onion thing from Shrek except with bananas instead of onions (as in, he calls Jack and Simon bananas and says that Ralph needs to peel them in order to find what he wants, aka his ideal companions/TCI Jack and Peterkin). When he says this, Ralph sees Jack and Simon smiling at him on the beach

While the majority of these things are already omitted from the typescript, quite a few references to The Coral Island remain (although almost all of these have been crossed out by- probably- the editor). Several have annotations above them which replace the TCI references with lines that appear in the final version, which makes me think that these changes came quite late in the editing process.

The fourth chapter:

So originally I was going to scatter the things I'll cover here across different sections, but since they all take place in the same chapter I decided to just put them together. The main interesting thing in the OV of this chapter is Roger's characterisation. As well as being portrayed quite differently in his scene at the start of the chapter (the one where he bullies small children/ throws rocks at Henry), he also gets an additional scene at the end of the chapter which was cut from the FV. I was pretty surprised about the additional scene to be honest, I wasn't expecting that to be there since chapter 4 sort of phases into chapter 5 in the FV and it seems to flow quite well so I didn't imagine another scene being stuck in the middle of it. This is probably why the extra scene was cut though.

Okay, let's talk about OV Roger:

• As I mentioned much earlier in the post, Roger makes a lot of weird facial expressions during his scene with Henry. He is described as looking like he is in pain several times while watching the littluns on the beach, with his pain seeming to intensify into an expression of agony as he stalks Henry. I don't get why he was supposed to look like he was in pain here? but cool that we get to see more of his emotions I guess

• Continuing with this theme, Roger's excitement at throwing rocks at Henry is described in much more detail in the OV. He goes from a state of extreme pain to a state of extreme ecstasy very quickly. His mouth is also described as moving in a way I didn't really grasp (because of the handwriting I couldn't read half of it)- I think he might have been smiling creepily but it's hard to tell, maybe he was holding back a smile or something else. To be honest I was just imagining him making Kira expressions (from death note, look it up) the whole time.

• We also get more intense descriptions of Roger's physical reactions to this scene. In the FV, after retreating behind a palm tree to avoid being caught by Henry, he is 'breathing quickly, eyes fluttering'. It's hard to describe without quoting directly from the text, but basically in the OV his reaction seems more drawn out- he's breathless, his heart is pounding, he's exhilarated and maybe a little afraid. My point is that this Roger is much more emotive than the one in the FV, who expresses his emotions very subtly (e.g.- through a slight movement of his eyes or a shadow crossing his face). Personally I prefer FV Roger much more, being very apathetic and hard to read fits his character a lot better imo. I guess both are creepy in different ways though.

• Okay, the extra scene. Basically Roger leaves the others while they are all gathered around the fire eating meat and goes down to the beach to continue what he was doing at the start of the chapter. He doesn't find any children to bully, so instead he starts murdering limpets with a rock. He makes it into a twisted game, seeing how many times he can hit them before they die. It reminded me a lot of Roger Elwin (Roger's actor from the 1963 movie adaptation of LotF), who used to throw lizards into a fan to see how many pieces they would be cut into. Life imitates art and all that. Anyway, this scene just sort of ends and cuts very abruptly to the start of chapter 5 (which is similar to the FV). While I do think that starting and ending the chapter with scenes involving Roger is quite interesting, like I said before I definitely think that the transition from chapter 4 to chapter 5 in the FV flows a lot better and really maintains the tension established throughout the chapter (which I will be talking about a bit more later...)

• I should also add that at some point during the scene with the fire there is an author's note that mentions Roger (again I can't directly quote it, but essentially it asks what he is supposed to be doing during this scene). At first I thought he may have been intended to have some dialogue during the argument between Jack and Ralph, but now I think this author's note may be referring to the extra scene at the end

As you can probably tell, I like Roger and he is very interesting in this chapter. It's funny because I hated him for a long time but suddenly my opinion did a 180 and now I like him. Or I find him interesting, at least. Maybe I don't like him that much as a person haha. Anyway, on to the other interesting things in this chapter, because there are quite a few:

• Ralph cries during the 'they let the bloody fire out' scene. This was interesting to me because in the FV he only cries once in the entire book (right at the end), so it's interesting that he is allowed to cry here too in the OV. Simon and Piggy also cry during this scene.

• Jack realises how badly he fucked up (to put it plainly) when he sees Ralph's tears in the OV (instead of his 'scarred nakedness' as in the final version) and thinks to himself that they are the tears of an adult, not a child. I actually like this a lot better than the FV since it has more of an emotional impact and really highlights Ralph's despair and desperation in this situation. On the other hand, I do quite like him only crying once in the FV since it gives that scene more weight- both are good.

• Another place where I greatly prefer the FV of this chapter over the OV is that the tension between Ralph and Jack, particularly Ralph's anger towards Jack (and also Jack's resentment towards Piggy), is much more pronounced in the FV. Instead of the scene where Jack refuses to give Piggy meat which we get in the FV, Piggy just takes meat and sits with the others. It is even mentioned in the narration that he is being included for once. Also, there is a cute moment where Jack and Ralph smile at each other and feel like friends again. Basically it's a lot more wholesome in the OV, which is nice for sentimental fanboys like me who just want to see everyone get along, but not so great for the actual story given that this event is supposed to very nearly destroy Jack and Ralph's friendship completely (and certainly it still plays a big part in this even if it takes a little longer for their friendship to fully fall apart)

Simon:

Alright, onto the part I've been most excited to share with you guys. I wanted to put this section last, but something I'm going to talk about in the next section kind of needs the context from this one to be fully appreciated so it will have to be the penultimate section instead. This is another one of those major changes which is public knowledge, but essentially Simon is a very different character in the OV compared to the FV. While the FV gently hints at Simon having a deeper spiritual significance (aka being Jesus), this is placed front and centre in the OV with Simon being a deeply spiritual and contemplative, something philosophical, individual who has occasional prophetic visions and is basically clairvoyant.

Let's go over Simon in a bit more detail:

• Like in the FV, Simon has a very close connection to nature. When Jack and Ralph first talk about hunting in chapter 1, Simon expresses sadness that they would waste the natural beauty of the island. In addition, it is mentioned that he knows a lot about different types of animals and plants

• In fact, Simon is described as having a lot of knowledge in general. Many passages relating to him talk a lot about knowing and seeing things, possibly relating to him being some sort of prophet/visionary

• Golding spends much more time exploring Simon's perspective on events and characters throughout the OV. He contemplates major themes of the novel like morality and human nature, and in chapters 3 and 7 he analyses Jack and Ralph in great detail. I'll save what he says about Ralph for later because it is very interesting, but I will say that he shows disappointment in Jack's growing madness and bloodlust and appears to feel a lot of pity for him.

• He also mentions in chapter 3 (during one of these long scenes of him thinking about stuff) that he understands Jack's fear and feelings of being hunted while he is in the jungle alone, foreshadowing his own death scene.

There are two major things I want to say about Simon in the OV which are going to require their own subsections. The first is another additional scene which replaces the scene where Simon sits alone in the jungle and looks at the candle buds at the end of chapter 3 (actually the candle buds aren't mentioned at all in the OV, which made me a bit sad because I like them). This scene is much longer than its replacement and leans very heavily into Simon's spiritual/visionary side, but I'll go into that shortly. The other thing is Simon's relationship with Ralph, which is delved into in much more detail compared to the FV and reveals some very interesting things about both characters.

The vision:

• When Simon leaves Jack and Ralph near the end of chapter 3, he retreats into jungle as he does in the FV. From this point, things become very different from the FV. Simon spends some time contemplating Jack and Ralph before he suddenly faints and enters a dream sequence/prophetic vision which continues for the test of the chapter.

• In the vision, Simon dances with a group of littluns who follow him around and try to copy his movements (it's very cute). He then picks up the conch and calls an assembly, during which everyone joins in with the dance. I found this interesting because in the FV only Ralph and, on one occasion, Jack blow the conch. Since Ralph's relationships with both Jack and Simon are given prominence in the OV (because of all the coral island stuff), it makes sense that Simon gets to blow the conch too even if it's only in a dream sequence.

• After dancing for a while, Jack gets bored and breaks away from the group. He runs off down the beach, prompting a lot of the other boys to follow him. They all race each other down the beach. Simon starts to freak out as he watches more and more boys start running off, screaming for them to stop and really panicking. Eventually he just stares after them with resignation, feeling particularly sad upon seeing Ralph chase after Jack with the others.

As you can probably tell, this scene quite heavily foreshadows Simon's death. There are also a lot of references to the Bible which I didn't mention here (I think Jesus might show up at one point? there's also something about forbidden fruit and Eden). To be honest this scene was a nightmare to get through since Golding's handwriting made it so hard to understand, especially since it was like an acid trip to begin with. I did my best to summarise it for you but there's probably a lot of stuff that I missed.

Ralph:

Oh God, Simon and Ralph. I have been itching to talk about them since I first saw the manuscript. Let's get right into it:

• In Chapter 3 (a bit before the vision scene), Simon thinks for a long time about Ralph and Jack. He seems to almost venerate Ralph at times, seeing him as this very idealised but also very tragic figure. Simon feels intense affection for Ralph to the point of it bordering on devotion but also intense pity for him.

• As you might have guessed by now, Simon is canonically, explicitly in love with Ralph in the OV. I was genuinely shocked by this when I saw it for the first time as I didn't think Golding would go beyond hinting at it as he does in the FV. While I can't quote anything directly so you kind of have to just take my word for it, it does say that he loves Ralph multiple times in the OV. I wasn't quite sure if this was meant to be more of a spiritual love like the love that Jesus feels for people or a romantic love, but I think it is supposed to be read both ways. I believe it's relevant to mention that when thinking about Jack in chapter 3, Simon claims to like and admire him equally as much as Ralph but does not ramble about him nearly as much and doesn't say he loves him.

• During the scene where Simon bashes into a tree after 'he ceased to think about himself', it explicitly says in the OV that he is thinking intently about Ralph. He mentions his pity for Ralph as well as his love, which is described as being overwhelmingly intense.

• There is also a lot of physical contact between Ralph and Simon throughout the OV, with Simon often touching Ralph's arms. He does this during the fire scene to comfort him while they both cry, and again in the scene with the tree while trying to persuade Ralph that he doesn't believe in the beast/trying to redeem himself in Ralph's eyes after the humiliation of the meeting in chapter 5. Simon also touches Ralph's arms in the FV but not as often

Several of Simon's more contemplative/philosophical passages are still present in the typescript but have been crossed out, while the entire vision scene has already been replaced with the candle bud scene. It seems that Simon's spiritual side was steadily toned down until eventually it was almost entirely removed from the character. Personally I like FV Simon as he feels a bit more realistic, but I find OV Simon really interesting as well and I like that we get to see more of his thoughts and feelings. Simon's feelings for Ralph are also greatly toned down, and some passages relating to their relationship have been crossed out and edited in the typescript as welI. I wonder if this was censorship from the editor or if Golding just felt that it didn't fit the FV as much? Anyway, I always felt that the trio of Jack, Ralph and Simon should have been explored a bit more since they are set up to be close friends in chapter 1 and Ralph is thinking of them when he starts crying in the final scene, so I like that the OV included some more of this. I do really like the Ralph/Simon/Piggy trio (or the three blind mice as I call them) though so I don't mind the FV placing more emphasis on that.

The seventh chapter:

We finally come to the last chapter I managed to read before I got kicked out of the library. Again, I fully plan on returning later this year to see the rest so I can hopefully tell you guys about the second half of the manuscript in the relatively near future. I'm particularly interested in seeing the interaction between Simon and the pig head/Lord of the Flies, how the manuscript ends and Simon and Piggy's death scenes. I already know about some slight differences to the ending and Piggy's death scene so I'm really excited to see what else this manuscript has in store for me.

But for now, let's talk about chapter 7:

• This is a very minor thing but Jack is described as being flushed when he says the 'Couldn't let you do it on your own' line to Ralph while this isn't mentioned in the FV. It could be due to exertion, but I like the idea that he was embarrassed. This is a bit of a side note, but I was quite surprised to see that not much really changed about Jack between the OV and the FV. He is sometimes a bit friendlier to Ralph and occasionally Piggy but that's the only thing I really noticed. Jack is by far my favourite LotF character so I was hoping I'd have a lot to say about him, but compared to characters who change quite drastically between versions like Ralph, Simon and Roger, he is pretty consistent. This is speculation of course, but my take is that Golding had a pretty clear idea of what he wanted to do with Jack from the beginning. I've heard that Jack was inspired by Golding himself as a teenager, so maybe that's why he had a better idea of what his character was going to be like compared to some of the others.

• The most interesting part of this chapter for me is the 'You'll get back alright' scene between Ralph and Simon. Now this scene does not actually appear in the OV, although there are two author's notes which refer to it- one at the end of chapter 6, and another near the start of chapter 7, where the scene ended up being placed in the FV. My theory is that Golding knew he wanted this scene to take place but hadn't decided whereabouts it should go, so he added it in in a later draft. At first I was disappointed that I couldn't see how this scene was different since it's one of my favourites in the book, but when I glanced over at the typescript I was surprised to find an extended version of the scene there!

• The extended scene (which has also been heavily crossed out and reworded in places) delves a bit more into Ralph and Simon's thoughts, with Simon trying to assess what effect his words are having on Ralph whereas Ralph is unsure whether to believe him or not. Simon also comments on the others calling him batty and seems hurt that Ralph doesn't believe his words because he was humiliated at the chapter 5 meeting, while in the FV he just says 'No, I'm not' in response to Ralph calling him batty and doesn't react to it beyond that. Actually speaking of which, OV Simon seems to be a bit more insecure than FV Simon (or at least we see his insecurities more clearly because his thoughts are explored much more often). In chapter 3 he self-deprecatingly describes himself as a weak boy who has fits in contrast to his idealised image of Ralph. I'm getting a bit side-tracked though, so let's move on.

• At the end of Ralph and Simon's conversation in the typescript, Ralph asks Simon if the others will also get back alright. Simon just smiles and says they will. After this, Ralph thinks to himself that despite still thinking Simon is batty, he feels strangely comforted by his words. It's very wholesome and gives their relationship a bit more depth I think, although of course the FV of the scene also does this to an extent.

• Another very minor thing but Simon is blushing while they have this conversation and I think it's cute. We are blessed with so much wholesome Simon in this version, it's great.

• The final thing I'm going to talk about is a very tiny extra scene (or part of a scene since it's only like a paragraph long) which appears in place of the 'You'll get back alright' scene in the OV. In this scene Ralph eats a bunch of fruit, then Jack shows up and eats some with him. It's described in a bit of a grotesque manner, possibly to show how they've become less civilised since they arrived on the island but I don't know. They talk for a short while about how they want to catch fish and hunt, and again they seem to bond a little bit before Roger shows up abruptly and calls Jack away. I do find it interesting that he specifically calls Jack away in this version, while in the FV he just shouts 'Come and see!' without specifying who he is calling.

Closing words:

And that's it! Can you believe this isn't even everything I made notes on? A lot of the other stuff was just stuff I wasn't sure if I could mention or not due to copyright as well as lots of Coral Island references (seriously there are so many I couldn't be bothered to list them all).

Thank you so much for sticking with me to the end, and I hope you found this as interesting/enlightening as I did! If you want to ask me anything about the different versions of the text or need me to elaborate on anything I covered in the post (or if you just want to talk LotF), feel free to send me an ask or DM me on my main acc (@earl-grey-by-the-lake) and I'll try to answer as best as I can!

Okay, after spending 10 hours on a train, 5 hours trying to decipher almost illegible handwriting and giving myself a headache in the process, and a further maybe 8 to 10 hours writing up notes, fact-checking and composing this post (all over the course of 3 days and while sick), I am going to finally get some sleep. Thank you again for reading, and hopefully I'll have some more things to share with you soon!

[leftoverenvy]

Tastes Like Sugar (ch. 8)

Summary: India Mae, or Indi, is a music major, struggling to pay bills, tuition, work, and make good grades.  Emily Prentiss is a BAU profiler, as well as a DC socialite thanks to her huge family fortune.  The two enter into a mutually beneficial arrangement: Emily will pay for Indi's school if Indi accompanies Emily to her social functions for a few months, posing as her girlfriend.  As weeks go by, the lines between their arrangement and their true feelings start to blur.  But money can't buy love, right?

Pairing: India Mae Banks x Emily Prentiss; OC x Emily Prentiss

Warnings: eventual smut; sugar baby relationships; age gap (16 years - but all over 18)

Word Count: 4k

Read on Wattpad | Ao3 | Previous Chapters

Taglist: @ssa-sapphic 🧸; @5raysofsunshine 🌮; @reidselle 🦭; @milfprotector 🐝💚; @gaelic-symphony 🎻 ; @scargarcia-magshotchner 💜; @sadgirlml 🌻💌; @hotchs-bitch ; @multiverse-mxdness ; @spencersendgame

Chapter 8 - A Work of Art

I woke up with the sun shining in my eyes.  While I normally wasn't a morning person, today held a certain air of excitement.  I was here, in Emily's home.  I was really doing this.  I looked around my new room to take it all in when I noticed a huge bouquet of flowers on my nightstand, a note propped up against the vase.

I smiled softly at the size and colors.  They were so vibrant; it was absolutely stunning.  Emily sure was making this transition easy.  I reached for the note and unfolded it to reveal Emily's smushed, messy-but-somehow-elegant, looping scrawl.

"Dearest India,

I hope you slept well.  I can't express to you how excited I am that you're finally here.  I can't wait to see what these four months will hold.  See you soon.

Yours, Emily"

I didn't realize it could get better than waking up to a sweet text message every morning, but having a handwritten note was really special.  I read over the "dearest India" and the word "yours" about a hundred times.  I pressed her letter to my chest and smiled like a sap.  I couldn't wait to see what these four months would hold either.

Eager to see Emily and get our day started, I threw my hair up in a messy bun and slipped on one of my sundresses.  It was a little chilly for a dress, but I assumed Emily was taking me to some high-end stores and I didn't want to feel underdressed.  Even though I had given her a hard time about all the things she bought from Sephora, I used the face cream, and it was the best product I had ever used.  I would die before I told Emily that though because I knew she would smirk at me, all too smug to be right.

As soon as I walked in the kitchen, I swore my heart stopped beating.  Emily was sitting at the kitchen island reading the paper, coffee in hand, with reading glasses perched on her nose.  The sun streamed through the kitchen windows and made her normally raven-black hair a glowing, beautiful russet.  She looked unbelievably sexy – I couldn't stop staring.  Why was something as simple as glasses so attractive?

She finally looked up, smiled, and said, "Good morning, Indi.  Sleep well?"

"Yes," I lied.  It took me a long time to fall asleep, but she didn't need to know that.  It was so quiet out here.  The lack of normal city sounds unnerved me.  "Thank you for the flowers; they're beautiful."

I almost audibly objected when she took her glasses off to look at me properly.  "You certainly are welcome.  When would you like to head out today?"

"I require caffeine and then we can go."  She chuckled and nodded her head towards the coffee maker.  I didn't need to be told twice.  I filled a mug 3/4 of the way and rummaged in her fridge for some milk.

"It's in the side of the door, Indi," she told me, amusement lacing her voice.

"Thank you!" I sat down near her at the island.  "So what's the plan for today?  Where are you taking me?"

"I figured we'd start at Nordstrom.  If you don't find anything there, we can go to Saks or Neiman Marcus.  And depending on how quickly you shop and what you like, we can buy multiple dresses today, so we don't have to shop for every event."

"I like the way you think, Ms. Prentiss."  I quickly finished my coffee and hopped up.  I rinsed my cup out, put it in the dishwasher, and turned towards Emily.  "I'm ready!"

______________________________

It turns out, I was not ready.  Emily didn't seem like the type to love shopping, but I had clearly underestimated her.  The woman was a shopping machine.  She loaded us both down with so many dresses for me to try on.  The woman would give Penelope a run for her money.

"Emily!" I complained, coming out of the dressing room in what felt like the same silk dress I had tried on thirty times before.  "You already have six in the approved pile.  Can't we just call it a day?"

"We can if you add that one to the pile of dresses to buy."  She quirked an eyebrow at me.  I nodded reluctantly, ready for the hours of torture to be over.

But Emily's hours of torture weren't over with dresses.  We had to choose necklaces and earrings, handbags and clutches, and then we looked at shoes endlessly.  I thought I would lose my mind.  Emily insisted on buying several pairs of high heels I was certain were going to kill me.  I vowed to myself that when Emily was away on a case, I would exclusively walk around the house in heels to practice walking in them.  When Emily finally – blissfully – declared us ready to pay, we walked towards the check-out counter, passing by the perfume counter.

My eyes lingered on the perfume I had been dying to buy for two years now, but could never afford.  It was $120 for the small bottle.  It smelled so good, so sexy.  I tried not to be obvious – Emily was already spending what I calculated to be about $6,000.  On me.  It was enough to make my head spin. 

"Sweetheart?" she asked, pulling me out of my thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"If you want something, you only have to ask," she reminded.

"I don't.  Let's go," I said pushing on her arm towards the check-out.

She tugged on my arm to drag me back to the perfumes.  "Which one is it, angel?"

I bit my lip.  Was this coercing Emily into buying me more stuff?  I felt guilty, but I wanted it so badly.  "Uh," I looked towards the display, "It's this one," I said picking it up.  "But I want you to like it too.  I don't want it if you hate it."

She stepped closer to me, placing one hand on the counter behind me.  I was caged between her and the counter, but it didn't bother me somehow.  In fact, it felt nice to be this close to her.  "Let me smell it then."  I held the bottle up to her nose and she inhaled deeply.  Her eyes darkened and her lids drooped.  "Yes," she said a bit breathlessly, taking a step even closer – shrinking the space between us even further.  "I think we should buy that."

"Can I help you?" a saleswoman interrupted.  Emily immediately took two sizable steps backwards.  I missed the warmth from her body.

"Yes," Emily answered.  "Can we get this in a 3-ounce bottle?"

"It comes in 1.7, 3.4, or 5 ounces."

"The 3.4, then.  Thank you.  And can we pay for it at the other counter?  We have several things to purchase."  The woman nodded and disappeared behind the counter.

"Thank you Emily, really."  She squeezed my shoulder.  Her touch had me longing for earlier's closeness.  The magic of her touch was undeniable.  I needed more.

______________________________

I stared at the stranger looking back at me in the mirror.  She was elegant, sophisticated.  She belonged on Emily's arm.  Her long, false lashes fluttered seductively.  Her smokey makeup made her look mysterious.  Her dress draped over her curves deliciously.  If I weren't looking in the mirror, watching her copy my movements, I wouldn't believe it were me.  I had never felt as beautiful as I did tonight.  For the first time, I truly believed I was worthy to be seen with Emily.

I clumsily clomped down the stairs in my might-kill-me-before-the-night-is-over heels and called out, "Em?"

I heard a gasp from across the living room.  "My god, Indi," she whispered.  "You look stunning.  Absolutely breathtaking."  I felt insecure but somehow warm under her gaze.

"Thank you," I said shyly.  "You look beautiful too."  It sounded contrived, but I meant it.  No one looked sexier in a suit than Emily did.  After several more seconds of staring, she grabbed my hand and tugged me towards the garage.

"Let's get a move on, or we're going to be late."

"Sorry," I whispered.  "It took me longer to do my makeup than expected."  I remembered the multiple gluing disasters I had with my eye lashes.  And then applying and immediately wiping off eye liner on my left eye because I couldn't get the wings even.  It was enough to make me almost scream several times.  Penelope always made it look so easy.  Before I came downstairs, I had convinced myself it wasn't worth it to do this all again, but seeing Emily's reaction changed that.  There wasn't anything in this world I wouldn't do to hear Emily's breathless gasp at seeing me walk down the stairs. 

She paused her walking and spun me to face her.  Her hand cupped my cheek and I melted.  "It will be worth it, even if we're late.  You really do look lovely."  My cheek blazed underneath her hand.  I was hopeful she couldn't feel the new heat from my embarrassment, but I thought it unlikely.

I cast my eyes down in embarrassment – her eyes were so sincere, so hypnotizing – but grabbed her hand to hold it to my skin for just a moment longer.  "Okay," I said releasing her hand, "Let's go."

The drive to the gallery was uneventful.  Emily and I made idle chit chat until we pulled into a spot that said 'reserved.'  I smirked at her.  "You have your own spot?" 

She rolled her eyes and said, "Come on, you," and got out of the car.  I quickly followed her lead but was met with a frown.  "You should really let me get your door."

"Sorry, Em," I whispered.  She was standing so close and somehow the night air charged the electricity between us further.  I suddenly longed to feel her lips on mine.

"I want to apologize for what's about to happen."

"What do you mean?" I asked, my brows furrowed.  But as we rounded the corner to walk in the main entrance, I immediately understood.  Cameras started flashing immediately and a chorus of "Emily!" or "Ms. Prentiss!" surrounded us.  And then they noticed me.

"Ms. Prentiss!  Who's this?  Who did you bring tonight?"  The questions were endless as were the camera clicks.  Emily's arm encircled my waist, drawing me closer. 

"I'm sorry about this," she apologized again.  Her lips brushed against the shell of my ear, and I had to bite back a moan, but I couldn't stop the shiver that ran down my spine.  "Just pose with me?  And then they'll go away."  I smiled though I was a bit dazed.  What had I gotten myself into?  Emily's thumb rubbed circles into my hip, calming me down. 

When we finally made it inside, Emily grabbed two wine glasses off a passing waiter's tray and handed me one immediately.  Throughout the night, as we made polite conversation with all her socialite friends, she made sure my glass was full.  I started slowly sipping so I didn't get drunk and embarrass her.

It was interesting to see Emily in this setting.  Though she always seemed so poised and commanding, it was maxed out tonight.  The Emily I saw at home was much different from this almost aloof woman.  I could tell the strain it imposed on her to discuss meaningless things with these vapid women.  And her arm never dropped from my waist, showing everyone I was hers.  Normally such a possessive display would anger me, but I was all too willing to be hers.

After introducing me for what felt like the millionth time, Emily said, "Excuse me, ladies.  I'd like to show my girl around."  My heart fluttered in my chest like a hummingbird.  I was her girl.

As we circled the gallery, I tried my hardest to stay engaged, but art really wasn't my thing.  But this was important to Emily, so I dutifully looked at every painting we passed.  She paused in front of an abstract painting that vaguely resembled two, intertwined bodies.  Now that we were away from her friends, I couldn't help but ask, "How am I doing?  Am I embarrassing you in front of all your friends?"

She grabbed my hand and squeezed.  "You could never embarrass me."

"Even though I don't know anything about art?" I teased.

Her eyes sparkled as they penetrated mine.  "Even then," she whispered.  It seemed cruel to all the artists represented here tonight to showcase their art in the same building as Emily.  She was the most beautiful work of art I had ever seen.  Nothing would ever compare to the majesty of her smile.  No color could ever be as deep as her eyes; nothing would ever compare to getting lost in her eyes. 

"Emily!" a woman called over the noise of the crowd.  Emily's entire body stiffened noticeably.  "You are the center of the gossip tonight, did you know?  You couldn't even tell your own mother you were bringing a date?"

"Mother," Emily said in curt greeting.  Ahh that explains her sudden shift.

"A tux, really Emily?  You couldn't find a dress to wear?"  Suddenly, it didn't seem so unreasonable for Emily to speak of her mother the way she did.  Emily's mother seemed like an incredibly unpleasant woman.  "And aren't you going to introduce me?"

"Mother, this is my girlfriend" – the thrill at hearing the fake title hadn't lessened over the course of the night – "India Mae."

"I had no idea you were even dating," she said dramatically, "let alone seriously involved with someone.  Honestly, I have no idea why you tell me so little about your life."  I could venture a guess.  Emily sighed deeply, her grip on my waist tightening a touch more in frustration.  "Last I heard, you were seeing Jennifer."

Ouch.  I had no reason to be upset because I wasn't actually dating Emily, but it still stung.  Who was this woman coming in and talking to Emily about a different woman in front of the "current girlfriend?"

"Mother," Emily warned icily, anger tensing her whole body.  "Don't.  I JUST told you I was with Indi.  That was incredibly rude."  Inexplicably, it felt so good to have Emily defending me.  This feeling, unfamiliar before meeting Emily, shot through my stomach, causing it to clench deliciously.  It was reminiscent of every time our eyes locked or when she touched me.  But it was much stronger now.  I looked up at her: eyes tight and nostrils flared.  My stomach tightened again.  My lips ached to touch her jaw, her cheek, her own lips.  Could this be what true desire felt like?

"Come on, baby," Emily interrupted my reverie.  "Let's make sure we finish looking at everything and say congratulations to each artist.  Then we can go, okay?"  Every time she called me 'baby,' I tried not to read too much into it – especially now since we were in public – but it fell so sensually out of her mouth.  I wanted to hear her gasp it breathlessly as I kissed her neck. 

She grabbed my hand and started to turn away when her mother protested, "Emily!  This is YOUR gallery.  You cannot leave so early.  What would it look like?"

"I don't care.  Excuse us," she said pulling me away firmly.  I sent a tight-lipped smile over my shoulder to Emily's mom, trying to be polite.  I struggled to keep up with her walking as quickly as she was.  I still wasn't used to wearing these heels.

"You didn't tell me this was YOUR gallery!" I whispered.  "Why do you even have a gallery??  I thought you were in the FBI…"

"I am.  This was just something I was interested in.  I wanted to give young artists of color a chance to show their work.  DC is hostile to new artists, especially young adults of color.  We need more voices in the art world." 

I admired what she was doing very greatly, and it furthered my desire to stay for the remainder of the evening.  "We can't leave yet then!  Your mom's right.  It would be rude to dip out on your own gallery opening.  Why didn't you tell me?"

"I just did," she said nonchalantly with a shrug.  We walked the gallery in silence after that.  She hummed at a piece every now and then, and I dutifully followed her. 

"So, what do you think?" she asked when we arrived at the last exhibit.

I scrambled to find something, anything, to say.  I should have googled vague arty things to say in preparation for tonight.  "It's uh…"  I tried to find a compliment that wouldn't give away the fact that I didn't give a damn about paintings.  "Nice," I finished lamely.  Great job, Indi.

"Nice, huh?" she chuckled.

"Well frankly, I appreciate the arts in the form of music, but I am open to you changing that about me."

"I have yet to hear you appreciate the arts in the form of music," she teased.

"I can change that any time, Emily."  I looked up into her eyes again to express my sincerity.

"I'd like that."  Everything tunneled and narrowed until I could only see Emily, only hear her.  No one else surrounded us.  There was no party – there was only us. 

I cleared my throat to break the tension.  "Can we go home now?  Or do you need to stay longer?"

"Sure baby, lemme just congratulate all the artists and say thank you for their work."  As if we had been doing this for years, she leaned down and kissed the corner of my mouth before turning and walking away.  I stiffened, stunned by the electricity that scorched the skin under where her lips had touched me.  Involuntarily, my hand raised to my mouth, as if touching the sacred place her lips had kissed me would preserve the feeling.

I watched her slowly turn around, her eyes wide.  But all I could do was smile.  She had kissed me.  "Indi, I'm so- fuck.  I'm so sorry."

"Not here, Em," I said closing the distance between us.  "It's okay.  Don't call attention to it.  That's a normal thing for a couple to do."  I cupped her face to ease her worry.

"Promise?"  I nodded.  "Come with me?" she asked in a voice much smaller than I was used to from her.

"I'm right behind you."  Before I could stop myself, I grabbed her hand and intertwined our fingers together.  I craved that feeling again – the feeling of tingling skin from where her lips nearly kissed mine.  It wasn't quite the same holding her hand, but it was better than nothing, because I just craved her.  Each inch of space between us felt like a mile.

I thought it might be awkward at first.  I mean, what does one talk about after almost being kissed by the most beautiful woman on the planet?  What is one supposed to say when their dream almost comes true?  But I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.  I would take any affection she showed me.  I was worried there was something undesirable about me.  Maybe that was why nothing had worked out for me romantically so far.

But once the feel of her lips faded from my skin, and the more I heard her "Fuck, I'm so sorry" echo around my head, it started to eat at me.  How easy she could just brush it off.  It was all I could think about.  It affected me profoundly.  Emily's lips, even just on my cheek, had shifted my world.

When we finally got in the car to go home, I bit my lip and stared out the window.  I don't know how many minutes passed, but Emily's voice finally interrupted my yearning.  "Something's bothering you."  It wasn't a question.  She just knew.

"How can you tell?" I was genuinely curious.  We had only known each other a couple weeks now, and nearly all that time had been virtual.

"You're pretty easy to read, Indi.  Now tell me."

"I was just thinking about earlier…" I said honestly.  Why lie?

"I'm sorry," she apologized again.  "I crossed a line.  I wish I could take it back."  I felt like I was punched in the gut.  She wanted to take it back.

"Oh…" I couldn't keep the hurt out of my voice, though I tried my hardest.  It was ridiculous for me to be so affected by this.  This was the arrangement – this is what I had agreed to.  There was no room for me to long for her, to want her.

I quickly backtracked because clearly this meant way more to me than it did Emily.  I was embarrassed, so I lied.  "Actually, I was curious about your mother."

"Oh!" she said in shock.  "Well, we don't have the best relationship…"  Even though Emily was telling me valuable information about herself, I couldn't listen.  My heart stung like the tears in my eyes I fought to keep from falling. 

I started when I felt her hand on mine in my lap.  "Hey…"  I appreciated her gesture, and I held onto her hand like a life preserver.  I looked up, shocked to discover we were home.  "I know that isn't what you wanted to talk about."  Damn profilers.  I couldn't hide anything from her.  We walked inside in tense silence.

I moved to head upstairs when she pulled on my shoulder to stop me.  "What is it?  Do you want to call this off?"

I snapped my gaze to meet hers.  "No!"  How could she think that?  "I was just wondering…"  Jesus, I was so embarrassed.

"Yes?" she prompted.  She sighed, frustrated I wouldn't just spit it out.  "This can only work if you're honest with me.  I won't judge.  Whatever it is, you can tell me."

"Why don't you want to have sex with me?!" I blurted.

Her jaw dropped and she froze like a deer in the headlights.  "What!" she gasped.  Clearly she was expecting to hear that as much as I had been expecting to say it.

There was no turning back now.  "You were so set on no physical contact and then you said you regret kissing me."

"I never said I regretted it," she interrupted.  I looked at her puzzled, waiting for her to elaborate.  "I said I wished I could take it back."  I failed to see how that was meaningfully different.  I didn't know if that was supposed to make me feel better. 

She pulled me to the couch and sat down next to me, maintaining her grasp on my hand.  "You deserve something real, Indi.  You're so special.  I just want you to be happy."

"But am I so repulsive to you in that way?  Is it so crazy to think of me like that?"  Christ!  I must have had way too much wine.  Where had my filter gone?

"Of course not!  Honestly I was under the impression it was a dealbreaker for you.  And I don't need that; the terms of our agreement do not need to include sex."  My stomach sank again.  Don't make it awkward, India.  She's being polite; she doesn't want to hurt your feelings.  The agreement doesn't need to include sex because she doesn't feel that way for you.  And why would she?

I quickly made an excuse and headed upstairs to bed.  I slowly pulled pins out of my hair.  I wiped eyeliner off my eyelids in a daze.  When I washed my face, I watched makeup rinse down the drain.  It was like scrubbing away my hope.  It was naive to think this could turn into some fairytale romance.  Real life didn't work like that.  This was nothing more than a business arrangement.  A job.

But everyone needed to figure out a way to enjoy their job, right?  As I laid in bed, aching to feel her lips on me again, I had to come up with a plan to get her to kiss me again.  If she would only show me affection when we were out, in order to keep up appearances, then I would just have to curate several scenarios to get her to do that.  After all, if this was my job, I needed to give Emily what she was paying for.

_ _ _

Continue to next chapter

[peeterparkr]

red; tom's version|one.

chapter one: sad, beautiful tragic. “Long handwritten note deep in your pocket”

pairing: Tom Holland x Reader (tom's not famous here) story summary: you’re reminiscing through your relationship months after the heartbreak and breakup. Wondering if it went wrong from the very start when Tom arrived at New York, and him being a cautionary tale or if the problems came along the way. Perhaps the key to find back your way to him is going back through the nice things before the heartbreak came. Or is it too painful to go all over again?

chapter summary: you haven't seen him since he ditched you, after months of wearing plaid you go out and realize he's back in new york warnings: angsty, I mean it's a breakup, swearing. word count: 7.3k playlist (updated after each chapter, including Red songs+ other for the chapter): Spotify | Apple Music

fic masterlist next chapter

a/n: Hi, I couldn't wait to share it so I said, screw it, I'm posting this. You don't know how excited I am to write this and share it with you. As you know, this is inspired by Red by Taylor Swift and will hurt. So I expect us all to be crumpled up pieces of paper wearing scarves by the end of this. (perennial is still coming, I'm just waiting on a few people who're reading it). SPECIAL THANKS TO @erodasghosts for reading it and hyping me up and helping me figure this all out. I hope you guys all like it as much as I did. The story is set in New York. Please give feedback!

One month after the breakup.

Strong whiskey, on the rocks. That was his drink of choice that night. The night before had been a beer. You knew you could imagine the taste of his lips by only looking at him. You wondered if he’d gone there for a second night for the same reason you had.

When you had seen him across the place the night before, you had tried to decide how to feel. We always think we will react one way or another when we see our official heartbreak walking through. Victorious as he is perfectly dressed, with his hair flowing.

He hadn’t brought her. Which you didn’t know how to feel about.

The day before you had not been alone, Jules, Matty, and Lula were there.

“Shit, the axolotl at 10 o'clock, you’ve got to be shitting me,” Lourdes, Lula, had whispered before sipping her drink, a Long Island Tea. “We are celebrating she’s doing better, can’t fucking believe this,” she hissed at Jules who only lifted her chin slightly to see who she was referring to. “What the fuck is he doing here? Ay, es que, con qué huevos se atreve a venir aquí? Que no mame.” [with what balls did he dare to come here? He shouldn’t fuck with us. ]

You loved hanging out with Lula and listening to her very refined Spanish cursing.

“It’s not him,” Julia said.

You tried looking back to see who they were referring to. “Who is—?”

“Y/N, wait I just noticed the haircut!” Matt pointed out, reaching over, getting your attention back to them and not at whatever they were referring to. “It looks great. It’s like a new you!”

This new you. The one that had been screwed over twice. Men really have the nerve when it comes to breaking hearts. They recklessly go in and let you believe love comes in all shades of colors, passionate red like the roses they send, and tender pinks like your sweet innocence that they end up stealing. But they never tell you it’ll be you all alone in a dark room with shades of grey under a flickering light that barely warms you.

The new you, which was still a bit lost. Your old self was a stranger to you now. You had no idea who this new you was, she was quiet now. Didn’t have a heart because someone had stolen it and broken it and left it behind a dumpster. Still trying to find it. The new you wasn't.. you.

Your friends were glad, however, they finally got you to go out again. After weeks of wearing plaid and watching Fleabag, and even considering watching Greys Anatomy, a low point, you had finally decided to come back to see if there was any sunshine left for you.

It’s important to point out that you had been broken-hearted and almost crazy when the breakup had happened. Very… delusional. You were not proud of the way you’d reacted. Although you wouldn’t have reacted any other way.

The city had been quiet, the red lights seemed to last longer, and the crowds would often swallow you. The city you once loved was now an open book of a relationship that seemed real, should’ve known it was all fiction.

In your dreams they’d be bright, colorful. The village is aglow. Cold days with warm hearts. Like his.

You’d been cold ever since.

“Ah, yeah, the haircut. Got it today. Lula’s idea” The haircut had come as the solution to a problem that would never be solved. As if cutting your hair meant there was something you had the power on. You didn’t.

How stupid was it? You couldn’t control your life.

“It suits her well, doesn’t it?” Lula admitted proudly.

You still had his picture engraved in your heart. You still dreamed he would come back and say it was all a nightmare.

“It’s nice, I’m glad to have you back,” Jules commented. Julia had probably been the most surprised with the news of the breakup, she had almost gone and killed Tom when he had….unimportant. She hadn’t, though, and she had yet to tell you the reason why. Julia had been mysterious since.

“I’m glad to be back,” you confirmed. You’d ordered a beer, and maybe you shouldn’t have. Stella Artois, his one favorite. You pocketed the beer cap. “Though I was not gone.”

Matt watched you, him and Julia had recently started dating. Best friends since kids who just recently confessed their feelings for each other, took them long enough. “How back are you, though?”

“Meaning?” You asked, taking a sip.

Matt shrugged, “I could introduce you to some friends from work, there’s this hot guy—“

“No,” you interrupted him, leaving the bottle down as you had almost choked. “No, no. Not in the dating area yet. Won’t be in a long time. Still healing.”

Lula still had her eyes glued elsewhere. “Healing from a bullet hole, y/n, whatever you’re doing isn’t working, and band aids won’t fix it—Jules it is, I swear to god it’s him.”

“It’s not him,” Julia rolled her eyes.

“Ay, que sí!” [he is]

“Who?” You asked.

Julia took your hands, “you know Lula,” she rolled her eyes. “I love that you ordered a beer.”

“Yeah,” you gulped. “Beer is universal language for men as in: ‘don’t get close to me.’” A lesson someone dear had taught you once.

Matt tilted his head in agreement, “Yeah.”

“Really?” Lula frowned, “should’ve ordered one. Next time I’ll ask for my drink but instead of a glass I’ll ask them to put it in a beer bottle.”

“Wouldn't it be easier to order a beer?” Matt suggested.

“But then I’d break our tradition.”

Matt watched her, “you really are something.”

You chuckled.

“Why is beer seen as not—feminine?” Matt questioned.

Julia shrugged. “It’s beyond me, really. It’s a drink.”

“Like does my drink make me less of a man?” Matt watched his glass, another Long Island Tea. A stupid inside joke you all had.

“No,” you admitted. “But you know how society is. Since it’s sweet, it’s got to be—“

“Oh, no, no, I love you, y/n, but tonight I don’t want you lecturing us on it, no, tonight we are having fun, ok?” Lula reminded you. “We will not talk about femininity or lack of a beer—or whatever your agenda is up to these days, which, hey! Why does y/n get to break the rule?” Lula questioned. “No Long Island Tea?

Julia glared at her, “Because she can do whatever she wants tonight,” she hissed and then turned to you. “But how are you feeling? It’s your first time going out in months, is it as fun?” Julia was the one to try to cheer you up the most.

No, it wasn’t fun.

“I—feel good!” You lied. Although you were not. But you guessed that’s the response they wanted after seeing you laying down on the ground and crying yourself to sleep. Staring at windows and walking down in the rain. They wanted you to feel better.

Your body was covered in scars.Though, they were from adventures.

“Bullshit,” Lula intruded. “You seem sad. Maybe I’ll get some shots,” she announced before going to get some.

“Well,” you chuckled. “My first time going out and you bring me back to the place where it all started?” You answered cynically but then shrugged. “I’m—I…no. I just—It’s weird. I still see him everywhere, and as I’m here it’s like watching a movie of our greatest moments,” you admitted. “Like hey, look over there, it’s Tom and Y/N’s greatest moments,” you stated, Lula got back. “Let’s start memory lane…”and you sighed and continued with the best presenter voice you had. “Here you’ll wonder how the hell did it go so wrong since they were so perfect, what the hell went wrong, when did it turn into some sad stupid love affair. You’ll be asking yourself hey, they seemed in love, over there, they danced! Over there… they sang a song together! See over there? There was a fucking jukebox in which they have memories! Oh they have memories there too! And you’ll ask yourself, he made it seem real, what the hell happened?” You sighed exhaustedly. “What happened? What the fuck happened? How was I so stupid?” You ran your hands through your face.

Your friends only watched you, with pity, sadness. Even Lula had turned her gaze guilty.

You cleared your throat, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Lula sighed, “it’s our fault for bringing you here. We’re fucking idiots. Besides he is—Julia I swear to god, he is there.” Lula raised her hand and Julia quickly pulled it down.

Julia bit her lip, “I—hadn’t realized how much Tom there is here.”

“Yeah.”

“He called me—“Matt had started.

“No, no, we can’t talk about him, baby,” Julia reminded him. Matt widened his eyes and nodded.

You blinked, “no, it’s—He called you? Tom?” Why had Tom called Matty? What for?

“Yeah, had a missed call,” Matt explained, ignoring his girlfriend. “I—it was this morning.”

You felt your chest twist. “Yeah, I get a lot of those too.”

Perhaps he wanted to talk to you and thought Matty was dumb enough to give you the phone.

Julia glared at Matt. “We promised not to—“

“No, hey,” you stopped her. “I—sorry, I brought him up.”

“But we shouldn’t talk about him,” Julia insisted. “Tonight is all about having fun,” she stated as she handed everyone their shots.

“No, it’s alright,” you said. “I’m fine talking about it.”

Lula turned her gaze to you. “Shouldn’t you hate him?”

Were you supposed to hate someone who gave you something so beautiful? Just because it’s over doesn’t mean you have to look back and hate it.

“No,” you answered simply.

Matt watched you. “Wait, really?”

You took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m—I decided I’m thankful for everything. He really… I… I mean I knew from the start he was trouble. But he got me to get rid of Will. So I’m thankful for Tom. He showed me some beautiful things about him, about myself and… I’m thankful. Even the part when he broke my heart.”

It was a lie. Partly. You had been so full of doubts that you only tried wondering why it had gone so wrong. Or course, the lie was there. His lies. But how could any of it be a lie?

Julia smiled gently, “You’re really a grown up.”

“Or very stupid.” Lula commented.

“Thanks, Lula, I appreciate it,” you rolled your eyes. “I… well, I’ve gotta admit I was pretty stupid.”

Lula shrugged, “Hey, I don’t blame you, boy came in with an accent, he had a cute smile, he was hot, I must admit, and he wasn’t one of those Brooklyn fuckboys that take you to the rooftop and offer you a whiteclaw to watch the sunrise together,” Lula gave in.

“Oh, and they take candid pictures, and they say that their phone camera isn’t as good as their polaroid,” Julia laughed, “But hey, you’re lucky they took you to the rooftop, they never take anyone there, they took you there just because you’re…”

“Different,” Julia, Lula and you chanted.

Matt laughed, “You guys are the worst.”

“Anyway,” Lula said. “We should drink these,” she pointed at the shot glasses as she raised her own. “I came here to get drunk. So, to Y/N being thankful Tom was a piece of shit even when the boy had a dreamy accent?”

You closed your eyes, and let out a defeated dry chuckle. “Yes, to that.”

“To the piece of shit, then!” Lula grinned as the shots clinked and were downed. You instantly regretted drinking it.

Lula scowled as she had her eyes glued back at the bar, “It’s him, Julia, it’s him! What is he doing here? Pendejo, I swear to god I’ll go kill him.” She was furious, and you tried once again following her gaze.

The bar was crowded, red lights crossed around the place, with girls walking with tall heels, trying to smile and nod at guys who were talking to them but clearly were not of interest to them. Friends laughing, people flirting. You didn’t know who your friends were watching.

But the bar seemed to be enough of a reminder of him. How he had made you feel like crowds were never there, and how whenever you had been with him everything disappeared just to be with him.

“Who are we killing?” You questioned.

“Is new y/n a murderer?” Asked Matt. Matt and Julia were your oldest friends. The three of you grew up in Staten Island, and now moved to the crowded places.

Lula coughed. “Hope she is.” Lula, on the other hand, you’ve met in college, she was a very defined addition to the friend group. With more personality. A strong one. Lula, Julia and you shared a small apartment.

Julia cleared her throat.

“The fucking scarf,” Lula scowled.

“What scarf?” Matt asked. And you had the same question.

Julia whispered to her boyfriend’s ear who had turned cold. He lifted his head.

“But it’s not.”

“It is him,” Matt confirmed to Lula. “Jules, it is.”

And now your three friends were acting strange. Usually they did but this was strang-er. They all shared looks, Julia struggled with her hands.

They were watching you with pity but you’d gotten used to that. After the breakup they had been extra careful around you, kinder, you guessed.

Fools they were to believe that by not mentioning him you wouldn’t think of him. He was a memory that would haunt you for the rest of the days.

“So, y/n,” Julia was clearly hiding whatever Lula was seeing.

“Wasn’t he in London? What in this fucking world is he doing here?” Lula continued.

“Shut up!” Julia ordered.

“London?” You asked and you lifted your head, and any noise that was bustling before had stopped.

Tom.

Tom was there.

Thomas.

Tom who had broken your heart. In every possible way that he could’ve. Like he had planned it. Like he was aware.

He was there, on a stool with a beer in his hand and wearing a red scarf. The red scarf. As if he was mocking you.

Tom.

Did he pride on hurting you?

He had always said you were invincible. That you were unrivaled in matters of the heart. Was he proud he had beaten the unbeaten?

You’d always thought he would.

When we love deeply, getting hurt comes as a given. But when we love deeply, we are never expecting it to come. And when it does come the skies cannot turn grayer. Funny thing, you were a fan of the rain but when the rain doesn’t cease, the hope doesn’t perdure.

But he was back in your life. Or at least he had been in the same room as you after months.

What was he doing back in New York with your scarf?

You turned back to your own table, breathing in quickly, bringing your hand to your chest in an attempt to calm yourself down.

You saw your friends speaking but you couldn’t make a word of what they’re saying. Your heart was rushing. Thomas was there. Tom. Your Tom. And there was a part of you that had completely forgotten over the heartbreak and wanted to run to him.

Kiss him, try to fix it. Try to bring back the beautiful thing you both had. Because it was. And it hurt looking back.

You were having trouble breathing now, the heartbreak had come.

That’s the worst thing about heartbreak. You never saw it coming, though you should’ve. Though it was beautiful you’d known from the start you’d end up hurt. But when a lie is crafted so beautifully, how could you?

“It’s him.” The words had come in whispers.

You barely remembered what had happened next. You had only stood up, decisive to leave, you’d seen him try to walk his way to you. You’d heard him call your name, but you hadn’t turned back, you had seen Matty stop him from running to you.

It was blurry. You didn’t know how you got home. Desperately trying to understand why he was there and how the night had turned too badly.

Lula and Matt had come back later to find Julia trying to comfort you, hugging a pillow that you were sure he had slept on. Breathless.

But it was in the past now, you were there again. Same bar, both in stools far away.

You were almost sure he’d gone to that bar in hopes of finding you again.

Just like you’d gone again.

His eyes the night before were guilty. You only took a deep breath, you remembered trying to avoid his glance at any chance as you had walked out.

Why were you there again?

That feeling in your chest growing, like there was something heavy expanding. Yet your stomach falling smaller. The pain was but a shield, as if it was creating a special protection around your heart, and though it hurt it was enough for it to make your heart strong to leave the place.

You didn’t want to see Tom. You hadn’t talked to him since. Even when he’d tried to call. Even when you’d tried calling.

Not when you had replayed the breakup over and over and over again since he was gone.

Everyone deals with breakups in different ways. Yours, specifically, was avoiding it. Everything and everyone. Especially Tom.

It was hard when he was everywhere. In that tattoo he’d convinced you to get, in that ring he’d left, in that cereal box that you still hadn’t finished. Whenever you listened to a song he’d recommended. Whenever you’d open Netflix and that series you had started watching together was still recommended to you even when you’d deleted it.

Everywhere.

You couldn’t use your favorite colors because you could hear it, in the back of your head “I love how it looks on you.” “You should wear more blue, it suits you.”

Even your stupid laugh remind you of him. “Your laugh is the most wonderful thing I’ve heard, even if it’s so ugly.”

You missed the person you were when he was with you. How everything was happy. Who was that y/n? Who didn’t mind if she was slightly late to a place because he’d come with you? Who didn’t feel alone at parties when she knew nobody because you knew him?

A y/n that existed only for a short period of time when he’d been around and that he’d shattered like glass when he had the chance.

You missed that y/n.

The y/n that would sometimes lose her breath and catch it back when he walked into the room. A y/n that sang along to her favorite songs all day. The one that would give her heart in a rush to him. The one that watched movies no matter if they were good or not.

Life had colors back then.

Now you were full of regrets and of doubts. Wondering what you had done wrong? Where did it lead you?

You looked up at him then. He was staring down at his glass.

There was a slight trace of him still there, the Tom you once loved. The one with the silly smile and the gentle chuckle, the one with the jokes about everything.

You wondered how much of that y/n he saw too.

You were the same two people, in essence. But how different you were now.

The Tom you knew before finding out it was a lie.

There was still a hint. You knew. But there was so much of him in you that it was hard to see if you still were there. Or the Tom you thought you knew. Not the one with the lie. Or maybe this was the truest Tom he could ever be.

He had to move on, rather quickly, you recalled. If he ever did.

There was a stupid reminder of you in his hand, that red scarf from the very first day.

You still remembered how it all started, a stupid red scarf. He kept it, then, and he wore it.

You had ordered a beer, too. You pocketed the cap again.

But there was an image in your mind, maybe he had gone back and probably had his arm around her and he laughed at a joke she made. Maybe she was funnier than you. Definitely prettier, with her hair falling down all the way to her waist, her clothing accentuating everything you didn’t have.

You recalled having to leave the room when you found out. You had been a mess.

Leaning against a wall as you caught your breath before the tears came down, as if he had pierced right through it. A pain chest that had expanded all the way on your body, not sure how you were able to keep walking back to your place. Falling down to your knees when you did.

Pain. Words failed to describe such a deep sentiment.

But it was gone now. Not entirely but at least you could hold your breath fine when he was just across the room.

What went wrong?

You could ask him. He was right there.

Maybe even tell him how you had lost sight. He hadn’t walked up to you. He was nervous, but he seemed calm enough to see you were there. You were still unsure why you had gone there.

Maybe all the good things were enough to bring you there, maybe the fact that you still didn’t believe it was a lie brought you there. Maybe the fact that one of those pictures from that photobooth was still in a locket. So stupid.

He fiddled with the glass.

You waited and waited but he didn’t approach you. He took out a paper out of his pocket as he stared at it.

You wouldn’t approach him. No matter how happy he had made you once, you wouldn’t walk to him. No matter how beautiful it was. No matter if you were lonely and that when you dared to sleep he’d be haunting your dreams.

It was a tragedy now. What you both were, and not even worth enough to try and save it. You knew you were haunting him too. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

He was shakin, as he stared at you, nervous. He downed his drink, you guessed it was for some liquid courage and stood up, with the note in one hand and your red scarf in the other.

Your own courage for coming here was gone, as you saw his intentions, the urge to run you had the night before was becoming you. But he couldn’t walk. He had to sit down again, rubbing his face.

The courage that had come when choosing what Lula called the ‘revenge black dress’ was nowhere in sight. You were cold and regretting putting it on.

“I can’t do this,” you said to yourself and quickly let out some dollars to pay for your drink before picking up your stuff to leave.

You saw he panicked when he saw you leaving, he quickly called the bartender to pay for his drink.

You closed your coat as you were shaking yourself, punishing yourself for going there. Why had you gone there? The man had broken your heart? Were you really there to see him?

Was your heart foolish enough to ignore the warnings in your mind once again?

You walked your way to get to the subway station, how irrelevant you were through the crowds. You hadn’t felt this way for a while, caring for the crowds. But you had to get through them. There was a part of you that wished Tom was following you after. But the crowds didn’t let you see if he was.

Besides, you shouldn’t want that.

You finally managed to get to the station, you clung to your purse as you stared at the tracks, waiting for the next train to come. Peaceful it seemed, the station. As peaceful as New York could be. You guessed if you cried nobody would care.

“y/n!” You heard your name in the distance and you couldn’t handle it.

You took a deep breath and shook your head, angrily. Why had you gone? You could’ve easily kept ignoring his calls. You could’ve stayed in your apartment, crying as you watched SNL videos on youtube, or rewatching a cartoon for the hundredth time, letting your own sadness and self pity swallow you.

But you had gone to him. This was your fault. You should’ve taken a cab, instead, he would know you’d get at this station and he for sure would know what train you’d take.

“y/n, y/n!” He kept calling as he finally arrived next to you. “Sorry I would’ve gotten here faster but the damn MetroCard-”

“I’m not doing this, Tom,” you stated before he could go on rambling like the idiot he was. You couldn’t do it. “Not here, not anywhere. I don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“I…” His face was kind, and he seemed to be nervous. You could tell he hadn’t been sleeping, probably the jet lag.

You took a moment to look at him, he didn’t look as victorious as you had thought he was. His hair was messy, and his cheeks flushed, the buttons on his shirt were not buttoned right.

Seeing him again, with that signature look he had made you want to go down to your knees.

“Aren’t you supposed to be back in London?” You snapped. “With that pretty girl-”

“No, no, I’m-I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” Tom stuttered. “I was an idiot.”

You stared into his eyes, you were not ready for this. You were not ready to look into his stupid eyes. You looked away. “That’s all you have to say?” You tried walking away from him..

He shook his head. “No, no, no, no, I… No, I actually… I had this… I wrote down my apology,” Tom confessed. He showed you a sad, handwritten paper, now slightly teared up with the ink running. “I… I had….”

You looked down at it, his messy handwriting, crinkled with words scratched down. “You wrote it down?”

You didn’t know why you felt your heart warm. This kind of stuff was why you couldn’t understand what had happened. Someone like him, who writes his apologies down. Someone who stutters when he’s speaking.

“Yeah, I… but I spilled my drink on it after seeing you fled,” He explained, swallowing hard. “I… I… I had written it down so I wouldn’t forget it but now I realize how stupid that is… I’m… I’m really sorry, y/n.” .

You could hear the train coming. You were seeing him again. It hit you right there. And this was not the reaction you thought. You had said you would be delusional, crying and fighting and questioning him why the fuck he had done that.

Yet you weren’t. You were only watching him, eyes full of tears wanting to slide down but unable to. But there was that pain still in your chest.

How could he ever dare to hurt you that way? “I don’t want to talk to you,” you said. And meant it. “Please leave me alone.” You said before walking into the train.

“Y/N, please, no, please, please, listen to me,” He followed you in, the scarf still in his hand.

You tried sitting as far away as you could. Arms and legs crossed as you tried breathing in.

He sat beside you and you changed seats. He sighed but followed you again. “Please, I need to talk to you. I never meant to hurt you.”

“Well you did,” you snapped. “You did, and now you come here a month later with a handwritten note apology thinking I will be fine with it?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I had to solve-Please, would you listen?” Tom asked, knowing damn well he had to ask, and not just straight up blurt it out.

“Why would I, Tom?” You turned to him, with a tear traveling down your cheek. You were incredulous. “You’re kidding me, right? I… You… You think that just because you show up with that stupid face of yours and my scarf I’ll want to listen to you? You’re an idiot.”

He sighed and reached to give you the scarf. You ignored it.You were furious now.

The other people on the train were certainly getting a show. A guy with a backpack was trying to pretend he wasn’t listening but his reactions were giving it away. Another woman pretended to keep reading her book but she hadn’t turned any pages.

Tom took the scarf back staring at it. “I need to explain everything to you.”

“What if I don’t want an explanation?” You snapped. Though you did. You had been waiting for one, you wanted one. You would beg for it. But your pride was taking the wheel of the conversation. “Don’t you think it’s fucking late for it?”

“Is it?” Tom turned back to you.

“Yes!” You couldn’t believe him. But this seemed a bit too familiar of a conversation. “And beside no explanation would make me forgive you!” You stated, whispering, not wanting any of the attention you were receiving.

“I’m not… I… If you just listen to me,” Tom said.

You glared, “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

“Then why did you come to the bar?” He asked.

He fucking asked.

Your eyes widened. He had gone there. He knew. He fucking knew you’d gone back because you wanted an explanation. Or so he thought. No, you’d gone back because… Yes, because you wanted an explanation. Because everything he’d done had been beautiful. Until the heartbreak. He had crafted and vexed his way into your cold stupid heart and then he had gone and pierced right through it, crushed it.

You wanted to ask why. Why did he do it so vehemently?

You didn’t answer, instead you moved one seat away. He kept his eyes on you.

“You wouldn’t have gone if you didn’t want an explanation,” he said. “Or to see me, at least. I know I did, I needed to see you.”

You saw the guy with the backpack purse his lips, knowing that Tom had got you. There was little context for them. The girl with the book directed a glance to you, trying to read your emotions.

If they knew, they’d be on your side and yelling at him as well.

He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face.

“I didn’t, it was a coincidence,” you answered coldly.

“No, it bloody wasn’t,” Tom scoffed and then sat up. “No, I’m… No, but you know, you went to the bar for a reason.”

“And I left for a million more,” you frowned.

Tom pursed his lips and took out the paper again, trying to make out whatever he’d written before. “I’m really sorry.” His eyes traced through the note.

“Are you genuinely trying to read it? Don’t you know what you’re supposed to apologize for?”

Tom looked up, “So you do want me to apologize?”

The guy with the backpack squeezed his eyes shut, knowing Tom had fucked up.

“You’re kidding, right? Yes, you have to apologize, what you did is really, really shitty!” You pointed out.

“But you won’t forgive me, then?” Tom watched you.

“I don’t know,” you said and he looked up, a beaming gaze. “No, I won’t.”

He wrinkled his eyes, “I… I know I’m supposed to apologize, not to expect you to forgive. I'm just…”

He gulped, and then sat back, staring at the dirty walls and lights. He had dressed up. Badly, but he had tried looking good, you could tell. You could smell his lotion, too.

He was fiddling with the paper, crumpling up and then it fell to the floor. You looked at it and somehow related to it, not sure how.

You took a deep breath so you wouldn’t kill him and turned to him. “I have questions for you, if you answer them I might consider listening to you.”

Tom’s eyes brightened up. “Yes, yes, anything.”

You eyed him up and down as he watched you with begging eyes. You avoided his gaze. Tom followed your gaze as you tried to figure out what was the first thing you could ask him. Why had he hurt you?

Why did he not stop and think before making you fall in love with him?

Why did he not stop and tell you the truth?

“Where are you staying?” You asked,

Tom blinked. “Is that… is that the question?”

“No, but I know you don’t know how to fucking get anywhere,” you said.

Tom gulped, “I… uh, again with Harrison,” he explained.

You sighed. You remembered Harrison alright. And though there was a petty part inside you, you would help him out. Knowing he’d always get lost in the city. Though you could let him get lost, so you’d have to go after him and spend a bit more time. With an excuse, because you didn’t seem to have any excuse to be with him.

It hurt. What hurt the most was trying not to look back at the incredible moments you had because none of them were true.

You sighed. “Okay, when we get down you’ll take the F train—“

Tom stopped you, taking your hand. “No, wait, I don’t care if I get lost, okay, I… I just.”

You snatched your hand away from his cold hands he had. You darkened your gaze at him.

“Please, Y/n, I just need a chance. If you don’t want to listen… maybe I’ll just…” He handed you the note.

You crossed your arms, and tapped your foot, trying to decide whether or not to give it to him. “Fine,” you took the note.

You've gotten to your stop. So you stood up.

The girl with the book and the guy with the backpack watched you both as you walked out, pitying they couldn’t follow the drama.

Tom followed after you, he licked his lips. “You… you had questions, right?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, taking yet another heavy breath. You turned on your feet to look at him “One, did you lie to me?”

Tom was taken back by this, his eyes, consternated, only watched you. He gulped. “What?”

“Did you lie to me?

“I… well.”

You were getting desperate. “Did you ?”

“I didn’t lie about how I felt,” he said. You knew he wasn’t lying about it. He couldn’t. He couldn’t have ever lied about how he felt because you knew he had felt it too, a bit, at least,

You rolled your eyes, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“I mean it, I…” Tom gulped. “I really liked you.”

“Yeah, I know, you liked me yadda, yadda,” you started. Liked not loved. “Cut the bullshit for once, did you or did you not lie to me?”

Tom took a deep breath. “Yes. But I had feelings for you.”

You bit your inner cheeks. “Uh-huh, yes, okay, good, yes, you acknowledge it. So, we have two statements here, Tom. You say you had feelings yet you lied to me,” you squinted. “Sounds-”

Tom gulped and avoided your gaze. “I know yes,” he looked down. “But, if you give me-”

“Ah, buh-buh, nope, I’m just gathering my thoughts here,” you coughed. “I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me what you felt.”

Tom shook his head in confusion. “I—I’m”

“Go on,” you motioned your hand.

“Y/N,” he said. And the way he dared to say your name was like having a knife right through you. “I had—I have feelings for you,” he said looking right into your eyes.

He didn’t say what feelings.

You were not sure where you wanted to go with this. “Fine, my next question…” you really didn’t know where this was going. “So, alright, you…” You couldn’t even phrase it. “You… made me fall in love with you knowing….Well, we both know what you did. What you hid from me. You’re a liar who made me—“

Tom took a deep breath. “Yes, but I didn’t… plan that.”

Your eyes widened. “Oh, so it’s my fault?” You stepped back. “Sorry for developing feelings for you. Sorry for ruining your life—“

Tom closed his eyes, “No, no, look, I… wasn’t. I didn’t come here expecting to meet you, I didn’t want… It just happened, okay, I never thought—You're making it sound like it’s some big master plan. I—I never planned—I never would’ve ever planned on hurting you.”

You watched him, incredulous. “Thomas you do realize what you did to me?”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t! You’re trying to make me seem like I’m crazy for not even wanting to talk to you!” You called him out.

“I’m not, I’m just saying that if you’re here—you must miss it too, you know it was too real, and you want it back, possibly—M-maybe not, but if you came to the bar tonight it was in hopes of finding me again because you knew I’d be there, and you want to feel how you felt before, and i just… you know I miss it and that you knew I didn’t lie—“

You glared at him. “You did lie!”

“Okay—yes, yes I did—But not entirely, I just happened to omit one truth—“

“One very important truth,” you snarked.

“Fine but—please listen,” he tried to convince you. “and I’m sorry, okay? I—I didn’t want to hurt you. But I never planned this. It just happened. I didn’t come here expecting to fall in love with anyone, I didn’t come here trying to date, and I never expected it to be someone as complex—“

“Complex?”

“Yes, I never came to New York trying to find the most mental relationship I’ve ever had—“

“Mental?” You snapped.

“Yes! I love you but you’re fucking crazy! And I am too! I’m fucking crazy and mental but I—I—I loved being crazy and mental with you! We are fucking mental! Driving to nowhere? Breaking into places? Getting a jukebox on the subway? That’s mental! But—but I love that about you, alright? Don’t you get it? I could’ve stayed in London, I could've been the asshole who just ditched you and lied to you—“

You scoffed. “Well that’s comforting!”

“But I’m—I’m here, ain’t I? And I know I fucked up, I know, I accept that, I’m the asshole here, and I know you’ll never—I hid it from you because I didn’t know what was going on, I didn’t even get it myself. I’m here to give you my version of it. I didn’t realize I was falling in love with you…I am…,I am in love with you, and I never planned that, I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with someone else, it just happened. I may have thought it was just—Some fling, initially.”

You laughed cynically. “A fling.”

He gulped. “And the moment I realized what was really going on—”

“You left, that’s what you fucking did, when you realized it was way too real for you, you destroyed the one real thing you’ve ever known,” you barked, he stepped back. “I fell in love with you, I—I—and then you ditched me, and I thought that was the worst thing you could ever do to me but then I realized that it wasn’t real! I—you were never mine, Tom! I simply was—a break you needed or—a fling.”

“It wasn’t that—“

You watched him. Looking so innocent, kind eyes and tender lips. You would’ve believed him had he come before.

“You used me!” You snapped, the words that had wanted to come for a while just blurted out. “I just can’t believe you,” you said. “You don’t feel sorry.” You shook your head, your voice was cracking. “You're not sorry because you don’t understand. You don’t know what I went through, and if you had come earlier, if you hadn’t left me, I probably would have believed you. But—No! No!” You stepped back. “No!”

“I did call! You never picked up the phone! I tried—“Tom started.

“Was I really expected to pick it up? Let’s get back to it. Shall we? The facts. Did you or did you not date me? And made me fall in love with you?”

Tom sighed. “I—yes.”

“Did you lie?”

“…yes.”

You nodded. “Was I the other one?”

Tom squinted his eyes. “No… yes, no.”

You took a deep breath. “Did you leave me without an explanation?”

Tom looked down. “I did.”

“Did you ditch me?”

Tom looked everywhere and nowhere. “Yes,” he answered, defeated.

“Now, do you think I can ever forgive you?”

Tom didn’t answer.

You reached for your purse, for the locket that dug deep inside. “I don’t know you,” you stated giving him the locket, the stupid locket you’d bought as a joke when making fun of other couples and now laughed in your face. “Whatever happened means nothing. Because that’s the thing Tom. Everything we lived was a lie, those two people in the locket are not us, because you weren’t who you said you were, no matter how much I loved it, it’s not true and though it was too many emotions all at once I’m—It’s not real, not for you. I spent this whole time thinking I wanted you to apologize but I don’t want it. That charming guy wasn’t truly you because you omitted one very important thing. You—What were you thinking? Were you planning to never say it? Or did you plan it like that? Just ditching me, hoping I wouldn’t find out—“

Tom took a deep breath. “No—No, I didn’t. I just—-I didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry, I should’ve told you and I should’ve fixed it before—-“

“No, no you didn’t because it wasn’t enough for you.”

Tom gulped, “It was, it was—-the best thing I’ve ever had.”

“And you ruined it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How little words mean when you’re a little too late, huh?” And that was the cue you needed to walk away. He silently watched you as you tried not to cry.

“I’m really sorry.” He said.

Was he?

“What if I try to prove it to you?” He asked as you were steps away from him.

You didn’t stop.

“If we go over this, you’ll see I never lied about it.” He continued.

“I already went over it, I remember everything, Tom, and maybe that’s why I don't want to talk to you.”

Tom walked behind, slowly. “I just happened to be very unlucky when it came to my own circumstances,” he reached over. “And I wish the timing had been better. But you’re right, it’s the one real thing I’ve ever had and I lost it because I hid something in fear of losing you. I lied because it was too good to be true. And I understand if you don’t want anything to do with me but I think you deserve to know why. But you went to the bar for a reason, and you had the locket for another.”

You stopped this time. Looking down at the floor and then at his hand, holding your stupid scarf. You shook your head, you really didn’t want to go through it all over again.

“I know you won’t forgive me,” he stated. “But I can’t let you go. You’re everywhere. And I miss the person I was when you were around, and I won’t stop fighting because you’re everywhere. Dreams, nightmares.”

Funny. You were his demons too.

“Am I haunting your nightmares?” You asked. Tom only watched you.

He took a deep breath. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, I just need—I really need you to listen to my version.”

“Fine then, let’s go down this sad, beautiful tragic love affair.”

-

next chapter

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[oblivions-dawn]

Showing My Process Because I Was Kindly Asked

Rules: When your work is tagged, show the process of its creation from planning to posting, then tag 5 people. Use the tag #showyourprocess so we can find yours!

I know you were already tagged @thequeenofthewinter but I'm tagging you again! c; And thank you @theartofimaginaryfriends for tagging me!! Now I have the daunting task of choosing which story to rant about because I have. Too many. All works-in-progress, some in better places than others . . . I suppose it's only right that I talk about my published story despite it undergoing heavy construction right now, Petrichor!

✑ Inspiration

Petrichor is, obviously, just my long-imagined, finally fulfilling dream of writing a more in-depth version of the Dovahkiin and Serana's journey. I love Serana. There's so much to her character--and yet, there's so much more that's left unsaid about her. After spending years daydreaming of my fanfiction-to-be, I decided that I would pour my soul into her, breathe life into my Dovahkiin and Serana, and fill in the cracks that Bethesda left out for me to fill. What started off as just fun scenes and one-shots is now being converted into the full-fledged fanfiction it deserves to be! And I hope I can continue to do it justice for as long as I'm writing it

✑ Preparation

If I do any kind of preparing at all, it's usually handwritten-in-black-gel-pen ideas in notebooks or typing small reminders regarding plot right at the top or bottom of the page--enough to remind me of what I want to achieve with a character within said chapter and, hopefully, motivate me to do so. Sometimes I'll even put character notes, descriptions of their appearance and/or personalities because taking notes is really helpful for me personally--it sticks a little better to my brain that way.

✑ Art Process

My writing process is probably every fanfiction/published writer's nightmare. I don't keep drafts. If I rewrite something, that original writing is gone for good. If I want to change it back, I write what it once was from memory. Why, why do you torment yourself this way, you ask!? Because I thoroughly believe that having multiple drafts stumps my creativity. I may refer to my original writing when rewriting something, but I do my best to not re-read it entirely. I take snippets that I like and extend them, create something new. Some of my best writing has come from deleting entire paragraphs and rewriting them from memory. Why this works, I don't know; perhaps my mind distorts and warps what was originally there and is able to bend it in ways I couldn't see when it was written there in front of me. Every writer has their weird process and this just happens to be mine. I also am very imaginative--I vividly see the scenes as they occur in my head, like a movie in real time. Sometimes I crawl into a character's skin to know their emotions and thoughts, other times I have to make them talk to me through it. And, to top it off, I write in Word 90% of the time. I'm . . . not sorry. If it's not broke, I'm not switching!

✑ Thoughts

Petrichor has been . . . a journey. For a long time I was happy with the one-shot format as it was, finding time between classes to be a little creative and happy to write something I wanted to write. But now I'm graduated from college and I realised that I need to practise writing full-length novels--and what better way to do that then to do it to my fanfiction? Writing essays has made me rusty and it's time I sharpened my creative fiction pen for the real world. And I hope everyone that reads it enjoys it as much as I have! I fully intend on finishing it, but when that will be I can't say. For now, I'm writing when I can and taking breaks away from it when necessary to make sure that my writing is almost always as good as it can be. c:

[author-a-holmes]

Leaves, warm coat

Hello Anon! Thank you for the asks <3 This is going to be a bit of a long post, because my editing process is... detailed, so I'll answer Warm Coat first, in case you get bored about reading my long-ass editing process <3

Warm Coat: Share a happy or fuzzy scene from your wip!

This is a cute moment that I love. It's from Chapter 20, and it really shows how Lizzy and Cara's friendship develops over the course of the book. Poor Lizzy though, they fey just don't celebrate birthday's the way we do...

"It's Lizzy's birthday," Cara said, pretending that she wasn't still blushing, and Lizzy rolled her eyes. Cara slid on the straw sun hat she'd been carrying in her hands, the orange band of fabric encircling it the brightest splash of colour on her entire outfit, and Cara's hands fussed with the ribbon tails as they trailed off the brim and down her back.

"It's— Your birthday?" Andric asked, switching his attention from Cara, as she fussed with her sunhat, to Lizzy mid-sentence, and Lizzy shrugged.

"It's not that—"

"It is important," Booker cut her off with a growl. "You're eighteen. This one's important... even without Maddy," he added, voice softening.

"I was thinking; Shopping, movie, meal," Cara said quickly, stepping closer to Andric, and Lizzy watched, bemused, as Andric got hit full blast by her roommate's wide-eyed pleading.

He seemed to hesitate a moment, and Lizzy half expected him shut down Cara's extravagant plans, but then she leant forward and added, "Did you know that fey don't do birthday parties?" and he caved.

"Sounds like you've got it all planned out," he said simply, holding out an arm towards the front doors of the school, "if we want to fit all that in, we'd better get started."

"Yes!" Cara celebrated, jumping on the spot and throwing one hand in the air as Lizzy looked on bemused.

"Looks like you're getting a mortal-realm style birthday," Booker teased as Cara and Andric moved towards the doors, and Booker began dragging her after them with the arm that had curled around her shoulders, "whether you wanted to or not!"

Leaves: What does your editing process look like? How does your wip typically change as you work on it?

My editing progress is... in depth? I guess? I know that grammar is my weak spot, so I kind of just do the best I can to get it as clean as I can before I send it off to an editor.

The way I do that, is to edit in layers, and this ties into the second half of this question about how my WIP changes. Because once I have a completed manuscript, my WIP's core story doesn't change all that much.

So, it might sound strange, but step one of my editing process is actually to create an outline of my story before I start writing. I know. Sounds weird. Bear with me...

So I make my outline. It's very rough, it's not in depth, it's not detailed (Sometimes it's nothing more than a list of bullet points), and I'm not going to stick to the outline as I write. So why do I make it, you might ask... because I can use it when I come to edit.

For example. Changeling's outline. The first version I wrote before I started the series. I changed the outline after I finished the first act. By the time I'd reached the 3rd act, I had to entirely rewrite the final act of the outline, because my story had drifted so far that the original outline no longer worked.

So now I have a finished manuscript, and 3 versions of the Changeling Outline, because while I was editing the outline, and rewriting it, I never deleted the original.

The first thing I do to edit, is I reread my original outline. I look at the story I wanted to telll, and the things I wanted to include, and I decide if I managed that. If I didn't, do I still want to include them? Or is the story better without them? I'll make handwritten notes about all this while I'm reading the outlines, because I don't edit the manuscript straight away. I have to let it rest, but I go over the outline as soon as possible after finishing the manuscript so that it's still fresh in my mind.

The second thing, once I have all my notes from re-reading the outlines, is to let my manuscript rest. The length of time varies. Stolen I let rest for 8 months. Changeling I was happy going back after about 3 weeks.

The third step is to actually edit. I don't reread my manuscript. I've let it rest so it's fresh, and I don't want to lose that by rereading it. I have the notes I made from the outlines, after I first finished it. These are usually large, plot structural changes I need to implement, so I have that notebook beside me as I work through the project. For example, in Changeling, I realised I needed Booker to have a 'Tell' for when he's using telepathy (for plot reasons), so that's something I needed to weave in throughout the story as I went.

And then I edit the manuscript one chapter at a time.

This is still step three, but I do each chapter in small, easily repeatable steps.

(A) I copy/paste the chapter from my writing program into the Hemmingway App. (Warning for Anyone who uses Hemmingway; It will not save your work. If your browser page refreshes, closes, or your computer restarts, you will lose ALL your work. If you need to navigate away from Hemmingway, copy your work into a googledoc or something)

While it's in the Hemmingway App, and before I use any of it's functions, I use Ctrl+F (Find in my browser) to search through the chapter for Weak Words, Filter Words, and my commonly overused words.

Caveat; If any of these are found within character dialogue, I ignore them. Character's shouldn't speak perfectly and so Character Voice always wins out.

Weak Words

Suddenly

Then

Very

Really

Started

Just

Somewhat

Slightly

Somehow

Seem

Definitely

That

Filter Words

see / saw / look / looked

hear / heard

taste / tasted

smell / smelled / smelt / scent

touch / touched

feel / feels / felt

wonder / wondered / think / thought

decide / decided

realise / realised

know / knew

My Personal Overly Used Words

Own

Though

Quickly

After I've searched for each of these words, looked at the paragraph it's contained in, and decided if it's the best word for the job/if it can be rewritten to remove it/if it can be deleted outright/if i want to keep it there... then I move onto the things Hemmingway App can actually do.

Hemmingway highlights a bunch of things, but the only two features I actually use or pay attention to is it's highlighting of Adverbs and Passive Voice.

If my Passive Voice is below the recommended, then I'll still go and have a look at them and see if I can reword to remove them, but I don't worry about it too much. I've usually only got 2 or 3 instances per chapter, and that's a comfortable quantity for me, as most of the time these are within character dialogue.

Adverbs are where I'm quite weak, I usually have a painful number of Adverbs, so I will painstakingly go through and check each adverb to see if it's a strong or a weak adverb. To see if I really need it there, or if I can cut it. If I do need it, then I try and see if I can rewrite the sentence or paragraph to remove the adverb, and replace it with a stronger verb instead.

I always try and get my adverbs below Hemmingway's recommended number, but as long as I've checked over each one, and made a decision on them, that's good enough because that usually gets me within 5-10 adverbs of their target anyway.

As I'm going through editing Adverbs, I'll also work in any new content I need to add from my notes. I'm rewriting paragraphs during this stage, so it's the easiest moment to slide in extra, additional, or changed content.

(B) Once I've done my final Adverb check in Hemmingway, I copy/paste it from Hemmingway into Grammarly.

I use Grammarly's free version. I've tried their paid, but I don't think it's worth the price, especially if you're also paying for a professional editor. ProWritingAid is another good grammar checker, but I find it too complex to work with. Your Milage May Vary.

So, my document gets placed into Grammarly, and I wait for it to run it's grammar check. I then go through each of it's suggestions. I don't accept every suggestion, I read it and make a decision based on how I want my story to read.

Honestly, this is probably the fastest step.

Once I've said yes or no to each suggestion, I move onto Natural Readers, but KEEP the Grammarly Document open in a different tab.

(C) Keeping my chapter open in Grammarly in one tab, I go to Natural Readers Online. Natural Readers have really GOOD sounding voices, and they will read back to you any text you paste into their website.

So I'll copy the chapter from Grammarly, and paste it into natural readers. You can get 5 minutes of their Plus voices for free per day, and I think it's 20 minutes of their Premium voices for free per day. Their basic voices are free, unlimited, but do sound more like the robotic voice you'd expect.

I hate reading my own work aloud, so this is the way I bypass that embaressment. I have Natural Readers read my work back to me. I find this step invaluable. I can hear the flow of the text, I can catch spelling mistakes that a spell checker thinks are correct, but aren't what I intended (like Brian instead of brain, for example).

I also find that I can spot repetativeness more easily when it's read back to me too. I can hear I used "running" three times in two paragraphs easier than I can see it.

I can also spot where I've duplicated paragraphs. Sometimes, at the Hemmingway Stage, if I need to rewrite a paragraph, I'll go to the next line and retype it out from scratch, but will forget to delete the original. Natural Readers, and hearing it read back to me, is where I'm most likely to catch this mistake.

The reason I keep my Grammarly tab open, is that any errors I hear in Natural Readers, I edit in Grammarly. That's because Natural Readers doesn't like my Em-dashes. It breaks them. So it's easier for me to copy/paste from Grammarly that it is from NR and to fix all my Emdashes later.

(D) So after Natural Readers has finished reading my chapter back to me, and I've fixed any error's that's highlighted, I copy my final version of the chapter, and I paste it into my manuscript's Googledoc File.

I run Googledoc's spellchecker, to catch any tiny, last things every other step missed, and then I log the final wordcount of the chapter so that I know how many words I cut or added, and so that I can keep track of my manuscript's final word count (Because final word count is what I'm paying my editor to check)

(E) Then I do it all over again on the next chapter. This process can take me anywhere from 2 hours to 6 hours, per chapter.

Final Step, once I've completed all my self edits, is to read through the book from start to finish myself. At this point, I'm hopeful, I don't find anything else I think I can change.

Then I hand it over to Beta Readers. I'll make any small changes they find, then it'll be time to send my manuscript off to my professional editor, Nicole at Evermore Editing.

She edited my prequel short story, Whatever Happened To Madeline Hail? and I have every intention of going back to her for Changeling

So that's my editing process. It's also why my core story doesn't really change a whole lot once the manuscript is completed. Any huge, structural changes happen during the outline, and during the actual writing process. If I reach the end of a manuscript, it's almost entirely how I wanted it to come out, or I go back and rewrite.

Editing is really the final stage, and some once I'm reached that point, there's not a whole lot that is due to shift.

So I whine about editing a lot, but it's more that I find it highly tedious, and repetative, than stressful or difficult.

[yakuly]

🍵🌿 Sedansogu [Chap. 06] ¡FINAL!

A/N: Okay, so this is the FINAL chapter, and i hope you guys had enjoyed at least a little bit of the history!

Two days. That was the number of days — or almost — that Park Eui had no contact with Junmyeon. She still hadn't told almost anyone that she agreed to go out with him, but she started to regret it when she arrived at the office on Friday, and Taeyong didn't seem to know anything. She knew, of course, that the two of them were talking, and that in reality, he might know something, but she didn't want to ask anything.

The only person she actually told about: Do Kyungsoo. The young man became not only a faithful companion at breakfast and lunch but also a constant visitor at his work desk since according to him his supervisor was not there and he could not bear to be in the presence of "that giant idiot" who was his colleague. Eui didn't care, in fact, he took the opportunity to talk about his situation. The boy understood, and was also shocked by the situation, but advised her to just relax.

"Don't be so worried, he must just be planning something for you..."

The girl wanted to believe it, but when she woke up Saturday morning at 10:00 a.m. and had no text or call from the guy, she began to feel restless. She didn't know what to do anymore, and telling her friends was now out of the question, she knew that telling her small group of friends that she had agreed to go out with the extremely handsome and elegant guy they had insisted she really should do. , would result in thousands of questions and jokes about the end of his singleness.

After organizing her couple, catching up on her subjects, as well as marathoning several movies, Eui was already giving up on any communication Junmyeon could do. The brunette got up, grabbed her ice cream spot, and was ready for the deep, depressing "Sex and the City" marathon when someone rings her doorbell. The girl didn't have so much hope anymore, but she couldn't control her heart from beating a little faster. Upon opening the door, all she found was a white box with a red bow. The brunette looked at it, unsure whether to open it or not. The side of her that watched many movies and series told her that there might be something dangerous in there (a... bomb... who knows) but her curiosity got the better of her, and without wasting any more time, she took the box and took it to your living room.

Carefully undoing the red bow, she finds tissue paper covering something, and on top of it a note. On her front was a simple handwritten "Junmyeon", and that alone made her heart flutter faster. Sitting up properly, Park Eui opens the paper to find the following handwritten words:

"I look forward to seeing you on this beautiful night, I hope you like what I have prepared for both of us. Please accept my gifts, and be ready by 9 pm."

Quickly the brunette gets rid of the tissue papers and finds a simple black dress, but it seemed to have been chosen by her. On top of that, a red velvet box was attached, when opening it, she found a golden necklace with a small red stone, as well as earrings and a ring.

Looking at the clock, Eui realized that she had just the right time to shower and get dressed if she wanted to be ready on time, and so she did.

...

The dress covered her perfectly, not too tight, not too loose, not too short, and not too long. Perfect. The jewels matched perfectly, and once again she was delighted with all of Junmyeon's affection and perception.

As soon as his clock struck 9 pm, his phone rang, with an unknown number answering Junmyeon's voice rang in his ear.

"I'm here." his voice was decisive, and it caught Eui off guard for a few seconds. "Hi?" It was all she managed to say, and the boy laughed lightly at that "I'm in front of your house, you can come..."

And even stunned by the sudden allocation, Eui grabbed her things and headed out of the house.

Kim Junmyeon was leaning against his beautiful and elegant car, dressed all in black, with his hair parted to the side, and the necklace he wore shimmered through the light. I lost my breath.

"Hi," she says shyly as she approaches him. The boy opens a huge smile when he sees her, and greets her in the same way. "Did you do all this?"

"That" was nothing... shall we?" the brunette opens the car door for the woman who gets into the vehicle.

...

The drive to the place wasn't as silent and awkward as Eui thought it would be. They chatted lightly about how their day was (and she clearly left out the part where she was anxious about the night they would have) while listening to the low music playing on the radio.

When the car stopped, Eui saw a not-so-large house with lights illuminating it outside. When he got out of the car, the brunette made a point of opening the door for the girl.

"I wanted to do something special, and that was your height, but I didn't want to scare you with any expensive restaurant...so I hope you like it." the boy says as they stop at the door. Not knowing what to expect, and afraid of her own reaction, Eui just nods. Junmyeon smiles weakly before opening the door.

The interior of the house was simple, and it was filled with different candles that lit the house, along with low light. In the middle of the room, a table with two seats, set up with plates, glasses, and two more candles, on the floor red petals were scattered all over the corner.

Seeing that, Park Eui felt her face heat up and she couldn't hide her surprise, and the happiness she felt at the sight. Beside her, Junmyeon admired her features...the way the candles made her skin feel even smoother to the touch, her eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed. Her heart raced like it hadn't in a long time.

The brunette guided her into the house and pulled out the chair for her to sit down.

"Did you do all this… alone?" the brunette says still surprised. The brunette smiles and confirms.

"Yes, this is a house I come to when I want to be alone, so I decided it would be fair to bring you here and cook for us to eat."

"You cooked?" the girl's neck had never turned so quickly, as it did at this moment.

"Don't worry, there's nothing poisoned..."

The brunette makes her sit down as they quickly serve them with their food. The smell alone made the girl's stomach turn, and she was extremely curious to taste the boy's food. As soon as he put the first portion in his mouth, he couldn't hide his satisfaction at the taste, which drew a soft laugh from Junmyeon.

"So I guess we need to get to know each other a little more, right?" he asks, and Eui nods with her head still traveling through the flavors of the food. "Where do you want to start?"

"I don't know...tell me about your family."

The two then amended one issue after another. They talked about things they like, things they don't like; of serious things and banal things; told stories, and created their first inside jokes.

In the few encounters she had, Eui never felt as light as she was with Junmyeon. With every passing moment, he was showing himself to be an incredible man, and he seemed to genuinely care about her, not just try to take her to bed.

When they finished dinner, Junmyeon took her to the backyard of the house, where they could have a view of the clear and bright sky while they talked and finished drinking. As they talked, the boy couldn't help but notice how not only the jewels glowed under the lights, but his skin as well. The girl seemed like his perfect jewel. But he also noticed a shiver under his body.

"Cold? Here, use this..." he says taking off his overcoat and putting it over her shoulders.

"You know, I was wondering how such a smart man who planned the night in small detail didn't think I would feel cold..."

"Or I really imagined it would happen z but I liked the idea of ​​lending you my coat..." Kim replies making her smile as he helps her into the garment.

The two were having so much fun that they didn't see the time pass, but when they realized it was late at night (or too early), Junmyeon decided that he should take her back to his house.

"Sorry but I have to ask" the girl pronounces as they are on their way back "how did you get my address and phone number?"

"I was wondering when you were going to investigate me..." Junmyeon smiles, and the girl ends up imitating his gesture. Sighing, he answers: "I asked Taeyong for his phone number, he didn't understand much, but after explaining, he gave in, and his address... I went to his friend's restaurant, and the blonde with long and tall hair was more than happy to help me..."

"Wait! Johnny?" the girl was shocked. So did he know? And didn't say anything? Why? After all, which side is he on? "when it was that?"

"Last night," Kim replies with a shrug. Eui's mouth opens in shock, and the brunette looks away from the street for a few seconds, so he can see the expression on the girl's face.

"Did he know since yesterday? What do you mean?!"

"Well, I dropped you off at home and went straight to the restaurant and talked to him, and hey...he was very happy to help me" he replies, making the girl laugh in disbelief and whisper "of course I do"

"So the model of the dress, and the jewelry, went with it too?" she asks, and the boy quickly looks at her once more.

"You do not remember?" I shook my head before remembering that he couldn't see it, so he just denied it "when we were in that store, I saw that you were admiring this dress, so when you weren't looking, I asked them to separate them into every size they had, just in case, and so I went back there and bought it."

"And the jewelry?" she insists.

"I just thought they were perfect for you. And as you can see, I'm not wrong."

...

After that, the path was silent. Eui was shocked that her friend knew everything, and didn't say anything, and was also shocked by Junmyeon. Everything he's prepared, the amazing night he's planned, and even the dress and jewelry...

"Ready" Junmyeon says before getting out of the car and opening the door for Eui. Both are face to face looking at each other, butterflies in the stomach and throbbing hearts making their heads buzz. She should come in, right? And he should go back to his house, right? But because neither of them wanted to do that.

"Thanks for tonight, I had a great time." the girl says, her cheeks flush again. She doesn't know why her voice is lower.

"Park Eui, I know it might not be the right time, but I can't leave without doing this..."

As he spoke, Junmyeon brought his body closer to the girls. One of his hands went to the girl's face, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, taking the opportunity to hold her face. His thumb stroked the skin of the girl's face lightly. Junmyeon used his other hand to hold it close to him. Unlike what he imagined, Eui approached of his own volition and brought his hands to the back of the boy's neck.

Without much ado, they pressed their lips together, and the inevitable kiss happened. His lips moved in sync, the desire implicit there, on both sides. Usually, Eui didn't kiss on the first date, much less the way she was doing it, giving herself body and soul to the guy. The two would like more contact, but they needed to breathe.

"Junmyeon-ssi, do you want to come in?" the brunette asks, trying to show her intentions, and the boy notices, smiling and agreeing. As they turn to enter the house, Eui says louder "Good night Johnny!"

"Goodnight!"

I knew that upon meeting the blond friend the other day, he would ask about what happened when they entered. But she would never tell him how they spent the rest of the night entwined on the couch kissing, breathing fast and ragged, feeling desire well up between them. She would never tell him how she felt wanted after a long time, and how she wanted someone after a long time. And she certainly isn't going to tell him that she agreed to spend the other day alone with him in the house where they had their date.

Previous

[Masterlist] • [Sedansogu Masterlist] • [EXO Masterlist]

🍵🌿🖇..⃗. buy me a coffee?

[sxveme-2]

blueberry pancakes // bucky barnes

MASTERLIST

Description: A single mother. Juggling being a mom, a full time pediatrician, and a difficult ex who believed now would be the best time to finally be a father. A soldier ripped out of time. Ex-assassin turned superhero. Learning how to balance a new domestic life with handling demons of his past, while facing the trials of the future. a love story began over something as simple as chocolate chip pancakes with hidden blueberries.

Disclaimer: I do not own any original Marvel characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else

Status: Unedited

Note: Takes place after endgame. I have elected to ignore Tony's death and Steve's leaving. Did not happen. Quick Reminder! My works are only published here, AO3 and on Wattpad, thank you.

Chapter Twenty Three: The One When They're Alone

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 4040

     Lily knew was never a huge fan of Christmas. The only reason she put the amount of effort she did into it was for Hunter. He loved the holiday. As a child, it was usually one of the only days that his father would be home the whole day. But it was one of Lily's least favourites, because her parents weren't typically home for Christmas. Usually, Lily and her siblings would find themselves up at their grandparents. She wasn't complaining, she loved her grandparents, and she knew her parents wanted to be home, but their work was essentially them constantly travelling. And then further in her future, Scott may have been there for Hunter, but he was not there for Lily. He was seemingly at his worst during the holidays...and she just happened to be the one on the receiving end of his anger.

Lily hadn't seen Bucky get angry yet. It sat in the back of her mind like a looming threat, and she wondered if the past few months had simply been a facade. That in reality, he was no different. Did she think it was true? No, no she didn't think he would ever hurt her. But she had suffered such trauma from Scott that she just...she was never too sure.

"Your turn, doll," Bucky smiled, picking up two boxes that were very clearly wrapped by Rose, seeing as the girl was sending a knowing nod at her older sister, "Yeah yeah Rose wrapped them, my attempt was sad."

Lily laughed and kissed the man's cheek before turning to his presents that sat in her lap. She picked up the first one, it was long and rectangular, not too large either. Raising her eyebrow, she carefully unwrapped the box, revealing a lovely leather case with her name scripted on the top of it. Looking over at him, she pursed her lips before lifting the black lid, feeling the tears prick at her forest green eyes. She stared down at the silver necklace, running her hands over the scripted letter that hung from the chain. It was a small pendant, simple and discreet. But it was something that made Lily's heart grow three times its size. A simple B hung from the chain.

"Buck..." she whispered, looking up at him with glazed and teary eyes, "It's lovely." she cooed, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his lips before lifting it from the white pillow it rested on.

"Let me." Bucky chuckled, taking the piece of jewelry and moving her blonde hair across her shoulder. She turned her back to him and shivered at his metal hand brushing against the back of her neck as he clasped the necklace together.

"Alright open the other one." Gen said excitedly, earning a head tilt from the blonde. Bucky chuckled lowly from behind her and Lily readjusted herself in her seat, carefully unwrapping the next box.

As she opened the lid of the next box, her confusion only grew. Inside the box laid a single white envelope with her name written. Reaching in and pulling out the box, Lily furrowed her eyebrows. Opening the envelope, her heart only continued to grow. Inside sat a picture of a cabin, covered in snow and decorated with lovely garland. The cabin was built of logs, and had a fire burning on the inside. The snow was so perfectly landscaped it almost seemed fake, but she knew it was just a picturesque image taken to lure people in for what she figured would be a vacation. In the bottom, a handwritten note was written out in Bucky's hand writing, with a simple few words summing up exactly what it was.

"Just the two of us." He repeated aloud, hand resting on the small of her back, tracing gentle patterns, "It's Steve's cabin. Y'know with him retired now, he doesn't exactly have a lot to do. But he said it's ours for as long as we want it." he continued, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"It's perfect, Buck," she whispered, a gentle chuckle lacing her voice as she turned and placed a kiss to his forehead, "Absolutely perfect."

-----

And it was. Bucky and Lily had decided to take Steve up on his offer the weekend of Valentine's Day. The couple had reached three months together officially, and she figured it would be nice for them to experience the romantic weekend alone together. No kids, no sisters, no work, no distractions. Bucky had promised her that there would be no interruptions, and that it was just going to be the two of them. He made an emphasis on the whole 'no work' part, and Lily would be sure to hold him to it.

Turning off the car, Bucky turned to look at Lily with a kind and loving smile on his face, "Alright doll, we've arrived."

Lily glanced out the window and smiled at the snowy landscape. It was February so the cold wasn't unbearable, but it wasn't exactly a comfortable temperature either. Lily was a Long Island native, so Northern New York weather wasn't exactly her favourite thing. It dipped down quite low and she would have to estimate it sat at about minus ten celsius currently. Either way, she was just grateful for the time alone with Bucky. It had felt like ages since the two didn't have something going on around them. Whether it be Bucky's work, or Lily's. Not to mention, Rose was nearing her due date and constantly stressed about the arrival of her baby, while also finding somewhere to live that wasn't Lily's.

"That drive felt like hours," Lily teased, leaning over and nudging Bucky's arm, "I'm just glad you didn't fall asleep on me old man." she quipped, popping open her door and stepping out from the car.

"You have been hanging out with Sam way too much," Bucky chuckled, following the blondes suit, "You're starting to sound like him."

"Well the man is a comedic genius, I should be taking pointers." She hummed, picking up her bag from the back seat and hauling it over her shoulder, rounding the car to meet Bucky.

"Don't tell him that, it'll inflate his ego even bigger than it is." Bucky chuckled, walking over and quickly grabbing her by the waist.

The blonde let out a bright laugh, curling over in his arms and stumbling along the snow. Bucky's chuckle filled her ears like a sweet song as the two stumbled back towards the log cabin belonging to their friend. His lips found her cheek and peppered loving pecks along it, causing her giggles to evolve into small squeaks as she fumbled to pull out the keys. When she found them, it didn't take long for the blonde to unlock the door and peel herself from the supersoldiers arms. Dropping her bag and tugging the grey knit hat off of her hair, Lily turned to look back at the man who stood in front of the door. Placing her hands on her hips, she admired him for a moment. Nothing was on her mind. Just him.

The way his eyes sunk a bit deeper into his face due to the years of struggle and trauma. The way he had let his beard grow out a bit, not fully a beard but a thicker stubble. Were his shoulders always so broad? Lily admired the way his arm flexed when he removed his own hat, swallowing deeply. But the biggest thing that stood out to her was the way he looked at her. That deep thought sort of gaze, as if he were doing the same thing she was. Admiring everything about the other. No exterior factors playing any games, just the two of them. Alone. He looked at her so lovingly, watching her every move intently and studying the way she acted. He was so in tune with everything about Lily that she began to blush, and he was merely looking at her, neither had spoken.

"What're you staring at, Barnes?" she quipped, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothin', Osborne." he retorted, closing the door and sliding his jacket off before turning back towards her, a smirk evident on his lips.

Pursing her lips into a smile, Lily ran forward and jumped up onto the man, wrapping her legs around his torso. Her arms snuck around his neck, while his found underneath her thighs. Their lips hovered mere centimetres from the others, breathing in the others' existence before finally connecting. It was cheesy and cliche but she felt fireworks deep within her stomach. The two moved together like ocean waves joining together, creating a large body of water. Lily's hands tangled themselves into the short strands on the top of his head and Bucky stumbled his way to the couch. He bent over and laid her gently on the leather couch. She hummed softly at the feeling of a yarn blanket tickling at her neck as he hovered above her. Both of their faces were flushed from the cold outside and the passionate moment they had just shared. Bucky's steel blue eyes stared down at her and he reached over the couch. Furrowing her eyebrows, Lily watched as he pulled out a black old fashioned camera.

"Surprised you know how to work one of those things, old man." she teased, covering her face with her chilled hands.

"Oh don't get smart with me now, doll," he purred, moving her hands with his metal one, "you'll regret it later." the man winked, quickly snapping a photo of the woman before tossing the camera onto the table.

"Is that a threat or a promise." Lily returned, a smirk evident on her lips.

"Well...I did tell Steve he'll probably want to hire a deep cleaning service after we're done." He chuckled, resting his weight on his heels.

"James Barnes!"

-----

Lily hummed gently to herself to the song that played through the small kitchen in the cabin. Saving All My Love For You by Whitney Houston was her background noise of choice as she put together a romantic dinner for her and Bucky to commemorate their first night there. The lyrics left her mouth in a soft tone as she chopped up cucumbers for the salad, her hips swaying gently to the music. Bucky had stepped out to the grocery store in town to pick up a few things they had left back at the house, and Lily wanted to surprise him. She had packed a dress that her and Gen had found at a vintage shop in Manhattan, it was 40's inspired, with a deep forest green colour, a bow at the collar with a keyhole that exposed a bit of her collarbone, and hit just below her knee. It had short sleeves, and made her feel like she should be on the dance floor of The Cotton Club in Harlem during the 1940's. She had attempted the classic pin curls of the time but...they were subpar.

Glancing behind her, Lily stirred the marinara sauce as the chicken baked in the oven. But the lights of the car made her stomach drop. She was hoping the snow would slow him down enough for her to finish dinner and have it ready for him when he got home. Pouting to herself, Lily returned to her chopping. Well, as much as she wanted her plan to fully execute itself, she tried her best. Not to mention, he had shown himself to be a fast driver. Her voice continued to sing out the lyrics to Whitney, as she checked on the chicken. She popped her head up briefly when she heard the crunching of snow grow closer to the door. She stood, and brushed off the soft dress she wore as she waited.

"The snow is crazy, doll, I swear," Bucky's voice called, "but I got the snacks you wanted. I also rented a few movi- woah."

A blush flooded the blonde's face as she locked eyes with the man across from her. He was covered in snow and carrying four different grocery bags. But they fell from his fists as he stared at her longer. Insecurities washed over Lily at his silence and she crossed her arms over her stomach, that familiar queasy feeling returning. Her eyes shifted to stare down at her feet as she shuffled on the hardwood floor, waiting for him to say something, or anything at that.

She didn't even hear him take off his jacket, his boots, or anything. She didn't even hear him walk over to her. But she did feel the way his arms slipped around her waist, hands playing along her stomach as the music changed into the 40's love songs she had put in the queue. The gentle sounds of guitar played as Aubrey Hepburn's melodic tone filled the kitchen. Moon River began to play, and Bucky nuzzled his face into the crook of Lily's neck. Her eyes fluttered shut as he swayed behind her, his grip moving her with him. The food long forgotten about, Lily turned to face him, arms wrapping around his neck. Their foreheads met one anothers, eyes shut as they continued to sway back and forth in the kitchen. With the snow falling outside, and the delectable smells filling the cabin, Lily felt like she was in a dream. Any worry she had ever felt leaving her as the moment consumed her.

His lips ghosted hers as the song came to an end, but his grip didn't waver. The two continued with their dance, seconds turning to minutes as time seemed to cease to exist. The only thing both felt was the bodies of each other. His hands gripping her waist, rubbing circles through the silky material of her dress. The smoky musk of him filling her senses acting as though it were a drug, sending her into a state of euphoria. She knew they weren't a conventional couple, but it were these moments that reminded her that they could be. The couple that went on walks on the beach, or walked the dog through central park. Or danced in the kitchen at 3 in the morning. Went on ice cream dates, with or without Hunter. Spent time talking and telling the other just what went on in their heads. Growing together as separate people with a shared love.

But the fire alarm pulled her back from her daydreams, and reality smacked Lily in the face.

"Oh my god the chicken!" She exclaimed, pulling away from Bucky's strong grip as she grabbed her oven mitts and pulled open the oven, a puff of smoke wafting into her face.

Bucky laughed gently as Lily scrambled around, trying to salvage the rest of the meal she had planned. When she saw the sauce and chicken however, her heart sunk down to the floor. Groaning, the blonde placed her elbows on the counter and her face in her hands. She shook her head and felt the heartbreak spread through her at her failed evening attempt.

"If it makes you feel better," Bucky cooed, lifting his girlfriends chin to look at him, "I bought your favourite pizza, and rented your favourite movie...and just so happened to pick up your favourite ice cream," he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows, "and as hot as you look in this dress...why don't we just get into pyjamas and watch a few movies and veg out."

Lily smiled sadly at him and nodded, "I like that plan. I should have known that trying to cook alone would be a disaster."

"I give it an A for effort."

"Oh whatever, metal man."

-----

Lily groaned as she stretched her arms above her head, before rubbing the heel of her hand into her eyes. Peeling the lids apart, the bright sun sent a shock through her system. Collecting her barings, Lily realized her and Bucky had fallen asleep on the couch. She had to admit, it was a pretty comfy couch. It was made of leather and had deep sides with the tufted coverings, and small cashmere blankets that were not at all big enough to cover anyone. But the two had grabbed a few spare from the closet before they settled in for their movie night. Glancing down, Bucky's head rested on her stomach, the man still sound asleep. She admired the calmness in his face, the stress lines faded and smoothed out as he rested. Reaching behind her, she grabbed ahold of the camera he had brought and quickly snapped a photo, admiring his gentle snores. She ran her fingers through his hair and tilted her head to the side. Lily had known Bucky was handsome, hell, the first time she saw him she knew it.

He had chiseled cheekbones, a sharp jawline that was covered with stubble. His cheeks hollowed slightly, and his eyes creased at the edges. His nose was straight with a slight bump to it, and it fit his face shape perfectly. His eyes were hooded and even closed, held stories that she couldn't imagine. While asleep, they were less noticeable, but there were creases in the centre of his forehead, and Lily's stomach did a flip. His breathing was still that of a deep sleep, and she couldn't help but trace the contours of his face. The aged lines that each told a tale of his life. The rough patches of hair that prickled at the blonde's still hands as she continued to admire him.

Moments later, he began to stir from between her legs, causing Lily to giggle slightly as his nose scrunched. His eyes seemed to force themselves open at the noise, and the same feeling she got from the bright light seemed to hit Bucky as well. Her soft coos caused a groan to emit from the man's throat as he burrowed his face deeper into her stomach, pulling the blankets further over them both. Shaking her head, Lily pulled herself up from underneath the large man, or at least tried to. His weight was on a certain part of her body that just held her in one place. Throwing her head back, Lily shook her head before looking back down at him.

"Buck, c'mon, let's get up." She sighed, ruffling the messy curls on his head.

"Five more minutes." He whined, pulling her closer by her hips.

"No. I'm a mother, I know what five more minutes means," she laughed, "and we are not spending all day on the couch. Lets go skate on the lake today, love."

Bucky shot up, eyes wide at her request, "No. No, I refuse."

Furrowing her eyebrows, Lily crossed her slightly cramped legs, "...and why do you refuse, Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky scratched the back of his neck as he avoided the intense gaze that Lily was sending his way. Lowering her eyes, the blonde crawled forward and took his face into her hands. They locked eyes and for a moment, she thought about kissing him. But she figured it would be better to figure out why he was so against going skating. Then it clicked, and she realized just why he was so against it. Pursing her lips to keep from smiling, Lily leaned back onto her heels.

"Bucky...do you not know how to skate?" She wondered, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"...Do not tell Steve or Sam they will be on my ass about it." Bucky quickly said, taking his girlfriends hands into his own.

"I won't, I won't, but I'm invoking the 'It's Valentine's Day' card. Because it's Valentines Day, and it will be romantic," she grinned, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, "plus, I'll teach you how to skate. It's not that hard I promise. I saw they have skates down at the lake so c'mon, gotta get a good pair."

"You're gonna be the death of me, doll."

"That's what I'm here for."

-----

He wasn't lying when he said he didn't know how to skate. Lily skated gracefully out onto the ice, waiting for Bucky to lace up his skates. It had been a while since she had skated, seeing as it wasn't something she did commonly. She used to go all the time with Gen back in Long Island when they were younger, but eventually they stopped. But her muscle memory kicked in as she twirled and skated around the ice. She dodged children and couples as she warmed up her body. Only to spot Bucky hesitantly staring at the ice in front of him. Lily made her way back towards him, stretching her mitt covered hand out towards him.

"It's not going to bite, Buck," Lily smiled softly, moving a bit closer, "C'mon. I'll be here the whole time." she reassured, gripping his hand as he curled it into hers.

The moment he stepped onto the ice, both ended up falling. Him from a lack of balance, and her from the fact he fell. Bucky groaned while Lily laughed, pushing herself off the ground and placing her hands on her hips. He had flopped his arms out and let his head fall against the ice, a clearly forced pained look on his features. Rolling her eyes, Lily gripped his hand and yanked, attempting to pull him back up onto his feet. The thing is, he was a supersoldier, she was a doctor. She had strength, hell, she pushed out a child. But you see, Bucky was, once again, a supersoldier. Dropping his arm, and crossing her own over her chest, Lily glared down at him.

"I won't cook dinner for a week if you don't help me get you up." Lily threatened, arching her brow.

Opening his eyes, Bucky mirrored her expression, "Is that a threat or a promise?" He teased, resulting in a handful of snow to be thrown at him. A low laugh escaped from his chest as Bucky heaved himself up, gripping onto Lily for support.

"Wow you're such a comedian." She quipped, rolling her eyes and gripping onto his forearms.

The two skated for a few hours. Two to be exact. Bucky had essentially latched onto Lily's waist the entire time. She skated around, dragging him behind her as he bent over and hugged himself to her back, arms tightly wound around her waist. At one point, he did let go and try to stand on his own. He lasted about...five minutes. After that, Lily had to offer her back as support for the poor man so he didn't go tumbling face first into the ice. The entire time was spent laughing and stumbling, as well as Lily trying her hardest to just get him to stand. Sadly, she didn't have much luck. He continued to grip onto her even when they were heading back towards the edge to leave and take off their skates. It was endearing, but Lily had hoped to get somewhere with it. Still, she had a good time. And seeing The Winter Soldier be genuinely afraid to fall made Lily's heart swell. Seeing that more vulnerable side of him made Lily sure they were moving in a good direction in their relationship.

As the two neared the cabin, Lily saw a familiar car parked on the road across from where they were staring. She didn't think too much of it as they walked into the cabin, ridding of their coats and winter gear they had layered on, to face the bone chilling cold that had taken over the outdoors. Both then dropped onto the couch with cups of tea and coffee, Lily had the tea, and Bucky the coffee. His arm draped around her, drawing patterns into her knit sweater covered arm.

But the peace didn't last long.

A knock on the door surprised Lily and Bucky. They both stopped talking about their ideal vacations, and turned to look at the door. Lily placed her tea down and stood to her feet, making her way over towards the wooden piece. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she glanced over at Bucky before she pulled the door open. Her jaw went slack and mind went blank when she saw the person. Because she knew the reason he would be here.

"Hey Lily...is Bucky here?"