#West Coast Wonder Women

[verysium]

ACT 1, SCENE 4: blue lock headcanons

shidou would view traditionally ugly creatures as strangely cute. it's not a disgusting cockroach, it's a silly little bug with eyelashes as long as his. no, he's not going to let go of that scraggly one-eyed cat that likely has rabies. it looks too sweet to be abandoned on the streets. his dream childhood pet was definitely a piranha.

aiku wears band t-shirts without knowing the actual music group. no, he does not listen to sex and the pistols, he just thought the design looked very cool. would also wear lana del rey merchandise just to impress the ladies. the only song he realistically knows is west coast, and even then he's only heard it at a random sushi restaurant.

reo would have stereotypical rich people problems. he can't decide if he should bring his chauffeur and valet or actually drive the car himself for your upcoming date. also spends at least one hour seriously pondering over which gucci silk pattern tie looks better on him. trick question, they're both the exact same shade.

shidou steals your covergirl perfect point eyeliner because he thinks it looks way better on him. also a big fan of body glitter and super vulgar eyeshadow palette names. his favorite hue so far is that one hot pink fuchsia that literally burns your eyes with its brightness. nothing is too neon with this man.

ness is the epitome of the sunshine-turned-unhinged-maniacal-killer trope. he would be the bestest boy, but if someone even lays a single hand on you, he’s already plotting their murder. eerily good at hiding bodies but would never divulge his secrets in fear of scaring you off.

shidou would walk unashamedly to the women’s clothing section of the general department store. would never be embarrassed by the bra sizes. you have a double D? he’s already trying three of the cup sizes on just to see if he can get you a comfortable one. if you’re part of the itty bitty titty committee, he wouldn’t judge either. this man loves femininity in all its full glory.

aryu exclusively uses dior beauty. he would rather die than use a generic drugstore makeup brand. sometimes you wonder if he's secretly a dermatologist because this man knows the exact shade, tint, and quality of product for every possible skin tone and type. also very passionate about the controversies behind animal testing and parabens. would be exceedingly picky when it comes to anything he smears on his face (think jeffree star but without the problematic issues.)

sae has his phone screen set to default wallpaper. he only has the translator app downloaded, and that's about it. his personal trainer takes care of all the rest of his stats. after he started dating you though, he kept pictures of you in his private photo albums.

noa cannot tell a white lie to save his life. if he doesn't know something, he will not know something. he doesn't see the point in hiding that. sometimes has trouble reading the room, so you need to remind him that brutal honesty and pure rationality aren't always the way to go. he does become more conscientious after that.

bachira used to draw crayon portraits of all the imaginary monsters he saw at night. scared the shit out of his parents because they thought he was hallucinating (he actually was.) nowadays, he's a lot tamer because you force him to take his meds.

isagi is, in fact, the number one mind reader and manipulator throughout the entire series. this man is clairvoyant, psychic, and telepathic all packaged into one. sometimes his right ear twitches, and he just knows someone is talking about him behind his back. unfortunately, all of this occurs in his head, so no one on the outside world actually knows about his sixth sense.

rin was absolutely bombarded with valentine's chocolates last year, but when he sorted through the entire pile and realized you hadn't given him one, he returned them all to their respective senders. will refuse any form of sweets unless it came directly from you. you need to be there physically to hand him the box.

kaiser writes, thinks, and speaks entirely in german even if no one else can understand him. he secretly can speak english but chooses not to because he absolutely hates anglicization. refuses to compromise his own language and culture just to fit in with the rest of the world. it's degrading. if he had it his way, german would be the new lingua franca. definitely thinks translation is for dummies. what do you mean you're not already bilingual? you better run, not walk, to that little green owl app. does use his foreign accent to make you feel flustered though. has a voice kink but in a non-traditional sort of way. you have to be the one turned on by his voice. only then will he start feeling it.

yukimiya loves it when you lose your shit. one time a jerk cut you off in traffic, and you started aggressively cursing. he fell in love with you right there on the spot. it was something about the fire in your eyes and the way you refused to take any attitude from the other party. that self-assertiveness you exhibit is so empowering.

aiku takes you out to karaoke bars just to hear you sing. you look so pretty under the purple disco lights, belting your little heart out to the rock lyrics. sometimes he has to take a minute to just appreciate how lucky he is to have you.

nagi didn't know that you have to actively check and update your email inbox. he had no clue school even started until one day the principal called his parents over his thirteen student absences. he thinks it's a headache to even get out of bed and put his fingers on his laptop keyboard. since when was the distance between his arrow cursor and the search bar that wide? it looks too long for him to reach. maybe he should just do this tomorrow.

reo does not know what saving money is. the first time you asked him for a promo code, he looked at you as if you had just spouted a strange language. when you showed him your little wallet full of cut-out coupons, he literally had to hold them up to the light and closely inspect them. it was definitely a moment of enlightenment.

sae likes anklets, especially the super thin gold chain ones. something about the way it brushes against his bare leg when you sleep beside him drives him out of his mind. he's also a sucker for subtle jewelry as evidenced by his necklace and wrist bands.

otoya practically lives for instant gratification. he would be guilty of love bombing. loses interest quickly, but sometimes wishes he could actually commit for once. football is important to him because it is one of the only activities he has consistently practiced for over a decade.

karasu is down bad for anyone who can actually outsmart him. you got a higher mark than him on the recent exam? damn, his heart just beat a little faster. spaces out in a love-filled haze whenever you ramble on about your nerdy little subject interests. he is a sapiophile through and through. intelligence just does it for him.

loki is the type of person who absolutely demolishes your self-esteem, and yet you still cannot bring yourself to hate him. when people say god has his favorites, they mean this man right here. he would be an innately talented genius while simultaneously being the most humble human being in existence. at this point, it's not his problem. it's a you problem. try harder next time.

chris is very similar to a neurosurgery resident. he has the largest self-entitled ego in existence. not a single day goes by when he doesn't remind you that he is, in fact, one of the highest ranking football players in the world. you can't say anything about it though because he has rightfully earned his arrogance. i mean, what are you going to use against him? his grueling hours of blood, sweat, and tears? this man works harder than the devil himself. in fact, he is the devil.

rin is the type to get emotionally attached to the most ordinary objects ever. he collects batteries and keeps a separate drawer as a graveyard for them once they die. the triple A ones get a special funeral since they're so hard to find. he just can't bring himself to let go of objects that no longer serve a purpose (just like his relationship with sae, sorry not sorry.)

hiori cannot go to bed unless it is absolutely dark. the curtains have to be closed. the door has to be locked. everything has to be drowned in pitch black. the reason he does this is because he still has flashbacks from that tiny strip of light underneath his bedroom door. his parents would argue all night when they thought he had gone to sleep. it still haunts him to this very day.

nagi wishes he could be a cat. sleeping all day and sunbathing on the rooftop seem like great ways to spend his life. unfortunately for him, he is not a cat. when he dies though, he wants to be reincarnated as one. either that, or a rock.

rin snores like a whole power drill at night. sae secretly hates his brother for that but can’t bring himself to wake him. whenever the itoshi family goes on vacation, ear plugs are not an option but a necessity.

chigiri knows ventriloquism. he used to play with his sister's dolls and make up character voices for each of them. definitely uses it as a party trick or as a way to make you laugh when you've had a bad day.

sae always keeps his feelings to himself. sometimes he finds it easier to rant to you than others, but then he almost always ends up retracting back into himself after realizing just how much he's revealed. he hates being emotionally slutty.

ness is the big scary dog in his relationship with kaiser, not the other way around. everyone thinks kaiser is the intimidating one, but ness wears a leash for a reason. one of them is the chihuahua, and the other one is a rottweiler. you can already guess who is who.

reo was having a mental breakdown in his limousine one time, but he ran out of his usual luxury aloe vera lotion tissues. instead of buying more, he took out his cheque-book and ripped out the pages to dry his tears. money is just paper to him. it can be recycled (no, it can't.)

loki is the type to show you a sweet and heartwarming smile before pulling out the most atrocious uno card combination in existence. i'm talking reverse, wild card, skip, draw 2. you sat there for twenty-five minutes trying desperately to draw a green. by the time you were done, he only had one card left. (screw you, loki.)

niko draws his own manga whenever he doesn't like how the official plot ends. if the canon ever diverges from the way he imagined it in his own head, he will draft his own fan fiction instead. one time, he rewrote an entire shonen jump series just to bring his favorite character back to life (*cough cough* said character wears a blindfold.)

karasu is definitely the "um, actually..." type of student. he will always have a rebuttal on hand. the truth is never black-and-white with this man, and he will argue both sides if it furthers his own agenda. he reads the encyclopedia front and back every night just so he can pull out a random arbitrary fact to win an argument some time in the near future.

shidou had a bad habit of chewing pens as a child until one day it finally exploded in his mouth. from then on, he vowed only to chew glittery gel pens. that way when it exploded in his mouth, his tongue would be stained a bright, shimmery purple. if you ever got him a scented gel pen pack, his life would finally be complete.

rin cannot differentiate between colors. if you asked him to find the difference between bubblegum pink and cotton candy pink, he would not know. to him, seven colors is already a lot to memorize. when he was a child, he only drew pictures with a single color because it was less of a hassle that way.

otoya used to think lime green was the most aesthetically pleasing color in existence. almost considered dying his hair that shade until karasu told him that girls don't actually like guys who look like neon highlighters. still wishes he did it though. he wants to glow in the dark.

© verysium 2023 / please do not translate, repost, or plagiarize any of my works

[pascallftv]

Dad’s Best Friend (Pedro Pascal x Reader)

summary: as a retreat from your busy work life, you decide to stay with your dad and his best friend for a few days over the holidays. to your surprise, your dad’s best friend is much hotter than you anticipated. one night after the three of you play a drinking game, pedro waits until your father goes to sleep to make his move on you.

warnings: SMUT! oral (m & f receiving), edging, dom!pedro, dirty talk, some choking, rough unprotected sex, anal play

MY MASTERLIST

You never thought you’d be this excited to be back home. Since you’d moved to California, you had constantly been overwhelmed with work. You were thoroughly exhausted, and a short vacation back home was just what you needed to recharge your battery. As much as you loved the fast pace west coast lifestyle, you longed for the quiet of the midwest. You grew up in a rural area in the midwest, but moved to the city when you were a teenager after your parents split. Now your mother was off in Europe with a much younger man, and your father lived with his best friend in a quaint town house. Your dad had always sworn that if he never found his soulmate, he’d move in with his best friend, so that’s exactly what he did.

Your dad moved in with his best friend Pedro a couple years ago when they both decided they were tired of searching for replacement wives. You’d never met Pedro before, and had only heard stories about him through your father, and from what you could tell, he was a bit of a man whore. After him and his wife divorced, he fell into a routine of bringing home different women each weekend. When they moved in together, his habits didn’t change; your father said he’s sure there’s a mini Pedro running around somewhere that he doesn’t know about. Pedro wasn’t interested in dating, let alone having children. So at the age of forty-seven, he was living with your father with the tendencies of a horny, college boy.

You were sitting comfortably on the sofa of your dad’s living room with some sort of soap opera playing on the tv. You hadn’t realized you were zoned out until the front door swung open, and Pedro marched through the door, holding two handles of liquor. A wide grin was plastered on his face as he scanned his eyes around the house for your dad, but instead his eyes landed on you.

“I didn’t know you were here already.” Pedro said, setting the bottles of alcohol on the dining room table, his eyes still locked on you. You sent him a lazy smile.

“Got here this morning.”

“Well, I came prepared.” Pedro winked, gesturing towards the bottles on the table. “Figured we could play some drinking games to get to know each other better, maybe watch a movie or two.”

You simply smiled again. He was much more attractive than you’d imagined. You’d only seen fuzzy pictures of him on your father’s Facebook, and those did not do him justice whatsoever. No wonder he was pulling so many women.

Fast forward to that evening, and the three of you were sitting at the dining room table with a deck of cards playing ‘bullshit’. However, every-time someone lost, they had to drink. You were already pretty far gone, and your dad and Pedro weren’t far behind you. Your cheeks were red hot and sore from laughing, and the alcohol was only amplifying the heat in your body. You kept catching yourself gazing over at Pedro. You couldn’t help but admire his smile and laugh, it was intoxicating. You were convinced he would be an arrogant prick, but he was truly a pleasant person to be around. You couldn’t tell if you were only imagining things, but you could’ve sworn you kept catching Pedro staring at you too.

“You’re fucking cheating!” Your dad exclaimed, throwing his cards down on the table. Pedro was laughing uncontrollably.

“No, you just fucking suck at lying.” Pedro proclaimed through his laughter. He was absolutely kicking your asses at this card game.

“That’s it, I’m going to bed. I’m too old for this shit.” Your dad surrendered, running his hand down his face. He stood up from his chair and stumbled over to you, placing his hand on your shoulder.

“Goodnight, kiddo. Love you bunches.” He slurred, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll see y’all in the morning.”

Your dad saluted you and Pedro and stumbled his way to the stairs and out of sight to his bedroom. You bit your lip and smiled over at Pedro who was sporting an amused smirk.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m not tired yet.” Pedro declared, stacking up all the cards scattered across the table. You handed him your cards and sighed.

“Me either, my body clock is two hours behind.” You said, leaning back in your chair.

“Want to watch a movie? Maybe the Hangover?” Pedro suggested, standing up from his spot at the table. His jeans were tight against his thighs, his button up shirt riding up slightly exposing his happy trail. You gulped, averting your eyes before you looked too long. But Pedro had already caught you staring, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Sure.” You said, following him to the living room.

Pedro sat on the middle cushion, giving you only two options to sit, and either way you’d be almost touching. You sat down beside him, pulling the blanket off the back of the couch to lay over both of your laps. You stared at Pedro’s hands as he flipped through the tv settings to find whichever streaming service he was searching for. There was something so attractive about his hands, and your mind began to wander down a dangerous path. You envisioned his hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing at the sides of it. You swallowed hard, pressing your thighs together and the sudden heat growing between them. Little did you know, Pedro noticed your body language. He could feel the attraction radiating off of you. You were so fucking gorgeous, and here you were squeezing your thighs together in arousal all because of him simply existing.

He pressed play on The Hangover, setting the remote down on the coffee table in front of you. He leaned back, stretching his arms over his head, and coming down to rest an arm behind your head. Such a cliche move, but somehow it affected you like you were a teenager again. Your heart was thumping against your chest so loudly that you swore he could hear it. You hadn’t realized you were so fucking touch deprived that you were desperate for you father’s best friend. Your thoughts were running wild again, and you fantasized about Pedro bending you over the dining room table. You pictured his hand running up the bare flesh on your ass, spreading your cheeks in front of his eyes so he could admire your holes that were desperate for him touch. You yearned for him to fuck you senseless, making you scream his name, hoping your father wouldn’t hear.

You were already drenched under your shorts. Your core was lit on fire, throbbing so hard that it was painful. Pedro side eyed you. You wouldn’t stop fidgeting; you kept adjusting your legs, and you were playing with your fingers in your lap trying to distract yourself from the longing between your thighs. He smirked. He loved the effect he had on you. He didn’t even have to try and you were an aroused little mess beside him. He slowly moved his arm from behind your head to rest on his thigh. He slowly tapped his forefinger, deciding whether or not he should act on his desires. You were his best friend’s daughter. He wanted more than anything to bend you over the couch and slam into you until you were drenching his cock, but every alarm was going off in his head. Did he want to risk losing his best friend over a fuck? There was something so intoxicating about you, and it frustrated the hell out of him. There were so many women on the back burner that would throw themselves at him, yet he wanted you. Perhaps it was the thrill of the chase.

He felt himself hardening in his jeans. He cleared his throat, his hand sliding underneath the blanket, resting half on his thigh, and half on the hot, supple skin of yours. Your skin was so fucking soft. Slowly, he moved his hand to fully rest on your thigh, giving it such a light squeeze that you thought you imagined it. If your heart was ready to thump out of your chest before, you were nearly about to have a heart attack now. His thumb began massaging slow circles in your thigh, traveling dangerously close to where you were craving him the most. You began breathing harder, turning your head to look up at him. He stared back at you, his brown eyes full of lust. Your eyes traveled down to his mustache, then to his pouted lips. It was as if a magnet was pulling you towards him, and your eyes fell to his lips, getting closer and closer.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Pedro whispered, his gaze focused on your parted lips. He squeezed your thigh harder this time, resting inches away from your core.

You say nothing and move even closer to him, your lips millimeters from touching. You could feel his hot breath on your mouth.

“Touch me.” You breathed out so quietly that you weren’t sure he could hear you. You were proven wrong when his fingers traced along the crease of your tights, grazing over your crotch through your shorts. Pedro began breathing harder the closer his fingers got to your waistband. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, traveling down to your folds. You gasped when his fingers spread your folds, gathering up your juices.

“Such a dirty girl. Already so wet and I’ve barely touched you.” Pedro teased, ghosting his fingers over your clit that was throbbing with sensitivity. You whimpered at the softest pressure he applied to your bundle of nerves. You couldn’t hold yourself back any longer, you needed to taste him. You closed the gap between your lips and kissed him hard, trying your best to communicate your lust through the rhythm of your kiss. He moaned into your mouth, his free hand moving to tug at the hair at the nape of your neck. You were driving him insane. He pulled away momentarily to stare at you with hungry eyes.

“Do you know how wrong this is? Kissing your daddy’s best friend while he’s asleep upstairs.” He growled, slamming his lips back into yours while simultaneously slamming two fingers into your entrance without warning. You couldn’t help but moan a little to loud at his intrusion. His hand left your hair to wrap around your throat with a tight squeeze. “Keep fucking quiet. Wouldn’t want your daddy to hear, now would we?”

Your hand traveled down to his hardening erection and grabbed it firmly over his jeans as he fucked you hard with his fingers, a low groan escaping his lips. His hot breath was becoming more frequent against your mouth. He pulled away suddenly, his hand still gripping your throat.

“Can you suck my cock like a good girl?” He muttered, his fingers leaving your hole. You frowned at the loss of contact, but felt yourself throb at the thought of tasting his cock in your mouth. You nodded quickly, moving to get on your knees between his legs. Pedro was panting, his belly rising and falling quickly under his shirt. He unbuttoned his jeans with ease, unzipping his fly slowly. He lifted his hips off the couch to slide his jeans down his thighs, his jeans falling to his ankles. His cock sprung free from his jeans with no underwear constricting his erection.

You leaned forward, taking his length in your soft hand, admiring his size and girth. Your mouth watered at the sight of pre-cum dripping from his tip. You ran your thumb over his arousal, wetting his sensitive tip. You locked eyes with him, lowering down to slowly take his cock in your mouth. You teased his leaky tip with your tongue, swirling it around so you could get a taste of him. Moaning at the salty taste coating your tongue, you gradually lowered your mouth onto his length, soaking him with the mixture of his pre-cum and your spit. His head fell back on the couch, his hand tangling itself in your hair. He whimpered quietly and you began to stroke your hand up and down the leftover shaft that you couldn’t fit in your mouth. With your free hand, you cupped his balls, massaging them in your palm.

“Fuck.” Pedro breathed, sucking in a harsh breath. He gripped the nape of your neck, squeezing with his fingertips. “Taking my cock so well.”

Your hand moved from his balls up to his abdomen, running your fingers across his happy trail. You lowered your mouth even further, filling your throat with the rest of his length. You bobbed your head, the only sounds in the room being the wet noises of you sucking his cock, and his shaky breaths. You moaned on his length, the vibrations making his cock twitch in your throat. You lifted your mouth off his length, bringing your hand to the ridge between his shaft and his tip, stroking in quick milking motions. His legs began to shake, and a low moan escaped his lips. He grabbed your hand, stopping your movements.

“F-fuck, if you keep doing that I’m going to cum.” He mumbled, grabbing your wrist and pulling you up off your knees. He stood up from the couch, pushing you to sit in his spot.

“Take off your clothes.” He ordered sternly, reaching for the buttons on his shirt. He quickly undid them while he watched you strip down to nothing. No panties, no bra. You drove him fucking wild. His cock twitched at the sight of you completely bare in front of him. He stripped his clothes off completely, kneeling where you just were.

“I’m going to taste you, then I’m going to fuck you so hard that you won’t remember your name.” Pedro said, spreading your legs completely open. Cold air hit your folds, your arousal glistening before his eyes. “Look at you. So fucking wet for me.”

He lowered his mouth to your core, spreading your folds open with his fingers, thrusting his tongue in and out of your entrance. His other hand traveled to your clit, rubbing soft, quick circles into your sensitive nerves. You gasped, your hand landing in his hair. It took all of your will power to stay quiet. The last thing you needed was for your dad to walk down the stairs to his best friend eating you out.

Pedro thrusted three fingers into you, not allowing you time to stretch to the fullness before finger fucking you so hard and fast that you were seeing spots in your vision. You were so fucking full, but you wanted his cock more than anything. His tongue flicked over your clit, sucking on it lightly while his fingers slammed into you, curling perfectly to the rough surface of your g spot. You weren’t going to last much longer. You slapped a hand over your mouth and whined into your palm. You orgasm was so close.

“I’m gonna cum.” You whimpered through your fingers, locking eyes with Pedro as he finger fucked the life out of you. Your legs were trembling, and your toes began to curl. You were seconds away from reaching your high when Pedro halted his actions, and pulled his fingers out of you. You wanted to cry; you were so fucking close it hurt.

“Did I say you could cum?” Pedro slowly rose from his knees, his hand wrapping it’s way back around your throat. He pressed his lips to yours in a hasty kiss. You whined into his kiss. He pulled away, taking your bottom lip between his teeth briefly. “You’re going to cum around my cock like a good girl.”

His words went straight to your core. You were in pain. You needed release so badly. You didn’t have a moment to comprehend what was happening until Pedro slammed his cock into you, your walls spasming around his sudden intrusion. You cried out, grabbing his biceps to squeeze. You were full to the brim, and the oxygen completely left your lungs when you felt him hit your cervix from how deep he was inside of you. He slapped a hand over your mouth, his lips lowering to you ear.

“I don’t want to hear a fucking sound.” He growled, his fingers finding their way back to your clit. His fingers worked in fast circles, your eyes rolling back into your skull. He thrusted in and out of you at an agonizingly fast pace, his tip hitting the deepest part of you over and over again. You orgasm was near, and it was coming fast. You entire body trembled, and you dug your fingernails into Pedro’s toned back. Your face fell into his neck, your teeth lightly biting the supple skin there to refrain from screaming out.

“Are you going to cum?” Pedro breathed out, gripping your hips as he pounded into you. You nodded vigorously into his neck, feeling your vision starting to leave completely. With the nod of your head, Pedro slipped his cock out of you, and his fingers abandoned your clit. Tears began brimming at your eyes. You felt yourself on the verge of a meltdown when Pedro kept you from your orgasm for a second time. Without warning, Pedro flipped you onto your stomach, your knees propped up on the couch cushion, and your arms gripping the back of the couch to steady yourself. He slammed back into you from behind, grabbing your hips for leverage. He didn’t care how loud your skin slapping together was. He knew how terrible the acoustics were in the house, and how thick the walls were. He’d fucked so many women in this house to the point of screaming and your father still never heard.

You cried out as he somehow hit you even deeper than before. Pedro wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your name. In that moment, the only things you knew were how deep he filled you, and how perfectly he bottomed out inside you. His balls slapped against your clit, adding to the euphoria you were experiencing. Your nails dug into the fabric of the couch so hard that you thought it was going to rip. Just when you thought you couldn’t be stimulated anymore, you felt Pedro’s forefinger tease your tightest hole. He brought his index finger to his mouth, sucking on it until it was coated with his spit, then brought it back down to your rim, pressing it slowly inside. You groaned out at the foreign sensation.

“You like that?” Pedro leaned down into your ear, his torso laying against the curve of your back and he filled both of your holes. “Has anyone ever touched you here?”

You shook your head, lowering your head to bite down onto the back of the couch. You wanted to fucking scream. Your body was overwhelmed with pleasure. The feeling intensified when Pedro added a second finger to your asshole, alternating between thrusts there and your pussy.

“Such a good girl.” He moaned out, slamming into you even faster than before.

Your body couldn’t take much more. Your body was trembling, and there was no way hon would survive if you were denied your orgasm for the third time. Your eyes rolled back in your head and a hand reached back to the thick flesh of your ass to spread your cheeks apart, hoping it would bring Pedro deeper.

“God, you’re such a slut.” Pedro growled, placing his hand back to your neck, choking you harder than before. He lowered his mouth to your back, pressing a kiss to your spine. “I need you to come for me.”

His permission was all you needed before you were cumming around his cock, your walls clenching down hard around him, bringing him closer to his orgasm. Your jaw went slack as your orgasm hit you like a freight train, your entire body being set on fire. You’ve never came so hard in your life.

Pedro’s fingers left your asshole and he wrapped his arm around the soft flesh of your belly, continuing to fuck into you with all the energy he had left. Your walls were extremely tight from your orgasm, constricting intoxicatingly around his cock. He moaned as he reached his orgasm, coating your walls in thick spurts. He whimpered as he filled you full of his cum, both of his hands reaching around you to grab handfuls of your breasts, pinching your nipples as he came down from his high.

Your eyes were squeezed shut still recovering for your powerful orgasm. Your body went slack against the back of the couch as tried to recover.

“What’s your name?” Pedro asked breathlessly.

You didn’t answer. You’d heard him, but your mind was so far into the clouds that you didn’t comprehend his question. You chest heaved in heavy breaths.

Pedro chuckled, squeezing your tits once last time before pulling out of you. You whimpered at the feeling; you were way too fucking sensitive. He pressed a soft kiss to your ass as he left you alone to grab a towel to clean you up with. You were still coming down from your high when he returned with a damp towel, and began gently wiping up his seed that spilled from your entrance. You trembled as he touched your sensitive folds, and you whined out.

“Shhhh, almost done.” He whispered, holding the towel there for a moment longer.

When he finished cleaning you up, he lifted you up and sat you down on the couch facing him. He picked up your shorts and helped slide them up over your soft legs, then lifted your arms to put on your sweatshirt. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead then lazily dressed himself, not bothering to button his pants or shirt.

“Let’s get you to bed.” He said softly, picking you up. He cradled you in his arms as he carried you up the stairs, your eyes heavy with exhaustion.

He carried you to the guest bedroom, and held you up expertly with one arm while he pulled back the covers so you wouldn’t be laying on top of the sheets. He carefully laid you onto the mattress, tucking you in under the covers. He couldn’t get over how blissful you looked. Your cheeks were bright pink, and your lips were swollen and plump. He bent down and kissed you one last time before leaving you alone in the guest bedroom. You drifted off to sleep before you could even realize he was gone. Before you knew it, you were waking up the next morning with soreness between your legs and a longing for your father’s best friend.

[idk6123]

Unlikely Allies (Peeta Mellark X Male Reader)

It’s the 74th Hunger Games. 12 men and 12 women are fighting in the arena for their survival and to win. If you’re not sane or not in difficult circumstances, you would not volunteer to be a tribute. There are some in rare circumstances however those who would volunteer, like Y/N. He’s from District 5 and is trained from the very start to fight in the games. Whether it’s fighting, booby-trapping or any general survival skills, he is taught. It was only a matter of time for him to participate, and when he turned 18, he volunteered, intending to bring his family away from debt and in the lower class.

Times flashed by for Y/N as he got to the Capitol, do what he got to do and learn his opponents, and finally start the games. Once he realized they’re in a forest, he considers himself very lucky the area isn’t something extreme. Though for his liking, it’s colder then what he’s used to it, since he lives in the west coast.

The games start, and Y/N intends to loot as much as he can. Carefully, he avoids any contact with the Careers, grab what he got and get away. Once in the forest, he continues to gather loot and even got help from his sponsors. His sponsor count is higher then the Average, but less then the careers and those in District 12.

The next day, that’s when Y/N starts his plan. He set up traps around the arena and patiently wait to trap something or someone. He puts nets and rope trap in unexpecting places. If he got a career, he would just ignore them since he knows they probably use one of them as bait.

He got everything set in his mind. Now just to put it true. As he puts the traps around, he hears one spring nearby when he hears a yelp. Carefully, the guy gives up on the trap and goes to the spring trap. As he sneaks through the bushes, he spots who’s hanging upside down, Peeta Mellark. He tries desperately to get out, however once Y/N reveals himself, he looks defeated.

“Please. Let me go.”

“Why? Will you stab me later?” Y/N questions. He looks around, very observing he isn’t going to get jumped on. As the man grabs his knife, Peeta looks extremely panicked.

“I can help you! H-How about I give you my stuff?”

“Looting exists.”

“I have loot somewhere else!” Peeta quickly says right before Y/N slit his throat. “Let me go, and you have it all.”

“Depends. What do you got?”

“Food. Medical supplies. Water.”

Y/N thinks about it for a second. Peeta knows he’s in the clear when the other teen put his knife away. He first begins frisk Peeta to check whether he has weapons or not. Once cleared, he begins untying the rope. With a thud, Peeta falls on the ground.

“Try anything funny, consider yourself dead.” Y/N gets down to grab Peeta by the arm. He put his back facing him with a knife in front of his throat.

“I won’t.”

-

“Here we are.”

Peeta looks up at a tree. Y/N follows his eyes, seeing a backpack in the tree branches. It’s getting dark, causing Y/N to get impatient. Since Y/N knows it’s risky to climb a tree and get a bruise or something, the 5th man tribute let go of Peeta.

“You get it. Once you give it, you’re a free man.”

Peeta looks unsure at him, before turning back to climb the tree. He wonders if Y/N would kill him once he gave him his loot. But it’s not like he got another choice. Once he climbs up the tree, he grabs the bag. Being up high, he got an idea in his mind. He throws the bag to the ground, with Y/N capturing it.

“Deal done. You’re not going to kill me, and you got my stuff.”

Y/N quickly looks in the bag to check if he got everything. Peeta wasn’t lying, but this opportunity is too good to pass up, since Y/N wants just a couple of things. “I don’t have everything.”

“I-I gave you everything.”

Y/N looks up. “You’re clothes.” He gestures with his hand which has the knife to gestures it to come to him.

Peeta mouth hangs open. “I’m going to freeze!”

“I’m already freezing. Compared to the west coast, this place is a tundra. Now strip!”

With a frown, Peeta complies. He first removes his jacket and drop it down to Y/N, who’s quick to put the cloth on. Then he removes his shoes and socks. Like the jacket, he drops them down as well. Afterwards, he removes his shirt and throws it away as well. With a sigh, he unbuckles his pants as well. Carefully though, he balances himself on the tree branch as he removes his pants. Then he drops them as well.

On the ground, Y/N got all of the clothing and put most of them in the bag, folding them quickly. He then looks up. “No need to be shy.”

“You’re serious!?”

“It’s either goodbye boxers and hello party wear or goodbye life and hello heaven.”

Peeta frowns even further, feeling extremely extorted by Y/N. As he grabs his underwear, his eyes spots something away a couple of feet away, but it’s coming. Y/N sees Peeta’s behavior changing and look at where he’s looking at, seeing the Careers in the distance. With haste, the 18 year old climbs on the tree. Peeta is surprised by the speed, as a matter of 4 seconds, he joined him on the same branch, only to grab him again, cover his mouth and put the knife in front of his throat.

“Make a noise and consider me joining you in the afterlife.”

Peeta calms his breathing as he panics inside. If there is a chance for the careers to spot them, he can only hope it will end quickly. He even closes his eyes, though his apprehend patiently and calmly observes the Careers as they happily chat away. It takes a couple of seconds for them to hear the voices decrease. For insurance, Y/N waits a minute for allow the coast to be clear.

“We’re safe.” Y/N removes the knife from Peeta, allowing him to sigh for relieve. “Because you spotted them, you’re allowed to keep the undies.”

Peeta looks back. “What are you going to do?”

“Go back and sleep.”

Right before Y/N get off the tree, Peeta grabs his wrist. “Please let me come with you.”

“Look Baker Boy, I already spent enough time with someone here far more than my liking. You’re probably a sweetheart, meaning you die. I have no use for you, but you have far more use for me. I can already tell when it’s down to the last 3 or 2 a knife on my back. I’m going.”

“Please.” Peeta stops Y/N again. This time he’s begging. “I know I’m going to die. It’s only a matter of time… but I’m scared. If I come with you, I can teach you to disguise yourself with your surroundings. I also be an extra eye for you when you’re asleep.” The blonde tries his best to convince Y/N. “I don’t need a weapon. I don’t even need my clothes if you want to keep them. Just let me come with you, please.”

Y/N hesitates. Having a companion would be nice, just to have someone look behind your back. He also has a good number of sponsors. Still, that weights down with a potential backstabber and deadweight, since Peeta won’t be allowed any weapons. After considering the choices and seeing the consequences, Y/N made a choice. “Fine, but I’m in charge.”

-

“You don’t trust me at all, don’t you?”

Back at Y/N’s area, the two guys are up on another tree up high, intending to go to sleep. Both guys are tied up against it, though Peeta’s hands are tied up as well.

“Nope. Don’t like it, you’re free to leave in the morning. Otherwise, deal with it.”

Peeta frowns a bit. He begins to curl up, shivering from the cold. “Can I at least get something warm?”

Y/N rolls his eyes and grabs the T-Shirt from his backpack. “Have fun using it as a blanket.”

“Thank you.”

There is a silence between them. With their position, they can’t see each other, since both guys are on other branches. Still, despite the circumstances, Peeta wanted to get to know his new friend a little better.

“Didn’t you said during the interview you trained for this your entire life?”

“Yep… Guess you didn’t.”

“No.” Peeta looks up at the sky. “I’m a bit surprised you weren’t with the Careers.”

“Just because we volunteered for this doesn’t mean we have anything in common.” Y/N responds back. “They’re ignorant. People like that will only bury their own graves.”

Peeta then wonders what differentiate him with them. “You’re not doing this for glory or something?”

“No, this is just mere practical.” Y/N answers. “You see, my father got an idea to have him rise from poverty. Screw with many women, get children, and put them in this crap and hope one of them get home with money.”

The blonde is surprised at hearing that. “How many siblings did you lose…?”

“As for now, none. I’m the first one to do this. And hopefully the last one. …If I fail, then it’s up to my younger brother… then my younger sister… right until all my 16 brothers and sisters are gone… and any future ones.”

“16, huh?” Peeta can’t imagine sharing a house with that many people. “I guess you have a lot in common in Katniss. She does this too for her sibling.”

“Now that is someone I can respect.” Y/N smirks. “She isn’t a whiner, nor some narcissist. If things were different, I imagine us being friends. Speaking of which…” Y/N turns his head around to talk to Peeta. “If there in any chance we cross paths, who’s side are you going to stay? Isn’t she your girlfriend?”

Peeta chuckles. “I’m not sure, but I try to not get things escalate.” He looks around. “There is something I got to say, but I need to whisper it to you.”

With camera’s all around, Y/N knows the lack of privacy. He moves his body to have his head towards Peeta. “Yes?”

Peeta then begins to whisper. “About my love confession. That is just a mere act. …I actually like guys.” Y/N chuckles, making Peeta look confused. “What?”

“Nothing. I didn’t expect you to be. That’s all.”

-

Days has passed, and so one tribute after another die. It’s now down to 9 tributes, however that day, they heard 3 cannons. In the dark of night, Y/N and Peeta enjoy their dinner inside of the cave. They await at the entrance to see who died. During the past days, Peeta slowly gained Y/N trust, granting him his clothes back.

“Let’s hope the careers die. If they do, that leaves Katniss and Thresh as the most dangerous.” Y/N comments right before the truth get revealed.

And so, the music starts, and, in the sky, they see those who died. The first one makes Y/N very happy. It’s Marvel. That leaves those in District 2. The second one, however, does sting in both teens hearts. It’s Rue, the girl from District 11. They never interacted with her, but knowing a 12 year old died in these events is always heartbreaking. That’s when also Peeta’s heart shakes. Knowing that the tributes get showed from male to female and each district, he realized that the last one who died is Katniss. He doesn’t even needed it to be confirmed she died as her face shows in the sky.

As the announces begins to stop, Y/N looks back at Peeta, who looks a bit hallow. He put a hand around his friend. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you…” Peeta sighs, looking upset. He doesn’t continue talking and merely stands up to walk away to sleep.

Y/N looks concerned at him. He stands up as well to cover the entrance with some branches with leaves before getting to some sleep to. Once he lay down, he looks back at Peeta, who looks like he’s tearing up. So, Y/N get closer to him to hug him.

“I’m with you.”

It takes a couple of seconds before Peeta speaks up. “I’m just scared… Katniss was supposed to be the best here… and she died.”

“She was one of the best, but the competition is tough. Cato and Clove are well trained. Thresh as well. My friend is sneaky-”

“And I?” Peeta looks afraid at him. “I just work as a baker, helping my parents.” He let out a nervous chuckle. “We both know my time is ticking.”

“Don’t say that.” Y/N sits up. “Even dark horses have won this game.”

“Let me put it this way. Even if I somehow made it with you to the finale, we both know who survives.”

Y/N frowns sadly. He doesn’t even know what to say. He just wants to say the truth in order to give Peeta hope, but he doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t know what to say… I wish there were a way to win for us both… Even if you don’t believe in yourself, I believe that I’m able to help you.”

Peeta let out a deep sigh. “I know you do that, but that won’t happen.”

Y/N looks at Peeta, who looks back at him. To the blonde surprise, Y/N leans forward and begin to kiss him. Peeta doesn’t even know how to process what’s happening, but kisses back. All the while, in his head, he wonders how the audience is going to react after seeing him kiss another guy after his suppose crush died. However, that won’t let him bother him right now.

Both teens pull back, with Y/N smirking a little. “I know I won’t let your worries disappear, but I’m with you, until the end.”

-

The next day, Peeta and Y/N both wake up to see them holding each other from when they were still asleep. They know there is something more between them that isn’t just some friendship. But in this situation, it’s hard to admit their feelings for each other. Still, there is hope, as an announcement is going to play.

“Attention all Tributes! The Games makers have instituted a rule change. From this point forward, if two Tributes are the last to survive, both will be declared victors of The Hunger Games! Good Luck! And may the odds be ever in your favor!”

Within an instant, both teens completely wake up to hear the good news. With smiles on their faces, they look at each other.

“We can both win!”

“But… why?” Y/N can’t believe the news, finding it too good to be true. “What would they gain from doing this? They wouldn’t just break the status quo for the sakes of it.” He begins to think of the reasons. “As far I know, we and the careers are the only ones to be teamed up.” Thinking of that, and remembering the hype between Peeta and Katniss, he wonders if that carried over to Peeta and him, now that Katniss is dead. Whether it’s negatively or positively, Y/N knows they are the talk right now. So perhaps with the game makers doing this make the games more engaging.

Despite with the doubts, Peeta doesn’t look effected. “I don’t know. But we need to win now that we have a chance.” He walks over to Y/N to kiss him on the lips.

Y/N takes his words to heart. “True. Let’s do our best to survive.”

[lostloveletters]

Leave a Tender Moment Alone (John Brady x OFC)

Summary: Private Kate Woodward and Lieutenant John Brady are reluctant to wear their hearts on their sleeves, but they're each starting to wonder if maybe they should.

Word count: 1k

Note: Meet Woody! Title comes from the Billy Joel song. For a little bit of context, this takes place before Damn Yankees, but you don't need to read that to understand what's going on in this fic. Do not interact if you’re under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Warnings: Light period-typical misogyny. Inevitable historical and technical inaccuracies.

Private Kate Woodward had a child clinging to her leg, another hanging onto her back, both attached to her like little monkeys. 

The village kids were always in the mechanics’ orbit. Woody wanted to be a good role model for them, even if she didn’t quite know what that looked like. She wasn’t exactly keen to admit it to anyone except Holly, but offering her expertise as a mechanic to the WAC wasn’t entirely out of love for country.

After years of wandering aimlessly up and down the West Coast, she woke up one morning and realized she didn’t like her friends (if she could even call them that), working almost exclusively on stolen cars because she couldn’t hold down a legitimate mechanic job, and especially not the type of person she’d become. So she signed up, expecting to be working on jeeps or trucks, but instead found herself applying her knowledge to planes. 

Her first commanding officer, Lieutenant Deanna Seberg from Glendale, designated her Woody to differentiate her from the dozen or so Catherines and Kathleens who used Kate as a nickname.

She liked being Woody. Woody was tough and competent yet approachable, likable, even. She tried to be good. Helpful but not too imposing. Kept her cursing to a minimum. Checked her temper. Had to. She was part of something bigger than herself, bigger than any of them could have ever conceived of. Finally found a way out through it. She couldn’t afford to fuck it up.

While the handful of other mechanic girls had gotten their experience through family garages or the odd trade school, they accepted her claim that hers came from messing around with friends’ cars. She was good at what she did. No need to push it. 

Thankfully, Kenny had their backs, the young Arkansan drawling that where he came from, women weren’t afraid of getting their hands dirty to get the job done by the end of the day, whatever it may be. If that also involved entertaining English laborers’ kids, fascinated by Americans and their planes, she’d try her damnedest.

“Miss Woody!” Billy shouted, making a running start toward her. 

“Wait!” she yelled. “I can’t—“

Just before impact, which would have surely sent her directly to the ground with three children in tow, Billy was scooped up in Lieutenant John Brady’s arms. 

“You could take off with that speed, buddy,” he said, flying the boy around for a moment before setting him on his feet and ruffling his hair.

Woody smiled as the other two children climbed off of her. “You saved the day, Lieutenant.”

“Miss Woody, now you’ve got to give the hero a kiss!” Sarah, the young girl who’d been hanging off her back exclaimed with a flourish of her hands. “That’s what happens in the stories.”

Brady shook his head. “Miss Woody doesn’t have to—“

Woody gave him a quick peck on the cheek, their small audience of Billy, Sammy, and Sarah giggling and cheering in delight. “Why don’t you kids go make some trouble for Mr. Kenny?”

The children ran off, arms spread out wide as they imitated planes themselves. God, had she ever been that carefree as a kid?

Brady cleared his throat. “I came by to see how the fort’s doing.”

“And just in time. That would’ve been a hell of a tumble if it weren’t for you,” she said.

“You’re great with those kids.”

She smiled. “Thanks. I try to be the kind of adult I wish I had around when I was their age, you know?”

“That’s good of you.”

“C��mon, I’ll show you what we’ve done so far.”

He stuck close to her as they made their way around the damaged plane, Woody taking care to let him know exactly what had been fixed so far and where they were having a bit of trouble. Shuffled a little closer to her when she pointed at one of the engines.

He smelled nice, a reprieve from the mix of fuel, motor oil, and sweat. Not to mention the occasional whiff of cow manure drifting through the air on a strong breeze. For a moment, she envisioned her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck while something soft and slow filled the room. Wondered how he’d hold her.

Shit. Stop daydreaming.

She glanced at him every so often. His expression didn’t change much. Brows furrowed, handsome face etched with concern as he scrutinized the state of his plane.

“Really, I’ve seen worse,” she said.

He scoffed. “That’s reassuring.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that.”

Certainly wasn’t the first plane he crash-landed, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he could practically hear his mother’s voice, ‘John Brady, I did not raise you to speak to young ladies that way.’ Except he’d hardly consider Woody a young lady. She was a mechanic with a mouth when she got a few beers in her. More rough-and-tumble than any of the girls he grew up with.

Everyone seemed to like her, though. Hell, he sure did. Hambone already made a stupid comment about how he should ‘ask Woody to kiss it better’ when his fort, so comically named Brady’s Crash Wagon, went up in smoke. Probably why it smarted to feel like she pitied him or something.

Smarted worse to see the way her lips pressed in a thin line. Kept her gaze anywhere but him.

“Kenny told me you stay out here late working on it. Thank you,” he said, a stubborn substitution for an apology. “I appreciate that.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence. 

Wasn’t sure what else he could say, and she was doing everything but telling him to buzz off. 

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it, Woody.”

She nodded. “See you around, sir.”

He tried not to kick himself too much as he walked off, not entirely sure where he was going.  

“Hey Lieutenant!” Woody shouted when there was a few yards of distance between them.

He stopped in his tracks, turning around to look at her. “What is it?”

“You got something—“ She gestured to her own cheek.

He wiped the spot on his cheek where she had kissed him and fought back a smile at the grease smudged on his fingertips.

[writhe]

i didn’t sleep that much (& i have not been) but had a fun night of getting ********** **** ** **** & this morning i got up and went to therapy and then work and at work i crushed my finger between a heavy handcart & a doorframe & now my knuckle is bruised with a strange deep cut that barely bled. fine but sucked. got my oil changed and the worker cut her finger open and i told her i’d just done that today too & we chatted and another women pulled into the other bay & the worker told me the last time that woman was here she was crying and crying and i asked her why and she said that because she had just found out she lost someone. i said that was really terrible and she said that now whenever she comes in she tries to make sure she has a really good experience with her service. it’s the little things i guess. interrupted my housemate’s band practice to grab some things (high spirits and i got some sweet texts, im excited about the show the band is practicing for) & immediately after that drove for a while to hang out with an old friend who is moving to the west coast in 2 weeks. we kayaked out on the detroit river for nearly 3 hours & i feel so excited for her. forgot about the cut on my hand and dipped it right in the river a bunch. met a wonderful old woman named ruth. i’m exhausted & feel very spent. today has been nice. i’m thinking a lot about anger

[foundtherightwords]

The Hollow Heart - Chapter 9

Pairing: Hellcheer, Gothic AU

Summary: To escape her mother's control and the stifling society of Gilded Age New York, heiress Christabel Cunningham impulsively marries Henry Creel, a charming and seductive stranger, and accompanies him to his remote mansion on the West Coast. There, as Henry grows cold and cruel, Christabel must uncover her husband's sinister secret before it's too late. But can she trust Kas, her husband's enigmatic assistant, who seems to be her only ally in this strange place, or is Kas's loyalty to his master stronger than his attraction to Christabel?

Chapter warnings: none

Chapter word count: 5.4k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8

Chapter 9 - A Palfrey White

Christabel didn't know when she'd first realized that her husband held her in contempt. That he didn't care for her she already knew, knew from the night they consummated their marriage, and perhaps even before that, since the moment she'd woken up alone on the train after their elopement. The contempt, though, took a little longer to register.

She was too proud to admit that she had made a terrible, terrible mistake in marrying him. For a while, she had believed that for all their differences and Henry's indifference, she could learn to tolerate him and they could make a life together. After all, she had heard much worse from the married women in her circle back in New York, tales of husbands who beat and abused their wives, husbands who brazenly carried on with actresses and servant girls, or husbands who forced their wives to bear so many children in search of a male heir that the wives' bodies simply gave out from exhaustion. Henry was none of that. He put a roof over her head, kept her in relative physical comfort, and now that his visits to her bedroom were less frequent, it seemed that his biggest failing, from the outside at least, was simply negligence. All the little things he did or failed to do that chafed and pricked at her, were nothing serious, or at least she told herself so. But as their marriage entered its third, and then fourth month, Christabel could no longer ignore the truth—that not only Henry had no love for her and had married her for her money, but he also actively disliked her.

But she wasn't ready to give up. Henry had given her just cause to hope that he could change, that their marriage could work. To let go of that hope would be to let herself fall into the abyss of regret and misery, and so Christabel had held on to that diminishing hope, day after day, week after week, month after month.

After the disappointment of Christmas, New Year was luckily uneventful. Other than a toast with champagne at dinner on New Year's Eve, they did nothing else, and Christabel didn't push for a celebration either. At midnight, she sat by her window, listening to the dull popping sound of the fireworks exploding five miles away at Sutro Heights, wondering if the coming year would be better or worse. She could probably watch the fireworks if she went down to the beach, but that would put her close to the lighthouse, and she wished to avoid it if she could, or, rather, to avoid its inhabitant.

Since Christmas, she had been feeling rather awkward around Kas. She missed him when he wasn't around, but at the same time, she dreaded seeing him so much that she never went back to the lighthouse and even stopped going to the hothouse altogether. When she ran into him, she only exchanged the briefest words necessary with him. But at night, it was a different matter. She would sit at her window for hours, watching the lighthouse, drawn to it like a moth to the flame, listening to the phonograph until she'd learned all the songs by heart. He was right, the music kept the ghosts at bay. Instead, it brought memories, memories of his eyes on her, his fingers around her hand, his lips on her palm. And that was precisely why she had to avoid him.

One day in mid-January, Kas drove Henry into town at sunset. They came back later that night, pulling a little covered cart behind the car. Curious, Christabel went down to meet them. Henry exited the car, looking mightily pleased with himself, and even smiled when he saw Christabel at the front door.

"Come, darling," he said, beckoning to her. "Let me show you something."

Surprised at his pleasant tone, she let him take her arm and followed him to the garage by the side of the house. Kas had parked the car and was now opening the cart, revealing a little white horse—not full-grown, probably a yearling. Although it still had that gangly, awkward look of a foal, there were already hints of beauty and power in its long, slender legs, the perfectly balanced back, the dark, intelligent eyes, and the elegant toss of its tail and mane. But what captured Christabel's attention was its coat, the smoothest, shiniest white coat she had ever seen. As it timidly stepped out of the cart, it was like a sliver of the moon had fallen to Earth and was glowing in the dark.

"Oh, what a beautiful creature," Christabel breathed out.

"Magnificent, is she not?" Henry said. "Didn't I say that I would give you a better rate of interest for your money?"

Christabel turned to him, astonished. "Do you mean that she's mine?"

She saw Kas flash Henry a strange, inquiring look, and Henry shrugged, as though the idea had just occurred to him. "Sure, why not? If you like."

"Oh, thank you!" In her joy, Christabel forgot all her anger toward her husband. She threw her arms around him to give him a kiss, but he deftly stepped away.

"Not in front of the servant, darling," he said, and Christabel backed down, abashed.

Still, she was too ecstatic about the horse to be hurt by his rebuff. She went over to the animal. Kas put some sugar from his pocket into her palm, which she offered to the horse. The horse sniffed Christabel's hand, a little warily at first, and then, after giving the sugar a lick and satisfied that nothing was amiss, she crunched up a cube of sugar, her sharp ears flicking in obvious enjoyment. Christabel slowly reached out her other hand and petted the horse's mane.

"Such a lovely thing you are," she crooned. "Where did you find her?" she asked Henry.

"She came all the way from Turkey," he replied. "You wouldn't believe the trouble I had to go through to bring her here."

"This is why you didn't say anything about my Christmas present, did you? Because she didn't arrive in time?"

Again, she noticed Kas giving Henry that strange look, but Henry didn't seem to be paying attention. "You're not angry with me about that, are you?" he said. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

Christabel tried to put on a stern face, before eventually relenting and saying, "All right, you're forgiven for now." She went back to petting the horse. "I think I shall call her Luna."

"Very fitting, darling." Henry nodded at Kas. "Put her in the stall, Kas, and let Mrs. Creel have free rein of her."

"Yes, sir," Kas said, but remained where he was. Feeling his eyes on her, Christabel looked up from where she was crouching next to Luna. He was gazing at her and the horse, and his expression puzzled her a great deal—it was something akin to pity, although whether it was pity for her or the horse, she could not tell.

***

Now that she had Luna, the bleakness of life at Creel House lifted a great deal for Christabel. In the morning, she no longer dreaded getting up, for she had Luna to take care of, and at night, she slept more soundly, thanks to all the time she spent outside of the house and all the exercises she was getting. If the weather was nice, she would take Luna along with her on her daily walk around the island or down to the beach. She ordered a training saddle and taught Luna to bear the weight and to be led by the reins. On rainy, foggy days, Christabel kept to the stall, which was a part of the garage, now converted with a bed of hay and a trough, and groomed and brushed Luna until her coat shone like silver.

But it wasn't merely the physical exercises that lifted Christabel's mood. The little horse filled her heart as well, the heart that had been empty for so long without her even knowing it. Luna was so well-behaved, never tried to bite or pull at the reins, and so clever too. She knew the moment Christabel lifted the saddle down from the wall that it meant a walk, and when the combs and brushes were brought out, she would stand still, ready for the grooming. Every morning, as soon as she opened the garage door, Christabel could already see Luna pressing her nose through the slats of her stall, waiting. She would greet Christabel with some light, affectionate nips or nudge Christabel's arm with her head, like a dog. Those simple gestures never failed to touch Christabel, and she poured into Luna all the love and affection she hadn't been able to give to anyone. She spent most of her time with Luna, even sometimes just sat with her in the stall, reading or sewing, taking comfort in the horse's warmth and calmness.

Thanks to Luna, Christabel also found a new determination to work on her marriage. Henry remained distant and distracted, but she told herself that was simply how he was. Given the opportunity, he would show his affection in his own way. She tried to be less demanding, less irritable with him. And she tried harder than ever to avoid Kas. For all of her softening feelings toward Henry, she still couldn't seem to shake off a strange flutter deep inside when Kas looked at her, when their hands accidentally touched as he served her during meals, or when they brushed past each other in the corridor.

What made it all the more difficult was that Luna seemed to have taken a liking to Kas. If Kas happened to come into the garage for something while Christabel was brushing her, Luna always greeted him with a soft whinny and nosed about his coat, searching for sugar. Somehow he always had sugar ready in his pocket as well, which made Christabel wonder how spontaneous his visits to the garage really were.

"Now, Luna, leave Kas alone," one day Christabel chided her, half-joking. "You know too much sugar is not good for you."

"Let her indulge a little, Mrs. Creel," said Kas, giving Luna the sugar cube and rubbing her short mane. "Let her be happy."

"What do you mean?" Christabel asked, bemused. "She's perfectly happy." But Kas was in one of his cagey moods and only went on rubbing Luna's mane, saying nothing.

In February, an unexpected letter came for Christabel. It was from Jason, who was in town on business and wished to invite her and Henry to dinner at his hotel. She didn't quite know how to feel. The letter was polite and friendly, as though they had been regularly corresponding with each other, with no mention of what had transpired between them all those months ago, no indication that Jason was angry or offended by her elopement. Could this be an olive branch of sorts? Perhaps her mother wished to reconcile and had asked Jason to act as a mediator, or Jason himself was hoping to build up a friendship.

Henry was a lot less optimistic.

"Absolutely not," he said flatly the moment Christabel brought up the invitation. "I'm far too busy to go to dinner with some New York snob. And why would you want to see Carver anyway? He tried to force you into marriage. For all you know, it could be a trap. The moment we show up, your mother may leap out from behind the potted palms and demand that the police arrest me for kidnapping."

"Don't be ridiculous," Christabel scoffed. "In fact," she said, with a burst of inspiration, "it would be quite suspicious if we refuse. It would look as though we were trying to hide something." Henry continued to scowl at her, but she could see him wavering. "We need not stay longer than necessary," she continued, smiling sweetly at him. "If he becomes rude, we'll leave right away."

In the end, Henry had reluctantly agreed. Christabel couldn't quite believe it, not when she penned the short note of acceptance to Jason, not when they drove into town, not even when she walked into the dining room of the Palace Hotel in her evening gown of claret velvet trimmed with black lace, with her arm through Henry's. Heads turned as they entered, and Christabel's heart swelled with unaccustomed pride. Yes, she and Henry made a handsome couple. For all his claims of not caring about his appearance, Henry was looking exceptionally dashing that evening, and he'd even worn the cravat and pin she'd given him for Christmas, much to Christabel's joy. Perhaps he was not so indifferent after all.

Dinner started well enough. Jason filled Christabel in on news of her mother and New York, while Henry talked about his studies and San Francisco. Christabel had forgotten that he could be so charming when he wanted to be. As for herself, she remained quiet, keeping up a façade of normalcy, watching and gauging Jason's true intention. She wasn't sure what she would say to him. She wouldn't dream of hinting at the truth of her marriage to Jason or her mother, but perhaps... if her mother was willing to reconcile... it would be nice to have a sympathetic ear.   

"This wasn't just a social call, I'm afraid," Jason said, after the main course was served. "I was tasked with an important mission in coming here." Christabel braced herself as he continued, "Heather would be quite angry with me if I fail, so—"

"Heather?" Christabel interrupted him, not understanding. "Heather Holloway?"

"Yes." A smug smile lifted Jason's mouth, turning his handsome face disagreeable. "We are engaged."

"Congratulations," Christabel said impassively. Heather was one of the debutantes that had always hung around Jason. Christabel was friendly with her, as she was with all the girls, though they had little in common.

Jason apparently mistook her disinterest for dismay, for he turned even smugger. "That's why Papa sent me on this trip to the West Coast, you know," he continued. "He wanted to make sure that I can be trusted with the responsibility once I'm a married man. Heather and I will be traveling in Europe for at least six months after the wedding, and he doesn't want me to slack off altogether. Heather was quite put out, of course, but she's overseeing the building of our house on Fifth Avenue, so I hope it would keep her busy and happy. She insisted that I personally invite you to the wedding."

Christabel finally understood. This was no extension of the olive branch. This visit was not to reconcile. It was to brag. Jason had come here expecting to see her writhing in regret and shame over her elopement, hoping to show her what she'd missed out on, to tell her that she could've been in Heather's shoes had she been a little more sensible. 

With that, her intention of telling Jason the truth about her marriage instantly vanished. Her marriage with Henry may not be perfect, but at least at Creel House she could be herself. She could talk to Kas and fall asleep in the hothouse without fearing judgment or gossip. She would not give that up to be in Heather's, or anyone else's shoes for that matter. She had been in those shoes. Nothing sensible about them. They pinched.

"Anyway, we're hoping that you, both of you, can make the trip to New York this June for the wedding," Jason concluded.

"We'd love to, but I don't know if we can get away," replied Christabel, turning to Henry with a bright smile. "There's so much to do around Creel House, isn't that right, darling?"

Henry was taken aback at her sudden enthusiasm, but he went along anyway. "Yes, indeed," he nodded.

And so Christabel spent the rest of the meal telling Jason about Creel House, exaggerating its charms and completely passing over its sinister aspects, giving every impression of being a happy, contented bride. Henry was on his best behavior as well, though Christabel could detect a trace of sarcasm under his polite words.

By the time the meal was over, Jason was looking quite deflated. Christabel asked him to stay in touch, knowing that it wouldn't happen. "My mother doesn't answer my letters," she added. "But when you see her, please thank her for sending my things from New York. It means a lot."

Jason frowned. "I don't understand," he said. "She didn't send you anything."

"Yes, she did. After I arrived in San Francisco."

Jason was still looking mystified. "But I thought you went back for them. Your mother told everybody that she returned from Tuxedo Park to find your room cleaned out. She was quite angry about it."

Surprised, Christabel turned to Henry, who was looking bored. He must have gone to her house after their wedding and packed up her things, knowing her mother wouldn't. Oh, how she had misjudged him! Who needed flowery words and gentle touches, when he did such thoughtful things?

She left as she'd arrived, with her arm through Henry's and her head held high. In saying goodbye to Jason, she was finished with the past. Her life was here now, with Henry, and she would do everything she could to make the best of it.

As Kas drove them home—Christabel noted, with delight, that she had started to think of Creel House as home now—Henry leaned back against the seat with a sigh of relief. "There," he said. "I hope you're satisfied now."

"Oh, yes, thank you." With Kas at the front, Christabel couldn't kiss Henry as ardently as she wished, so she satisfied herself with a peck on his cheek instead. "And thank you for packing up my things from New York as well. I should've known my mother wouldn't be so kind."

"What on Earth are you talking about?"

She smiled. "Useless to dissemble, darling. I know what you did."

Henry turned to her with a frown that wiped her smile clean off. "I didn't do anything. I have no idea what happened to your stupid possessions."

It was clear he hadn't heard a word she'd said just then or to Jason. Now that she thought back, Christabel remembered that Henry had been with her the whole time after they left the church. So he couldn't have packed up her room. Could it be that he had ordered Kas to do it? She glanced at Kas and noticed how his back had gone tense and stiff, and he was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles threatened to burst through the gloves she'd given him. Next to her, Henry was looking bored again. Had she been mistaken? Could it be that Kas was the thoughtful one and not Henry?

Christabel's cheerful mood was quite gone by the time they returned to Creel House. Henry tossed the cravat aside, heedless of the precious ruby pin, and swept up the stair two steps at a time without looking back. Christabel sighed, watching him go. He must have been tired. And truth be told, so was she. A good night's sleep, and tomorrow they could start afresh.

In her room, Christabel unpinned her hair, letting the golden locks down over her shoulders. She then reached behind her, undoing the velvet-covered buttons that ran all the way down her back from neck to hip, and wriggled out of the dress. As she moved to her corset, however, she found the strings were twisted in an unmovable knot. She struggled with it, straining to look over her shoulder and feeling about the strings with her fingers, but it was no use. Though Christabel had become quite adept at dressing herself in the past few months, she'd always worn her corset loosely laced. That evening was the first time she had to wear a proper evening gown in a long time, and to fit into it, she must have laced herself so tightly and tied the strings so securely that they became tangled. She would never be able to undo it without help.

For a moment, she considered going to bed in her corset. Her mother had made her do so when she'd first started wearing corsets, in an attempt to "improve" her figure, and the thought of those stiff frames around her ribs made her shudder. Her sleep was bad enough without her unable to draw a deep breath. With a sigh, she threw her dressing gown over her chemise and went into the corridor.

Henry's bedroom door was closed, and her knock went unanswered. He must be in the attic then.

Her feet were shaky as she went up the cramped staircase leading up to the attic. After that memorable first day, she had never been back there and had no desire to. If it hadn't been for the predicament of the corset, she wouldn't have risked it.

The door to the stairs was open, but the attic door was locked, and she knocked on it with trepidation. No answer. She knocked again, certain Henry was there—she could hear thudding and clanking as he moved about inside. After her third knock, there was a muffled curse, followed by a heavy clang of a lid coming down, and the door was flung open by Henry, in a pair of black rubber gloves that reached to his elbows, holding a glass jar in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other.

"What?!" he snarled.

His angry look almost made Christabel retreat. "I'm sorry to bother you," she said apologetically. "Such a silly thing, but I can't unlace my corset, and I'm wondering if you could—"

She opened her dressing gown. It had been a while since Henry last saw her in her chemise, and she thought if only he would look at her, really look, then perhaps some of that anger would leave his face. But he didn't look. He exploded at her.

"Your corset?!" he shouted. "You interrupted me in the middle of a delicate, difficult experiment, to ask me to unlace your corset?! Do I look like a lady's maid to you? I told you to stop wearing those blasted things!"

He slammed the door in her face.

Something inside Christabel shattered. She went back to her room and leaned against the door, fighting the tears rising to her eyes, stinging, blurring. It wasn't the first time Henry had shouted at her or talked to her as though to a child, but after the evening they just had, when she had been having such tender thoughts about him... It was worse than a slap to the face. It was a knife to the heart. Now she knew she had been wrong about his thoughtfulness with her things. Henry would never have done something like that. He had no regard for her. She had simply tricked herself into thinking it would be better between them, but in truth, she was building a castle in the air, and it was crumbling, fast.

She yanked ineffectively at the corset strings, which only tightened the knot. A savage anger rose within her, anger at Henry, at her mother, at everything and everyone that had conspired to land her here, but most of all at herself. She wrapped her fingers around the strings. If she could snap them loose, then perhaps she could escape this helpless, oppressive feeling of being trapped. But for all her twisting and wrenching, the knot remained unmoved.

To hell with this. If she couldn't untie it, she would cut it off, like Alexander the Great did with the Gordian knot. Christabel dug around her drawers for a pair of scissors. Even nail scissors would do, but there were none to be found.

Without thinking, without even stopping to put her dressing gown back on, she ran downstairs and into the kitchen. She pulled a drawer clean out of the cupboard, scattering knives and forks all over the floor. There, a pair of kitchen scissors lay amongst the mess. She snatched them up and reached behind her—

"Mrs. Creel?" Kas said behind her. "What are you doing?"

Christabel whirled around. Kas was entering the kitchen, his arms laden with fresh vegetables from the hothouse, his eyes wide open. How she must have looked to him, all disheveled, with her hair down and a pair of scissors in her hand. Like a mad woman.

That's what I am, she thought bitterly. The mad wife in the attic, like the first Mrs. Rochester.

No. She shouldn't waste time wallowing in self-pity. And anyway, she wasn't locked in the attic. If anything, that epithet was more suitable for Henry. The mad husband in the attic...

"I was just trying to cut this damned thing off," she said, reaching for the knot again.

"Calm down, before you hurt yourself." Kas put the vegetables on the table. "Let me see." He gently took the scissors from her hand and examined the knot.

"Don't bother!" she hissed. "Just cut it off!"

"I can untie it. Stay still. No need to ruin a perfectly good garment."

He worked at the knot for a while, carefully, methodically unraveling the strings one bit at a time. He said nothing, but the calmness radiating from him enveloped her like a warm wave, easing her anger and despair. Her breathing and heartbeats slowed.

As her mind was taken off the cursed strings, she became aware of him, of his presence behind her, of his hands pulling at her so steadily yet gently, of his scent, like the scent on his coat, a combination of the salty ocean spray, the fresh, earthy smell of the hothouse garden, and the warm smokiness of a wood fire. He smelled like how she imagined the island would smell, with none of the dustiness and decay of the house. 

"It's a tough one, this knot," he said. "Maybe I should cut it off after all. Do you mind—"

"No!" she said quickly. "No, you were right. It'd be a pain to mend. Try it again. I think I can feel it loosening already."

Kas bent over the knot again, and she found herself wishing it would not untie. She wished it would take a long, long time, so they could keep standing like this, close but not quite touching, his hands steadying her, his breath softly teasing the hair on the back of her neck...

"Kas?"

"Yes, Mrs. Creel?"

"It was you, wasn't it? You packed up my things in New York and sent them here."

It took him a moment to answer. "Yes. I got the address from Mr. Creel."

"How did you get in?" She and her mother had taken their maids to Tuxedo Park, leaving only an elderly butler behind in their townhouse.

"I—I broke in," said Kas. "It was wrong of me, that's why I didn't tell you. I only thought that you would like your own things, since you didn't bring much with you. I should've asked first. I'm so sorry."

Christabel tried to feel angry, but she could only think how wrong she'd been. Wrong about her mother, wrong about Henry. And wrong about Kas as well.

"It's all right," she said. "You were looking out for me. If I'd been thinking more clearly, I would've gone myself." But she hadn't, because she thought Henry would take care of everything. What a fool she'd been. And then, because the thought of marriage had been on her mind all night, she asked, "Do you ever think about getting married?"

He laughed quietly, though more amused and self-deprecating than bitter. "What woman would have a ghoul like me?"

"Nonsense," she said. "Any woman would be lucky to have you." Kas didn't say anything, and Christabel thought perhaps this was not the most proper topic of conversation to have with her husband's servant. Then again, it was not proper to have him unlace her corset either. Tonight, she was ready to throw propriety out the window. "If you meet someone that will marry you," she continued, "will you leave us?"

Kas stepped closer, close enough that his breath tickled her ear. "I'm not going to leave you," he said. "You can be sure of that."

Before she could answer, the pressure on her ribs finally lifted.

"Here we go!" Kas said triumphantly.

As Christabel took a grateful, deep gulp of air, he moved his hand between the fastenings, slowly loosening them. His fingers brushed her back through her chemise, and she shivered a little. It was different than when Henry touched her, a shiver born not from fear and disgust, but from some stirring deep within her. She'd felt it when he kissed her hand, and now it set her blood pounding pleasantly in her ears, her heart, and elsewhere. Even after the corset was completely loose, Kas remained where he was, his hand slowly moving up, toward the lace edging around the neckline of her chemise, where her shoulder blades and the nape of her neck lay bare. Time hung suspended between them while she stood, not daring to even draw a breath, waiting for—for what? She did not know, did not want to imagine. If she did, she would either flee from him or do something much, much more foolish, and she didn't want to do either.

The tip of Kas's finger grazed her skin. His touch was electric. She gave an involuntary gasp, and Kas moved away as though he, too, had been shocked.

Christabel turned back, and he took another step from her, avoiding her eyes.

"There, you're free now," he mumbled and went back to the vegetables.

The irony of that statement made Christabel want to cry.

***

Up in her room, she discarded the corset to one side. Henry was right about one thing—corsets were a nuisance, and now that her social life had dwindled to the point of non-existence, there was no need to submit herself to such torture. She was trapped enough in this house without having to confine her own body as well.

The scrape of the corset across her back reminded her of Kas's feather-light touch, and her blood flamed again at the memory. Seemingly by their own volition, her feet took her to the window. She opened the curtains a crack, peering down at the lighthouse. It was dark, but she thought she could spy movements inside. Was he there, looking up at her?

Emboldened by the thought, she pulled the curtains wider. It had become her habit to leave the curtains open at night, when she slept, but she only did so once she had finished undressing, put on her nightgown, and blown out her candle. Now, she left the curtains wide open as she looked down across the backyard. A pool of shadow gathered at the lighthouse's window. For a moment, she wondered what her mother would say if she knew, what would happen if Henry walked in and saw her. The thought only made her furious with herself. Was it not enough that she was trapped, body and soul, here in this house, this marriage, this life? Must she trap her own mind as well? She lifted her chin in defiance, and, remaining by the window, where anyone looking up could see her clearly she slowly, deliberately pulled the straps of her chemise down over her arms, first the left, then the right. It seemed to her that the shadow, like herself, was holding its breath, watching, waiting.

The moment the chemise slipped off her shoulders, she turned from the window, put out her candle, and climbed into bed. She found his handkerchief under her pillow, where she had been keeping it—his scent still lingered faintly amongst the cotton folds. Lifting it to her nose to inhale that comforting blend of earth, fire, and sea, she slipped between the covers and, finally, gave free rein to her imagination.

Chapter 10

[ladylooch]

Afterthoughts and Alcohol- Liv X Luca

A/N: Part 1 of Liv & Luca's LONG teased angst....

Word Count:3.5k

Stop here & here before continuing on.

Part 2| Part 3| Part 4

The timezone difference between the West coast and East coast has Livia Meier banging her head against the wall of her bathroom stall. Well, metaphorically. 

Luca and the Minnesota Wild have been on a long, road trip. Although Liv doesn’t live with Luca in Minnesota, his road trips still feel like a burden on their relationship. They talk less. He is out with the boys more. Then add in the three hour time difference and they both feel like two ships passing in the night. Liv fights the frustrated tears growing in her eyes as she fixes a smudge of her freshly applied, mauve pink lip stain. 

Heading for my nap. Text you when I’m up 😘

Liv sighs as she slowly walks out of the women’s bathroom inside UBS Arena. She looks down at the message, wanting to tell Luca how much she misses him and how distant things feel with them right now. But it is not the time. Not right before a game and when she is out with her friends for a fun night.

Instead, she sends back: ❤️💋😘

Camilla and Harper, her good friends from freshman year and now floor mates, await outside the bathroom for Liv.

“Ready?” Harper asks, sliding her arm through Liv’s. They begin to walk to the left.

“I think we missed warm ups. Will he care?” Camilla wonders. She nervously bites her lip as the girls weave arm in arm through the busy concourse to the Isles family seats. 

“No. I don’t think Ryder Hughes noticed we missed warm ups on a rivalry hockey night.” Liv laughs at the mere thought. He has the same focus and intensity as his dad, Jack. His ability to block out the rest of the world has always been admirable to Liv. 

Tonight is Girl’s Night Out sponsored by Ryder Hughes. He has been begging Liv to come watch a game to show her some “real East coast hockey” for the past several months. But class and flying to Minnesota and Devils & Rangers games, have taken up most of Liv’s time. She figured it was time to throw Ryder a bone. He has been so helpful and supportive as Liv has begun the process of starting her second book. He is constantly checking in to make sure she has eaten or has enough coffee or has taken a shower in the last three days. Only a year and a half has passed since Liv’s first book was published, but she had forgotten how difficult and stressful it can be to meet her publisher’s demanding deadlines. 

Enter Ryder Hughes as Superman.

And Luca, of course. His role is shaped more by distance than Ryder’s, but Liv tries to shelter those details from her boyfriend. She doesn’t want to make Luca feel bad for missing out on “Librarian Livy”- his nickname for her because of the blue light blocking glasses she wears while she writes.

“Where is Luca tonight?” Harper asks as they sit down in their seats. Liv can feel eyes of the WAGS on her- the Devils and Rangers and Wild and now Islanders girl? The puck bunny label practically writes it’s self across Liv’s forehead. 

“Um, he is in Seattle.” Liv clears her throat of the awkward phlegm setting in from the stares.

“Ugh, I love Seattle! It’s all moody and dreamy.” Camilla murmurs. “Do you ever visit him on the road?”

“No, the road is sacred.” Liv rolls her eyes. “It is where all the bonding and real focus on hockey happens. You know without the distraction of their loved ones.”

“I wanna be a WAG so bad!” Harper whines. “Livy, how do I get Ryder to notice me?”

“I think you need to be European….” Camilla teases, eyeing Liv from the side. 

“Stop.” Liv shakes her head. These two are good friends and always tease Liv about the “hot, hockey men” entranced by her aura.

“Livy, will you sponsor me for Swiss citizenship?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Liv laughs, bringing her mixed drink to her lips for two quick sips.

“Maybe Lio will marry me.” Harper jokes.

“He is a mess. Stay away from him.” Liv mutters. She likes Harper too much to allow her to enter Lio’s puck bunny trap. Camilla and Harper share a look, shamelessly bonding over their admiration of the oldest Meier child. 

The Islanders win the game against the Buffalo Sabres 2-1 in regulation. The girls want the experience of waiting for an NHLer and no amount of whining from Liv can get them to move along. So they wait, and wait, and wait for Ryder to poke his head out from the tunnel. He gives a wave and big grin, then climbs the stairs by twos.

“Great game!” Harper blurts immediately.

“Thanks for the tickets, Ry!” Camilla cheers as he enters the row.

“Hey ladies, thanks for coming.” He goes in for a quick hug with each one of them, ending with a longer one for Liv. “Good hockey, eh?”

“Looked similar to what I have seen.” Liv pokes his side, shrugging like she is unimpressed. He actually played well tonight. 

“Better colors though.”

“Mmm, I like green. Brings out my eyes.” She narrows them at him when he rolls his back at her. 

“Trust me, you look better in blue.” He points to her plain blue shirt with no representation of his team. “What are you up to after this?” He seems to address the group, but his attention stays on Liv. 

“I don’t know that we have decided.” Liv murmurs.

“Well, we have a green light tonight, so a bunch of the guys are heading out. You wanna tag along?”

“Yes!”

“Duh!”

Both girls chime in for Liv. She sighs, tilting her head back towards the arena roof to consider. She really didn’t write enough this week. She should go home and try to get a couple thousand more words done to feel good going into the weekend. Luca is coming into town next week and she wants to spend all her time with him, not worrying about her next check point.

“Livy, your deadline will still be there tomorrow.” Ryder winks, knowing her inner turmoil. He very dramatically juts his bottom lip out at her, then looks up towards the rafters as he bats his eyes. He looks cute and boyish, earning a smirk from her.

“Wow.” Liv snorts. “Fine, but you’re buying my drinks all night. I’m not paying.”

“Beautiful girls never pay with me.” Liv ignores the way Harper and Camilla giggle as they head down the stairs to leave in Ryder’s swanky, black Porsche. 

- - -

Inside the VIP area of some bumping club Liv has never heard of, she lays her head back on the booth and belts out the lyrics to Party in the U.S.A. Ryder is next to her, nursing his second whiskey neat as the rest of his teammates scatter through the upper area of the club. Camilla and Harper are long gone, mingling with the single members of the Islanders while Liv was sitting by herself. Ryder just came and plopped himself down after doing a lap around the level. 

“Are you glad you came?” Ryder smirks as the song finishes.

“Mhm. Thanks.” Liv says genuinely.

“I knew you would feel better if you came out. You’ve been working hard. You deserve to have fun too.”

“I do have fun.”

“Yeah, but I mean have fun here, in New York, not only when you’re jet setting off to Minnesota. You live in one of the best cities in the world and you never do anything the city has to offer.”

“Life for me here is temporary.” Liv shrugs. It is. Once she is done with school, she is going to Minnesota. She wants to build a life with Luca. 

“You’re gonna throw away a whole life here for someone else’s dream?” Ryder asks. “Kinda shitty of him to ask.”

“He didn’t ask.” Liv shrugs her shoulder slightly, feeling defensive. 

“But he also didn’t tell you to stay in the best city in the world for your career.” Liv pauses.

No, Luca didn’t tell her that.

“Maybe Mr. Perfect isn’t so perfect.” Ryder suggests.

“If I wanted to stay, he would support that.”

“Come on, Livy. You think he loves being hundreds of miles away from you for most of the year?”

“What is he supposed to do, Ry? He can’t control where he plays. You know that.”

“Sure, but I hope you know you deserve more than to only be someone’s girlfriend in some shitty, fly over state. I can’t imagine that’s what your parents want for you either.”

“That’s harsh.”

“Maybe, but at least someone here wants what is best for you.”

“So does he.” Liv finishes with a whisper. They both look away from each other, taking drinks to cool off some of the tension. Liv avoids the pull of Ryder’s gaze a few minutes later, wondering if she should head back to her apartment instead of continuing the night.

“Hey.” Ryder murmurs softly. He reaches out for her hand, giving it a squeeze. He watches his thumb brush over her fingers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so upset.” He forces a smile. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.” 

But are you happy? An internal voice asks Liv. Are you happy with how many more months of long distance? Or the fact that you and Luca have only talked once on this five day road trip? Or how short the conversation was and the way he goes hours without responding to a text? Will this be how it is in Minnesota? Is Ryder right? Will you only be Luca’s girlfriend, a WAG, and not a published author with a bachelor’s degree and working towards a master’s?

Liv swallows down her nerves, squeezing Ryder’s hand back while pulling in a steady breath.

“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m fine. Great even.” She finishes, groping for her glass on the table and slamming the rest in one huge swallow.

But the rest of the night, Liv is swimming in and out of reality. She has a hard time being present with the group. The amount of alcohol she consumes doesn’t help. She gets upset when realizing Luca never texted her before he headed to the arena. She was in the bathroom, scrolling through Instagram when she saw his arrival picture posted on the Wild socials. His phone is right there in his hand, but she has no new messages from him.

How is this so easy for him? How is she sitting here spinning her wheels, waiting for any sliver of attention, and he is walking into that arena without a care in the world? Before she thinks better of it, she sends a text to him.

Going to bed. Sweet dreams.

Then she fills her Instagram story up with all the pictures she can take of every Islander and her. She takes shots with their star center, captain, and goalie. Her and Ryder snap tongue out, ultra posed pics. She shoves at Ryder’s face as he tries to hand her another shot. Camilla and Harper join in on the pictures too- sexy, pouty faces as Liv sheds her jacket and runs around the hot VIP area in her black tank top. 

Liv is catching her breath off the dance floor with a fresh tequila soda when her phone buzzes on the bar top.

Your bed looks different these days. Have fun, baby! Call me when you get home?

He is as sweet as ever, which is so annoying to Liv. 

She sees Ryder on the dance floor with Harper, who is falling all over herself at his attention. Liv scoffs. Pathetic. Harper throws her arms around his shoulders. His hands go to her hips, holding her up and in place as her upper body sways. Everything feels like it is getting sloppy. Harper pulls herself into his chest, cuddling up into his arms. He lets her, but his eyes wander up to where Liv is. He raises his eyebrows at her. Liv shrugs in response. Ryder leans down to Harper’s ear, saying something that has her nodding. 

Liv scans the crowd as they wade through to get off the dance floor and to the stairs leading to VIP. Every woman turns their head to look at Ryder as he passes. If he notices, he doesn’t let on. Liv shakes her head in awe of it. She can feel their hot gazes judging her when he stops next to her. He throws his hands on the railing she is leaning on, smiling in greeting at her.

“Another night where you have your pick of the place.” Liv cocks a brow at him. A piece of hair falls across his forehead and instinctively, Liv reaches up to brush it away. Ryder goes still with her skin on his. He closes his eyes for a moment, then slowly turns fully towards her, setting his blue eyes on her face.

“They aren’t the girl that I want.” Liv holds his gaze for three breaths, then looks away, taking a gulp of her drink. She ignores his words, unable to comprehend fully if that was insinuation or not. She can feel the way her body responds to the alcohol. She is a little unsteady on her feet, feeling her inhibitions fall away, and the anxiety dissipate until she feels completely comfortable in her skin. 

The feeling doesn’t last as Camilla and Harper get downright sideways. Camilla is in tears crying over her ex-boyfriend with a rookie who looks like he wants to run through the brick wall to get away from her. Harper is falling asleep on the bench and the bouncer is throwing his thumb over his shoulder that she has to go. Ryder helps Liv get them back into his car. 

“Are you okay to drive?” Liv wonders before getting in.

“Yes. I’m sober. Saw you three getting wild and stopped drinking so you would be safe.” The consideration touches Liv. She is contemplative as she gets into the passenger seat. Her seatbelt clicks into place then Ryder pulls out into traffic. As the car shifts, Liv feels something shifting inside of her too. A softness is growing where she felt jealous and out of control earlier. 

Camilla rushes out of Ryder’s car as soon as he puts it into park. She tosses a wave over her shoulder leaving a passed out Harper to Ryder and Liv. They each take an arm, working together to get her into her apartment. Once inside Liv helps get Harper into bed as Ryder waits in the living room.

“Livy, do you think Ryder fell in love with me tonight? Is that why he is here helping?”

“I think he cares about you, Harp, but maybe try again when you’re sober.” Liv says to her friend. Liv ignores the twisting in her stomach at the thought of Ryder interested in someone. What audacity her tummy has to be churning right now.

Liv’s boots clack down the hall as she finds Ryder by the couch. He is looking at a picture of the three girls on one of their first weekends at Columbia. He seems out of place with his big shoulders, dark hair, and masculine presence in the overly feminine living room.

“That feels like a lifetime ago.” Liv murmurs, stopping next to him. Their shoulders brush. 

“You have lived a lot since then.”

“Yeah.” Liv smiles. “Can’t believe I’m graduating in a few months. It flew by.”

“The best years do, especially when you find a safe place to spread your wings.”

“I know it’s going to be hard for you when I leave.” Liv murmurs, sensing the sad undertone to his words. They haven’t spoken about this before, but the implication has been there.

“Yeah, it will be. I’m losing my best friend.” To comfort him, Liv laces their fingers together, tugging him towards the door to leave Harper’s behind.

“Come on, knight in shining armor. No need to get sad and sappy tonight. We have months left together.”

“True. Plus, I’ve got one more drunk girl to tuck into bed.” 

“I’m not drunk.”

“Sure, but you aren’t sober.” Liv doesn’t argue about that. Ryder makes sure the door is locked to Harper’s apartment, then puts a guiding hand on Liv’s back to walk her the two doors down to her place. 

Antsy anticipation intensifies in Liv as she pulls her keys out. Her other hand is still laced in Ryder’s comfortably. His thumb brushes along her fingers and she feels butterflies sweep the walls of her stomach.

“Liv. I’m serious. I know you’re trying to change the subject and move on, but I don’t know what I’m going to do without you. You have this effect on me. I am better when you’re around. I’m scared of who I will be without you.”

Warmth and appreciation spreads out from Liv’s chest to her extremities. That feels so good to hear. She has spent so much of the day feeling like an after thought, a throw away item when other things are more pressing. Right or wrong, Ryder fills her cup right back up. She smiles softly at him.

“See? What am I going to do without that smile.” He reaches out for her face, then drops his hand, remembering what they are to each other. Remembering who she has waiting for her in San Jose or whatever West coast city Liv said he was in. 

“We will still see each other.”

“Like this?” His voice gets huskier.

“What do you mean?”

“Just me and you. Like this. Like…” He trails off, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He gets bold, cupping her cheek with his hand. Liv closes her eyes and leans into his touch. “I’m trying so hard not to kiss you right now.” Her blue eyes open again at his confession. 

Liv should say goodnight. Right now. Danger signs bolt upright in her mind. Red flags whip in hurricane force winds. Alarms bang through her head like cartoon cymbals clamoring together. And yet, her eyes drift, down the bridge of his nose, over his slightly red cheeks, to the full, red flesh of his lips. Her top teeth tug her bottom lip into her mouth, then she runs her gaze back up those features to his eyes again.

“Livy…” He whispers her name like a secret. 

Her eyes gravitate to Ryder’s lips again, wondering what it would feel like, for one moment, to kiss someone else. But not just anybody, him. Ryder. Loneliness whispers like a siren to feel warm skin against her mouth again. To be held for a moment, desired, not put on a shelf to be taken down when hockey or school isn’t demanding attention.

Ryder leans in, keeping his eyes open, locked on Liv. Her heartbeat blasts through her ears like a freight train as he stops at 80%. All that is left between them is a slim slice of stale apartment air. His warm breath collides with hers right in front of their noses. She tilts her chin up more, perfectly evening up their mouthes. 

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz

Liv’s phone vibrates in the back pocket of her tight jeans. Her and Ryder stare at each other. Without even checking, they both somehow know it’s Luca. She never told him she was home. Now he likely worries, three thousand miles away.

“I should go.” He sighs dismally. Liv can taste his words in her mouth, feeling the flutter of the air of them on her lips. Then he turns and walks away. 

Liv doesn’t answer Luca’s call. She couldn’t speak if she wanted to anyway. 

Guilt crawls through her veins, icing her chest and making her unsteady on her feet. Ryder disappears into the elevator. Her back hits her door as she clutches her keys to her chest. 

Why did that almost happen?

And what is that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that mirrors disappointment?

Read more Liv and Luca here.

[corner-stories]

before the storm, after the flood (act 1)

Jean Kirschtein. Mikasa Ackerman. Post-Canon. Flashbacks. Paintings. Past Relationships. Present Tension. Seaside Cottages. 16,873 words. (ao3.)

Now.

Seeing The Painting.

...

...

...

It’s mid-September when she visits the west coast of the Island, a port town known for what comes in and what comes out as opposed to what stays. If it’s not foreign material goods arriving on the Paradisian shores, then it’s visitors of all kinds, even if they never stay for long. 

Mikasa knows by this time tomorrow she’ll be gone. It had only been an hour since she stepped off her train with the intention to stay a single night, as most visitors of the town tend to do. Once her time is up she’ll be on a line bound for the northwest, so in the meantime she has nothing better to do than to keep herself busy. 

As she weaves through the sea of strangers in the public market, she compares it to the one at home. Shiganshina’s street vendors always seem to be stocked with newly harvested fruit, freshly baked bread, and marbled slabs of perfectly cured meat. The port town fares similarly enough, yet Mikasa notices an abundance of items she doesn’t often see — like delectable dates, sun-dried tomatoes, and decadent candies she’s only ever tried on visits to Mitras.

As she browses a selection of fruit drops imported all the way from Hizuru, she feels something brush against her back. When she turns around she’s greeted by the face of the child who bumped into her. The little one is apologetic and briefly stops chasing their friends to mutter a quick “Sorry, Ma’am!” then continues down the street as quickly as they stopped.

In another world such a sight would make her think of her childhood — the prettier parts, to be exact — but nowadays it reminds her of her shifts at the Reiss Orphanage. 

When the thought comes to mind she's quick to sigh at herself. She’s officially been on “vacation” for half a day and she already has a reason to think about work. 

Yearning for some kind of distraction, Mikasa continues down the street, the rays of the late-summer sun warming the brim of her hat. 

She finds herself on a street where on her left is an array of merchants lined up to sell their goods, and on her right is the ocean. Her eyes are drawn to the sight of the surf and the shore, admiring everything from the various boats floating on the surface to the seagulls that soar high above the water. The sound of the waves caressing the docks soothes her fears and assures her that taking this trip was not in fact a bad idea after all. 

With the beauty of the sea so clear in front of her, Mikasa wonders why she hadn’t visited the coast a lot sooner. 

Frankly, she’s sure that Historia doesn’t even care where she spends her time off, just that she spends it as far from the Orphanage as possible. It’s very hard to refuse a demand from the Queen herself. Even if Mikasa’s content to remain at work and keep a low-profile, her old friend had been surprisingly persistent on the idea, determined to have Mikasa experience something beyond late-night shifts and half-hour lunch breaks. At the end of it all, Mikasa had gone through with the offer just to get Historia off her back. 

Now all that’s left for her to do is make it to tomorrow. 

As she continues across the cobblestones and civilians, Mikasa passes by a barbershop. She walks by the window and it only takes a few seconds of witnessing a burly man performing his craft for an idea to pop into her head. She undoes her ponytail just as she enters the shop and hears the bell above the door ring. She promptly requests a haircut, a service that doesn’t take long, yet is unfamiliar enough for her to realize that she can’t remember the last time she had gotten one. 

When Mikasa leaves the shop she’s sporting a style she has yet to wear in her twenty-seven years of life. The barber had called it a bob and claimed it was popular with women all around the Island. As she walks she catches sight of her reflection in store windows, noticing how the ends of her hair hang just above her shoulders and sway differently with every step. The style is still new to her and she’s not sure how she feels about it, but at least for now she can revel in the novelty of trying something new and the fact that hair always grows back.  

By mid-afternoon she visits a tavern across the street from the inn she had checked into earlier. As she eats a lunch of bread and cheese she sees patrons from all around the world in every corner of the room — some are charmingly weathered from their travels and others look like their journey’s just begun. As of now she’s unsure what category she would belong to, because while she’s stepped farther off the Island that some Paradisians will in their entire lives, the scars from such outings have marked themselves both on and under her skin. 

Before the memories can resurface and spoil her afternoon, Mikasa looks at the decorations on the tavern wall. Hanging corner to corner is a collection of photographs, enough to make her forget that the technology had only been introduced to the Island very recently. However, hidden in plain sight amongst the array of framed pictures is a single painting. And Mikasa is drawn to it, not purely due to the different medium, but rather for to the subject itself. 

Through delicate brushstrokes, the shape of the hill filled with numerous houses is a familiar sight. The greens are bright, contrasted with a sky made of pigments so blue that it immediately reminds her of the past summer. Little squares of greys are carefully placed into the horizon to properly represent the buildings of the district. It’s a sight that's been burned into her memories for the last eight years.

“You like what you see, Miss?” 

Mikasa turns her head to see a barkeep behind the counter. He’s a middle-aged gentleman with a round face and kindly brown eyes, someone who seems content in his life of pulling pints and chatting up patrons. 

“It’s Shiganshina,” she replies. 

The work depicts the view of the city from Eren’s Hill — specifically the view one sees when facing away from his tree and towards Paradis without its walls. Over the last few years countless travelers and visitors climbed the slope, making the artist just one of many. For a moment she lets herself wonder if even half the patrons in the tavern know what the painting really is and how many of them don’t. 

“You got a good eye,” the Barkeep continues to say. With a rag he wipes a spot on the counter before redirecting his gaze to the painting on the wall. “The artist is local, lives just up the coast. His name is, uh… Jehan something. Nice guy. Real quiet sometimes.” 

Mikasa nods along in silence, her usual reaction to when people are being chatty when she doesn’t want to be. A look to the corner of the painting shows that the artist signed it with one name and nothing else. She's unsure whether it's a pseudonym or a mononym.

Before she can go back to finishing her meal, she hears the Barkeep hum. Her eye is drawn to him as he puts down his rag and walks a few steps away. He finds a smaller framed photograph in the sea of many and takes it off the wall. 

“This was the night he dropped off the painting,” the Barkeep explains, obviously referring to this elusive ‘Jehan.’ He walks back to where she sits and shows him the picture. “We asked if he wanted to stay for a drink and he was happy to oblige." He scoffs. "Never turns down a free pint, that Jehan.”

As Mikasa puts down her fork she begins to ponder just how talented this “Jehan” must be if the Barkeep keeps singing his good praises. She takes a good look at the photograph that depicts a whole group of people enjoying themselves on a busy night in the tavern, an evening where the laughter flows as freely as the drinks from the bar and the sweat collecting on every surface.

Due to how many people are crowding the frame, the Barkeep points to a person in the corner. When her gaze settles upon the alleged painter, Mikasa’s heart skips a beat. 

It’s a different feeling from when she glanced at the painting. The shock that fills her makes her chest feel tight as her eyes go wide. 

Who she sees in the photograph is someone she’s seen before, but someone she never expected to ever lay eyes on again. She says nothing to the Barkeep trying to make small talk. In her head all she can do is repeat a name that hasn’t crossed her mind in years. 

Jean?

…

…

…

Then.

The Last Cigarette on Paradis.

Outside of the Palace of Queen Historia Reiss is the finest garden on the Island. Somewhere in the between the meticulously-trimmed shrubbery, beds of flowers in every colour, and animal-shaped bushes is an old tree in a clearing. Hanging on one of the branches is a pair of swings, something presumably built for the Crown Princess of Paradis. 

Currently on one of the swings is someone a lot less royal, but Jean figures he can get away with it. 

It’s barely been a day since the Ambassador’s return to the Island, yet the burden of work is already weighing on his shoulders. With a dinner full of smiles and handshakes behind him, he hopes that the royal guards have more important things to do than to shoo a wayward Ambassador from the garden. Sitting alone, he is illuminated by nothing but the moon in the sky and the distant torches near the palace entrance. The world around him may be dark, but at least here it's quiet, exactly what he needs to step away and take a breather.

He’s usually like this at the end of the day, so wound up from the stress of meetings that all he ever wants to do is loosen his tie and find his trusty cigarette case. Smoking is a habit he formed to de-stress from his travels and work, but not one that he’s necessarily proud of. 

After finding the case in his jacket, Jean opens it and discovers only one roll inside, something that makes him grumble like an old man. Considering that it’s been a week since he last purchased a pack, he wonders if the hassle of getting to the Island had really gotten to him or if Annie’s habit of “borrowing” his cigarettes had increased. As he puts his final smoke between his lips, he tries to remember if he has any other stashed away or if he has to find a way to procure them on Paradis. The mere thought of the import fees alone is enough to fill him with dread. 

Jean grabs a matchbox from his pants pocket before a soft voice disrupts the silence of the garden.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” 

Jean glances up to see the last person he would expect at this hour. The one and only Mikasa Ackerman is walking on the stone path, the tips of her boots scuffing the ground every few steps. She moves with her hands clasped in front of her, yet her shoulders are slumped in a way that makes her seem smaller. The woven material of her sweater is draped over her like a cloak. 

“Only on special occasions,” Jean answers, unable to keep his usual sass out of his words. “What about you?”

Mikasa stops and stands in place, watching him with glassy eyes under the moonlight. “I’ve done it once,” she replies like she intends to say more, yet doesn't.

Sensing the awkward silence growing between them, Jean continues. “...and did you like it?”

She shrugs. “It was alright.” She doesn’t seem like she hated it, but doesn’t appear to have particularly enjoyed it either. 

Her answer is enough for Jean to assume that she’s okay with his little vice, so he puts his case away and strikes a match. He holds the flame to the end of his roll until it glows, and soon small puffs escape his lips and nose before he takes his first drag. 

Just as Jean contemplates where can source more cigarettes, he looks aside to see Mikasa sitting on the adjacent swing. 

Considering that he expected her to leave once he lit up, he’s surprised. He didn’t take her for someone who would so willingly expose themselves to the scent of smoke. After expelling a cloud into the air, Jean takes the roll from his lips and holds it out to her, a simple courtesy he developed over the years.

And once again, Mikasa surprises him by accepting.

Jean's memories remind him of a Mikasa who treats her body like a temple — a Woman worth a Thousand Soldiers, as some used to say. He can still remember the way she adhered to her workout regimen despite sustaining a rib fracture the month before, moving with the haste of a person who will only slow down when the battle is truly done. 

But here she is now, sitting on a swing sized for a child and accepting a smoke from a friend. 

Perhaps he’s not the only one looking for some kind of release. 

He watches as Mikasa unflinchingly takes a drag of his cigarette, breathing in the smoke and expelling it just as slowly. She passes it back to him and he takes his turn, silently looking her way as little puffs hang in the air. 

It’s only now that Jean remembers what it’s like being next to her again. 

The red scarf he’s used to seeing her in is contrasted by the dreariness in her eyes. The pink cardigan he swears she’s had forever looks odd on a person so willingly accepting a cigarette. She doesn’t seem much older in a technical sense — as she’s still as pretty as he last remembers — but she certainly acts that way, like the last three years on Paradis were longer to her than to anyone else. 

Thinking about it now makes him feel guilty to have left her here while he and his remaining comrades travelled to every corner of the world. Sure, the circumstances were far from ideal and much of it was out of his control, but Jean can’t shake the image of Mikasa stewing in the demons of her past with no one else around. Even her claims that the Reiss Orphanage keeps her busy isn’t enough to shake his worries. Who could she go to for comfort? Who would listen to the thoughts on her mind? And who could understand even a fraction of them? He wishes he knew. 

Eventually, Mikasa glances aside and catches him staring. 

“What?”

Something inside of him clenches as he averts his gaze. Nervously, he takes a puff of his cigarette and wonders just how long he had been eyeing her before she noticed. 

“...you look good,” he tells her in lieu of anything smarter. He means every word of it. He hands her the cigarette again before he can say anything dumber.  

Mikasa accepts the smoke and Jean can see the slightest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. 

“You, too.” 

He’s not sure if she actually means that, seeing as several of his companions — namely Pieck and Connie — have derided his scruffy beard and slicked hair for making him look like he’s trying too hard. All his attempts to look more mature have led to him appearing far from it, as even the suit he wears on-duty hangs awkwardly off his lanky frame. 

But Jean grins along anyway, if not to convince himself than to convince her. 

“Thanks.”

With the roll between her fingers, Mikasa inhales, exhales, then knocks some ash off the end before handing it back to Jean, who does the same. They say nothing else as they fall into the silence, going between enjoying what could be the last cigarette on Paradis and taking in the view of the garden gleaned from the swings. When he glances up he sees a sky full of stars, a sight he’s seen a thousand times before. The light pollution on the Island is not as strong as it is in the rest of the world, and thus the twinkling dots in the atmosphere seem to shine just a little bit brighter.

When he’s not looking at the sky he’s looking at her. As Jean passes the cigarette again and watches Mikasa slowly inhale from what remains, he finds that the newness of discovering this side of her is fading away, like he’s getting used to it already. He also finds that maybe in this instance what Mikasa needs more than ever is a friend.

…

…

…

Now.

A Walk Up The Coast.

The Barkeep’s definition of ‘just up the coast’ turns out to be a half-hour walk. There are no roads leading there, just the dirt underneath her boots, the ocean to her left, and the hat on her head grows warm underneath the coastal sun. The surf keeps her company with every step. The sound of the waves ease her worries and make her forget the very real possibility that this could all be for naught, that her attempts to satiate her curiosity could be a complete waste of time. 

In due time Mikasa spots something on the horizon. With a few more steps the dot in the distance gets bigger. The closer she gets the more she is able to see the unmistakable sight of a cottage by the sea.

Soon she is close enough to see the place in its entirety. The structure is built of wood on the grass, just a stone’s throw from where the earth turns to sand. Two storeys under a roof of slanted tile, a mix of greys, blues, and greens that reminds her of the painting in the tavern. It appears like something she’s seen in storybooks — she can already imagine the place housing fisherman’s wife, constantly braving the storm and as she waits for her lover to return. 

Mikasa presumes that the place is as new as every other coastal building, yet the way the world has weathered the cottage walls makes it look just a bit older. The curtains are pulled over the windows, making it difficult for her to glean any signs of life. As she continues to take in the place she sees things like the dry, lifeless garden beds at the front and the laundry lines at the back, where an array of shirts and sheets dry in the ocean breeze. 

Then cutting through the sound of the waves and the wind is the barking of a dog. 

Mikasa’s attention is brought to the side of the house that's farthest from the water. She steps towards the sound before she is brought to the sight of a barn behind the cottage, a structure that is slightly smaller than the main building and made of much older wood. 

In front of the barn’s slightly ajar door is a dog, one with dark brown fur, pointed ears, and a slender snout. She recognizes the breed as the kind that would be deployed alongside a squad of soldiers, where a vicious temperament and a set of sharp teeth could be trained to mar and maim. However, the canine in front of her now has such a sweet smile on its face that Mikasa can’t possibly imagine it being used for such things. 

The dog is panting happily and wagging its tail so rapidly that its rear end shakes, assuring Mikasa that despite the barking it interprets her as anything but a threat. 

She only takes a few steps towards the barn before stopping, still unsure on who actually lives here or whether this was all a good idea in the first place. 

Mikasa’s eyes go to the window of the shack. Inside she can make out the shape of a person, as well as what appears to be various canvases covered in paint. Perhaps she's on the right track after all. 

The dog barks again before another sound enters the atmosphere. 

“Hugo! Shut it!” comes a man’s voice from inside the barn. 

Through the window she watches the man walk in front of the paintings and towards the door, where he slowly steps into the light. Now standing in the outside with a paintbrush in hand, he glares at the dog currently yapping in front of his barn. 

“What’s going on, Boy?” he asks, then barely a second passes before he looks up and sees her.

And immediately she knows it’s him.

The confirmation that her hunch was correct fills her not with satisfaction, but the kind of shock that one only feels when they’re doubting what they see. 

He looks close to how he did in the photograph. She notices things like how the beard on his face is a little bit thicker — like he hasn’t trimmed it in a while — and how his hair is just a bit longer. He looks older as well, weathered and rough around the edges even though Mikasa knows he’s not a day above twenty-seven. His clothes are a far cry from the suits we would wear as an Ambassador, the last thing she can remember seeing him in. He’s sporting a rugged sweater, the kind she’s seen fishermen wear. Spots of dried paint are scattered all over his trousers and boots.

And after everything he’s still Jean Kirschtein. 

Going completely still, her old friend lets his hazel eyes peer into her like he’s seeing a ghost. 

For what feels like forever the only sound between them is that of the waves hitting the land and the wind blowing so fast that the warmth of the sun feels scant on her skin.

Then Mikasa breaks the silence. 

“Hey.” 

Jean looks her up and down, as if to make sure that it’s really her.

“Hey.”

…

…

…

Then.

Wine and Friends.

This particular room in Historia’s palace is not usually used by guests, but rather by the staff during their routinely breaks. The place is smaller and more easily tucked away, and in the middle of which is a table much smaller than those in the palace’s many dining halls. 

Illuminated by incandescent lights, the room proves to be the perfect spot for old friends to converge. 

In the middle of a round table are several bottles of wine, most of them uncorked and halfway finished. At this point of the evening Jean is only on his second glass, and while he's far from buzzed, the drink does wonders in keeping him at ease after a long day of meetings. As he sips on wine more expensive than his entire outfit, he listens to the conversations being thrown around him. 

Connie is on his third helping of wine as he practically leads the discussion, gesturing wildly with his free hand and clutching his glass in the other. He's practically beaming as he recalls all the wonderful things he’s witnessed during the last few years. 

With their work taking them all across the globe he’s certainly accumulated his fair share of stories, but what Jean doesn’t get is why Connie is choosing to tell the more humiliating ones. Specifically, the ones that involve him — Jean — making a fool of himself. 

At least Armin and Mikasa seem to be having fun, though the former seems to be doing so because all it takes is one drink before he finds everything utterly laugh-worthy. On the other hand, Mikasa is doing a much better job at pacing herself, preferring to sip her wine slowly to savour the moment and appreciate the company of old friends. 

Jean steals glances at her as the night goes on. Under the orange and yellow lights she looks almost ethereal, smiling sweetly as she listens to Connie’s every word. She looks far more calm than she did in the garden — more assured, more peaceful, like she doesn't need a cigarette between her fingers to numb whatever's inside. She looks out of place compared to him, Connie, and Armin, as she's donning her usual scarf and sweater while the three of them are still in their suits, albeit with pieces removed here and there. Even if Jean's removed his jacket and loosened his tie, the clothing that Mikasa wears is just another sign that she’s not a part of their life. 

But that's not necessarily a bad thing. After all the travelling they've done in the last three years alone and the habits he's developed to cope with the stress, Jean can't imagine Mikasa ever enjoying it. Perhaps in some ways, her remaining on the Island was for the best. 

Jean takes another pull of his wine as Connie recalls the time the Ambassadors stayed a night at some coastal village. Neither of them can even remember the name of the place, just that the drinks at the local tavern were plentiful and that the people were very welcoming to the visitors. It only took a few glasses of brandy for Jean to end up in the arms of a lady with green eyes, blonde hair, and an apparent affinity for horse-faced diplomats. Though maybe that was the alcohol speaking. 

Nonetheless, Connie makes sure to use rather colourful language when describing the way the lady had been straddling Jean’s lap as she mashed her face against his, kissing him like the corner of the tavern belonged to them and only them. The fact that she eventually came to her senses and abruptly walked off was simply icing on the cake. 

The story makes Connie guffaw and causes Jean’s ears to go red. If this hadn't been the first time he had seen Connie smiling in months, then he wouldn't have hesitated to smack him silly. 

Armin trills with the laughter of a man who will feel everything in the morning. If Jean recalls Armin hadn’t been there when the incident happened, as he opted to spend the night at his room in the inn (and definitely not in Annie’s). Perhaps now he regrets his habit of never joining the guys to go drinking — he missed the opportunity to see Jean strike out in-person. 

“And then... and then!” Connie continues with a goofy grin. “She just fuckin’ bolts! Leaves Jean standin’ there lookin’ like an idiot!”

Once more Armin laughs like a hyena and Mikasa hums, amused. In contrast, Jean gives Connie a glare before reaching for the bottle on the table. He tops up his glass before taking another pull, a longer one this time. 

“Yeah, yeah, real funny, Connie,” Jean mutters after he puts his glass down.

Connie makes a childish face. “Lighten up, Horse-Man, can’t you take a joke?”

“Can't you learn to make one?” 

“Why don't you suck my-”

Nearly at his limit, Jean shoots his friend a scowl and Connie holds up his hands like there’s nothing wrong with what he just said. In any other circumstances either Pieck, Armin, or occasionally Annie would intervene to stop the two from killing each other like feral cats. But considering that Armin's incapacitated and on the track to a lovely hangover, there's no one around to halt the chaos. 

Before Connie can strike back, Mikasa speaks up. 

“Okay, stop,” she chides, directing her voice to Connie specifically. “You're embarrassing him.” Her tone is playful, but firm enough to get her point across. 

Mikasa’s words come through and Connie backs down. He settles back into his seat as he finishes the wine in his glass. 

Once the moment is over Jean can feel the flame inside of himself starting to quell. When he eyes Mikasa across the table he notices that her smile is a little bit wider. 

Their gazes meet just as Connie continues to speak and Armin continues to laugh at nothing in particular. Jean holds his glass up to his mouth and makes sure she can see the indebted look on his face. He mouths a quick ‘Thank you’ and she mouths ‘You’re welcome’ back, an exchange that is over as soon as it starts.

…

…

…

A Walk in The Palace.

As Jean walks through the palace halls, he feels the effect of the drink with every step. But yet he is cognizant of things like the ornate trim on the windowsills, the moon peeking through the cloudy sky outside, or the tipsy hooligans currently stumbling around in front of him. 

Armin lives up to his reputation as the lightweight amongst the Ambassadors and wobbles about like a baby deer. Requiring the help to get to his room, he walks with one arm around Connie's shoulder while his legs struggle to keep him upright. It’s a sight Jean’s seen before, usually the aftermath of a night at a pub, and something that never ceases to bring a smile to his face. With his jacket slung over his shoulder he watches fondly as Armin’s attempt to walk nearly throws Connie off balance. 

As Armin receives a scolding for nearly bringing both him and Connie down, Jean looks aside to check on their other comrade, the one who's not usually present during moments like this.

Mikasa walks with her hands clasped in front of her, beaming demurely as she watches her childhood friend lumber and lurch after two glasses of wine. She almost looks proud to witness Armin nearly tripping over his two feet and Connie narrowly preventing him from hitting his stupid head on the floor.

Once the group finally arrives at Armin and Annie’s room, Connie turns towards the less-drunk members of their little quartet and gives them a nod. 

“Run along, you crazy kids, I got this,” Connie assures before opening the door. With Armin still on his shoulder he takes one step into the room before calling out, “Hey, Annie! I got your boy right here!” 

Jean only gets a brief glimpse inside the room, but in that short time he is able to spot Annie on the bed clad in her usual sleepwear, a book balanced on her knee as her once-quiet night abruptly comes to an end. When she glances up and sees Armin leaning against Connie’s shoulder, her typical bored expression morphs into that of surprise. It’s enough to make Jean and Mikasa share a quick curt laugh before Connie tosses Armin to the bed, closing the door behind him. 

Once they’re alone in the hallway Jean only spends a few seconds listening to the stumbling from inside the room before glancing aside, where Mikasa meets his gaze.

He clears his throat. “Could I walk you to your room?” 

She nods her head. “I’d like that.”

Jean drapes his jacket over his forearm as the two begin to walk. It’s fortunate that he knows where her quarters are in this maze of a palace. He’s still unsure who made it so her room was directly across from his, but best case scenario it’s a mere coincidence and worst case scenario it’s Historia messing with him. It seems that even the Queen of Paradis needs ways to spark joy into her life. 

At this time of night Jean doesn’t complain and simply lets Mikasa lead the way. Her usual scarf is draped loosely around her neck, the material remaining untied and swaying with every step. 

“Tonight was fun,” Jean tells her. “We should do it again.” 

“We should,” she agrees. Soon a playfulness seeps into her voice. “But only if Armin can handle it.” 

As they walk Jean notices her glancing out the window more than once. Knowing how easily one can see the garden at any part of the palace, he wonders if she can see the tree where they shared a cigarette, an encounter that only happened the other night yet feels so long ago.

When they arrive at their rooms Mikasa goes to her door and Jean goes to his, but lets his eyes linger on her for a few more seconds. Just before she touches the knob, she turns her head and meets Jean’s gaze as he stands on his side of the hallway.

“See you in the morning?” she asks like it’s a possibility that she won’t. 

The earnestness in her voice makes him grin. “Of course.” 

Mikasa goes still as she stands in front of her door, then only a second passes before she’s walking towards him again. Before Jean knows it she’s embracing him, wrapping her arms around his torso and holding him in a rather stilted hug. He immediately stiffens under her touch. Her head is not against his shoulder like the way she hugs Armin, but against Jean’s chest, a sensation he never thought he’d ever feel. The rate of his heartbeat makes him feel uneasy, worsened by the fact that she can definitely hear it. It takes a moment before he’s hugging her back, though on his end the gesture is embarrassingly awkward.

Perhaps this is a side-effect of the wine. He can’t imagine her doing it without it. Once she breaks from him she goes back to her door, avoiding his gaze up until her hand touches the knob. 

Still enraptured in newfound shock, Jean watches as she opens the door, the uncomfortable feeling in his chest still not going away. A new sense of heat begins creeping up into his face, making him wonder if he’s blushing and if she can see it. 

Before she can slip away into the night, Jean finally finds the willingness to speak. 

“Good night, Mikasa,” he tells her in a voice that’s just above a whisper.

Mikasa stops in place, slowly craning her head around to finally look at him. Her eyes look darker in this light.

“Good night, Jean.”

…

…

…

Now.

Spilling The Tea.

Jean is much more cordial than she expects. Despite the unmistakable wariness in his eyes, he invites her to sit on his porch before ducking into his home. For a few minutes she's left alone with nothing better to do than pet Hugo, who seems to be the only one who's happy she's here. She occupies herself by sitting on the front step and caressing the dog's fur — at least the sight of Hugo wagging his tail in absolute delight distracts her from the feelings inside. Soon Jean emerges from the cottage with a pot and two mugs. She didn’t even ask for tea, so she guesses that he brewed it more for his nerves than hers.

In silence they sit beside each other, the only thing occupying the space between them being his tea set and the sounds of the sea. Mikasa holds the mug with two hands, the warmth against her palms contrasting with the chill of the ocean wind.

It's from here that she can truly appreciate the simplicity of the sea — the scent, the sight, the intoxicating mix of sand, water, and sun. She's seen views like this in photographs and paintings, but no medium can capture things like the salt on her skin, the wind tousling her hair, or Hugo playing in the grass.

The longer she takes it in, the calmer she feels. It eases her worries as she takes a breath and braces herself to look Jean's way.

He’s currently slouching with his elbows on his knees, holding all of his tension in his shoulders as he avoids her gaze. His longer hair shrouds his face like a curtain. Instead of finding it in himself to look at her, he watches his dog roll across the grass, almost like she doesn’t even exist.

Mikasa tries not to compare him too much to the person she last knew, or even to the words of his final letter. Five years is enough time to change anybody, yet a part of her still expects him to be the same. To be the Ambassador who attends meetings by day and sneaks off to smoke cigarettes by night. To be the guy who slicks his hair with his fancy pomades and adjusts his tie before entering the boardroom. To be the artist kills time between events by sitting in the Queen’s garden with his trusty sketchbook balanced on his knee, either using charcoal or watercolours to create a masterpiece within the pages. 

She wonders why he’s been hiding out here, of all places. There are certainly more glamorous towns for someone like him to reside in, even on the Island. But suddenly the world they live in comes crashing down like the ocean waves. She recalls that Jean betrayed the Island the second he joined the Alliance, knowing full well that stopping the Rumbling would label him a traitor for the rest of his life. Even if Armin had taken the brunt of burden that came with being the Man who Killed Eren Jaeger, to assume that no weight had been shouldered onto Jean — a close friend and ally — was shortsighted. 

Perhaps this is the safest place for him to be, tucked away like a secret to remain hidden for the rest of time. It’s hard to imagine a Jaegerist coming this far to plant a bomb underneath his chair and exact revenge. Perhaps this is why he no longer goes by his actual name, preferring to hide behind the alias he signs in the bottom corner of his paintings, quietly secluded in his own corner of Paradis. Mikasa wonders if the people of the port town have any inkling of the truth. 

She still doesn't know what to say. Her fear of being too forward is confounded with the fear of letting the silence between them persist for any longer. 

The main questions pressing at her mind is why he never told her he was here and why he even came back. But her instincts tell she shouldn't bring it up, not yet. A flurry of possibilities spin in her head, potential conversations that she could blurt out and get it over with because the persistent wordlessness between them is becoming unbearable. 

Somehow, Jean beats her to the punch by speaking first. 

“How exactly did you find me?” 

Mikasa focuses on her tea and can nearly see her reflection in the liquid. 

“I was in town. I went to this tavern and… there was one of your paintings on the wall. The barkeep just kept talking and talking about it, he…” She glances aside to see if Jean is looking at her. He’s not. “...he showed me your photo. Said you lived just up the coast and..." She takes a breath to calm herself. "... and I thought I’d check on you.” 

Jean says nothing for a few agonizing seconds before letting out a sigh. “Seb,” he says, frustrated. He continues to slouch and holds his face in his hand. “He doesn’t know when to shut up.” 

The first thing she wonders is if Seb the Barkeep is privy to the truth, noting that Jean’s first-name basis with the man implies a level of familiarity. Perhaps Jean is better at hiding his past than she expected, even when spending his nights under the glow of tavern lights.  

Judging by the quietude of his new home, no one has managed to deduce that ‘Jehan the Painter’ is one of the people who betrayed Paradis, or the Ambassador of peace who helped argue for a better world. Perhaps her recognition of him is the only one that slipped through the cracks — there are some faces in her life that she’ll never truly forget.  

Noticing the furball on the grass, Mikasa tries to change the subject. 

“How long have you had Hugo?” 

“Two years,” Jean mumbles, taking his face out of his hand. “Two and a half, I think.” 

She can’t stop the next question from leaving her mouth. “That’s how long you’ve been here?”

With the slightest bit of apprehension, Jean shakes his head and focuses his gaze to the sea. “No, uh… I’ve been here for three.” 

Mikasa eyes him, confused. “Three?” She tries not to let an accusatory tone enter her voice. 

It’s only now when Jean finally looks at her, cautious eyes settling into hers. “...yeah, three years.”

She doesn’t want to be mad at him, but the revelation sparks something in her that makes her even more aware of what she says and how she says it. 

“That’s…” she starts, then takes a quick breath. “I’m happy for you.” She takes a sip from her cup — there’s a slight metallic taste to the tea but she doesn’t care. 

Jean raises an eyebrow. “You are?”

“Of course.” Mikasa nods her head and refocuses her attention to Hugo on the grass. “This is a nice house.”

“It wasn’t when I first got here, but uh…” He turns around and looks at the front door with all the sheepishness of a nervous schoolboy. “I fixed it up.” 

“What exactly do you mean by ‘fixed it up?’ ” 

Jean meets her eyes again and she tilts her head slightly, which seems to get across the fact that she’s toying with him. 

A faint smile tugs at Jean’s lips. “I mean someone tried to build themselves a beach house and abandoned it halfway. I just did the rest.” 

Mikasa hums as things begin to make more sense. Considering that her legs still tingle from the trek here, she can’t fathom why someone would even bother building a home so far from the nearest town. Then again, her little abode just off the Reiss Orphanage’s property is more removed from Shiganshina than she would like. 

But in regards to the Jean's new home, finishing what one person began does feel more plausible than starting from scratch. In the time that she’s known him she never took him for the handyman type, yet the evidence to prove it is right in front of her. Perhaps helping build a railroad laid the seeds for him building himself a cottage by the sea. 

The exterior of the place is painted light gray — except for the shutters and the windowsills, which are painted white. Even with the chipping on the edges she would be hard-pressed to call the cottage a shack. For a building under constant push of ocean winds, it looks comfortable, sturdy, like it could stand for a thousand years. 

“You did a good job, Jean,” she assures him, smiling his way for what feels like the first time in forever. 

There is a beat where the only thing between them is the ocean breeze and the sound of crashing water, then the bashfulness in Jean’s face returns.

“Thanks,” he says, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. “That uh… that means a lot to me.” There’s almost a sweetness to the way he speaks, a new sense of warmth imbuing his every word. 

Feeling more at ease, Mikasa takes another sip of her tea. “Your garden could use some work though,” she points out, that familiar feeling of camaraderie having returned. 

 “Yeah…” Jean resigns. He finally picks up his mug from where it stands on the porch, holding it in front of him as he rests his forearm on his knee. “I’ve been busy lately.”

Mikasa takes note of the paint stains on his forearms, calloused hands, and clothing. They look fresh.

“I can tell.”

…

…

…

Living Spaces and Photographs.

Once the late afternoon meets the early evening, Jean gathers up his tea set and invites her into his cottage like the good host he is. He opens the door and it’s Hugo who reacts before she does. With little green blades sticking to his fur, he stops his romp in the grass before skipping past the guest on the porch and slipping inside. Jean rolls his eyes at his dog’s antics, but Mikasa simply smiles as she stands.

She enters the cottage to see Hugo getting comfortable in the main living space. Having hopped onto the couch, he rolls around on the pile of cushions and blankets like it’s what he was born to do. The grass that had once clung to his fur are now scattered onto Jean’s furniture. 

The grin on Mikasa’s face gets wider, yet when she looks aside to see Jean stepping in he’s running a hand through his hair again. He seems embarrassed that his faithful companion is acting like that in front of a visitor. 

“I’ll get started on dinner,” Jean announces as he moves past her. 

“I can help-” 

He barely takes a step before stopping where he is. “It’s fine,” he insists, raising his hand up. “You’re my guest.” 

He doesn’t say another word before continuing towards the doorway leading to the kitchen. Soon the sound of him scrounging around his cupboards and drawers fills the air, leaving Mikasa with nothing to do but observe his new home. 

Occupying the main space is a couch fit for a dog, a dinner table that’s seen better days, and an armchair near a lamp perfect for curling up with a good book. By the window is a desk being shrouded by what remains of the afternoon sun and a gramophone near a shelf of vinyl discs. The latter in particular is something she hadn’t expected him to have all the way out here, him living a simple life and all. Her best guess is that his proximity to the port town gives him slightly more access to new technology than the average Paradisian, recorded music included.

Mikasa steps over to the desk and observes the stack of stationery and well-loved fountain pen. Her hand touches the wood and she thinks of all the letters he writes in this cozy little spot. But upon catching sight of a familiar ornate cigarette case and a matchbox near the corner she suddenly has an inkling of what he actually uses this space for. 

Considering his current profession, Mikasa is surprised to see that most of the decor in Jean’s home consists of photographs. She really did expect to see a lot more paintings. As she steps around the space, admiring the frames hung above his desk, she guesses that most of the pictures have come from his ventures off the Island.

One photograph is of Armin standing on a beach that she doesn’t recognize, barefoot and clad in a flowy linen shirt. It reminds Mikasa of the letters she’s exchanged with her beloved friend over the years, wherein he’ll make up for his inability to visit the Island by detailing his life with Annie at some coastal cottage on the mainland and she’ll read his words with unbridled glee. Armin’s letters always give her a sense of comfort, yet even with all the pictures he would send she never understood why he would constantly sing the praises of living so close to the sea. 

Until now, that is. 

Mikasa looks at other photographs, all of which contain familiar faces. One is of Jean and Connie standing in the hallway of a moving train, old friends that fit together like the pieces of a puzzle. Another picture shows Jean sitting in a boardroom with Reiner and Annie, the latter two looking rather uncomfortable with having a camera shoved in their faces. Then one picture near a window catches her attention the most. 

Armin’s cheery face is the closest thing to the lens. From the way his arm is reaching beyond the frame it’s safe to assume that he’s the one taking the picture, having turned the camera towards himself for once. Behind him is a tavern, a place that looks indistinguishable to the few she’s been in, and in the seats of a table are the rest of the Ambassadors. Connie and Pieck are on one end, his arm slung around her shoulder like they’ve been friends forever. The lively expressions on their faces is either an effect of the drink or a sign that they’ve grown quite chummy over the years. Reiner and Annie are in the middle of the table and are still proving to be painfully camera shy, Annie in particular holding up her wine glass to obscure her face. 

And on the farthest end is Jean. He looks more relaxed than the first photograph she’s seen of him, holding up a foamy stein with a contented look on his handsome face. His tie is loosened and his sleeves are rolled up, painting a picture of a man who’s finally been given the chance to let go. He looks tidier than he does now, the edges of his beard clean and sharp while his hair is slicked back, a perfect look for an Ambassador of peace, but a far cry from the person currently making her dinner. 

“Are you okay with wine?” Jean’s voice suddenly says. 

Mikasa turns towards the kitchen and sees Jean in the doorway holding up a bottle. She nods and he mirrors her gesture. 

In the background is the sound of something sizzling, a savoury aroma entering the air. Jean walks back into the kitchen and begins rummaging around again. Mikasa walks to the table in the middle of everything and wonders if she should offer a hand, even if she already knows his answer. She takes a breath and tries to find something to comment on, quickly scanning the walls until she spots a framed photograph of an older woman who shares Jean’s eyes.

“How’s your mother?” she asks.

Mikasa looks through the doorway and sees Jean holding two glass jars. Suddenly he goes still, his shoulders stiffening as he faces away from her. The way he halts himself is jarring. He stays like this for a second before saying — 

“She’s fine.” 

“Have you seen her lately?”

He still doesn’t look at her as he walks to the living space. 

“A while ago,” he answers. His face remains stony as he uncorks the wine bottle and pours her a healthy serving of white wine into one of the jars.

Mikasa narrows her eyes, noticing the tension in the way he hands her a serving of wine, their fingers grazing for a moment. She can practically see the thoughts occupying his head, notions that are clear as day to him but aren’t reaching his mouth. She’s tempted to ask if he’s alright or if she’s said something wrong, and she damn near does before he speaks again.

“...I gotta finish dinner.” Jean pours some wine for himself, takes a healthy pull from the jar, and puts it down before walking back to the kitchen. 

Once he’s gone Mikasa makes sure that the sigh she expels isn’t too loud. She lets herself watch him through the doorway again, where she sees him put down his jar and begin chopping vegetables. She takes note of how much attention and care he puts towards the meal, even for someone like her, then takes her first pull of wine for the night.

…

…

… 

Dinner and Tales of Heartbreak.

Dinner consists of seared scallops, steamed potatoes, and a salad made of herbs, tomatoes, and onions. For something he hastily cobbled together out of whatever he could find in his kitchen, he's certainly gone above and beyond, she thinks. As she pokes at her food she wonders how often he has to cook for company, but decides against actually asking him about it. 

The gramophone in the corner plays a melody over dinner. It still boggles Mikasa's mind how a machine can read a bunch of grooves on disc and turn it into music, playing noise that she had only associated with live ensembles. Something like that would have been unheard of not even a decade ago, she's not sure when she'll get used to it. The tunes that Jean has selected are filled with horns, plucked strings, and some of the smoothest beating drums that she's ever heard. 

They sit apart on the farthest ends of the dinner table, Hugo lying underneath and curling up into a ball by her feet. As she spears a tomato slice with her fork, Mikasa wonders whether Jean gets his food from the nearby town or grows it, then is swiftly reminded of the abysmal garden beds outside. She’s tempted to bring it up again and make his lack of horticultural skill a recurring topic between the two, something she could tease him about and maybe share a laugh over. In fact, there are many things Mikasa can ask of him now — like where he learned to paint, or where he got Hugo, or how often he makes the half-hour trek into town. But when she looks up to meet him across the table, the first thing she sees is the tenderness in Jean’s eyes. 

Something about it unsettles her. She feels a tightness in her chest when she realizes just how long it had been since he had looked at her like that.

“What?” 

Silence follows and all Mikasa can focus on is the very subtle upturn of Jean's lips. He hasn't even touched his food yet. 

“You look good,” he says, and Mikasa can't tell if he had said something similar to her back then or if it was the other way around. There are some things she can’t trust to be a memory or a dream. 

The ache in her chest does not subside, so on instinct she reaches for the jar near her plate and brings it to her lips. She takes a breath to aid her composure before welcoming a pull of wine. 

Jean chuckles as he reaches for his own jar. Barely an hour ago, the man sitting across from her was slumped on his front stoop, unable to even acknowledge a ghost from his past — but now he is unable to to take his eyes off of her.

He looks different in this light — scruffier, rugged, and sun-kissed from the past summer — yet some parts of him still feel the same. His broad shoulders, long face, and the way he fills out his sweater creates a familiar silhouette, even when the full beard and shoulder-length hair is still a novelty to her. For all her observations of how he’s gotten wiser, there’s a kind of boyish earnestness in the way he stares at her.

“The scallops are nice,” Mikasa decides to say, putting down her jar and ignoring the warmth now spreading inside of her. 

“That’s good to hear.” Jean puts down his jar as well, finally picking up his utensils. “For a second I was worried.”

“Why so?” 

“Because you don’t like seafood that much, right?” 

Mikasa’s eyebrow quirks up. “How do you know that?”

“Remember that day by the beach?” Jean asks. “When Niccolo was cooking for us? You barely touched a thing.”

It takes her a second, but soon it comes back to her — a sunny day by the sea, plates of food she’s never seen before arranged on a table, Niccolo looking initially displeased to be cooking for Eldians, and Sasha stuffing her face with shellfish before proclaiming that it was the best thing she’s ever had. To this day Mikasa still can’t believe that this of all things sparked Niccolo’s affections for her old friend. 

But as of now, the main thing she’s unable to believe is how Jean can remember such a vague detail while she can’t. 

“I… a little bit,” she tells him. Even with the memory stirred, she can't recall actually tasting the food. No wonder Jean got the impression that she didn't like seafood. “That was so long ago, how do you still remember that?"

Jean pauses and she can practically see the gears turning in his head. 

“I remember a lot of things, Mikasa,” he eventually says, a huskiness to how he speaks. 

To distract herself from the way his voice grazes her ears, she gathers another forkful of salad and changes the subject. 

“Where’d you learn how to cook?”  

“Niccolo, actually.” 

“You see him often?” 

“Uh… I haven’t seen him in a while, actually, but he taught me a few things back then,” Jean admits. He rubs the back of his neck. “Is he still living with Sasha’s folks?”

Mikasa isn't sure but she can imagine it. She does not keep in contact with the Brauses as much as she should, and before she knows it the guilt of never visiting her beloved friend’s family washes over her. She wants to find something to blame it on — like her shifts at the orphanage or life in general — which is a good enough reason yet she still feels bad. The last time she saw them was four years ago, when she bumped into Artur and Kaya at a market in Shiganshina. All she can really recall from the encounter was the girl being taller than she last remembered and not much else. 

In another world, Mikasa imagines that Niccolo could have become part of Sasha’s family another way. She has memories of lying in her cot after a long day of training or government meetings. Despite the events behind them Sasha would still have the energy to chat her ear off. Mikasa remembers listening to Sasha gush about how she took Niccolo for a walk by the river, or how Niccolo cooked something new for her to try, or how they kissed in the shade of an old tree. Even if exhaustion would inevitably take over and make Mikasa fall asleep, a part of her will always cherish her and Sasha’s late-night chats. 

“I think so,” Mikasa answers. “Have you stayed in contact with anyone else?” 

“Armin and Annie,” he starts. “Through letters, usually. Connie, obviously, and Reiner. Sometimes Pieck.”

Mikasa only knows the exploits of Armin and Annie, but in regards to everyone else she's unfortunately lost touch. 

“What are they up to nowadays? Aside from Armin and Annie, I mean.” She gives him a knowing smile. “He sends me letters, too.”

Jean nods along. “Well, uh… we’re all kinda scattered nowadays. Last I heard, Connie and Reiner are still traveling together. Just…” He blows some air from his lungs as he tries to remember every detail. “...wherever they can go. They never stay anywhere for too long. And Pieck’s with her Dad. He’s…” 

For a few seconds he goes still, briefly glancing down before taking in a breath. “...he’s not doing so well, guess she wants to be around him.” 

After letting out a sigh, Jean reaches for his wine jar again. “Can’t say I blame her.” 

Mikasa is tempted to ask what has him so bothered, but before she can Jean suddenly breaks eye contact and looks below the table. The canine that was once asleep by her feet is now pawing at his master’s lap in the hopes of getting some leftovers. 

“Hugo, no!” 

The dog is persistent and shows no signs of backing down. The slightest snicker escapes Mikasa’s throat as Jean struggles to calm the beast. He puts his wine down and pushes his plate away from the table's edge, which effectively keeps his dinner away from Hugo but knocks over his drink. White wine swiftly spills over the table and dribbles onto his clothes, causing Jean to stand and wipe at himself with a napkin.

“Fucking hell…”  

“I can-”

“It’s fine,” Jean insists, gesturing for her to remain seated as goes to the kitchen. 

Hugo continues to smile and wag his tail, completely oblivious to the chaos he just caused. 

Mikasa watches as Jean returns to the living space with several dishcloths and cleans the mess with the kind of speed that would make Levi proud. She notices that most of the wine that didn’t get on the table now clings to his sweater. 

“Dammit, Hugo!” Jean grumbles. “First girl we’ve had here in forever and you do this?!” 

His words catch Mikasa off-guard in a way she can’t quite describe. In a day full of unexpected things, the world seems keen on finding even more things to surprise her. She sees the slightest hints of panic in Jean's eyes — he didn’t mean for the words to slip, but now that they’re out he can’t take them back. 

For the last hour Mikasa had been watching what she says, but at this moment she can’t stop herself from asking the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Were you seeing someone?” 

Jean doesn't break eye contact. She’s not sure how many seconds pass before he finally opens his mouth. 

“‘Seeing’ is not the best way to describe it,” he admits. 

Before saying anything else, he cleans up the rest of the wine before walking back to the kitchen. When he re-emerges the initial jitters instilled in him are gone, but the nervous way he runs a hand through his hair says enough. 

“But… I was in town delivering a piece, met her in a tavern and… yeah.”

It only takes a few seconds for a flurry of other questions to pop into Mikasa’s mind. She wonders if this woman knew the truth about the charming painter who lived up the coast. The thought of such a thing makes the anxious feeling in her chest return. She speculates that he called himself “Jehan” when in the midst of his tryst, anything to protect the little bubble of safety he created for himself, but she can't be sure. Instead of asking anything to satiate that part of her curiosity, she instead says —

“What was her name?” 

“Loena.”

Mikasa hums as she realizes she’s never heard that name before. “Sounds exotic.”

Jean chuckles, the slightest sense of relief filling his eyes. “She was local, actually. Grew up in one of the villages out east.”

“And what was she doing around here?” 

“Well… let's just say that she really liked me,” says Jean, sighing. 

In the span of a second Mikasa conjures an image of the woman. Even if she can't think of much, the picture of Jean being so kissed lovingly by a different pair of lips comes to mind. She almost wants to chastise herself for even thinking of such a thing. Of course, he found comfort in someone else's arms over the last few years. Of course, he connected to someone the way only lovers can. What right does she have to say that he cannot? 

Once more Jean steps away from the table, turning around and slowly pulling off his sweater. He slips into a room that leads to the back of the cottage, where the sight of a metal basin and washboard tells her that this is where he does his laundry. Through the swinging doors Mikasa respectfully diverts her gaze at the brief glimpse of his bare shoulders, allowing him some privacy as he fishes for something a little less wine-soaked. When he returns he's buttoning a spotless collared shirt over his torso, stepping back to the dining table without missing a beat. Through it all Mikasa is able to glimpse a familiar scar on his collarbone.  

“Her husband, however…” Jean continues. 

He rolls his eyes like he's already over everything, but in contrast Mikasa is concerned. 

“She was married?” 

Jean nods half-heartedly as he sits down again. “Guess bored housewives have nothing better to do.” 

Despite her relief that the conversation has been steered in a less weighty direction, Mikasa now has other reasons to worry for Jean. His nonchalance over the whole ordeal makes her wonder if he’s had time to process things or wasn't as invested in the relationship as he could have been. 

“Did you…” Mikasa starts, though she doesn't have the clearest idea of what to say. “...did you like her? Before you learned the truth?” 

Jean’s unbothered attitude continues as he refills his wine jar. “A little bit, yeah. But shit happens, right?” 

He takes a sip and the ever-present thought in Mikasa's mind is that he's still taking things a little too lightly. He deserved better than to be the plaything of a bored housewife, yet there he sits nursing his wine with complete disregard for the whole ordeal. 

“How long ago did it happen?” she asks to keep the conversation going. 

He takes a second to think. “A year? A year and a half ago, I think?”

“And here I thought you’d be staying out of trouble.”

“Well, sometimes trouble just finds me,” he scoffs. “But that's old news and… it’s not like I was being completely honest on my end either.”

The sigh she lets out is quiet, but at least another one of her questions has been answered. Mikasa looks down and refocuses her attention on the meal Jean so lovingly cooked for her. The usual taste she's learned to expect from shellfish is aided by a mix of lemon and butter, the sensation both surprises and pleases her. Before she can pay her compliments to the chef, she hears Jean speak again.

“Are you seeing anyone?” 

Mikasa looks up just in time to see Jean visibly cringing at himself. At least she's not the only person in this room embarrassed to be so forward.

He takes a breath and briefly looks like he would want nothing more than to stab his hand with his fork. “Or… have been seeing anyone?” he manages to stammer out. “...lately?”

Her instinct is to answer honestly. She could bore him with the details of how work keeps her hands full enough, that after making sure every child at the Reiss Orphanage is cared for she only ever has so much energy left for the day.

Her life as of now is more about surviving than thriving. The most socialization she tends to do involves lunch-time chats with her co-workers, errands in town, or the occasional visit to the palace because the Crown Princess of Paradis wants to see her Auntie Mika again. Anything beyond that feels superfluous, and truth be told she doesn't really fancy the idea of trudging to the nearest sweaty, crowded tavern to meet people. 

“No,” she answers after a moment's thought, simplifying things for both her sake and his. "I don't really have the time."

The answer settles into Jean in a way that makes his eyes widen slightly, his newfound intrigue is as clear as day. Now more than ever Mikasa becomes acutely aware of how he's looking at her.

“The Orphanage keeps me pretty busy,” she clarifies, even if there’s really no need. Underneath the table her hand grasps onto her skirt and squeezes the material as tightly as she can. “It’s hard for me, too… to get to know someone new.”

Jean nods. “Yeah, I get that.” Looking slightly more content than before, he looks back to his plate and begins digging into his dinner for real. 

Mikasa does the same and for a few seconds they eat in silence. She distracts herself with bites of steamed potatoes, onion salad, and seared scallops tossed in lemon and butter. The sound of music and the ocean blend together, mixing into the atmosphere in a way that calms her beating heart. 

“I missed this.”

Mikasa meets his gaze across the table. “Missed what?” 

Another beat, and as Mikasa waits for an answer the softness returns to Jean's hazel eyes.

“Being around you again."

On the floor Hugo returns to his original fate of curling up at Mikasa’s feet, content to continue his nap instead of begging for more leftovers. That combined with the utter fondness in Jean's eyes, a strange kind of heat begins seeping through her in a way that makes her think it could be the wine, but could also be something else entirely. 

But Mikasa manages to collect herself and say — 

“I missed it, too.” 

…

…

…

Then.

Chaos In The Atmosphere.

Throughout his travels Jean has kept a little tin box at the bottom of his suitcase, an item that becomes his solace whenever his cigarettes cannot. Inside said box are little squares of dried watercolour paint all organized by hue. It is not a vast palette by any means, but it’s always been enough to get the job done. 

He's only had the set for a year, a little memento he picked up when the Ambassadors spent a month in a city full of water and canals, but by now it looks like something he's used all his life. Little bits of pigment are splattered on every inch of the box. Bigger blots of dried paint remain where he mixed the colours, like little battle scars of the past. Even his routine wipedown of the box doesn’t rid it of every spot, but he doesn’t mind. 

With his open sketchbook on his room's provided desk, Jean paints under the constant drum of a storm. Outside his window is the kind of gale that causes the rain to go sideways and the branches of a nearby tree to periodically tap the glass, a downpour that thoroughly drenches every bit of the land and hits the roof like handfuls of pebbles. 

Under the glow of the candlelight, he is indifferent to the chaos in the atmosphere and paints like nothing is wrong. He’s grown accustomed to working in turbulent environments — whether it be the stateroom of a ship, the sleeping car of a moving train, or a room at an inn with Connie snoring one bed over. His room in Historia’s palace is certainly one of the more spacious places that he’s ever worked in, and for that he really can’t complain about the gale outside his window. 

With the gentlest touch, Jean applies pigment over a sketch of a flower he saw on an afternoon walk in the garden. He doesn’t know what kind it is, just that the purple hue of the petals was so vibrant under the sun that he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

His skills with a paintbrush are still not where he would like them to be, a far cry from the masters of the craft that he had seen on his travels. To be able to depict landscapes of the countryside or views of the city at night in such meticulous detail is still a dream of his, one that’s far from where he stands now. So Jean keeps at it, painting for both the fantasy thinks of when pondering a life beyond the boardrooms, and for the part of his mind that had been searching for something to keep him sane. 

The storm outside his window continues to bellow and blow. As Jean rinses the bristles of his paintbrush, lightning flashes in the sky. Seconds pass before thunder crashes outside the window. Then suddenly he hears a sound in the gale that makes his heart skip a beat. 

It’s a scream, something loud enough to cut through the walls of his room. 

Fuelled by instinct, Jean is instantly on his feet. He wastes no time as he grabs his shirt off his chair before dashing out of his room. 

Pulling the garment over his torso, he crosses the hallway with haste. Panic imbues his every fiber as he finds the knob and flings the door open. 

Jean’s heart is hammering inside his chest as enters the bedroom, where he is greeted to the sight of an old friend.

“What happened?”

Mikasa is sitting up on her bed, her breathing heavy and her eyes filled with the kind of terror that Jean finds sobering. It takes her a second to register that he’s in her room. Once she glances over she shakes her head, shifting until she’s sitting on the edge of the mattress and avoiding his gaze. 

“I’m fine.” 

Unconvinced, Jean closes the door behind him before refocusing his attention on her. “No, it’s not. You screamed.”

Mikasa looks like a mess, her hair unruly and unkempt as a sheen covers her face. 

“Why are you even here?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

She shakes her head again. “No, I mean... why? ” 

There’s something accusatory in the way she’s eyeing him and Jean doesn’t know what to tell her. 

Because the last few years had attuned him to the cries of his friends. More than once has Connie or Reiner woken up in the midst of the night, gasping and covered in a cold sweat, struggling to gain control of their panicked breaths. 

Connie gets it worse, however, often thrashing or screaming in his bunk and jolting Jean awake no matter how late it is. He doesn’t know the exact reason why Connie’s nightmares terrorize him even more, but he’s made a few guesses. Beyond everything they’ve seen in their twenty odd years of life, there are nights where Connie is too restless sleep or days where he is too sullen to eat. There are moments where he is so stressed from their duties as Ambassadors that he can’t let himself breathe. 

And it's on the nights where everything boils over that Jean steps in. He’s gotten used to letting his best friend rest on his shoulder or in his arms as Connie waits for his world to feel normal again. He’ll ask Connie what he saw before he woke up and more often than not Jean won’t get a proper answer — just the ramblings of a man who can only ever see Sasha, Sunny, Martin, or his father in his dreams. 

But Jean doesn’t tell her any of that. Instead he lingers on the sight of her looking fragile as glass on the edge of the bed, then and decides to say —

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” 

Mikasa still looks stressed, but now he can see her expression softening into something bashful. As she catches her breath it becomes clear that she feels remorse for waking him, but some things can’t be helped. 

“Go to sleep, Jean,” she whispers. Something about the rushed way she speaks doesn’t sit right with him. 

“Could I sit?” Jean asks, the question leaving his mouth before he can stop it. His gut feeling tells him not to go, not until he knows that she’ll be okay. 

A moment passes where the only thing Jean can hear is the sound of the storm, then she slowly nods her head. 

Jean steps forward and joins her on the bed, choosing to sit on the other side to give her space. Outside the window another lightning strike briefly illuminates the room, the thunder soon following. The noise causes a slight rumble to resonate throughout the palace and makes Mikasa fidget with the bedsheets. The rain continues to batter the windows and walls.

Jean cranes his neck to keep his eyes on her and once again she looks away. 

Sensing that she’ll need a moment or two, he takes the time to look at the room. The space is identical to his own but a lot more empty. His travels force him to pack light, yet as he observes the same desk, chaise lounge, and private bathroom that was provided to him, he notices a distinct lack of personal belongings in the space. At least her usual scarf is folded neatly on her nightstand. 

Mikasa had never struck him as someone who owned a lot of things — not due to circumstances out of her control, but through knowing what she really needed to get by in life and shirking anything else. Yet somehow, the vacantness in her room makes Jean wonder if she’s even comfortable in the space. 

“What are you doing up this late anyways?” Mikasa asks as the wind whips at the windows. 

“I was painting,” Jean answers.

Various questions dance in his mind. How often does this happen? Was she awoken by the chaos of the storm? Does she still see Eren in her dreams or is something else haunting her tonight? His instincts tell him to say something, anything — but as Mikasa shifts on the mattress and rests her back against the headboard, a distinct air of melancholy hanging over her like a cloud, Jean can’t find the words.

He briefly considers running off to find Armin, something he defaults to whenever he doesn’t know what else to do. But something about the sight of Mikasa tucking her knees up to her chest motivates him to stay. 

“I have this kit with all these little pans of colour, I bring it everywhere with me,” he explains to take her mind off things. “I was painting this flower I saw in the garden.”

“What kind of flower?”

“I don’t know. I’m not good with plant stuff.”

"What colour was it?"

"Purple."

“What shape were the petals?”

Despite staring at his own sketch barely a minute ago, Jean needs a second to remember. “Curved, I think?”

“Were they all clustered together?”

“I guess so, yeah.” 

Mikasa begins to think, her lips remaining pursed. “It could have been a hyacinth.”

“A hyacinth,” Jean nods. A part of him is very relieved to have gotten her talking about something. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” 

Another lull of silence follows as Jean sees her begin to mellow out.  

“You know a lot about flowers,” he remarks, a friendly smile slowly finding its way onto his lips.

“I garden sometimes,” Mikasa admits. 

“Have you now?”

“It keeps me busy.”

“More than the orphanage?” 

Seemingly sensing the playfulness in Jean’s banter, she hums. “No. I wish I had more time for it though.” 

“Maybe you’ll find it in the future,” Jean assures. A sense of relief begins to wash over him. In time the world around them starts to feel less heavy, even with the sounds of the storm outside. 

“Uh… I can leave if-”

“Can you stay?”

Her words surprise Jean. After she speaks he sees something shift on her face that implies that the question surprised even her.

“I can," Jean promises, then gestures towards the middle of the mattress. "Do you mind if I…?” 

“Go ahead.”

Jean nods. He shifts on the bed so he is sitting against the headboard. There’s still a certain amount of distance between them, as they are separated by a pile of needlessly opulent cushions and blankets. Somehow, the barrier keeps them both at ease. 

As Jean crosses his arms over his chest, the most pressing thought on his mind is whether Mikasa will be okay. He wonders if the palace is really the safest place for her — because while she's far from any vengeful Jaegerist looking to cause her harm, everything about tonight is telling him that what’s hurting her now is something she can’t outrun. Her knees are still held close to her chest, her hands grasping her shins. 

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Jean tries, but he thinks he already knows the answer. 

“No.” With only her eyes Mikasa glances aside at him. “Do you need to sleep?”

“I can stick around,” he says instead of answering her question. 

She doesn't say anything else, but she nods her head. That in itself is enough for Jean to rest more of his weight against the headboard. He lets himself get a bit more comfortable, his bare feet rubbing against the silken sheets. His mind goes to the schedule of the day ahead of them, which is merely a continuation of the peace talks from the days before. He's already imagining his attempts to sneak a nap during the meeting or how much coffee he'll need to chug just to get through. But it's a small price to pay if it means making sure Mikasa isn’t alone. 

Jean doesn’t know how much time passes before it becomes a struggle to stay awake. His head starts to feel heavy and begins drifting lower, but he catches himself before he can fully nod off and blinks furiously to keep himself conscious. The sound of the storm outside continues to rumble. 

He looks at Mikasa's side of the bed to see her now lying under the blanket and facing away from him. He must have nodded off more than he thought because he doesn’t remember seeing her move. 

While his memories are never as clear as he'd like — far too clouded by ghosts — Jean can recall an era sometime after the Liberio attack where Mikasa stuck fairly close to those she cared about. He couldn't blame her for not wanting to return to the room she used to share with Sasha, not wanting to be alone during such a sorrowful time. As a result she spent the next few nights in the same space as the boys and they didn’t mind. Jean can still remember looking across the barracks from the bunk he shared with Connie, where he would see her in the same bed as Armin and not be bothered by it one bit. It’s the kind of relationship they have always had and frankly, Jean would be more surprised if Mikasa didn’t turn to her old friend in a desperate plea for comfort. 

Looking at her now, Jean is tempted to ask if she wants him to leave. But for once she looks so calm, seemingly asleep while encapsulated in the sheets. So instead Jean remains where he is. Conscious of the space between them, he keeps his arms crossed over his chest and takes a breath. 

“See you in the morning.” 

…

…

…

Now.

The First Goodbye.

The sun is just beginning to set when Mikasa leaves Jean’s place, casting the sky above the sea into a dreamy mix of orange and pink. As he opens the door and lets her out, she steps through with the extra weight of a promise to write and a note tucked deep in her pocket, one with the address of his mailbox in town. 

“No, really, Jean,” Mikasa insists as she places her sunhat back on her head. “I can make it back just fine.”

Jean chuckles. “You sure about that?”

When she turns around she sees his jest in his eyes, but refuses to play his game. “I can handle a little walk.” 

Before can respond with his usual snark, Hugo slips through the door and onto the porch. On reflex Jean manages to stop the mighty canine, promptly grasping Hugo’s collar and holding back the dog’s final attempt to leap on their guest.

“Hugo, no!” Jean exclaims for what feels like the thousandth time that day. 

Mikasa lets out a polite chuckle as Jean wrangles the beast back into the house. In contrast, Hugo looks cheerful as he taps his paws against the wooden porch, his master struggling to haul him indoors. 

As Jean continues his backbreaking task, Mikasa takes a moment to take in the view of the coast. In the distance she can see the water lapping at the rocks lining the beach, the sound caressing her ears with the grace of a worldly waltz. The sight of it all feels too good to be true. 

To wake up to a view like this every day would be a blessing, she thinks, then once the thought comes to mind a pang of envy clenches at her heart. 

Sure, she's thankful for the abode that Historia provided her, a cottage just off the property of the Reiss Orphanage, much like the one Jean built for himself. But the closest body of water to that is a creek that leads to a mere pond. To say that it pales in comparison to the cloud of seafoam gathering on the beach is an understatement. 

Eventually, Jean manages to get Hugo into the cottage and closes the door before the beast can escape. 

“I think he likes you too much,” he says, chuckling awkwardly. 

Mikasa hums. “I was getting that impression.” 

Soon comes a moment where neither of them speak, and in that time the sound of the sea does what it always does and resonates throughout this side of paradise. Only a few more seconds pass before Mikasa realizes that this may be it. 

Their reunion over wine, scallops, and stories of heartbreak had finally reached its end. An afternoon and evening that had brought a sense of warmth to her, one that she hasn’t felt in the last few years, is over and she doesn’t know what to say. 

She's tempted to try something like “We should do this again,” but decides against it because she's not even sure when ‘again’ would be. 

Fortunately, Jean speaks before she does. 

“Your hair looks nice, by the way.”

The sudden change in subject catches her off-guard. For a second she had even forgotten that she stepped into a barbershop just a few hours ago and stepped out with a bob. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly conscious of how she appears. 

“I got it cut today,” she says instead of thanking him. 

“Oh… well, it looks good,” he says with the earnestness he had shown all throughout dinner. “I was uh… gonna say something before, but I was afraid you’d just cut it all off again.” In no time Jean is visibly cringing at his own words. Again. “Sorry, bad joke.” 

It takes a moment for Mikasa to remember exactly what he’s referring to, but soon the memory of a twelve-year-old boy telling a twelve-year-old girl that her hair was very beautiful comes to mind. Though the most vivid thing she can recall is the way Eren’s fingers touched the ends of her hair, followed by his suggestion to cut it and her immediate promise to follow through. 

“You still remember that?” she asks, intrigued and impressed. 

Jean chuckles again. “Well… I think I remember it a little differently.” 

She wants to laugh with him, yet the only thing she can think about is how her memory is not as good as it used to be. Even if the incident he recalled happened fifteen years ago, she's embarrassed over her inability to recall even the most placid of happenings. 

As Mikasa wallows in her own personal failings, Jean keeps his eyes on her and waits for her to speak again. When she doesn’t he simply runs his hand through his hair once more, unsure how to steer the conversation now.

“See you around?”

Something tightens in Mikasa's chest. “I’m actually leaving town tomorrow,” she reveals a little too abruptly. 

“Tomorrow?” Jean asks, surprised. The slightest bit of disappointment is visible on his face. There's a chance that he had gotten too used to the presence of another in the last few hours, so much so that he had forgotten that it couldn't last forever. “Historia’s really forcing you on holiday, huh?” 

“She’s very insistent,” Mikasa surmises, figuring that this may be the best way she can explain it. 

Jean nods knowingly, though the wistful look in his eyes persists. “Come by any time, then?” 

“I might,” Mikasa says, keeping the softness in her voice. She doesn't know if she'll stay true to her words, so to distract herself she glances upon the dirt beds in front of his house. “Your garden’s a mess, by the way.” 

Jean sighs and nods. “Yeah, I know. I haven’t had time to uh… make it less shit. I’ve been busy.” 

Once more, she notices the dots of paint on his trousers and boots, details that tell her all she needs to know.

“I figured.” 

She meets his eyes again. It doesn’t take too long for her to realize that they've really been prolonging the inevitable. Another separation, but at least this one a little less bittersweet. 

“I guess this is it then,” Mikasa says. 

“It is,” Jean says. His words feel weighty. There's something in his eyes that tells her that he doesn't want to let go, not yet. “So… I’ll see you-” 

“Jean, I’m sorry.” 

She speaks before she can stop herself and already regrets it. Her sudden forwardness surprises both him and her. 

As Mikasa takes a moment to ponder just how long she had been holding that in, Jean tilts his head and looks more concerned than confused. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry about how…” she begins, briefly thinking of the right words to say. “...how it ended last time.” 

She sees Jean contemplate what she’s implying, an action that involves crossing his arms over his chest and furrowing his brow. When he seems to realize what she had meant, his face visibly softens. 

“I don’t think there’s anything to be sorry about,” he replies in a surprisingly charitable tone. 

Once he says the words Mikasa thinks she should be relieved — because in theory, the weight of the remorse she had kept inside of her for the last few years should be gone. She had bottled it within her like a poison for far too long. But as she stands in front of Jean with the words of her apology now fading from the air, she realizes that nothing has changed. 

“It was so long ago, too,” Jean adds, touching his chin with his thumb. “I mean… you did get my letter, right?”

The memory he asks of her is a lot more fresh — five years old, just like her regrets. But even then, she finds that she remembers it in fragments — like Jean’s handwriting on a piece of parchment, the glow of a lantern inside her log cabin, and something like a heavy cloud hanging over her head on a very dark night. Upon inspecting her memories a little more closely, Mikasa realizes that while she’s retained a lot of things surrounding Jean’s letter, she can’t recall the contents of the letter itself. Perhaps her inability to remember things precisely is trying to protect her.

“Yes,” Mikasa ends up answering, and in a way she’s telling the truth. 

Jean nods like there's nothing left to stay. “Then that’s all you need to know.” 

She accepts his answer with grace, even if it does nothing to change the hole in her heart. She worries if he’ll stay on the topic for any longer. 

“Goodbye, Mikasa,” Jean tells her instead.

She breathes in and tries to ignore the pressing feeling that they’ve been in this position before. 

“Goodbye, Jean.”

She turns around before she can say anything else, forcing her eyes away from her old friend as she steps off the porch. The wind continues to blow above the surface of the ocean, the ends of her newly trimmed bob, and at her scarf. She fears what would happen if dared to look back and moves with haste. 

Her boots dig into the dirt. With every step she imagines that Jean's seaside abode gets smaller and smaller until it is nothing but a speck amongst the horizon. She leaves behind the life he had built for himself, in which he lives through brushstrokes on a canvas and quiet evenings with his dog, a life she had simply dropped in on like some goddamn tourist. 

Mikasa isn’t not sure when she'll be back. But for now, she’ll return to his world and he’ll return to his. 

…

…

…

Then.

The Breakfast After.

By mid-morning Jean is awoken by the light of the sun shining through the window and by the pain in his back becoming too prominent to ignore. 

As he straightens his back, each ache is a lovely reminder that he had spent last night half-slumped against the headboard. The fact that his joints don’t hate him right now is a miracle, yet it doesn’t make the act of getting out of the bed any easier. 

Disoriented and groggy, he blinks as he gets used to his surroundings. Once he's more awake, the first thing he realizes is that he's sitting on an empty mattress. The spot where Mikasa had slept is now completely vacant, the nightstand that once housed her neatly folded scarf is now bare.

As Jean stretches, he looks around the room and hopes for some kind of indication that she had at least slept well last night — because God knows that he sure as hell didn’t. Though he knows he’ll see her eventually, he can’t stop himself from sighing as he stands and leaves her bedroom. Even the sight of the sun rising above the storm's aftermath can’t deter the sinking feeling inside of his heart. 

Jean goes across the hallway and back to his own room, where he changes into his work clothes before heading out for the day. 

On top of keeping her guests sheltered during the peace talks, Queen Historia has also been keeping them fed. She had reserved one of the palace’s many dining halls just for the Ambassadors, thus allowing them to enjoy their meals in some semblance of privacy. 

As per usual, Jean nearly gets lost on his way to the east wing and thanks a god he doesn’t believe in as he arrives at the door. Upon entering the dining hall, he’s immediately enchanted by the fatty smell of fried cured meats and the buttery scent of freshly baked bread. The sight of the spread on the table makes him forget about the pain in his shoulders in favour of his rumbling stomach. 

He glances around to see the expected crowd. Reiner and Pieck are playing a game with her trusty travel chess set, the latter sipping casually on her tea as she takes down her opponent’s knight. Annie is boredly drizzling honey into her yogurt as she fights back a yawn, making it clear that Jean’s not the only one who slept badly last night. Connie is standing alone by the window, nursing a cup of coffee as he watches the palace staff clear the branches and debris that the storm had blown into garden.

And as to be expected, Mikasa is sitting next to Armin. 

On the far end of the dining table, she and her beloved childhood friend are chatting in the dining hall’s placid atmosphere, poking at the fruit on their plate as they talk. There’s a content look on her face, far from the way it had been just a few hours ago. 

As Jean walks past Connie and gives his friend a reassuring pat on the back, Mikasa glances at him and their gazes meet for a mere second. He sees that serene look of hers falter slightly, but soon she’s returning her attention to Armin and only Armin.

Jean tries not to think too much of their shared look as he finds a spot near Annie. He pours himself some coffee and thinks about how much food he can cram into himself before the first meeting starts. His mind barely wanders as he eats his fill of fried sausages, sliced strawberries, and scrambled eggs. 

Then before Jean knows it, a servant of the palace alerts the Ambassadors and Mikasa that they are needed for their first meeting of the day. As everyone stands up, Jean hears Annie let out another yawn, as well as Reiner grumbling over how he was this close to a checkmate, only for Pieck to say “Sure, you were” with her usual dry wit. 

Jean finishes the last bits of his coffee before putting his cup down. As he walks he slips a crescent roll into his jacket pocket and he joins his comrades, briefly wondering if somewhere out there Sasha’s laughing at his antics.  

Fuelled by caffeine and fried sausages, Jean looks forward and tries to see if the opportunity to do what he needs to do will arise. 

Mikasa is near the back of the crowd, trailing after the majority of the Ambassadors sans Jean. Once he’s close to her he taps her arm, garnering her attention. Their eyes meet again, a gentleness now permeating the way she looks at him. 

“Did you sleep okay?” Jean whispers. 

“I did,” she answers more quickly than he expects. “Thank you.” 

He’s not sure if she means “thank you” as in “thank you for checking on me.” Or “thank you” as in “thank you for staying with me.”  

He doesn’t bother asking for specifics because before he knows it, the Ambassadors and Mikasa are corralled into a meeting room. The space is occupied by a long table, multiple chairs, and various other people clad in impeccable formalwear. It’s a sight that Jean is starting to get sick of but knows better than to let it show. The last thing he lets himself look at is the sight of Mikasa walking away from him, the ends of her scarf and hem of her sweater swaying slightly as she moves and finds a spot next to Armin.

Without anything left to say, Jean takes in another breath and braces himself for another day of peace talks. 

…

…

…

Now. 

A Change of Plans. 

In the morning she is awoken by two things — the bustle of the port town outside her window and a persistent dryness in her throat. On one hand she's not hungover, but on the other she takes a minute to recompose herself by staring at the ceiling and thinking about how tired she is. 

When she stands from her bed she discovers that her clothes from yesterday are scattered on the floor, a reminder of the events of last night. She can only remember the latter half of the evening in parts — like how dark it had been once she arrived at the inn and how exhausted she had been after trudging up to her room. Whatever energy she had left was put towards undressing and slipping into bed. 

In hindsight, perhaps the ‘two’ helpings of wine she had over dinner were a little closer to three.

Barefoot on the floor, Mikasa clothes herself with a sweater from the depths of her suitcase and tries to go on with her routine. After washing her face with the room’s provided pitcher and bowl of water, she gets a glimpse of her face in the mirror on the wall. The dark circles underneath her eyes are never as bad as she fears they are, but as she looks at herself now she cannot fathom how Jean could have possibly spent most of last night looking at her so adoringly. 

When she finds her pocket watch the first thing she notes is that the train she's meant to board is leaving in three hours. The second thing is that despite having known what the plan had been all along, Mikasa can't find it in herself to be excited for it. 

She spots her ticket on the table near the window, remembering the intentions that had already been set out for her. The village in the northwest awaits, a place she’s never been and could potentially explore, but internally the joy she’s meant to feel for the adventure is gone. The desire, the excitement, the zest and zeal for going far beyond her little place in the world isn't there. 

Letting out a sigh, Mikasa lies back on the bed. Maybe some coffee could fix her. 

With her eyes on the ceiling she contemplates contacting Historia and telling her that the trip was a bad idea after all, that the stress of travel is too much for her to handle and that she's better off holed up in her cabin for all eternity, shackled and chained like the madwoman in the attic. 

As her mind goes through the possible excuses she can give, Mikasa exhales and wonders how one person could be so pathetic. 

A few minutes pass as she listens to the sound of the town outside her window. She hears carts being pulled over cobblestones and civilians yelling over the noise, merchants trying to sell their goods and children running amok. 

She hears one seller in particular raving about his potatoes, of all things, going on and on about how there's plenty to go around and even the smaller ones are worth saving and planting later. 

Intrigued for a reason she doesn't even know, Mikasa pulls herself off her bed and goes to the window. She pulls back the curtain to see the seller standing on the street with a cart full of vegetables, a bright smile plastered on his face as he speaks to the flow of passerbys.

As Mikasa observes the crates of goods practically overflowing in his cart, as well as the bags of smaller spuds for those willing to plant them, an idea comes to mind. It feels farfetched, more improbable than anything she’s done in a while, but even after giving it a few seconds she finds herself warming up to the thought. 

She takes a moment to compare her newly concocted plans with the one already set out for her. When she realizes that she would much rather do that than hop on a train in the afternoon and go to a town she doesn’t even know, Mikasa takes the first step. She gets dressed, heads downstairs to the manager’s desk at the entrance of the inn, and extends her stay.

[correlance]

Theory: Valentino was the famous 1920s actor Rudolph Valentino, the "Latin Lover".

Who was Rudolph Valentino?

Rodolfo Pietro Filiberto Raffaello Guglielmi di Valentina d'Antonguella (May 6, 1895 – August 23, 1926), known professionally as Rudolph Valentino and nicknamed the "Latin Lover", was an Italian actor based in the United States who starred in several well-known silent films from 1921 to 1926, including The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, The Sheik, Blood and Sand, The Eagle, and The Son of the Sheik.

Valentino was a sex symbol of the 1920s, known in Hollywood as the "Latin Lover" (a title invented for him by Hollywood moguls), the "Great Lover", or simply "Valentino". His early death at the age of 31 caused mass hysteria among his fans, further cementing his place in early cinematic history as a cultural film icon.

Valentino was born in Castellaneta, Apulia, Italy…unable to secure employment in Italy, he departed for the United States in 1913. He was processed at Ellis Island at age 18 on December 23, 1913. Valentino never applied for American citizenship, and retained his Italian citizenship.

Arriving in New York City, he supported himself with odd jobs such as busing tables in restaurants and gardening. Around 1914, restaurateur Joe Pani who owned Castles-by-the-Sea, the Colony, and the Woodmansten Inn was the first to hire Rudolph to dance the tango with Joan Sawyer for $50 per week.

Eventually, he found work as a taxi dancer at Maxim's Restaurant-Cabaret. Among the other dancers at Maxim's were several displaced members of European nobility, for whom a premium demand existed…Valentino left town [in 1917], and joined a traveling musical that led him to the West Coast.

[…] With his dancing success, Valentino found a room of his own on Sunset Boulevard, and began actively seeking screen roles. His first part was as an extra in the film Alimony, moving on to small parts in several films. Despite his best efforts, he was typically cast as a "heavy" (villain) or gangster. At the time, the archetypal major male star was Wallace Reid, with a fair complexion, light eyes, and an All-American look, with Valentino the opposite; he eventually supplanted Sessue Hayakawa as Hollywood's most popular "exotic" male lead.

[…] With the Douglas Fairbanks type being the supposed epitome of manhood, Valentino was sometimes portrayed as a threat to the "All American" man. One man, asked in a street interview in 1922 what he thought of Valentino, replied, "Many other men [say they] desire to be another Douglas Fairbanks. But Valentino? I wonder…"

Women in the same interview found Valentino, quote, "Triumphantly seductive. He puts the love-making of the average husband or sweetheart into discard as tame, flat, and unimpassioned."

Some journalists were still calling [Valentino's] "masculinity" into question, going on at length about his pomaded hair, his dandyish clothing, his treatment of women, his views on women, and whether he was "effeminate" or not. Valentino hated these stories, and was known to carry clippings of the newspaper articles around with him and criticize them.

In July 1926, the Chicago Tribune reported that a vending machine dispensing pink talcum powder (face powder) had appeared in an upscale hotel's men's washroom. An editorial that followed used the story to protest the supposed feminization of American men, and blamed the talcum powder on Valentino and his films. The piece infuriated Valentino, and he challenged the writer to his choice of a boxing or wrestling match, since dueling was illegal. Neither challenge was answered.

Shortly afterward, Valentino met with journalist H. L. Mencken for advice on how best to deal with the incident. Mencken advised Valentino to "let the dreadful farce roll along to exhaustion" (i.e. "do nothing"), but Valentino insisted the editorial was "infamous", [and must be answered for in a one-on-one fight].

After Valentino challenged the Tribune's anonymous writer to a boxing match, the New York Evening Journal boxing writer, Frank O'Neill, volunteered to fight in his place. Valentino won the bout, which took place on the roof of New York's Ambassador Hotel.

Heavyweight champion Jack Dempsey, who trained Valentino and other Hollywood notables of the era in boxing, said of him: "He was the most virile and masculine of men. The women were like flies to a honeypot. He could never shake them off, anywhere he went. What a lovely, lucky guy."

Mencken found Valentino to be likable and gentlemanly, and wrote sympathetically of him in an article published in The Baltimore Sun a week after Valentino's death:

"It was not that trifling Chicago episode that was riding him; it was the whole grotesque futility of his life. Had he achieved, out of nothing, a vast and dizzy success? Then that success was hollow as well as vast—a colossal and preposterous nothing. Was he acclaimed by yelling multitudes? Then every time the multitudes yelled, he felt himself blushing inside…the thing, at the start, must have only bewildered him, but in those last days, unless I am a worse psychologist than even the professors of psychology, it was revolting him. Worse, it was making him afraid…here was a young man who was living daily the dream of millions of other men. Here was one who was catnip to women. Here was one who had wealth and fame, and here was one who was very unhappy [in spite of that wealth and fame]."

[…] Valentino was also the "sex symbol" of his time in the 1920s. The sheet music cover for "Rodolph Valentino Blues" written in 1922, to quote the lyrics, "Oh Mister Rodolph Valentino / I know I've got the Valentino blues / And when you come up on the screen / Oh! You're so romantic, I go frantic at the views!

[…] [Prior to his death], Valentino was fascinated with every part of movie-making. During production on a Mae Murray film, he spent time studying the director's plans. He craved authenticity and wished to shoot on location, finally forming his own production company, Rudolph Valentino Productions, in 1925. Valentino, George Ullman, and Beatrice Ullman were the incorporators.

[…] Valentino once told gossip columnist Louella Parsons that: "The women I love don't love me. The others don't matter." He claims that despite his success as a sex symbol, in his personal love life, he never achieved happiness.

[…] In 1919—just before the rise of his career—Valentino impulsively married actress Jean Acker, who was also [romantically] involved with actresses Grace Darmond and Alla Nazimova.

Acker became involved with Valentino in part to remove herself from the lesbian love triangle, quickly regretted the marriage, and locked Valentino out of their room on their wedding night. The couple separated soon after, and the marriage was never consummated [on account of Acker being a lesbian]. 

The couple remained legally married until 1921, when Acker sued Valentino for divorce, citing desertion. The divorce was granted, with Acker receiving alimony. She and Valentino eventually renewed their friendship, and remained friends until his death.

[His second marriage to actress Winifred Shaughnessy, known by her stage name, Natacha Rambova—an American silent film costume and set designer, art director, and protégée of Alla Nazimova, his ex-wife's lesbian lover—ended far more poorly.

The two married in 1922, remarried in 1923, and divorced in 1925. Towards the end of their marriage, Rambova was banned from his sets by contract. The end of the marriage was bitter, with Valentino bequeathing Rambova one dollar in his will.]

[…] From the time he died in 1926 until the 1960s, Valentino's sexuality was not generally questioned in print. At least four books, including the notoriously libelous Hollywood Babylon, suggested that [Valentino] may have been gay, despite his marriage to Rambova. For some, the marriages to Acker and Rambova, as well as the relationship with Pola Negri, added to the suspicion that Valentino was gay, and that these were "lavender marriages".

Some claim that Valentino had a relationship with Ramón Novarro, despite Novarro stating they barely knew each other. Hollywood Babylon recounts a story that Valentino had given Novarro an art deco dildo as a gift, which was found stuffed in his throat at the time of his murder. It is believed that no such gift existed.

There were also claims that he may have had relationships with both roommates Paul Ivano and Douglas Gerrad, as well as Norman Kerry, and openly gay French theatre director and poet Jacques Hébertot. However, Ivano maintained that it was untrue, and both he and Valentino were heterosexual. Biographers Emily Leider and Allan Ellenberger generally agree that [Valentino] was most likely straight, [though others have disputed this].

There was further supposed evidence that Valentino was gay; documents in the estate of the late author Samuel Steward indicated that Valentino and Steward were sexual partners. However, evidence found in Steward's claim was subsequently found to be false, as Valentino was in New York on the date Steward claimed a sexual encounter occurred in Ohio.

[Valentino died on 23 August 1926, at the age of 31, due to complications from perforated ulcer surgery, resulting in sepsis (bacterial poisoning), a collapsed lung, and other fatal conditions.]

[melanieph321]

Ruben Dias - Lost in Sardinia Part 7/8

Summary - Ruben is on a getaway in Sardinia. There he meets a girl named Fiorella. She starts to wonder why Ruben won't tell her what exactly he is getting away from, or even what his real name is.

Enjoy!

There was a cluster of rocks overlooking the white beaches of west coast Sardinia. It's where Fiorella took Ruben. A peaceful place to watch the sun go down to the sound of ocean waves.

"The pressure was getting to me. I was aware that the team was bringing in new players for the upcoming season, players that could replace me if I didn't perform well."

Ruben told her everything. Everything that Chiara had mentioned and more, like the reason he punched his coach.

"And that made you want to punch your coach in the face?" She asked.

"No, I never intended to do that. That was just a result of all the pressure I put myself under. It's normal in football to buy and sell players. But I play for arguably the best football team in the world, with arguably the best football players. If I were to get replaced by another player it would essentially mean that I'm not good enough to..."

"Play with the best?"

"So you get it?"

"Why you punched your coach?" Fiorella snorted. "No, no I don't get it. But feel free to tell me what led up to the event."

"I was just so fucking tired." He sighed.

"Tired of what?"

"Mostly from working overtime. I'm always the first one to arrive at the teams training grounds and the last one to leave. I never give less than 110% during games and I've always remained on a strict diet to stay healthy and fit. I've missed so many family occasion because of training, birthday's, anniversaries, holidays, you name it. Worst part is that I've ruined so many relationships with people I love." Ruben chuckled. "Just ask my ex girlfriends who've ended up hating everything about me,  from the way I brush my teeth to the way I comb my hair."

"So you have many compulsive habits?" Fiorella interrupted, forcing Ruben to stop talking about the many women he had been with before her.

"Yes." He nodded. "I guess you can't say that I have a few compulsive habits. Good habits, but compulsive."

Fiorella nodded, taking it all in. "And the reason for punching your coach?"

Ruben was avoiding the altercation, however, Fiorella wasn't gonna let him. From now on Ruben would have to be completely honest with her even if it hurt. That's what Fiorella's mother once told her was the foundation of love, honesty.

"Right, that." Ruben ran a lazy hand through his hair. He was smiling softly, as if the memory wasn't all too painful.

"Pep, is the name of my coach. For somone who knows football they'll know about Pep and the peculiar way he likes to coach his teams. Don't get me wrong, he's definitely one of the best coaches out there, however he can be very blunt and harsh with his critic."

"What did he say?" Fiorella gasped.

"Nothing I've never been called before, the difference this time is that I was so mentally exhausted that I couldn't see past the critic he was giving, resulting in me loosing my cool and....well....you know."

Fiorella nodded, releasing the big chunk of air that compressed her torso. She still had so may questions, one question in particular, however, Ruben beat her to it.

"Why did you bring me here?" He asked, his eyes shimmering with the distant sunlight.

"Oh, I..." Fiorella crumbled with embarrassment. She had never wanted to bring someone to The Kissing Rocks until now. When she was younger her friends would tease her for running home after school. Fiorella would rather run down to the docks for a swim or play on the farm with her dog, than spend an evening shoving her tounge down somebody's throat. The thought of kissing had never amused her, more so disgusted her. That is, until she met Ruben.

"Can I ask you something first?" She said, feeling like he owed her that.

"Of course."

"Why come to Sardinia of all places?"

It was a question that had been itching her scalp. His decision to come to the island, her island, had certainetly changed the course of Fiorella's life and so she curiously wanted to know what drew him here.

"Well, although it's a tourist attraction there's not so many people here, especially during late summer. I needed privacy, a place to think and stay out of the spotlight, Sardinia was the perfect place to get that. Besides, I used to come here with my family during summer vacations when I was younger."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Every summer for the first twelve years of my life."

Fiorella couldn't fathom the idea. If Ruben had spent his childhood summer's in Sardinia the two of them must have crossed roads before. Perhaps when Fiorella was a young girl, roaming the streets with the puppy she received from Nonno for Christmas.

"My family used to rent an apartment on the island, it was actually at the complex that I'm staying at now..."

"Wait, so you're telling me that you don't live in your boat by the docks?"

Ruben eyes widened in suprise. "Why would you think that?"

"I mean...it's where I first met you, where you always told me to meet you. A person could comfortably live in your boat which is practically a smal yacht."

Ruben chuckled.

It was nice to hear him chuckle.

"No i don't live on a boat, but an apartment. It's where my friend Bernardo is waiting for me. His parents are lawyers and has been helping me with my case against my club. If things go well I'll be able to return at the end of the summer, just ahead of the start of the new season."

"Right." Fiorella nodded. Return....We should probably return you to your friend then." Fiorella would be returning to the flower shop where a fuming Nonna would be waiting for her.

"I remember this place."

Fiorella had risen to her feet, wiping dirt of her shorts when Ruben spoke. He was looking up at her, his head tilted back.

"You do?"

"Yeah, a girl brought me here once. She was also Sardinian."

"Was she?" Fiorella felt a slight beat appear in her chest.

"Yes. She called this place the Kissing Rocks. I don't know why, but she told me that we couldn't leave until I'd kissed her."

"Huh, funny." Fiorella muttered.

"Fiorella?"

"Yes Ruben?"

"Can I kiss you?"

The soft light from the sun made the shape of his face look smooth. Fiorella stepped forward, placing a hand on his cheek. She bent down her head, stopping when their foreheads came together.

"How would you like to kiss me Ruben,  soft hard or a bit of both?"

He smiled. "Whichever way you like it."

Fiorella was brought back, eyebrows furrowed. "What does that mean?"

Ruben looked up at her, his expression serious. "It means whatever you say goes, okay? "

Fiorella nodded. "Okay."

Ruben's hands on her waist drew her back in, still, it was Fiorella who was running the show. She bent down to softly kiss his lips. They took their time exploring, finding new depths of thier kiss. Fiorella brought both of her hands to Ruben's face, letting his rough stubble tickle underneath the palm of her hands. Ruben released a deep groan from beneath his throat, indicating that whatever she was doing he liked it.

To any starnger passing by the kiss looked soft and sweet. But it was far from it. It was overwhelmingly passionate, a desire for one another that could not be transmitted into words. Fiorella wanted more and Ruben wanted more but somehow a silent agreement was made between the two, an agreement that from now on they would take things slow, real slow. All on Fiorella's terms.

********************************************

Leaving The Kissing Rocks behind Fiorella and Ruben returned into town. As they walked, their fingers intertwined, Fiorella felt a sense of happiness that she hadn't experienced in a long time.

"Look, there she is!"

They were approaching the town square when unexpectedly, Fiorella's heart sank as she spotted her entire family standing there, including her beloved Nonna.

Confusion washed over her as she saw the worried expressions etched on their faces. Seconds later, her mother rushed towards her, engulfing her in a tight hug. "Fiorella! We've been searching everywhere for you! We thought something terrible had happened!"

Fiorella's eyes widened in surprise, still trying to comprehend what was happening. She exchanged a bewildered look with Ruben, who squeezed her hand reassuringly. "I'm sorry, Mama. I lost track of time. I didn't think anyone would worry."

Nonna approached, a mix of relief and sternness in her eyes. "How could you just disappear without a word? We were so concerned, Fiorella. And who is this man?" She gave Ruben the evil eye, all of her family members did.

Ruben, sensing Fiorella's predicament, stepped forward introducing himself "Ciao. I'm Ruben Dias. I'm sorry for causing everyone to worry. It's my fault we lost track of time."

Nonna studied Ruben intently, her eyes softening. "Well, young man, you had us all half out of our wits. But since you seem to bring a smile to my granddaughter's face, I suppose we can overlook this slip-up. Just don't let it happen again."

Fiorella's family, their initial worry transforming into a mixture of curiosity and amusement, surrounded her and Ruben. They bombarded them with questions about who Ruben was, how they had met, and what their plans for the future were.

"She's not married you know."

"Nonna."

"Her sister is getting married though,  the day after tomorrow."

"You should come...Fiorella wants you to come."

"Chiara." Fiorella frowned. They were embarrassing her.

"Ruben Dias...aren't you that football player that punched Pep Guardiola in the face?"

"Dad please." Fiorella said, clenching her teeth. Ruben only smiled, answering each question thrown at him with genuine warmth and sincerity.

Fiorella felt a sense of relief wash over her. Despite the unexpected circumstance, her family had embraced Ruben as part of their lives with open arms. The initial panic had quickly turned into a joyous reunion.

"...no really, it would be an honor to have you at my wedding." Chiara was clearly fangirling over Ruben, however her fiance didn't seem to mind, the opposite really. To have Ruben, a professional footballer, come to their wedding would simply be the coolest thing.

"And bring Bernardo!" Enzo shouted. As he and the rest of Fiorella's family returned ro their respective car's.

"I'm sorry about them." Fiorella sighed.

"You have alot of people that care about you, that's good."

"I guess, sometimes I wish they didn't care so much."

"Don't." He said. "Your amazing Fiorella, if anyone gets the honor having you in their life I understand why they would be so afraid of losing you, I am too."

"Ruben." She lost for words. Nothing needed to be said though, the way Ruben bent down and kissed her siad it all.

"I have some things to take care of tomorrow." He pulled back from their kiss. "But if you'll have me I'd love to accompany you to the wedding of your sister."

Fiorella shook her head, trying to hold in the tears. What a day, she was so overwhelmed with love.

"Is that a yes or...?"

"Of course you idiot. Yes, I'd love for you to be my date for my sisters wedding."

He grinned. "It's a date then."

Ruben bent down and stole another kiss. He spoke against her lips. "Buonasera Fiorella Costa."

She smiled. "Buonasera Ruben Dias."

Taglist:

@christianpulisic10

[cerise-grenadine]

Muireann, 1995-96.

Head Girl studying some kind of magical artifact at Hogwarts & chilling back home on the south-west coast of Ireland.

so the other day i was playing Animal Crossing wondering how i could best do a traditional Western Irish outfit for my OC and fell down a rabbit hole of historical fashion on youtube and ended up thinking "Wait i could just draw her instead of trying to clumsily recreate this in ACNH 🤔" SO I DID. (kudos to me for drawing instead of playing)(and kudos to fashion history nerds on youtube i love you 🙏🏻)

AND I'M SO HAPPY I DID. i'm in love with my drawing. i created her in like 2002 or something and it's the first time ever i'm happy with how her face turned out 🥹

drawn after Bouguereau's magnificent work. sketched on paper, corrected a bit + painted on computer.

as for her outfit, i took inspiration in several sources. i think i read/heard somewhere red skirts would traditionally be for married women, but it's such a pretty colour i put it on her shawl. also i did not go as far as to draw patterns on her clothes because it's waaay out of my league haha.

[martiandmichelle]

OK, so, our studio is certainly dedicated to big natural boobs, but we also occasionally feature great legs. The legs in all three of these photos belong to one incredible lady, Dana. Dana is the Senior Director and General Manager of our studio and is responsible for the 150+ employees and site. She is the fucking best boss imaginable. She's tough and not one person at the studio will cross her, but she's fair. If an employee - in front of or behind the cameras - does his/her job then life at the studio is wonderful with Dana at the lead. Fuck up, and she'll drill you a new one. At 6'1½" tall in her bare feet with flaming red hair she makes quite a presence, especially since she's usually wearing a miniskirt (more often than not in yellow) and has, as you can see, perfect long legs. We all thoroughly enjoy when she gets in front of the camera because it's our time to give back to her what she gives to us. Our corporate office out on the west coast has tried to give her a VP position but she has no interest in leaving our studio (Studio M as we call it - not its real name) or us, her lovers. She is married to our model with the second largest bust (after mine), Gail.

Of all the ladies here, I've known Dana longer than any save for Michelle (my daughter, of course), Maria (Michelle's wife and my photographer/agent), and my oldest friend Gina. Dana is a certified physical therapist specializing in women's issues which is how I met her - I needed help with my back to deal with my huge boobs. She worked magic on me and we became lovers as well as friends. The management of our agency saw her potential as a manager and, well, she's being doing a great job for the last 3 years.

I hope you enjoy her incredible legs. She sports A cup boobs in our environment of huge breasted models but her incredible beauty and awesome long legs give her her own place as a model.

(I just realized that after writing that Dana's favorite dress color is yellow, every photo I chose shows her in black! Ah well, that's me at 73. Oh, and did you notice that dog legs at the bottom left of the top right picture. That's our little handicapped dog Riley. His back legs don't work but her scoots around the houses just fine. And he has a wheelchair for longer walks!)

[brw]

Could you please give me a Greer Nelson reading list & a TigerAnt reading list? Thanks.

oooo okay, to be honest these lists are very similar so i'll incorporate them together for you. many thanks to @pymcoded for helping make this list!

the cat #1-#4 is her first solo series and shows her before she is tigra, it's really interesting n one of the first marvel comics written by a woman and is very based in second wave feminism politics.

giant size creatures is where she first becomes tigra.

marvel chillers #3-#7 is a short lived series she stars in beginning issue 3 and is pretty interesting n cool n further establishes her tigra identity

marvel two-in-one #19, fantastic four v1 #177-#184 is her first time working in a team and shows her friendship with ben grimm! she's not majorly in it but it is a good taste for her in team dynamics.

marvel premiere #42 finishes off dr tumolo's side of things and builds upon the cat people and greer's relationship with them.

avengers v1 #211-#216 is her stint on the avengers, as with the fantastic four she's not a main character but it does set up and establish her future relationships with a lot of these characters!

west coast avengers is a big one for both greer and her relationship with hank so definitely read this if that's what you're interested in. i would say just to keep going with this series really until vision and wanda become bigger characters because from that point their arcs dominate a lot of this series and i don't remember tigra having any major character focused issues the later on it goes.

marvel comics presents #162-#165 is a weird interesting story with some really wonderful art taking place in australia where tigra seeks revenge on soldiers for kidnapping aboriginal women. not exactly sensitive but an interesting read.

avengers infinity is a fun team up comic including monica and starfox, again she's not a massive player but it's fun and i like her dynamic with the other cast.

tigra #1-#4 is her solo series which i generally like for the art and the arc of her uncovering police corruption, however it's not perfect in that it ties a lot more importance to her dead cop husband and does go on a bit of a "not all cops!" thing but for a mainstream comic in the 2000s it's pretty interesting.

avengers academy is the next big one for her and hank, i would say read all of it but good issues to focus on are #7, #8, #13-#15, #27-#28, #31, #38-#39

avengers: solo #1-#5 b story is a cute one where hank takes some avengers academy kids out n him and greer are very sweet in it.

moon knight 2021 is her most recent big appearances, she's a semi regular occuring member since #4 so keep reading that, #22 is her big character focused issue so prioritise reading that.

and yeah! that's my tigra reading list, this is most of what i would consider her essential appearances with one or two bonus issues for her and hank :) hope this helps!

[kuramirocket]

Mexican biologist Yuliana Bedolla 

Off Mexico's west coast, the Baja California Pacific Islands are key global nesting sites for 23 seabird species and Natividad Island shelters 90 percent of the breeding population of the Black-vented Shearwater (Puffinus opisthomelas).

Mexican conservation biologist Yuliana Rocío Bedolla Guzmán, Director of the Marine Birds Project at Grupo de Ecología y Conservación de Islas (GECI) says that invasive mammals like cats and rats wiped out at least 27 seabird colonies in the past.

The researchers have been working with fishing cooperatives to decrease the likelihood of reintroductions that would lead to expensive eradication efforts.

"In 2021, we created the local community group “Líderes Comunitarios'' formed by enthusiastic and committed women who have received formal training on island biosecurity and bird identification, and are becoming agents of change in their communities," Bedolla says.

Recently, Bedolla won a 2023 Whitley Award from UK charity Whitley Fund for Nature (WFN) and will use the funding to boost the role of local women and fishing cooperative.

"The goal is to continue preventing the accidental introduction of invasive mammals on Natividad and San Benito Oeste islands by actively involving local leaders and fishing cooperatives in biosecurity protocols," she says.

"My Grain of Sand"

Bedolla grew up far from the sea in Moroleón, a small town in central Mexico, where she enjoyed being out in nature.

"But I had my Eureka moment when I learned to snorkel when I was 12 years old at a beach in Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, in the Mexican Pacific," she says adding that she remembered a feeling of amazement, wonder and a new sense of connection to nature.

"That experience was life-changing for me and marked the beginning of my journey as a conservationist," Bedolla says, "From that moment on, I knew I wanted to become a marine biologist and contribute with my grain of sand."

She would go on to study Marine Biology at the Universidad Autónoma de Baja California Sur in La Paz, Baja California Sur, Mexico, learning to dive and study coral reefs and associated invertebrates on several islands in the Gulf of California.

Bedolla would contact GECI in the course of her masters degree and years later, after a Phd in Germany, GECI offered her the directorship of the Marine Birds Project.

Bedolla says that being from the Global South helps her to bring diverse perspectives and approaches to scientific research, which can lead to more innovative and creative solutions.

The San Benito Islands, which is among the islands Yuliana Bedolla is trying to protect from invasive species

Yuliana is a marine biologist, graduated with honors from the Autonomous University of Baja California Sur (UABCS).

She is a Master in Coastal Oceanography from the Autonomous University of Baja California (UABC) and a PhD candidate from the Justus Liebig University of Giessen in Germany. For her doctorate, she obtained a scholarship in Germany. Yuliana speaks Spanish and English and has basic knowledge of the German language. Her doctoral research focuses on the foraging ecology of three petrel species that nest in the San Benito Archipelago, in the Pacific of Baja California.

She began collaborating with the Ecology and Conservation of Islands Group, A.C., (GECI), in 2009 as a field biologist, and is currently the director of the Seabird Project, which aims to restore and conserve seabirds through the use of social attraction systems in conjunction with systematic monitoring, research and environmental education. She has carried out numerous research studies with national and international institutions. Her scientific publications in international journals focus on the response of seabirds to environmental conditions, the parasites that infect seabirds and the response of native fauna to the eradication of invasive mammals.

She has collaborated with several national seabird conservation programs and has been directly involved in environmental restoration projects in Isla Isabel, San Benito Archipelago, Banco Chinchorro and Arrecife Alacranes, related to the eradication of invasive rodents for the benefit of seabird colonies, among other island species. Her activities at GECI include project planning, staff coordination and supervision, applied research and monitoring, environmental education with local communities and dissemination of information in conferences and scientific reports and publications.

Source

[separatist-apologist]

Neon In The Nighttime

Summary: It's the end of the word as we know it. A west coast baker and the drummer of a metal band team up in Boston, MA thinking they're one of the last few people left alive after a viral outbreak turns those infected into blood hungry monsters.

Their destination: Los Angeles, California- the last place Lucien's eldest brother was living while gearing up for a presidential run. Lucien is desperate to escape the memories of his past life and what he had to do when his wife, Jes, became infected. Elain wants to try and reclaim the fractured pieces of the life she remembers before everything went to hell.

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Read on AO3

Thank you @corcracrow for the moodboard

Elain thought it was a terrible idea to open the door given they didn’t know if this even was Tamlin. It seemed cruel to keep him out in the dark, though, and crueler still to have that conversation while Tamlin could hear. And Lucien looked so happy to see his friend that Elain remained silent as Lucien stumbled into the night and pulled the blonde man into a rough embrace.

“How the fuck—” Lucien’s question dissolved into a joyful laugh as Tamlin clapped him on the back.

“I didn’t get far,” Tamlin’s rich timbre replied. His expression was lost to the nighttime, though Elain swore she heard a smile. “Fuckin’ Indiana.” 

Elain twisted as Tamlin climbed into the back, his eyes falling on her while carefully pushing their supplies to the side. “What happened to Jes?”

Lucien slammed the door a little too roughly. “She didn’t make it. This is Elain. We’re…”

“Friends,” Elain finished for him, sparing Lucien from having to say anymore. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Tamlin was handsome and young—maybe five years older than Lucien. He looked well-fed and healthy which Elain supposed was a blessing in a world ravaged by a virus. 

“Lucky you two found each other,” Tamlin said with ease, reclining back in the cab. “Need a place to crash for a day or two?”

Lucien and Elain glanced at each other. They had gas tanks in the back of their car, as well as other things that were valuable in a world without currency. Elain didn’t want to be the one to tell Tamlin no given Lucien’s history, but she didn’t want to stay in Indiana, either. 

“Maybe for the night,” Lucien agreed, his tone cautious. If Tamlin caught it, he didn’t betray any discomfort.

“Alright, cool. At least take a break from running. Have you seen any infected?”

“A few,” Lucien told Tamlin after getting instructions on where to go. Straight to New Fort Wayne just a mile up the road. They might have stopped anyway, might have run into Tamlin organically by sheer chance. 

“I haven’t seen one in months,” Tamlin told them, leaning between their two seats. “Are they rotting?”

Elain closed her eyes, not wanting to remember those bodies tripping mindlessly into an elevator shaft. Lucien gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles bled white, hiding the calluses and cuts from the steel cable they’d climbed down. 

“Yes.”

Tamlin read enough in Lucien’s tone not to ask a follow up question. Instead, he provided instructions, turning them from the interstate down a dark, winding road that led to gravel, and then dirt. Hidden among the trees in a place no one would look unless they knew what it was they were trying to find, lay a fence eight feet high and made of wood and curling barbed wire over the top.

There was no getting in…and as they pulled through open gates, Elain wondered if there was any getting out. Lucien must have thought the same thing because he asked, “Do we ask to leave in the morning?”

“I’ll let you out,” Tamlin replied with that easy smile. “Whenever you’re ready. This isn’t a prison—it’s just a little commune of survivors.”

That did little to ease Elain’s anxiety, especially when Tamlin so casually added, “We separate men and women. I’ll have to wake—”

“No.” Lucien’s voice silenced them both as he parked his car in the grass. “Elain stays with me.”

Tamlin shifted. “There are rules–”

“She stays with me.”

Tamlin cleared his throat, clearly trying to figure out what was going on. “You two are friends—”

“She’s with me. That’s all anyone needs to know,” Lucien told Tamlin, not daring to look at either of them. “If you have to separate us, then it was good to see you, Tam. Really. But I think we’ll keep heading west.”

“Don’t—” Tamlin took a breath before looking at Elain. “You two can stay together. We’re trying to minimize unnecessary risk, that’s all.”

Elain could read well enough between the lines. They were trying to keep children from being born without careful and thoughtful planning. That made sense to her, and still she was grateful Lucien had insisted they wouldn’t be separated. 

Elain didn’t move until Lucien pulled open her car door, grabbing her hand like Tamlin was going to snatch her away. Tamlin watched, too, his expression unreadable in the dark.

“C’mon,” he finally said, gesturing for them both to follow him. Lucien slung his arm around Elain’s shoulder, too possessive to be casual. As if anyone was going to try and steal her…and yet,

Elain appreciated Lucien’s willingness to stake a claim at all. It meant he wasn’t going to abandon her for Tamlin, which she’d been privately afraid of the minute Lucien leapt from the car to greet his old friend. 

Tamlin led them down an immaculate path into a clearing that, much to Elain’s surprise, was lit up. Lucien, too, paused to take in the rows of wood-built houses that reminded her a little of an eighteenth century suburban neighborhood. But the electricity and the sound of whirring blades made Elain pull from Lucien’s grasp.

“How is this possible?” Lucien asked. Tamlin chuckled, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“We don’t need big companies telling us how to live. I’ll show you in the morning, if you want. For now, I’ve got a place for the two of you.”

“Is there hot water?” Elain found herself asking. Maybe they could stay, if only for the sake of a scalding shower. She still thought of the rusty taps from Ohio that she’d been so grateful for, even if it had been frigid river water. 

“Yes,” Tamlin said, his handsome face made all the more so by that easy smile. “Lots of hot water. And clean clothes, if you want them.”

God, Elain did. She wondered if he recognized her own outfit having come from his closet. Elain stepped a little closer to Lucien, because she still didn’t trust Tamlin, and followed down the neatly laid stone path all the way to the edge of the fence. Lucien was clearly marking their way, though they had a car and could probably force their way through the front gates if they really wanted to.

“There is food in the morning, and no rush to leave. I’m just—it’s good to see a familiar face,” Tamlin told Lucien before handing over a little key. They stood at the bottom of a well-built wooden porch looking at each other. It wasn’t trust, especially on Elain’s end, but there was something especially potent about recognizing another face.

It was easy to feel alone, isolated. Tamlin had a whole community here, people Elain was dying to see in the morning, if only to prove to herself more than just her and Lucien had survived. And if Tamlin was normal, she didn’t see why they couldn’t stay for a little while. Not settle down, but maybe try and relax for the first time since the world went to hell.

“There are towels inside. I’ll have some things left on the porch for you. If you need anything else, just yell.”

And that was that. Lucien and Tamlin hugged one more time, the sort of one-armed, back slapping hug men liked to do. Elain raised a hand, offering a half-hearted wave. He gave one right back, that smile returning before he ducked off and left. Lucien sighed, his own smile slipping at whatever he found in Elain’s expression. 

“Are you happy?” Elain asked him while Lucien slid the metal key into the lock.

“I’m not sure yet,” Lucien admitted, his voice low. “If he gives a place to stay and they let us go, yes.”

“And if this is some insane cult—”

“I’m sure it is,” Lucien interrupted, pushing open the door and beckoning for her to follow him in. “Probably a sex cult, from what I remember about Tam.”

“Really? He had that sort of charisma?”

Lucien chuckled. “Well–no. But he’s got…you know, his face. And he was a rockstar. You don’t have to work so hard when you’re good looking and talented.”

And before she could argue that, Lucien flipped a switch on the wall. Light flooded the room, rendering them both speechless. 

“Wow,” Elain whispered, turning to look at Lucien in the light. Ordinarily, Elain would have sworn Lucien had a soft glow to him, neon even at night. But here, Lucien was practically the sun, Elain a swaying flower desperate for a little warmth.

“Thank you,” she told him, forgetting for a moment he was just her friend. She felt so starry eyed, drinking in his lovely face. Lucien, utterly unaware he was the subject of her fascination, furrowed his brows. 

“For…?”

Right. Get it together. “Asking for us to stay together.”

Lucien cleared his throat. “I just ah…worried.”

“Yeah,” she agreed hastily. “That’s why I said thank you.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Lucien nodded toward the dark hall. “Want to check out the bedrooms?”

Elain thought that was rather optimistic of Lucien, given the size of the house, and was proven right. The hall was little more than three steps, opening into a bedroom that smelled strongly of cedar. The bed itself was small, draped in white linens that matched the curtain along the window. Another door opened into a small bathroom that had, to Elain’s relief, a working toilet and a tub that filled with water. 

Lucien hadn’t moved from the hall, still staring at that bed. Dread filled Elain’s stomach. “Lucien?”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, unable to meet her eye. “Just…give me a second? I’m gonna grab something from the truck.”

Pace around as he wondered if he was betraying his wife, more like it. Elain nodded, though, thumbing toward the tub. “I’ll take the first bath then, if you don’t mind.”

“Go for it.” Said, staring straight at his shoes. Great. She’d just admired his face, she hadn’t wanted to undress him. Lucien was imagining too much, and when he turned abruptly, leaving her to her bath, Elain felt a little measure of relief. He wasn’t the only one grappling with things, she thought in annoyance. Thinking he was handsome and wanting to see him naked were two different things, besides.

He was her friend, and maybe that was why it stung. Did he see her as a friend at all?

Elain pondered that for so long, by the time she’d talked herself out of her worries, the water had become frigid.

She hadn’t even noticed.

LUCIEN:

“Knew I’d found you out here,” Lucien lied, making his way back to where he’d parked his truck. A few yards off stood Tamlin, staring up at the sky.

“I had to give up smoking,” Tamlin admitted ruefully, pushing his shoulder off a rough tree. “Still like being out here, though.”

“Yeah,” Lucien agreed. This was the perfect distraction from Elain, with her big brown eyes and her too trusting expression. He felt like a bastard—and not just on her behalf, but Jes’s too. The thoughts he’d had, though…Lucien knew he was better off burying them.

Elain was his friend. His incredibly beautiful friend, and nothing more. 

“What’s going on with you and…”

“Elain,” Lucien finished, exhaling softly. “We met after Jes…” fuck he couldn’t do this. “Anyway, we’re heading toward California.”

“For the cure?” Tamlin asked, utterly blowing Lucien’s mind. “I heard that’s up in Seattle now. At least, that’s where they were heading—”

“Whoa, slow down. What cure?”

“Two scientists and a doctor came through her….eight months ago?” Tamlin began, scrunching his face as he tried to remember. “Maybe they were military. Anyway, they claimed they had a cure—it can’t bring anyone who has been infected back, but it keeps the virus from…whatever it does. They’d been discussing going to Seattle instead of Los Angeles because they’d heard there was a larger human commune up there.”

“I…I never heard any of this.”

“Most people leaving east end up here. So I hear a lot,” Tamlin informed him with a too-knowing look. One that said, you could stay, too. Oh, how Lucien could imagine it. And it was imagining that slow, domestic life that made Lucien feel so guilty again. 

“Tell me the truth. Is this a sex cult?”

Tamlin threw his head back and laughed. “Not anymore,” he choked, hands on his knees. “No one would have fucked your girl, by the way. I know you were thinking it, but we take that really seriously here.”

“She’s with me,” Lucien said, ignoring the way his stomach clenched every time he declared Elain was with him—she’s mine, she belongs with me—

“I’m sorry about Jes,” Tamlin said, perhaps guessing Lucien’s thoughts. “I always really liked her.”

Lucien thought about what Elain said—-that Jes hadn’t felt anything when he killed her. She’d been gone long before he got home, and all he could hope now was that it had been relatively painless. That her last thoughts had been of him.

That she’d known how much he loved her. 

“What about the guys?” Lucien asked, trying to remember their names. “Bron…Hart…and—”

“Andras,” Tamlin said, his expression gloomy. “Gone.”

Lucien knew better than to ask if Tamlin had been the one to dispatch them. Let them have these little secrets while they try to heal and try to rebuild.”

“So no to the sex cult?”

Tamlin laughed again. “No sex cult. I wish it was a sex cult. No, it functions more like a little town…if a town had a board of directors, I guess. We’re governed by a majority that get elected once a year. But honestly, we don’t have many problems anymore. Not since that fire.”

Lucien raised his brows but Tamlin only shook his head, jaw set. 

“And you separate men and women—”

“Too many babies that first year,” Tamlin said quickly. “We aren’t equipped for that. I know it’s kind of fucked, but…we lost a lot of women, too. We didn’t have anyone who knew how to deliver babies or what to do when shit went sideways, so we separated everyone. It works a little better…and we found a fuck ton of condoms which didn’t hurt. We’ve got Briar, too, who was a nurse so we’re moving toward integrating.”

“Sounds like a good set up,” Lucien agreed, ignoring how Tamlin’s eyes sharpened. He knew what was coming.

“It is. Fuck, man…it’s so good to see you. I haven’t seen anyone from…before. I know you and her and trying to get to California but there is nothing out there anymore. Who are you looking for, anyway?”

“Eris,” Lucien replied, earning a grimace from Tamlin. Eris was his brother and he cared for him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t blind to what the rest of the world thought of him. Eris had been a bastard, and Lucien didn’t think a global pandemic had done much to change that. 

“You know he’s probably—”

“Yeah, I know,” Lucien interrupted, wiping sweaty palms on his jeans. 

“Stay with us. It’s safe here. I know it’s Indiana but…”

Lucien clapped a hand on Tamlin’s shoulder. “I’ll think about it. We’ll stay tomorrow at least. Get some rest, talk to people.”

A day without driving, without eating old, stale gas station food sounded like heaven, besides. “Good. Stay as long as you want. Real quick…Elain? What’s her last name?”

“Archeron. Why?”

Tamlin shook his head back and forth, a contemplative look on his face. “No reason. She just looked familiar. Have a good night.”

Lucien wasn’t sure if having a good night was possible. Tamlin melted away and Lucien dawdled, making his way to the truck as if he needed anything. Screwing around until exhaustion convinced him to go back, Lucien locked up and plodded toward the little cabin.

It wasn’t her fault that she was beautiful and it wasn’t her fault that he was attracted to her. Elain was his friend and Lucien didn’t want to push her away because he didn’t know how to deal with the guilt and want he felt. It would pass, he told himself. 

The house was lit up when he returned, and old habits convinced Lucien to walk through the little sitting room, with only a wood table and chairs for furniture, flipping off the lights as he went. The kitchen had what he hoped was a working stove and an oven he’d expect to see back in the eighteenth century.

Back down that little hall to the bedroom where Elain lay asleep, curled on her side. Tangled, damp curls spilled over her lovely face—beckoning him to brush them away. Sighing, Lucien took himself to the bathtub and washed himself quickly. The scalding water was, perhaps, the best thing he’d felt since the world went to shit.

“Lucien?” Elain’s voice from the darkened bedroom convinced him to crawl out.

“I’m coming,” he replied, groaning softly. “The water is hot.”

A pause, and then, “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Nice wasn’t the word he’d use, though it was good to hear the smile in her voice. 

“I cried a little,” Elain continued, her voice hoarse from sleep. “I can’t remember the last time my hair felt clean.”

“I know,” he joked, wringing his own out over the tub. “How is the bed?”

“Soft,” she said with a sigh. “Are you…?”

“Yeah, just give me a second.”

Lucien tugged his boxer briefs up over his hips, glancing at his jeans. He didn’t want to sleep in them again and didn’t want to make her uncomfortable, either.

“Hey, Elain? Do ah…do you mind if I skip the clothes?”

Another pause. “Are you naked?”

Lucien ran a hand down his chest, heart thudding in his chest. “Mostly. Nothing obscene.”

“That’s fine. We should have asked Tamlin for a change of clothes before bed.”

Lucien raked a comb through his long hair quickly, towel drying it one last time before shoving it off his face. Turning off the light so not to assault her with his body, Lucien hurried quickly to the bed while Elain scooted comically to try and make room. As if she was the problem and not him. 

The top of Elain’s head hit his collar bones when they stood in front of each other. She was a small woman and though the bed was, too, it was Lucien who was eating up all the space. He hesitated for a moment, trying to figure out how they’d sleep without touching.

And then he gave up. Better to just lean into the closeness rather than admit it was weird. She’d slept on the couch beside him the night before, head on his shoulder. How was that any different? Lucien slid his arm around her middle, careful with where he put his fingers, and drew her away from the edge. 

Elain relaxed the moment her back hit his chest. “It’ll be easier this way,” he said, pushing her hair out of his mouth with his free hand. “And I miss…” Ah, fuck, he shouldn’t have said anything. 

Elain twisted to look at him. “Miss what?”

“Being close to someone,” he forced himself to say. “This is nice.”

Elain sighed, her breath warm against his neck. “The last person who touched me was trying to kill me.”

Lucien blinked away the urge to cry, nodding his head. “Me, too.”

Elain relaxed further into his hold, reaching for his hand until their fingers were interlaced. “How long are we going to stay here, Lucien?”

“A day,” he replied as he focused on just breathing. “Tamlin told me something. He said—” Lucien hesitated, knowing if he told her, Elain would want to go. Looking for a cure would mean giving up on Eris, on any shred of hope that someone he loved had survived. It meant starting over from the very beginning, creating a new life in this new world. 

There was no going back. He could lie to her and try and chase the past. But as Elain blinked those big, brown eyes up at him, Lucien had the most terrible feeling that she might hate him if she found out he’d kept this from her.

She might leave him. Elain and his past weren’t compatible. He couldn’t integrate them.

And Lucien knew he couldn’t go back. Even if he found Eris and the world went back to normal, he’d still be without his wife. He’d still have to carry the knowledge of what it had been like to kill her, to leave her body behind. 

Lucien had been moving purposelessly since everything went to shit. Even now, finding Eris was just a distraction—a last ditch hope that he’d wake up one day and this would all have been a dream. Lucien took a breath, his chest aching for all that he’d lost.

Even as his heart quickened at the thought of everything he might gain if he was just honest. 

“Tamlin said there’s a cure in the pacific northwest.”

Elain leaned up on her elbows, staring down at him. “What kind of cure?”

“It can't’ bring people who were infected back…but it keeps the virus from turning people into zombies.”

“Lucien,” she breathed, her eyes out of focus. “If that’s true…”

“I know.”

“We have to find it,” she said, just like he knew she would. “Lucien, if that’s true it means we’d be safe. We wouldn’t have to do so much running, I would—”

She stopped herself, but Lucien knew what she was thinking. She wouldn’t have to worry that one day she’d have to kill him. He hadn’t even considered that, but looking up at her, eyes shining with hope, he didn’t think he could. Even if it meant dying, too—Lucien couldn’t stomach the thought of killing another person.

“Tamlin thought it was up in Seattle. We’ll head that way and see if it's true.”

Elain settled back in his arms, head resting on his bicep. “I hope it is,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Lucien breathed out a soft sigh. “I do, too.”

[andydrysdalerogers]

Sliding Into Home ~ Are You Sure We Aren't Going Crazy

Pairing: MLB!Frank Adler x Abigail Hernandez (OFC)

Synopsis:

After a trade from Boston to Los Angeles, first baseman Frank Adler would seem to have it all. Money, women, an amazing niece, yes Frank should have it all. Except for one thing. One thing that left after a mistake five years ago. Los Angeles should be the chance to start over. Except she is supposed to be in Boston. Not his new medical director.

* A Frank Adler AU x Major League Baseball Story**

Warning: ANGST (i can't stress this enough), second chances, cheating, eventual smut, slow burn, drug use, abandonment issues, betrayal, domestic violence (i may have missed some), flashbacks

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS. Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated

Previous: The Future is West

Main Masterlist ~Sliding Into Home Masterlist

Abigail Hernandez, Medical Director.  

The sign on the door of her new office was still shiny as Abby stared at it from the outside.  She couldn’t believe, with how young she was, that she was the head doctor for the Dodgers.  Her heart clenched for a moment.  This was supposed to be the Red Sox.  

Moving the day after graduation had been the worst and yet the smartest decision she could have made. While she wished it was under better circumstances, her residency was with the best sports medicine doctor on the West Coast.  She could start over, out of the shadow of her famous ex-boyfriend.  The one she was still, undoubtedly, in love with.  

Her heart clenched again when her mind drifted to thoughts of Mary.  Sweet, angelic Mary, who has done nothing wrong except have an uncle who betrayed Abby with his actions.  She wondered how big Mary was now, if she was still as sharp as she had been when she was starting school.  She wished she had kept in contact, at least with her.  But a clean break is what had been needed at the time.  

In the weeks that followed the breakup, Abby threw herself into her schoolwork.  Medical school was no joke and with wanting to forget her social life. She had converted two years into one, didn’t have a social life but it paid off.  At the end of her third year, she was offered an internship with the Boston Bruins as an assistant to the team doctor.  She got used to how athletes were, what could be done on ice and so forth. That line on her resume allowed her to get her residency at USC after graduation.  

Her parents were sad that she was moving but they didn’t fight it.  They remembered the absolutely broken look that was on their daughter’s face the night she came home.  They knew about the rumors; who didn’t at this point? But she never said a word other than she broke up with him and needed to move back with them.  

She shook her head, not wanting to relive that last fight, the last words spoken to him.  

She finished at Harvard Medical School and graduated top of her class.  Her whole family showed and her now only best friend, Mike.  Mike had been there for her the entire time, never lied to her.  He was the support she needed then. He was there when she went to the airport and hugged her tightly, reminding her that she could call whenever, and he would always answer.  Mike was her rock.  

Her mind drifted to the day she met Mike. Ironically it was the same day she met Frank.  

Fifteen Years Earlier... 

“So, Abby, how many classes did you get to skip?” 

“Math, Science and English.”  

“Wow. So, you’re a genius?” 

“Not really, just smart, I guess.” Abby blushed at Frank’s attention. He was smoking hot, lean, baseball cap backwards covering his hair, blue eyes that made her feel like she was drowning.  

“Yo! Adler, wait up!” Another boy walked up to Frank. “Dude, chemistry is going to suck.  I got partnered with Barnes and... oh, who’s this?”  Mike looked Abby up and down.  

“Abby, this is Mike, my best friend.  Mike, this is Abby.  She’s a genius.”  

“I am not a genius!” Abby shoved Frank a bit as Mike smiled at her. “I’m just really good at math and stuff.” Abby pushed another strand of her unruly hair behind her ear.  

“Well, beautiful, if you can help me get through Trig I would appreciate,” Mike said.  Abby was gorgeous and Mike wouldn’t mind tapping that.  It wasn’t like he didn’t get enough tail from the jersey chasers, but Abby seemed different.  

“We could make a study group,” Abby offered softly.  “I mean I don’t know anyone here yet.”  

“You a transfer?”  Mike popped his gum.  

“No, I’m a freshman,” she blushed furiously.  

“Huh. That’s cool. Adler, we should bring her along to practice.”  

“Only if she’s cool with it.” Frank smiled at Abby. “Up to you Cricket.” 

“Cricket?” 

“You’re quiet, like a little cricket. But peaceful.” Frank smiled adoringly at her.  

Abby smiled. “I like it.”   

God, that maybe turned into a yes and the three of them were inseparable for the next two years. When Frank and Mike left for college, Abby felt so alone but found a friend in Frank’s sister, Diane.  She was in the same year as her but unlike Abby, Diane was a true genius.  A math genius but still went to a normal school per her mother’s wishes.  

Abby spent every weekend with Diane as she completed her high school requirements and her college courses. Whenever Frank and Mike came home from school, the four of them would hang out.  

Abby shook her head; she didn’t want to think about what happened after Abby graduated. The memories were just too painful.  

She continued to organize her office when the president of Dodger operations Nick Stanton came in.  “Hey Dr. Hernandez, how are you settling in?” 

“Good, Mr. Stanton, but please call me Abigail or Abby.”  

“Only if you call me Nick.  I know it's your first day, but we have a contract signing in an hour and I need you to meet the new player and go through the physical requirements.”  

“Sure.”  

Nick looked though his folders.  “Shit.  I forgot his file.  I will have it for the meeting so just make sure you have whatever you need to complete the physical.”  

“No problem Nick.”  

“Oh, and Natasha is sending Mike over for the signing.  I need to thank him for giving me your name.  I think you will be a great fit here.”  

“I’m excited.  Have loved baseball since high school.  My best friends were on the team.”  

As she organized her shelves a knock on the door turned her head.  “Hey beautiful.”  

8 months earlier... 

“Abby?” 

Abby turned at the call of her name.  “Mike?” 

“It is you!” Mike hugged Abby hard in the middle of USC Medical Center.  

She pulled back. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call me.”  

“I wanted to surprise you.”  He could see how much happier she was.  “You look even more beautiful than before.” She blushed at the compliment. “I’m serious. California is doing wonders for you.”  

“Thank you.”  She leaned back into the hug.  “I’ve missed you.”  

“Missed you too, beautiful. Hey, let’s have dinner. Tonight?” He looked deep into her eyes and caressed her cheek.  

Abby closed her eyes and leaned into the touch. It had been so long since she had felt a man’s touch. She hadn’t been with anyone since Frank. When Mike thumbed her cheek, she opened her eyes and smiled.  

“Hi,” she smiled.  

“Ready to do this?”  

“Sure. Let me just grab my pad.”  She grabbed her clipboard and headed out.  

He held her hand as they walked to the conference room. “When are we going to start planning?” 

“After the start of the season, I promise.” She smiled. “I’m excited.  I’ve been looking at places in Boston or here.  Did you know that Griffith Observatory will let you get married under the stars? That is so romantic.” 

“Hmmm, we can look into it, baby.”  

She smiled as they walked through the conference room door.  

And into a nightmare.  

“Oh good, you’re here,” Nick said as he walked over to the couple.  “Frank, let me introduce you to our medical director, Abigail Hernandez and one of the members of our legal counsel, Mike Weiss.”  

Abby swallowed hard as she looked Frank over. He looked the same, floppy dark brown hair, trimmed scruff on his chin, piercing blue eyes.  He had more ink, from what she could tell from the opening of his shirt.  His arms were filled out even more and his jeans hugged his thighs, letting her know how much he worked on his swing.  Looking over him, she almost missed his hand.  

“Dr. Hernandez, it's nice to see you again,” Frank said, a twinge of sadness in his voice.  “Mr. Weiss.”  

Abby struggled to breathe, let alone speak. “Mr. Adler.”  

Nick looked between them. “You guys know each other?”  

Frank smiled; it looked a little sad. “Yeah, we knew each other from school in Boston.”  

“That’s great.  You’ll know more people out here.” Nick was oblivious to the obvious tension in the room.  “So, Dr. Hernandez, did you want to walk Frank through the physical he needs to complete.”  

This snapped Abby out of her daze.  “Right.  So, Mr. Adler...” 

He cut her off.  “Frank, please.”  

“Frank, right. We need to send you to our clinic for the blood draw and then have one of our associate doctors complete a physical. Umm, I haven’t had a chance to review your chart but any medical issues we should be aware about?”   

Frank could see she was trying to keep it professional, and he would respect that. “Uh, I had a sprained ankle towards the end of the season but nothing else. It healed fine during the offseason.”  

“Good. Ok, well once the physical is complete, we’ll send the results to management and your team for your records.” Frank nodded as she spoke.  God, how much is missed her melodic voice.  

Mike cleared his throat.  “This is your official contract.  It's been reviewed by management and your team. Have the terms been explained to you?” 

“Yes.” His response was tight. 

“Perfect.  So, we just need you to initial at the blue flags, your signature on the red one.”  Mike watched Frank, noting the tense in his jaw, the absolute murder he could see in his eyes. But Frank only looked at Mike when he was speaking to him and tossed subtle looks to Abby.  Mike’s fist clenched but he could do nothing.  

Once all of the signatures were completed, Frank stood with Nick and took the publicity photos, smiling through as if his life wasn’t being run through the blender again.  How long had they been together? Was she happy? Did they move out here together?  Frank didn’t really want to know, he just wanted to leave and get back to Mary and Scott and his comfort place.  Because seeing Abby Hernandez right in front of him was doing more damage than good.  

Frank shook everyone’s hands as he made his way out.  Last, of course, was Abby.  “How have you been Frank?”  

“I’m ok. Busy but ok,” he replied, running a hand through his hair.  “You?” 

“Good, I’m good... I’m ok, just getting used to my new job.”  

“Well congratulations.”  

“Thanks.  And Mary?” 

“She’s good.  She’s with the nanny right now.  Promise to take her to the Funko store.” He looked at his watch. “I should get going.”  

“Right, right.” Abby’s heart stung at the indifference Frank showed her.  After 15 years, it had boiled down to this. “I’ll let Steve know about your appointments when they are booked.”  

“Great. It was nice seeing you again, Cricket.” Abby froze. Frank grimaced at the slip but didn’t correct himself. He turned and walked out the door.  

Abby stared at the door Frank walked out of as Mike came back from talking with Nick.  “Everything ok?” 

“Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting to see him again.” Abby forced a smile to Mike. “I just need to get back to my office.”  

“Ok, love.” Mike kissed her temple and head out while Abby made her way to her office.  She sat at her desk, looking out the window. He looked good, so good and when they shook hands, that familiar spark had been there. But it was nothing like when she heard her old nickname. A tear slid down her cheek.  A knock on the door made her wipe away tears from her face and take a deep breath.  She went to open it and found Steve standing there.  

“Hi Steve,” she opened the door to let him in.  

“I just wanted to see if we could schedule Frank’s appointments.”  He took a seat in front of her desk.  

“Sure, of course.” Abby opened her scheduling app for her doctors.  

“It's been a long time, Abby.”  

“I know. How have you been Steve?” 

“Working, getting my athletes paid.  How long have you been engaged?” Abby stopped. “Your ring. Frank may have not noticed but I sure did.”  

Abby looked at Steve with a sad look.  “He asked me a couple of months ago.”  

“Congratulations are in order then.  New job, new fiancé. A whole new Abby.”  

“Look, Mike... he just...”  

“You don’t have to justify it to me.  But you should tell him. Sooner rather than later. Because he’ll need to get over the heart break again,” Steve said matter of factly.   

“He did this.” Abby replied annoyed. 

“You sure about that?” Steve leveled a look that had Abby questioning her attitude. He stood up. “Anyways, it was nice to see you. You can just email me that info.”  

“Does he have someone else?” Abby asked not looking at Steve.  

“I don’t think I should answer but no, he’s never had anyone else after you.  The only woman in his life is Mary.”   

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