#and i think I've pulled like half a dozen muscles

[existennialmemes]

Reject Toxic Positivity. Embrace

Cathartic Complaining

Save me your silver lining, now it's time for pout and whining.

Pretending your problems aren't problems isn't "having a good attitude." It's Denial. The word for that is denial. And it's way less useful than just complaining about what's wrong.

[madlori]

My ankle journey

I am sharing this with all you good people on the dash because I am so fucking mad it took so long for me to learn it and if I can spare one (1) person the agony it will be worth it.

So for like...oh, 8 or 9 months, I've been struggling with pain/inflammation/tendinitis in my left Achilles tendon. I don't know what caused it. It just started up (welcome to middle age, this shit happens). It wasn't severe enough to be debilitating, but it was annoying and limiting. It was also intermittent, in that some days it would be very painful and other days hardly at all. The kind of shoe I was wearing affected it a lot.

Now, I have bone spurs on both heels (it's just a thing that happens as you get older sometimes). I'm also aware that heel pain is usually the result of tight calf muscles that pull and irritate the tendon. I tried stretching that calf muscle. You know the stretch, this bitch right here:

I did it all the time. I also iced the ankle after walking for awhile, hoping to avoid inflammation. Results were...unsatisfying.

I went to:

A chiropractor

A podiatrist

A physical therapist

A bodywork coach

They all gave me some variation on the "strengthen your calf muscle, stretch your calf muscle" advice. I continued doing this without results.

I was getting frustrated, and a little afraid that this was just my life now. Finally, I thought...maybe some targeted massage might help. I asked for rec on a local FB site and was pointed to a woman who specializes in therapeutic massage including cupping, etc.

I went to her a week ago.

She spent over half our first session working on my left lower leg. Within about 10 minutes of making my eyes water, she uttered the sentence I did not know I had been waiting to hear:

"Oh, it's your soleus."

Excuse me, what?

"It's your soleus that's the culprit. It's all tied up and stiff." She started digging into it and I felt literal sparks run up my leg as she released adhesions and got the muscle moving a little. When she finally put the leg down, it felt like it was on fire with all the blood rushing into it.

She said, "You'll need to stretch your soleus. It'll clear up, but it'll take a bit of time - tendons take ages to heal."

But I HAVE been stretching.

"No, you haven't. The usual straight-leg calf stretch only stretches the gastrocnemius, that's the big belly muscle in your calf. That's not your problem. That stretch doesn't stretch the soleus. Don't worry, I'll show you how to stretch it."

My mind is spinning.

So here are the muscles in question:

The gastroc (as the pros call it) just attaches down the back but the soleus runs underneath it from the knee around the side to the heel. The lower part above the ankle is where it typically gets tight and forms adhesions.

To stretch it, you do the same calf thing where you put your foot back and press your heel to the ground, but you have to do it with your KNEE BENT:

The bent knee keeps the gastroc from engaging. It's one of those selfish muscles (like traps) - if you give it an inch, it'll just take over and prevent other muscles from working or stretching. There are other ways to stretch the soleus but this is the easiest and you can literally do it anywhere. I've been doing it while standing and waiting for things (the elevator to come, the toast to toast). You just put the heel back and bend the knee. It's kind of like curtseying.

The minute I did this stretch, I could FEEL where it was pulling on my tendon. I knew that THIS had been the problem.

The massage therapist also told me to stop icing my heel. She said icing is for an acute injury, but a more chronic aggravation needs heat, to increase blood flow for healing. She recommended elevation with heat every day (I've been doing it in bed during "phone before bed" time).

I have been doing the soleus stretch at least half a dozen times a day for almost a week, and the ankle is at least 70% better. It is still a little tight and tender, but the improvement is significant. I think a few more weeks will have it feeling normal.

I am...blown away by this. This massage therapist was able to pinpoint an issue in only a few minutes that eluded all the other professionals I saw. I can't wait to go back to her and have her solve all my other problems, tbh.

[oneatlatime]

The Blind Bandit

I had honestly forgotten that the Gaang were trying to find an earthbending teacher, so the 'previously on' segment was actually useful instead of spoilery.

Nobody's face is having a good time.

Look at this sweetheart. You go ahead and treat yourself honey. You've single-handedly escorted a pair of earth-shatteringly overpowered tweens around the world for months; the least you deserve is a shopping trip.

"You kids like earthbending?" Has the same energy as "wanna buy a sun dial?" from that animated Hercules movie.

This guy is one of those strip mall karate types.

I take back everything I ever said about Zuko's season 1 haircut. This guy has a dust bunny poop on his head.

Momo's bag now.

My absolute favourite girl power: incredible violence!

The acoustics at this earth rumble place must be great. I don't see any microphones.

"That's what I paid for." Sokka is a simple creature at heart. Likes food and violence.

Something very strange about this guy's face. I think his mouth moves but his eyes don't.

So apparently earthbending gets you mad air.

Oh! I get it. This is a WWE parody. Somebody on the writing team did their homework too. Don't ask me how I know, but this is a very accurate parody.

Sokka thinks listening to big muscles is a very good idea actually.

And here's the heel. Complete with russian accent. And oddly homoerotic anthem. And cowardice when challenged! Yep, total heel.

I LOLed at the zamboni badgermoles and hockey organ.

She's like two feet tall!

I'm. in love.

I could watch little girls beat up grown men all day.

Earthbending sonar?

Omigod it predicts. She can see moves before they happen.

Well it's a good thing Bumi said to look for someone who Waited and Listened rather than Watched.

"I don't really want to fight you. I want to talk to you." Says the guy who just volunteered, in front of a full stadium, to FIGHT her. Time and place, Aang.

Get back on the ground you flighty airbender. She sees with that ground. No fair.

This is about the face I made when Aang pulled that move. Does this boy think at all? I love him, but what part of stealing her well-earned title is supposed to convince her to talk to him?

You messed up.

I love sartorially inclined Sokka. It's a tiny an innocuous little trait, but it rounds out his character so well.

I get to watch two different girls terrorise idiots this episode. I am blessed.

So I'm guessing the two idiots at the earthbending academy are doing that excercise where kung fu people stick their hands in sand (I've seen videos of it) but it really looked like they were in the 'beat back the dough' phase of making bread.

In this universe of plot-convenient clothing blindness, how do Dumb and Dumber recognise Aang as the one who beat the Blind Bandit?

I think the voice actor for the dumb kid with actual hair did a bunch of voices in season 1. The soldier who gives Aang Bato's map comes to mind.

Have I said recently how much I love Sokka and Katara?

These wrestling guys keep switching between first and third person. Too many rocks to the head.

This could be a board for a murder mystery board game. Or a map for a DND dungeon.

It's her hair. I thought the Blind Bandit had a cap type thing with a little brim for her costume, but it's just a pile of her hair? Like a beehive?

A lesson in character writing: if you want to make someone look super dumb, have them earnestly believe in the credentials and authenticity of a guy you have previously set up as a borderline con artist. Lookin at you, Blind Bandit's dad.

"Basic forms and breathing exercises only." That line is just so funny. And they're all so stupid. She snapped like half a dozen spines last night and this guy is preaching breathing exercises.

Wow! I hate her dad!

I hate him more!

Sokka going ham on some rice rather than listen to the idiots. Good priorities.

This passive aggressive fight between the girl and Aang at the dinner table is so fun.

Looking for somewhere to store your meal after you've face planted into it? Try the top of your head!

I need to get a hold of some of those magic napkins. Wiped up a whole multicourse meal in like 5 seconds.

That is indeed the appropriate reaction to this pint sized badass. Glad Aang is learning. (Also this episode needs more Appa. The last couple have been sadly bereft.)

Called it. Earthdending sonar. Or is it more like echolocation? No! Whiskers!

How does this pint sized badass - who if I am understanding correctly, is not known to exist outside the walls of her house - have more emotional intelligence than the entirety of the Gaang put together?

So much for the guards in the garden. They'd actually be useful now.

Sokka. Priorities. Although given how many times Aang has escaped custody/kidnapping he's probably ok to take a minute to fangirl over an autograph.

These idiot parents don't know their daughter at all. That chafes.

"I'm not smiling." I LOLed at that too. Perfect delivery.

Hippo man having a snack before he gets down to business. No wonder he's missing teeth.

All this blind and tiny and helpless and fragile talk is really making me hope someone smacks the crap out of the dad. What an awful thing to say, nevermind saying it where your daughter can hear.

SMACKDOWN INCOMING

This is gonna be good.

If this girl does join the Gaang the writers are going to have to nerf her in every major conflict. She's too powerful. I bet she could take on the firelord now.

And that's why you don't announce sneak attacks.

So remember how Sokka was absolutely losing his shit over the Boulder? That's me right now.

She waits. All these idiots are losing because they're getting impatient and attacking first. Which means that, to her senses, they're telegraphing their moves. That is so cool. And so is this visual.

Here's your chance Dad. Are you going to mess it up?

"I love fighting. I love being an Earthbender. And I'm really really good at it." me:

I don't have words for how much I LOVE when little girls STAND UP for THEMSELVES and THEIR INTERESTS. This would have had me HOLLERING if I'd seen it as a kid. It was a message I needed to hear too.

Wow I want to kill her parents.

OH FUCK OFF

COME ON

You made my girl cry.

Get wrecked belt stealer. I LOLed at this too.

Sokka just beaned a blind girl on the head. Not a good look. I laughed though.

Fun fact: everyone in this picture is a piece of shit.

I haven't been this steamed since Zuko's dad burned half his face off.

Final Thoughts

IT WAS SO GOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Seriously, this episode feels like it's movie quality. This show is usually excellent, but this feels like a cut above. I feel like I could sense the love the writers, animators, voice actors, everyone had for this episode. They had a good time making it and were enthusiastic about it. And there were lots of tiny background details in this episode too. I'm sure I missed quite a few. Oh No! I'll have to rewatch it!

New team member! That hasn't happened since Momo. Actually, no wonder the episode was so good. Introducing the first new team member in at least a season's worth of episodes is a delicate operation. I bet they were workshopping this episode since early in the first season.

And Toph! (thank you credits for how to spell that - I was really hoping it wasn't Toff). Be still my heart I love Toph. She may well take Sokka's spot as my favourite character. Strength of character, self-assurance, emotional intelligence, badassery, mastery of violence, what's not to love!!!

How did she get so emotionally intelligent and articulate if her parents have kept her caged her whole life? I don't know but I'm not complaining!

How did her parents get away with caging her for her whole life? I do know (money) and I am complaining. Very much so. And yet Toph can still find it within herself to have an honest conversation with them, including apologising for leaving said cage. I never would have had the maturity to do that in a similar situation. I would have gone the Katara explosive rage route.

A little girl who stands up for herself. Against HER PARENTS. I just. Do you know how amazing that is? Especially in a kids' show? I was ROBBED by not being able to see this show when I was Toph's age.

Does bending work like a muscle, in that you build up stamina? Because if so, then Toph is the strongest human earthbender in the world by default. If she's using it in place of seeing, then she's using it 100% of the time that she's awake, all day every day. By the time she was like 5 years old she'd probably used her bending more than the average earthbender does in their whole lifetime.

My one complaint is Toph's voice. Nothing wrong with it; this is a me thing. It fits her perfectly, but my ears do not play well with nasal voices, which hers is. I had to rewind quite a few times and resorted to subtitles by the end. Hopefully I'll get used to it like I did Zuko's.

Sokka! My soon to be demoted beloved! He shone in this episode. I love that he has fashion sense and is not afraid to show it. I'm thinking, what with how hung up he was on masculinity at the start of the show, that the water tribes have a different conception of masculinity: one that classes fashionability as a masculine or gender neutral trait. Even back in season one it didn't take much to get Sokka into the Kyoshi warrior uniform, and he's shockingly good at applying face paint symmetrically. Which I still cannot do with winged eyeliner.

Katara! Not headed for a career in diplomacy but so satisfying to watch. I would love to have a Katara in my pocket that I could unleash on people. And her and Sokka bouncing off each other this episode was great. Every one was at peak performance this episode, except Aang. Not at his brightest this episode.

Checking for typos before I post this and I realise I'd already forgotten that Toph is blind! Just like in the Northern Air Temple, this is how you do disability right: as just a part of who they are, rather than an entire personality. This show is so good.

In sum, Toph:

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

But first: everyone kinda teasing Blake by making it a game, let’s find more and more, harder things for Yang to crush with her thighs!

Blake gets more flustered and jealous each passing thing

I can see this being hilarious and dangerous. I love it.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Sun: Hey, Yang! (Rummages in a bag and pulls out a fresh pineapple the size of his head with the green top cut to look like cat ears) Ten lien says you can't crack this in half with your thighs.

Yang: You're on, Monkey Man! (Places the pineapple between her thighs and breaks it no sweat, sending juices splattering everywhere and hitting her chin) Pay up!

Blake: (from a distance) By the gods...

-The Next Day-

Weiss: Yang, can you help me break open this pumpkin? (Holds up an absolutely monstrous gourd in two hands) I'd be willing to pay you a few lien if you can do it without your hands since everyone thinks you're a hot shot.

Yang: Oh, yeah! No problem! (Sits on the floor of the kitchen in her gym shorts, struggles to place the pumpkin between her thighs, and grunts and growls as she demolishes it) There you go!

Blake: (standing in the doorway, swallows hard as she stares at a seed plastered to Yang’s lower lip) Oh, come on.....

-One Week Later-

Ruby: Yang! Yang! Yang! (Holds up a bushel of apples) Bet you twenty lien that you can't crack twenty of these behind your knee in under three minutes!

Yang: (rips off her pants and stands proudly in her boxer briefs) Better start counting my lien now, little sister!

Ruby: (pulls out a stopwatch) In three... two... one... GO!!!

Yang: (Starts a rhythm of placing apples between the back of her thigh and calf every other leg and pops each one so fast that it sounds like Coco's Gatlin Gun going off)

Ruby: And that's twenty destroyed in one and a half minutes!

Yang: Hell yeah!

Blake: (watching with a beet red face from the kitchen window and biting her fist as a piece of apple slowly slides down Yang's calves)

Kali: I'm thinking apple pie would be a good dessert for tonight. Don't you?

Blake: MOM!!!!

-The Next Day-

Yang & Blake: (sitting and talking/flirting on the porch)

Kali: (walks up to Yang with a coconut the size of her head) Yang, dear, can I ask you a favor?

Blake: (notices the coconut) Dear gods, no.

Yang: Oh! Uh, sure thing, Mrs. Belladonna. What can I do?

Kali: Yang, dear, I've told you before. Call me Kali. (Holds up the coconut) I don't have the muscle I used to, so breaking one of these open for dinner tonight is a difficult task. Do you mind breaking it open for me?

Yang: Absolutely! (Holds hand up) Hand it over.

Kali: (pulls the coconut away a little) Actually, I was wondering if you could do it with your legs. Ghira and I have a bit of a wager going.

Sun: Same here!

Weiss & Winter: As do we.

Ruby: (holding up yellow flags that say Yang in black) Go, Sis! Go!

Emerald: (holding a money tray filled with cash in the distance) Place your bets! Can blonde crack open the coconut with her bare thighs? What's going to give first? The coconut? Yang’s thighs? Or Blake’s horny?

Blake: (mortified but can't pry her eyes away from the coconut)

Yang: Alright (to Emerald) But I want a cut of all that! I'm doing all the work! (Grabs the coconut, places it between her thighs, and with a roar of effort, cracks the coconut into half a dozen pieces. Coconut water spills all over her lap and splashes up her chest, neck, and face) Ha! Pay up!

Blake: (so red in the face she's nearly purple as her ears flick back and forth wildly) That's it! (Grabs Yang by the collar and drags her away) No one bother us for the next hour!

Yang: (confused and struggling to find her footing) Blake! Blake! What's wrong? What did I do????

Blake: I'm going to wear your thighs as earrings for the next twenty minutes, and then you're going to snap me in half.

[nerdyjournals]

SCORPIUS

Genre: mystery

Y/N Notes: they/them, female presenting

Ship: DECIDED BUT SECRET

Summary: After one friend is reported dead and the other reported missing, the remaining 7 have to put together their last actions in order to figure out what happened.

The group settled back into their seats as their phones dinged with a new message.

"How do we even know this is Minho?" Seungmin asked. "For all we know, this could be someone using his phone."

"But what if it's not?" Jisung hummed. "He may not be as active as we are, but I know Minho. If he's pressed for time, he's sending everything at once."

"What about these errands?"

"Y/N always talked about her G.O.D bag and Info-folder anytime she was about to go somewhere sketchy or meet a date off the internet. She drilled it into our heads every single time."

"G.O.D bag?" Felix asked.

"It's her Get-Outta-Dodge Bag. It has clothes, toiletries, and copies of all her documents in case she couldn't take them."

"As cool as it is they're prepped for doomsday, I think we're overlooking the high implications of something," Jeongin said as they turned to him. "Y/N's alive."

"If she's alive, where is she?" Felix turned to Chan. "Any ideas?"

Chan wasn't listening. His fingers were already typing in the number. His heart pounded against his chest, feeling like it was trying to burst with all the anxiety and worry filling him.

His laughter confused them. They couldn't understand how he was so giddy right now.

"Chan?" Jeongin caught his attention again. "What's our next move?"

"Do what he says." He slid his phone down the table, letting them all read it as relief began to fall on their faces. "We're about to play a game."

-

Felix and Seungmin pulled up to the Han River, silently scratching their heads. The place had over one dozen tteokbokki stands. How were they supposed to find the right one?

"Anything?" Seungmin asked, pulling out his phone.

"Nothing yet." Felix looked around before scrolling through Y/N's social media again. There wasn't much to work off of, but he believed there to be a hint hidden in there. "There!" He pulled up a photo. "It's the stand near the bridge."

"How certain are you?"

"Like 70%."

Their feet slapped against the pavement as they ran towards their next clue.

An older woman was closing up her stand for a break as they approached. Seeing their frazzled look, she waved them down and held out a small laptop case.

"You two are friends with Y/N, yes?" She asked as they nodded. "Her boy came and said you would be by for this. Told me to tell you 'fruit cove' too. Whatever that means."

"Thank you ma'am." Seungmin said, as Felix took the case. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

They walked back up to their car, settling in before Felix looked into the bag and pulled out a file.

"Min, you're gonna want to see what they put in here."

-

Han rocked on his feet half an hour later, watching as trains roared through the station. Y/N's duffle hung from his shoulder, filled with all her essential G.O.D items.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He froze before recognizing the familiar pattern being pressed into the muscle.

Turning around, he felt relief as Minho stood there with his hands in his pockets. The man was covered in bruises; one stemming from his left cheek bone and another blooming around his right eye. His knuckles were wrapped in gauze that still had speckles of blood covering them.

"Are you okay?" That was the first question out of Jisung's mouth. "How's Y/N?"

"They're safe. Alive and safe." He watched Jisung deflate with a deep exhale before holding out on arm. "Come here."

The boy melted into his side.

"You guys are gonna give Chan gray hair."

"Too late. I've seen them." They laughed as Minho took hold of the bag. "I gotta go. Y/N needs me."

"Why can't we go with you?"

"The less people who know about her right now, the better. Besides me, it's only her family and now you guys. Which brings me to the most important thing I'll say today," he grabbed Jisung by the face to make him pay attention, "DO NOT talk about them out loud after leaving here today. Someone is looking to finish what they started and if they do, it won't be pretty for anyone."

"Can you at least tell me why the secrets?"

"Not right now. Just go to the fruit cove with the others when you can, okay?"

With one more pat on Jisung's head, Minho went to board a waiting train and disappeared into the distance.

The boy on the platform reached up to tug at the chain around his neck. It brought him a sort of comfort to feel the two magnets on the side of the charm, knowing exactly who wore the matching pieces.

'Fruit cove,' he mouthed before gasping out in realization.

-

Tag list: @realrintaro @krisstheidiot @lucifers-silhouette

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[tadalyme]

whumptober, day 2

There are many things Finnick Odair is good at. He's good at swimming, good at fighting, good at making knots. Good at baking decently tasty bread. He's also very good at pretending.

It's a skill he's honed throughout his whole life, ever since he was a little child. Pretending that he likes his mother's vegetable casserole. Pretending that he's completely fine when his father leads him to Mags’s house, his hand held in a forceful, painful grip, and proclaims in his booming voice that it would be the greatest honour for his son to train for the Games, right, boy? Pretending that he isn't scared to die and to kill.

Pretending that all the things that are done to his body on a regular basis aren't happening to him.

It’s somewhere past three at night and Finnick is sore and extremely dizzy and in the backseat of a car, coming back from his client. He’s in a car, because despite being just a District whore, he's an expensive one. President Snow doesn’t want anyone else to harm his investments. At least, not anyone not paying.

He’s just glad that it was the only appointment for today, because the guy, a flamboyant man in his thirties, a grandson or a nephew or a step-son of one of the influential Gamemakers, wanted to spice things up a bit in his sex life and made him swallow some colourful tablets before the act itself.

Well, it certainly spiced things up for Finnick, though probably not in a way the man intended to. He spent the whole time hearing the colours, and tasting the sounds, and seeing the images from his past and present all mixed up together.

The man was pounding into him and moaning and exclaiming something animated and probably over-the-top sexual in his shrill voice, but all Finnick could think about were the glistening in the sun tridents and spears and knives, and faces of the dead children, and his late father and ill mother and disappointed sister, and, for some reason, the Capitol's latest obnoxious vogue of inserting precious gemstones into their skin.

He desperately wanted to cry, so he laughed frantically, and he wanted to push the man away from him, too overstimulated, so he willed his muscles to relax.

The lights of the never-sleeping party area of Capitol fly by dizzyingly behind the window and Finnick has to lean onto it in an attempt not to puke. It's got a bit better in the past half hour, but the thoughts are still floating around his brain like dozens of little brightly-coloured butterflies. It’s hard to properly grasp any of them in a sticky daze of disorientation, though.

The car stops near the entrance to the Tribute Centre and he staggers out, swaying on his feet and almost ending up on the pavement. His limbs finally rearrange themselves in the correct order after a few moments and he musters a lazy salute with only some of his usual flourish to the back of the driving away car.

Still performing, even now. Gods, what a mess.

He doesn't know how exactly he reaches the elevator, but he does and the numbers swirl a bit in his eyes before settling down properly on the buttons.

He remembers well the first time he was here.

The thing is, he wasn’t even supposed to participate in the Hunger Games that year. That questionable honour was supposed to go to Jacob Maren, not yet eighteen, but the oldest among the trainees.

Instead, Dorothea, their escort, gracefully put her powdered hand with baby-blue nails, that matched her enormous wig, and pulled out his, Finnick's, name. There was a bit of a standstill after that - Jacob locking eyes with him across their separate pens. Should he volunteer, should he not. Finnick was too young yet but still a Career. In the end, Jacob stayed silent.

Just as well, thought Finnick, pushing through the crowds to the stage and already putting on a brilliant wide smile, I've trained for this, I can win, it'll be easy.

He knows now what his dumb, arrogant younger self didn’t understand back then - that even if you manage to become a victor, the only one who ever wins the Games is the Capitol.

Jacob did go the following year and died to a back-stabbing One girl. And Finnick has spent three years cursing that day and all that led to it.

Gods above, it has only been three years, hasn’t it? It feels much longer than that, so far away, so long ago. Almost like ancient history.

He did kind of make history with that one, didn’t he? The youngest Victor ever. A fat lot of good that did for him.

Fourth floor. He practically falls out of the elevator, only managing to catch onto the wall at the last moment.

Mags, curled up on the couch, perks up at the sound of sliding doors. In the dim lighting of the lounge her silver hair looks like a halo above her head. Ironic.

It makes him burst out in a fit of hysterical high-pitched laughter. One would have to completely lose their marbles to call the woman an angel. An angel of death, at best. Some forget it, but she also killed in her Games, the same as all of them. And she's led enough kids to their deaths in the following years. He loves Mags with his whole heart, but she's no saint.

Mags always waits for him on appointment nights. He wishes she didn't see him like this, wishes no-one saw him like this and often snaps at her, but she only tuts in disapproval and keeps doing it. Despite his temper tantrums, he's glad she does.

Mags looks him over and frowns and he's sent down the rabbit hole of memories again.

They approach him the next day after he turns sixteen. The two of them look grim and apologetic and he doesn't know what to make of it.

‘I’m sorry, Finnick, I’m so sorry about what's probably going to happen,’ Mags says and lets out a sigh, sorrowful and tired and world-weary, and he, in a rare moment, is reminded of how old Mags really is, ‘Just… Remember that you can always talk to me, no matter what.' She inclines her head a bit, gesturing at her companion, ‘Or to Delia, if you need someone who truly gets it.'

Delia, who is wringing her hands half a step behind Mags, and looks like she’d rather be anywhere else, glances at him and gives him a bleak, perfunctory nod. He doesn’t know why he would need to or want to talk to her, but anyway it’s quite unlikely that he will take her up on this offer.

Finnick knows Delia, of course he does. Delia, a constantly nervous, twitchy Victor in her forties, teaches knife-throwing, and knife-stabbing, and other knife-related skills to the trainees and has never seemed to be a particular fan of long conversations. She's communicated with them mostly with sharp nods and half-aborted, jittery gestures, always looking on edge and shaky.

Her hands have never ever shaken with a blade in them, though.

Then, he gets the summons to the annual post-Victory tour party and President Snow asks to speak with him in his office after. He's told in detail what he's expected to do, now that he's finally sixteen, and what will happen if he doesn't.

Oh.

Oh.

That's what that meant.

His first appointment with a client is the next day and it's the beginning of the end.

His sister screams at him a few months later, when he returns from one of his trips to the Capitol, ‘They don’t care about you, you stupid boy! Why won’t you understand that! Why the Hell do you keep going there?’

But it’s her who doesn’t understand, who could never understand. He can’t tell Carolyn, he can’t, not just because he doesn’t want her to know what he does, but because he’s not allowed to.

President Snow was quite straightforward about what would happen to his ill mother and his sister with her husband and their baby twins, if he were to tell anyone, even them, anything. So he keeps quiet and let them think the worst of him. The same thing that everyone else does.

(Other than his fellow victors, who are all aware of the work he and the ones like him are made to do, the only person who doesn’t look at him with badly concealed disgust, or jealousy, or fake friendliness, or lust in Four is Annie Cresta. Her eyes (also sea-green, though a few tones lighter than his own) only ever look at him with sympathy and pity these days. He would have absolutely hated being looked at like that not long ago, but now it’s just so goddamn refreshing. He used to find her annoying with her righteousness and softness when they trained to be careers together, thought her weak and kind of cowardly, but maybe there is actually nothing wrong with gentleness and timidity, he ponders.

Of course, it’s hopeless, getting used to even such a small thing. Annie Cresta is a Career. She will go into the Games soon. In a couple of years she will likely be dead.)

Mags approaches him slowly, telegraphing all her movements clearly, trying not to spook him. He must look bad, because she checks his temperature with a hand on his forehead. From her pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows he gathers that it’s not very good.

'What, doctor, am i dying yet?' he ironizes.

'Well, you certainly don't look too lively, boy,' she snaps back,'Sit down, I'll be right back.'

She lets him settle on the couch and leaves to fetch her first-aid kit. They’re not allowed to bring any pills to the Tribute centre, so as to not let tributes get anywhere near them, but she has some other basic supplies. Luckily, today they are no flesh wounds to patch up.

She comes back with a thermometer in her hand. And that’s what sends him over the edge and into hysterical tears, the goddamn thermometer. It’s an old-fashioned but trusty mercury thermometer, very common back in Four, but considered obsolete by Capitol standards.

Finnick, having been many times in the local medical over the past year and a half to get patched up after rough encounters with clients, is intimately familiar by now with Capitol’s high-tech, reliably produced in Three.

She waits a bit before his sobs and shaking subside, finally takes his temperature and asks,'You're burning up. What on earth happened to you?'

'He gave me something, I don't know what,' Finnick replies reluctantly and watches her face twist and her arms cross on her chest. She's staring at him pointedly.

'Do we really have to?' he groans,'I'm almost fine by now. You're only wobbling a bit in my eyes.'

'Come on, up you go,' she pulls him up, surprisingly strong for a seventy-year-old, and leads him to his room, to the bathroom. She walks out again and returns with a glass and a closed water bottle.

She fills the glass with tap water and makes him drink it again and again and then throw up, repeating and repeating it until there's nothing left in his stomach at all.

Then she hands him the water bottle, lightly shoves him in the direction of the needlessly overcomplicated shower and exits.

When he finally emerges into his room he's almost feeling like himself again. Mags is still there, leaning on the frame of his bed. He finds some clothes to sleep in and drops next to her. She hums softly and smooths his hair out, running her fingers through his wet curly locks.

She's been much gentler with him since his Games, but she's taken a fancy to him a long time ago.

He was a bit of a troublemaker as a child, like little boys so often are, always sneaking away to the creek to play on the wet rocky shores, or trying to catch fry with his bare hands, or diving from the pier to see how long he could hold his breath, generally making his mother exasperated. He showed up at home in the late afternoon tired but joyful after a day of exploring with a wide toothless grin, seaweed in his hair and damp dirty patches on his knees.

His father didn’t like that much. So at a ripe old age of seven he’s dumped on Mags’s doorstep, who looks at his father weirdly over Finnick’s head and then takes a look at him, slowly lowers down to his eye-level and grasps his tiny hand with her veiny, old-woman one.

‘Well, well, well, what are we going to do with you, little one?’

She's never been cruel to any of the trainees, definitely not, but she wasn't particularly warm-hearted either. She was kind, but also stern and strict, like a proper trainer. He knows that it's because, despite all the preparations, most of them would die in their Games. She didn't really believe that he would win his Games either.

But he survived and she became more willing to show her affection for him after that. And to him, she, the person who practically raised him, instead of his distant mother and constantly angry father, has always felt the most like a real family, even when she acted all grumpy.

He drifts to sleep, relaxing under the silent watch of the only person in the world he fully trusts.

[whatsnewalycat]

Designated Person | Chapter 3

Pairing: Francisco "Catfish" Morales x F!Reader

Chapter 3: Puzzle Pieces

Series Summary: When posting bail for Frankie Morales, your former employer and former lover, you unwittingly designate yourself as his third party custodian during his pre-trial release. Your often tumultuous relationship with him is given a new set of rules and put to the test. Can the two of you co-exist peacefully, or will you crash and burn?

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 8.2k+

Content / Warnings: Reader POV, nannying, infant / toddler, infidelity, past romantic & sexual relationship, flashbacks, awkward conversations, first date, first kiss, platonic (???) cuddling, confrontation, argument

Notes: Yeeehaw hi, friends. I don't know that I've mentioned this previously, but "reader" is like mid-to-late 20's for the purposes of this story, so there's a bit of an age gap there. And there was a power imbalance with their relationship to begin with and stuff so I'm just putting that out there. This chapter gives big "Bike Scene" by Taking Back Sunday vibes if you're into that lol. That's all I have for now! Thank you for reading.

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Finally, it’s quiet. 

You’re not sure if it’s a full moon or what the fuck is going on, but today has been particularly hellish in the Howard household. 

The youngest two children, Ashton and Jaxson, are four and three, respectively. Which can be great when they play together, or when you find activities for the three of you to do while the oldest is at school. But then there are days like this, when neither of them want to do the same thing and both of them want your undivided attention. You can barely finish appeasing one before the other starts crying. 

To add to the chaos, when the eldest Howard child, Emmaleigh, came home from school, she promptly stomped up the stairs to her bedroom, then slammed and locked the door. As Jaxson tugged on your shirt and screeched for you to continue reading names of different species of whales pictured in his animal encyclopedia, you tried to coax her out of the room to tell you what was wrong, but she wouldn’t budge. 

On days like this, by the time Marla gets home, you’re essentially a bundle of nerves with knotted muscles. 

You take another peek into the family room, where Ashton and Jaxson are settled into the cushy microfiber sectional watching Finding Nemo. They both seem content and neither of them notice your presence, so you tiptoe up the stairs to the main level, into the kitchen. 

With a heavy sigh, peel the electric blue post-it note off the dull, cream colored vinyl countertop. The message, written in Marla’s neat, rounded hand, reads: OK to DoorDash dinner. 

“Thank fucking god,” you mutter under your breath, then pad over the dark hardwood floor to a laptop sitting open on the dining room table. As you place an order for food from a local burger joint, you mentally give thanks to Marla again. Not only will dinner from Emmaleigh’s favorite restaurant lift her spirits, but it takes a load off your mind. 

You’ve nannied for about a half a dozen families, and Marla is the most easygoing mom you’ve dealt with by far. Generally speaking, you’ve found your families with two or more children are less rigid than families with one child. You think that Marla is especially lax because she’s a single mother and, as the founder and CEO of an adult toy company, a bona fide hashtag girl boss. She knows that her children can be a handful and isn’t immune to giving in to their demands for junk food and screen time. 

Your last job, with the Morales’s, was much more structured. Angie had very specific instructions, typed up the night before and automatically emailed to you at 6am each morning. Of course, you could have pinpointed her as type A during your interview, when she pulled your resume out of a color-coded accordion file of potential candidates, followed by a pre-printed list of questions she used to jot down your responses. 

Her shiny red fingernails were long and pointed to sharp tips that clacked against the tabletop of a local coffee shop. Round, brown eyes with little flecks of gold looked up from her questionnaire to you as the interview came to a close. 

“The hours are 7 AM to 6 PM, Monday through Friday. My husband gets home at 4, but I would need you to stick around and make dinner while he helps with Sarah.”

“Oh, ok,” you nodded, frowning in confusion at the overlap. 

She leaned forward slightly, as if letting you in on a secret, and explained, “He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. I love the man but he’s useless in the kitchen.” 

You chuckled at this, grinning, “I get that a lot, actually. I just don’t usually get an extra set of hands to help me with the kids.” 

“He’ll stay out of your way, don’t worry,” she winked, then took another cursory glance at the questionnaire before telling you, “Well, you’re definitely the most qualified person I’ve interviewed. I think you’d be a great fit for us. What do you think?“ 

“Is- is that a job offer?” you stammered. After your last family’s mom was laid off a month prior, you were abruptly out of work. This was the break you desperately needed. 

Her cherry red lips curved into a disarming smile and she nodded, “But, if you need time to think about it-”

“No,” you interjected, almost a little too forcefully, then softened and added, “I’d love to.” 

Before noon on your first day working for the Morales’s, you had grown attached to Sarah. The six-month old baby had a chocolate soft serve swirl of hair right at the top of her head like a crown, and it wiggled like jell-o every time her big bobble head would sway and jostle. Her deep brown eyes were round and expressive. Whenever you had one-sided conversations with her, she'd coo and babble in response, raising or furrowing her eyebrows, like she was contributing even though she couldn’t understand a lick of what you said. 

After laying her down for a nap, as you tiptoed down the hallway away from her bedroom, a picture frame hanging on the wall caught your eye. You stopped to examine the photo of Mr. and Mrs. Morales from their wedding day.

Angelica’s pearly, knee-length dress hugged her hourglass shape. A white tulle shawl hung over her shoulders and draped down her arms, rhinestones scattered across the fabric. Her jet black hair was loosely pinned back, save for a few strands of long, wavy bangs left to frame her heart-shaped face. Her makeup was done up as fiercely as it was that morning and during your interview. Razor-point black winged eyeliner painted on behind her long, black lashes. Perfectly arched eyebrows. Her alluring lips were shiny and red, just like her fingernails.

Who you assumed to be Mr. Morales wore a fitted black suit, but no tie. He had bronzed skin and broad shoulders that pulled his posture straight. The man’s brown hair showed the beginnings of curls, his sparse facial hair trimmed close to the skin, save for a pronounced mustache. He had a strong nose and chin. His dark brown eyes and dimpled smile made your stomach flutter. 

The happy couple stood next to each other on the steps of what looked like either a church or a courthouse. Mr. Morales had one arm tucked behind his bride, whose hands were clasped around a small bouquet of white lilies. Both leaned their heads towards the other while they faced the camera and flashed the kind of practiced smile reserved for professional photographers. 

Blood rose to your cheeks when you realized you were staring at the groom and attraction was pooling between your thighs. You glanced around self-consciously, then down at the floor as you made your way to the living room. 

For the remainder of the afternoon, time worked like a garrote, twisting around your neck, tighter with each minute that drew you closer to 4:00. 

When he came home, you were participating in tummy time with Sarah. She babbled and blew spit bubbles at you, careening her wobbly baby head around to focus on your smiling face. The heavy door to the garage opened and slammed shut. Your heart skipped a beat when he ascended the stairs and looked around, doling out a polite smile and wave to you. 

“Hi there,” you greeted, then asked Sarah in baby talk, “Is that your daddy? Do you wanna go see him?” 

She cooed. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you chuckled, then rolled to your knees and propped her on your hip as you stood. 

“How was she?” he asked, tilting his head with a smile to Sarah. The dulcet baritone of his voice reverberated through your chest. You swallowed hard as you realized that he’s so much more handsome in person. 

“She was great! Woke up from a nap about an hour ago, then she ate 8 oz from her bottle. Did a little tummy time, as, um, as you can see,” you handed her off to him. As you did this, his hand slid over yours accidentally. It was rough and warm and made your stomach flip. Your heart was thudding like you had just run a marathon. 

He nodded at Sarah, copying her wide dimpled smile, then met your eyes, “Ang said you might need my help while you cook?” 

When he made eye contact with you, all the air left your lungs and your brain short-circuited. He blinked in anticipation of your response, causing you to snap out of your daze, stuttering, “Y-yeah, sorry, um- yeah,” you winced in embarrassment, “She wanted me to make dinner when you got home, said you could help with Sarah while I do that.”

When you looked back up again he was smirking at you. That did not help the state of your composure. Your face was like a heat lamp and you averted your gaze, “I can get started on that now.” 

While retreating into the kitchen, you pulled out your phone and found the recipe Mrs. Morales sent to you. He followed you into the kitchen, sans baby, heavy work boots clunking against the fake honey oak linoleum flooring. You tried to act as normal as possible when you turned to the fridge and he was already there, bending over to get a beer out of the crisper and asking, “You want one?” 

As desperately as you wanted to say yes, abso-fucking-lutey yes, it was your first day with this family, so you declined. 

“Do you drink?” he questioned further, still hanging over the open drawer in the fridge when he peered up at you. 

You nodded, “Yeah, but…” 

He fished out a second beer, then pushed the crisper closed with his foot and stepped away from the fridge, chuckling, “I think you need it.”

Teeth clenching your tongue flat, you fought the urge to tell him to shut up. You approached the open fridge and retrieved the necessary ingredients before nudging it closed with your hip, “I don’t know. I don’t want your wife to get mad at me. Um, drinking on the job and all.” 

While you told him this, he twisted the cap off of one bottle and put it on the counter next to him, then the second, which he placed on the stovetop for you. As he stepped back and leaned against the counter to face you again, he said, “I won’t tell on you, don’t worry.” 

Your heart was in your throat attempting to strangle you. You turned around and flashed a joking eye roll at him as you accepted the bottle, “Sure.”

He winked, grabbing his beer as he pushed off the counter towards the living room, calling back, “Let me know if you need anything.” 

“Um, yeah, same,” you laughed nervously. 

Frankie slams the passenger side car door shut and you put the car into drive, “How’d the meeting go?” 

His seatbelt locks in place with a click. He stretches out in the seat that’s now constantly set to his preference: slid as far back as it can go, reclined to a wide, obtuse angle. His knees settle far apart and he looks out the window, pressing his fingers to his lips as he shakes his head. 

Your nostrils flare at this annoying lack of response, but you try again, “I already ate, do you need me to stop anywhere for you?” 

He doesn’t move when he mumbles, “I’m fine, thanks.” 

You roll your eyes and turn the radio up in an attempt to dampen your irritation with his brooding. 

After arriving at home, both of you trudge inside to your separate bedrooms. You strip off your day clothes and replace them with a baggy, tie-dyed t-shirt and a pair of black cotton shorts. Your skin still feels too tight, muscles too tense for comfort. 

Fuck, you want a beer. Or a lay. Or both. Some kind of release. 

Your phone buzzes from your nightstand, so you grab it and find a new message notification from Tinder. 

> RORY:  > You free tomorrow night? 

With a grimace, you toss your phone onto your bed, then exit your bedroom to find Frankie rummaging through the fridge for something to eat. He has also made a wardrobe change into lounge wear, retiring his hat for the evening, sporting a pair of gray sweatpants and an old, weathered Metallica t-shirt. 

“Did you change out of your crabby pants, too, or are those on under your sweats?” you tease. 

He scoffs and glances over at you, “I’m not crabby.” 

“Sure you’re not,” you tiptoe past him into the living room, where you collapse onto the couch and turn the TV on. 

Flipping through Netflix for a while gives you little inspiration. The chair in the dining room groans as Frankie sits down to eat whatever he was able to find. You holler to him, “Whadda you wanna do tonight?” 

“Besides get hammered?” his response from the dining room table is muffled by the food in his mouth. 

“Obviously,” you snort.

“Mmm,” he hums, pauses for a beat, then sighs, “Fuck, I don’t know.” 

You scrunch your nose up and try to brainstorm ideas. Immediately your mind plummets into the gutter, reminding you how fucking hard he made you cum on Monday. The memory electrifies your skin and sends your heart racing in your chest.

It was so fucking reckless. 

Reckless and perverse and so fucking hot you wanted to tear your own skin off afterwards. 

Whatever the opposite of that is. 

“Do you wanna do a puzzle?” you call back to him. 

At first he snickers, “A puzzle?” But then another moment passes and he asks, “What kind of puzzle?” 

“I have a few. Let’s see,” you squint up at the shelf on your wall that’s lined with boxes of board games and puzzles, “Freddie Mercury, pandas, space, or gnomes.” 

You hear him chewing as he soaks in these options, then he says, “Freddie Mercury.” 

While he finishes eating, you clear off your coffee table and pull the box down from the shelf. 

“A thousand pieces? Goddamn,” he sits down on the floor across the table from you, dusting his hands off before sifting through the box of puzzle pieces. 

“We don’t have to finish it tonight,” you tell him as you scoop some into your hand and pick through them, “Try to find the edge pieces.” 

The two of you isolate all the jigsawed pieces with at least one flat side and spread them, shiny, printed side up across the table. As you click a few together, Frankie’s cell phone rings. 

When he pulls his phone out of his pocket, your eyes flick to the screen and see Angie’s contact photo. It’s a selfie they took together while on vacation in Australia, their smiling faces shiny with sweat and rosy from booze. Your stomach knots. 

“Hey,” Frankie answers. 

His dark eyes scan the room and meet yours. You immediately drop your gaze to the puzzle pieces and hum to yourself as you blatantly eavesdrop. 

“Yeah, does that still work for you?” 

There’s an indistinguishable soprano response from his wife. 

“Let me check,” he says to Angie, then holds the phone to his shoulder and mumbles to you, “Hey do you think you could give me a ride tomorrow morning at 10?” 

You nod without looking up at him. 

“Yeah that works,” he tells her, shortly followed by, “Ok. Yep. Love you, bye.” 

A stake plunges through your heart. 

He puts the phone back in his pocket and resumes his thorough examination of the puzzle pieces, eventually mumbling, “Thank you, by the way. For giving me a ride.” 

“Sure,” you glance up and flash him a quick smile. When you turn your attention back to the puzzle, you ask, “Are you excited to see Sarah?” 

“Yeah,” his voice is lifted and warm, and you can tell he’s smiling, “Fuck, I miss her so much.”

What you want to say is I do too, because it’s the truth. That attachment you had to her never really went away. But it seems pointless. 

“Are you guys doing anything or just sticking around the house?” you ask. 

“We’re gonna go to the zoo, then Ang is gonna throw something together for dinner,” he clicks two puzzle pieces together and hums thoughtfully to himself. 

“Is she still super into penguins?” 

He chuckles, “Yeah. Last time me and Ang took her, she started screaming every time we tried to leave the exhibit.” 

You laugh and shake your head, “Every goddamn time. I always had to bribe her with ice cream.”

“She’s so stubborn,” he grins and sits up on his knees to lean over the puzzle and get a closer look, “Just like her mom.” 

A weight pulls at your stomach. You feel obligated to ask, so you do, “How are things with you and her mom?” 

He’s quiet as he contemplates this, staring at the shiny pieces, thrumming his fingers against the table. With a sigh, he answers, “I don’t know.” 

You try to keep your breaths metered, as to not give away the thudding in your chest. Adrenaline-spiked blood whooshes in your ears. 

Frankie continues, “Things were better when I got arrested, but, you know…” 

Your eyebrow raises on its own accord, but you don’t comment. If things were better, why was he doing blow and driving drunk? Nope, none of your fucking business. 

Not my chair, not my problem. 

“I’m kind of nervous about it, actually,” he admits quietly, “Spending time with her and all that. I really want things to work.”

“Why?” your mouth asks before your brain can tell you to shut the fuck up. 

“She’s my wife. And- and the mother of my child,” he scoffs and shakes his head, “I love her.” 

The sharpness in his tone drives the stake in your heart down further. Your eyes flick to his and see that he’s studying your face, stare hardened to steel. Those three words eat away at you. What he said was: I love her. But you know what he wanted to say was: I love her. 

You nod in response, dropping your gaze back to the puzzle. Your body moves autonomously, clicking a few puzzle pieces together, scanning for matching patterns, while your mind plays it over and over. 

I love her. 

I love her. 

I love her. 

Static buzzes in your chest. Your throat feels tight, so you clear it, then tell him, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to pick you up afterwards.” 

“Why not?”

“I have a date,” you inform him, glancing up to gauge his reaction. 

“Oh,” he murmurs, then frowns, “That shouldn’t be a problem.” 

Silence settles over the two of you. It’s just the scrape and click of puzzle pieces across the tabletop and hums of contemplation. You notice the way he seems to get buried in his thoughts, pressing his fingers to his lips, gnashing his jaw back and forth. A sick satisfaction roils inside you. 

You decide to call it a night when the edge of the puzzle is put together. When you sink into your bed, you open Tinder and send a response to Rory. 

< ME: < Definitely. What’re you thinking? 

The message is opened immediately, and he responds. 

> RORY:  > Wanna get dinner? 

< ME: < Yes please :)

> RORY:  > Pick you up at 6? 

< ME: < It's a date

The BBQ place Rory takes you to is busy and loud, its high ceilings making plenty of space for every noise to ricochet off the wood paneled walls down into your eardrums. You’re seated across from him, resting your chin in your palms, elbows pressing into the wobbly table top as you listen to him talk about his job as a personal trainer. When you shift in your seat, your legs stick to the black vinyl upholstery, and you wince at the sensation.

Your eyes trail his rigid biceps that pull his t-shirt sleeves taught. A faded black tribal tattoo peaks out from beneath the white fabric. From the shirtless pictures on his Tinder, you happen to know he has a whole collection of douchey tattoos lining his sun-tanned, muscular body, but you might be willing to overlook that. 

You mark his tattoos down in the “things you don’t like” column in your brain. 

Rory is conventionally attractive in a very masculine way, his face all hard angles with a dimpled, squared off jaw. Straight, white teeth are almost always visible behind the peak of his thin, bow-shaped lips.

He seems like the kind of person that has a standing appointment with a hairdresser that knows exactly how to trim his hair into a close, neat cut without him giving instructions. You’re willing to bet he takes a shower at exactly 6 AM every day, then applies just enough product to make his golden brown hair stand at attention. He probably food preps and has like six hard boiled eggs or something equally rich in protein for breakfast each morning. 

Every part of him seems disciplined and routine. Stable. You mark that down in the “things you like” column. 

When he asks you what you do for a living, you tell him, and he asks how you got into the nannying business. 

“Growing up, I took care of my younger siblings all the time. I’d babysit for the neighbors and stuff, too. It just naturally evolved after I graduated high school,” you tell him, meeting his stunning hazel eyes with an easy smile.

“Do you have a big family?” he crosses his arms on the table and leans in. The off-kilter base of the table responds, shifting towards him. 

You nod, “I have an older brother and three little sisters. My brother, Ben, is two years older than me. My sister, Marlene, is four years younger. Then there’s Leah, who was born two years later. And Rachel is the baby, who came a year after Leah.” 

“Five kids,” he marvels, “Wow. No wonder you had to help out so much.” 

You smile politely at this, although you know your role as their caregiver had more to do with your parents’ active social calendar than the sheer number of children. 

“Do you want kids?” Rory inquires, his brow furrowing in a way that tells you the answer is important to him. 

“Oh, definitely,” you respond, take a sip of your water, then continue, “I don’t know about five, that seems like overkill, but more than one for sure.” 

This seems to please him. His lips curl into a smile. 

“What about you? Do you have any siblings? Want any kids?” you stab the ice in your glass of water with the straw, then return your eyes to his. 

“Two brothers. I’m the middle child,” he rubs his hands together and smirks, “And, yes, kids are no doubt a priority for me.” 

You smile and nod in acknowledgment. Mark it down in the “things you like” column. 

His eyes linger on yours and you feel blood rush to your cheeks. The waitress appears with two trays of food, placing them on the table. As you eat, you find out that Rory was born and raised close to where you were, in another coastal town off the Gulf of Mexico. He was transferred to Kissimmee about two years ago as part of a job promotion. 

“What brought you here?” he questions, then picks up the ribs on his tray and tears a chunk of meat off the bone. 

You shake your head, “Moved here with my ex-boyfriend. He was from the area originally. I needed to get the fuck out of my hometown, so he suggested moving here.” 

You kick yourself for mentioning your self-exile from Ruskin, and hope to god he doesn’t ask why you needed to leave. First dates are no place to recount the ruthless campaign ran against you until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“What happened with him?” 

A sigh of relief expands your lungs. You answer, “Fell in love with his high school sweetheart.” 

“Wow, that blows,” he frowns, “Been there. Cheated on. It feels terrible.” 

“That it does,” you mutter, pushing kernels of corn around the white plastic bowl on your tray, “He told me about it when it happened, at least. And they’re really happy together. Got married and had kids and all that.”

“No offense, but he’s still an idiot,” he declares with conviction, “I mean, who would do that to someone as gorgeous as you? Besides, cheaters are all scum.”

The compliment warms your insides. You smile demurely and bat your eyelashes at him outwardly, while inwardly you make a mental note to never mention your past with Frankie to him. 

After you finish eating, Rory pays the check and drives you back to your house. The living room is illuminated through the window facing the street. When he puts the car in park, he glances up at it and frowns, “Do you live with someone?” 

“Yeah,” you chuckle nervously, “I have a roommate. They must’ve come home while we were out.” 

“Can I walk you to your door?” His voice is low and sultry. 

You bite your bottom lip and nod. 

He tells you to stay put as he comes around the car to open your door for you. As you walk side-by-side up the cracked sidewalk that leads your house, his hand finds the small of your back. There’s a nervous energy pulsing through your veins, thickening with each step. 

When you reach the foot of your porch steps, he turns to you, meeting your gaze and holding it, “I had a really good time tonight.” 

You face him, and his hand slides to your waist. A tingle spreads across your chest and heats your cheeks, “So did I.” 

His eyes flick to your lips. He leans in. You mirror the movement, eyelids fluttering closed as his lips meet yours. He tastes like peppermint and smells like conifer trees. The kiss is mechanical and his hand is stiff at your waist. It doesn’t awaken anything hungry within you, but it’s nice. 

When you pull away, you look up at him through your eyelashes, “Goodnight, Rory.” 

“Goodnight,” he smiles wide, big white teeth taking up half his face. 

When you open the front door and step inside, Frankie is mid-movement, sitting down on the couch. 

“Hey,” you call as you lean against the closed door and pull off your wedge sandals. 

“Hi,” he responds, sitting up straight. 

It amazes you how much the one syllable says. The slightly panicked upward inflection, the tensing of his shoulders, how out-of-breath he seems. He rests his elbows on his knees and leans forward, hands clasped together, knuckles white.

You drop your purse on the ground, “You getting anywhere on the puzzle?” 

He hums and nods, “I’ve assembled quite a few mustaches.” 

You tiptoe across the carpet and kneel down opposite him, scanning the clumps of puzzle that he’s managed to complete. It entrances you immediately, your fingers and brain working in tandem, making the world fade into the background. Some time passes before you feel Frankie staring at you. You look up at him and meet his eyes, “What?” 

“Nothing,” he shakes his head and smirks. 

You blink at him and raise your eyebrows, “Bullshit.” 

His smirk breaks out into a smile that tugs at your heart, the way his eyes crinkle into crescents and his cheeks dimple. He drops his gaze to the table and taps his lips, then shrugs, “You just look really nice. That dress was a good choice.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, returning your attention to the puzzle, ignoring the flutter in your chest. 

“How was your date?” he asks, trying to seem disinterested, even though his shoulders hunch up to his ears and his jaw clenches. 

“So good. I think for our next date, we’ll get married,” you tease, glancing up to flash him an amused smile. 

“Hilarious,” he rolls his eyes. His knee starts bouncing and he inquires, “Have you been seeing him for a while or is this a… recent development?” 

“It was literally our first date,” you raise an eyebrow at him, then shrug, “He was nice, though. We have a lot in common. I’ll probably see him again.” 

He shifts in his seat, but says nothing, so you don’t say anything, either. You find a few more puzzle pieces that correspond and click them together. 

“How was the zoo?” you inquire, looking up to search his face, noting his far-away eyes and pouting lips. 

“Good,” he answers with strained positivity, “We’re gonna do something next Saturday. Not sure what yet.” 

“That’s good,” you tell him. Your voice is dripping with an overly ripe kind of sweetness that seems disingenuous and repulsive. By the way he blinks up at you with a droopy, blank expression, you’re certain he senses it, too. Blood rises to your face and you bite down on your tongue, pulsing your teeth against the soft muscle, savoring the sharp pain the motion causes.

You take a deep breath in, exhaling through slack lips that make a buzzing pbpbpbp sound, then ask, “What do you wanna do for dinner tomorrow?” 

He frowns, “Whatever you want, I don’t care.” 

“Good talk,” you mutter under your breath, then rise to your feet, “Do you need to use the bathroom before I take a shower?” 

Frankie shakes his head without looking up from the puzzle. His fingers press against the pillowy flesh of his lips. You feel an urge to scream at him, to push his buttons somehow, anything just to get him to react, but you drop it. 

Once you’ve showered and changed into comfier clothing, you return to the living room and find Frankie laying on his side, curled up on the couch, a pillow wedged between his cheek and his hands. Jungle Boogie by Kool & The Gang is playing behind the opening credits of Pulp Fiction on the TV. You approach with caution, “Do you mind if I join you?” 

“Not at all,” he answers and goes to sit up. 

“You can stay there, it’s fine,” you tell him. He relaxes back into his previous position as you grab a blanket and pillow from a wicker basket next to the TV, “Want a blankie?” 

“Fuck yeah.” 

His enthusiastic response brings a smile to your face. You grab another blanket and drape it over his body before settling into the opposite end of the couch and stretching out. He seems stiff when you pile your legs on his over the middle cushion, so you pull your knees up a little further, closer to your body. 

“I wanna ask you a question but I want you to know it’s ok to say no,” he says in a somber voice. Your heart immediately starts sprinting. 

“What?” you furrow your brow and look over to meet his eyes, but he’s staring at the TV with a blank expression. 

“Will you cuddle with me?”

Your stomach flips upside down. You search his face in question, unsure what to say. No, probably. The two of you literally just had a conversation about keeping your relationship platonic less than a week ago. What the fuck? 

He finally glances at you and sees the confusion. His forehead creases and his foot starts bouncing under your calf. 

He elaborates, “I’m freaking out right now and I think it would help. No funny business, though, I swear to god. I just…”

As he trails off, his eyebrows part and face softens. He shakes his head like he can’t explain it further. His eyes are shiny in the light of the TV and he looks like he’s tearing up. You’ve never seen him cry. But the panic can do weird things. You’re well acquainted with the panic, unfortunately. 

You swallow hard and nod, “Y-yeah, that’s fine.” 

There’s a momentary ruckus while the two of you scoot and reconfigure. Your back settles against his chest and one of his arms tucks under your cheek. The other wraps around your belly, drawing you close, “You comfy?”

“Yeah,” you answer. 

“Are you sure this is ok?” he asks. His voice is low and shaky. It vibrates against your skin and sinks down into the marrow of your bones. If you’re still enough, and keep your breaths shallow enough, you can feel his bass drum heart pounding in his chest at a bpm familiar to you. 

“Yeah, it’s fine, Frankie,” you assure him, enveloping his hand at your belly with your own. He takes a deep breath and the exhale tickles your ear.

On the TV, Jules Winnfield and Vincent Vega are chatting about hash, but you can barely pay attention. 

Frankie’s warmth is a sedative. It always has been. Much to your disdain, you hope the feeling is mutual. And you think it could be, because his thudding heart seems to slow. His body relaxes against yours. 

And it’s so unfair how he can make you feel like this. How, one second he makes you so nervous you could puke, or so frustrated you want to scream in his face, then the next he’s holding you and it’s like your soul is finally resting here with his. 

You think about your date with Rory. He was a gentleman and seems like he’s stable and nice enough. The kiss was fine, good even, but not electric. And that’s fine, because in your experience, first kisses are almost always lackluster. 

Your first kiss with Frankie was like lightning, though. 

Months passed working for the Morales family and you came to be more comfortable with Frankie being around while you cooked dinner. Your conversations were mostly functional, about Sarah or things around their house. But you found him charming and your crush only grew more intense. 

Sometimes you would watch Sarah on Saturday nights so he and Angie could go out on a date. One of these Saturdays, they came home at 1 AM, and Angie was hammered. 

She stumbled up the stairs and plopped down on the couch next to you. Her black hair was mussed and she was all giggly. She said something in Spanish to Frankie, and turned to you, “Do you wan’ chicken strips?” 

“You- you don’t have to feed me, that’s ok, Mrs. Morales-” you stammered, going to stand up and get ready to leave.

“Oh hun, call me Angie, I’m begging you,” she grabbed your arm, “And stay, please! Chicken strips! Come on, hang out with me.” 

“Um…” You glanced around to gauge Frankie’s reaction, but he was in the kitchen preheating the oven, so you nodded, “Sure, ok.” 

“Yay!” Angie clapped, then sprawled out on the couch and propped her heels up on your leg, “Do me a favor, hun, take these off for me?” 

You chuckled and examined the shiny silver clasp of her stilettos, working to undo the strap across her foot as she asked, “So what’s your deal, are you single, do you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, what?” 

“Ang, come on,” Frankie chided from the kitchen as he pulled a few beers from the fridge. 

“What? I’m just asking!” she scoffed at him, then tilted her head at you with a hazy drunk smile, waiting for you to answer. 

You managed to unclasp her shoes, despite her wiggling, and they thudded to the floor one by one.  

Frankie walked past, handing an open beer bottle to you, then another to her, before sitting down on the loveseat. He kept glancing over at you and Angie, then up at the TV, which was playing King of the Hill. 

“I’m single, yeah,” you sighed and took a sip of beer, “Unfortunately.” 

“Hey, nothing wrong with that, girlie. Enjoy it while you still can.” Angie said, then set her full beer bottle on the ground and groaned, “Oh my god I have to get out of this fucking dress. I’ll be back, don’t go anywhere.” 

She marched off into their bedroom, swaying gently as she walked. This was all very amusing to you because you had never seen her be anything but intimidatingly perfect. 

You pulled out your phone and scrolled for a bit, sipping at your beer while waiting for her. Every once in a while, you found yourself looking over at Frankie, who was picking at the label on his beer bottle with his eyes glued to the TV. 

A shrill beep from the oven indicated it was preheated. He rose to his feet and walked down the hallway to their bedroom. You heard the click of the door closing, then he returned to the living room and asked, “She’s passed out, do you really want chicken strips?” 

“No, not really,” you chuckled, tucking your hair behind your ear and dropping your gaze to your beer bottle. 

“And you don’t have to stay or anything like that, no pressure,” he advised. 

You glanced up at him and got caught in his dark, warm eyes for a moment before you shook your head, “No, I’ll stay and finish this, if that’s ok.” 

“Of course, make yourself at home,” he assured you with an easy smile, then sat down in the middle of the couch, just a foot away from you. 

And you fucking knew what you were doing by staying. That’s the worst part. Attraction hung thick in the air between your bodies. It dampened your skin and condensed inside you. 

Every so often in the weeks preceding, you caught him staring at you, and vice versa. More and more, the eye contact lingered just a bit longer than appropriate. Just long enough to make you wonder. It seized your heart and pumped all the blood in your body between your legs and up your neck. 

The prospect of his affection was on your mind all the fucking time. Every time he’d laugh at one of your jokes, or brush up against you in passing, or find a reason to touch you intentionally, you wanted it to last forever. 

But you didn’t initiate anything. You were content admiring him from afar, wondering if his lingering looks meant he wanted you, too. He was at least fifteen years older than you, married, and your fucking employer. There was no way in hell you would risk your livelihood by making a move on him, no matter how tempted you were. 

If he pursued you, though… that would be different. And you desperately wanted him to. 

“I’m sorry about Ang,” he said, leaning back against the couch, “She drank a lot tonight.” 

You chuckled and shook your head, “Totally fine. We all have to let loose every once and a while.” 

He hummed in agreement, and your eyes flicked to his, and they were so intent on your face that your heart started racing. 

“And how do you like to let loose?” he rumbled, his gaze dropping to your mouth. 

Your lips parted. You managed to quirk a brow and breathe, “Are you sure you wanna know?” 

Frankie sat forward, taking your beer and setting it on the ground. You could smell his whiskey-soaked mouth. The woody scent of his cologne. His hand rested on your knee. A shiver jolted across your skin and you swallowed hard. 

“I think I might know,” he murmured, sliding his hand down further, setting his thumb into motion against your tender inner thigh, leaning closer. 

“This is a bad idea,” you warned him in a whisper, but brought yourself closer to his beckoning lips, insides coiling tight, begging for you to just fucking do it. 

“Terrible idea,” he agreed, brushing his nose against yours, bringing his hand to your chin, holding it as he took the plunge and pressed his lips against yours. 

The kiss was a slow peck that lingered with heat, and when he peeled his lips from yours, murmuring, “Sorry-” you grabbed onto his shirt and pulled him back in, all hot-blooded and eager, savoring the softness of his pillowy lips, the harsh liquor burn on his breath. You couldn’t help but whimper as his tongue rolled wet against yours. He renewed it with hungry urgency, cupping your cheeks, pulling you closer, both of you completely lost and breathless. 

You tried to sit up, to get closer, to crawl inside him if you could, but knocked over the bottle of beer with a sharp clink. Both of you jumped apart at the disruption. 

“Shit,” he hissed and stood up, striding to the kitchen. You stood up, too, trying to catch your breath and regain your composure. The spell was broken. The weight of what just happened crashed down on you all at once. 

You snatched your purse up off the floor just as he came back into the room with a wad of paper towels. 

“I’m sorry-” you faltered. 

He shook his head, “No, no, don’t worry, it’s fine.” 

“No it’s not fine, you’re-” your eyes darted to the closed bedroom door where his wife was sleeping and whispered, “You’re married. And- and- I work for you, I’m an idiot. I just have a stupid crush. An- and I won’t do it again.”

“Hey, no, don’t-” his voice was pleading and soft. He reached out to you but you shook your head and dropped your eyes to the ground, crossing your arms. 

“I have to go, but I’ll see you on Monday, ok?” you pushed past him to leave. 

The whole drive home, the whole next day, you were so fucking mad at yourself. You had never done something like that with your employer. It was unprofessional and wrong. 

Yet… 

The kiss consumed you. It’s all you could think about. You wanted it to happen again. You wanted it to go further. It set you on fire and the flames felt fucking exquisite. 

And now, as Frankie is holding you, nuzzling against your shoulder, and you feel whole and calm and safe like you can’t with anyone else, you wonder for the millionth time if you’ll ever find this with someone who loves you back. 

You drag the silver tines of your fork across the barest section of your ceramic plate just to watch Frankie squirm at the ear-piercing squeak. Family dinner again. A stalemate for who goes first again. 

“I’m gonna keep doing this until you start,” you advise, then make the noise happen again, “I can do this all night.” 

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, sending his cap onto the floor behind him, “It’s just gonna start a fight.” 

“I don’t give a shit,” you blink and prop your chin up on the heel of your palm, “Not saying anything will also start a fight, so…” 

Frankie just swings his head back to neutral and stares at you, his arms crossed, elbows resting on the table. 

You scrape your fork against the plate and smirk at him. 

“Jesus fucking Christ fine,” he groans, running his hands down his face before crossing his arms again. His eyes meet yours and he opens his mouth to speak, letting it gape for a moment, then admits, “While we’re living together, I think maybe…”

He snaps his mouth shut into a straight line and drops his eyes to your picked over plate. You rub the tines back and forth against the ceramic rapidly, “Just say it, come on, Franklin.” 

He glares at you, half joking, and scoffs, “You know that’s not my name,” then he reaches across the table, trying to snatch the utensil from you hand, “And I’m gonna take that goddamn fork away-”

“The fuck you are,” you laugh as you pull it away from his reach, then try to coax him to complete his thought, “While we’re living together, you think maybe…?”

“I think maybe we shouldn’t have other people over,” he tells you quietly, sitting back in his seat with a sigh, meeting your eyes for a moment before dropping them to the table. 

“What do you mean by other people?” you search his face. 

“Dates, you know, like,” the muscles in his face tense as he clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth together. 

You drop your fork on the plate and cross your arms, “Like the guy I went out with last night? Like you don’t want me to date other people while you’re living here? Really?”

“Like I don’t want to hear you getting fucking railed-”

“This is my fucking house, Francisco, and we are not dating,” you bite off, “Just because you’re jealous doesn’t mean I have to be abstinent-”

“I’m not asking you to take a fucking vow of celibacy, I’m just saying I don’t want to see or hear that shit when I’m here,” he argues. 

“Because you’re jealous,” you state. 

“Sure,” he shakes his head, “Whatever.” 

“You’re such a fucking hypocrite,” you spit. 

“What?! How?” he barks, throwing his hands up at his sides. 

“Do you know how many times I had to see you and Angie kissing and holding hands and making fucking goo-goo eyes at each other?” you grind out, shaking your head in disbelief, “But I can’t have people I’m dating in my own house? Ok, Frankie.”

“That is not the sa-”

“Bullshit,” you lean into the word as you hurl it at him, then scoff and tell him, “When I went to Australia with you guys, I heard you fucking her every single night. Did you know that?” 

His eyes flick to yours. He’s scowling like a sullen child. 

“Then you would wait until she fell asleep and- and you would come to me,” you feel the pain from this buried memory surfacing in your chest, burning behind your eyes, “And you smelled like her, and I was-” a sob bubbles up your throat. Tears roll hot down your cheeks, and you meet his eyes so he can understand, “I was so fucking in love with you, Frankie.” 

His face softens and his shoulders sag. 

“So I really don’t want to hear how uncomfortable my love life makes you while you’re living here,” you sniffle, then wipe your eyes with your hands. He searches your face, but doesn’t say anything. You bite down on your tongue and hold it for a moment, then ask, “Did you ever think about how it was for me? Seeing you two together?” 

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat. He shakes his head. 

“I didn’t think so,” you mutter, looking down at your half-eaten plate and pushing it away with a sigh, “I won’t have sex with anyone when you’re here. But I’m not going to ban people I’m dating from my own house just for your sake.”

He nods, “Ok.” 

Both of you stew in this silence, soaking in the words that were exchanged. It’s not uncomfortable, just heavy with the weight of the conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” Frankie looks up at you. 

You search his somber face, “Tell you what?” 

“That it hurt to see me with her,” he presses his elbows into the table, clasping his hands in front of his mouth, “I mean, obviously, I should have known, but…” 

“I didn’t wanna lose you,” you shrug loosely, gather all of your guts in a bundle and tell him, “If I told you, it would come down to choosing between me or her. And… you’ll choose her every time.” 

He sits with this information, staring down the hallway to his bedroom, but so much further. His chest expands with a deep breath, and he exhales, “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

You fight the urge to comfort him and tell him it’s ok. Instead, you nod in acknowledgment. 

“I was really shitty to you for a really long time. And- and you’re right. I’m a fucking hypocrite,” he furrows his brow and rolls his head on his shoulders to look at you, “Why did you even agree to this?”

“To be fair, this is not what I thought was going to happen when I bailed you out,” you chuckle, then release a heavy sigh, “But, I mean… I probably still would have done it if I knew. I care about you. And I want you to get better.” 

The corners of his lips curl upward just a little, eyebrows lowering as he murmurs, “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” you smile warmly and wait a moment before stretching the smile out wider, “Ralph is gonna be so proud of us.” 

Frankie laughs, his dark eyes folding into crescents, and nods, “He’s gonna put a gold star on my worksheet tomorrow.” 

You push your chair back and stand up, yawning as you stretch your arms towards the ceiling. 

He gets to his feet, too, grabbing his hat off the floor and putting it back on before piling dishes from the table into a stack, “You going to bed, or you wanna puzzle it up?” 

“I’m down to puzzle,” you grin, “As long as we don’t fall asleep on the couch again, my neck is fucking killing me.”

“You’re tellin’ me,” he snorts, taking wide strides to the sink, “I’m gonna do the dishes, but I’ll be there in a minute.” 

With a nod, you tiptoe into the living room and kneel before the coffee table, examining all the fragmented parts of the puzzle still left to put together. Slowly but surely, it’s starting to resemble a bigger picture. 

You’ve always found puzzles to be comforting. 

Something about the heap of jigsawed pieces when you open the box. All of them broken and indistinguishable in their own right. How you put them together, bit by bit. Proceeding even when it seems impossible. How, eventually, they all come together to make something beautiful. 

[ Next Chapter ]

[valeriasfragments]

Fragments About a Princess

[1]

I let my guard down for a second, I lose sight of you for just a minute, a desperate quiet moment to myself. I was in the bathroom for a minute, just long enough to feel the weight of it all. It's so heavy and I can feel myself going under the water when i hear you screaming, hair raising, fear of god, pure white hot terror floods my muscles and I've already flung the door open so hard the handle smashes the wall, a perfect circle like a bruise on porcelain skin.

I let myself feel weak for just a second and now you are on our kitchen floor covered in red, I'm white as a ghost, and you're turning blue. The knife clatters loudly and your arm is torn to shreds and it's all my fault.

I'm trying so hard to hold on to living and you're trying so hard to get on dying and I can't keep us both above water and my calamitous heart would rather sink with you then continue on alone. And our kitchen floor was never white again, they replaced the laminate flooring when we left because "it looked like somebody died in here", if they only knew the truth.

This isn't the last time I hold you in my arms expecting you to die, expecting me to perish there too. All you can say, all you can ever repeat over and over again as you try repeatedly to leave is "I'm sorry, Chance." And I repeat every time "It's okay, Princess."

And this goes on for a while. I start locking the knife block and any other sharp things I can find I lock away in a trunk I've had since childhood, the one I would hide in when my dad was on a rampage, the one that protected me, I put them there in hopes they protect you.

I hold you, lips blue, breathing so ragged and shallow. I cling to you, my deflated life preserver, we're sinking fast, me and you. I am covered in blood, your beautiful life all over the floor, I look like a horror movie. You leave a perfect hand print on the counter and it's the last thing I clean after I get home from the hospital. Your beautiful dainty hands, and I stare at the print for a long time.

I bring you home from the hospital again, at least a dozen times this year alone, I fear what our future holds, worrying about a future that will never come. You walked out a month after I brought you home, tried to fly and left this world.

And all I wish I could do is sit with you in those last hours and say "it's okay, Princess" until you finally close your eyes. I wish I could comfort you as I always.

[2]

I’m on California Route 23 which stretches from Fillmore to the sea. There’s a bridge right before Simi Valley where the 23 and the 118 Freeway meet. It doesn’t have a name but it rises over the Happy Camp Canyon, the Arroyo Simi River, and Princeton Avenue and curves from Moorpark to Simi Valley. The bridge is split in two with each half taking a direction, each half has 2 lanes and ample shoulder room. It reaches its maximum height on the southbound side right after the concrete fence factories.

This area is one of the best places to stargaze but on this particular night the sky is obscured by a clinging cold mist. Before I see her I know exactly what night this is. I walk up to the railing, just past the mile marker I found in the police report. My hands hesitate to rest on the damp railing sitting atop the concrete barrier. Every so often a car cruises by going a little slower than usual because of the visibility. 

I stand there leaning on the railing trying to work up the nerve to lean over and look at the ground, my heart is pounding so hard I think it might stop. I don’t know if I am more afraid of seeing her or flinging myself over to join her. Before I can consider I lean over and look but I don’t see her down there in the area she supposedly died. And as I right myself I can see her out of the corner of my eye walking down the shoulder towards me. 

She’s shivering and mumbling to herself, her arms pulled close to her body and she’s sobbing. She is pale as a ghost, her lips the color of Arkansas Blue Star. She’s wearing a black t-shirt and torn denim jeans with a black hoodie tied around her waist but she’s not wearing any shoes, she left them in my shoe rack by my front door. Walked nearly 5 miles from the Moorpark Park & Ride on Collins in Simi where she left her car and a note, she walked the whole way barefoot without a care.

I take a few steps toward her and she walks by me, her eyes never looking up from the ground. She leans on the cold railing with her stomach, looks at the stars and sighs. I step towards her and she looks right at me, right through my soul. “I’m sorry” she says and then she’s gone, over the edge.

I blink and I am 45 feet below the 23 in a field pocked with tall grass, trees and bushes. And there in the darkness a pale blue angel splayed out like a broken doll, limbs all the wrong direction. She looks up at me from where she is laying in the grass.

"Is that you, Chance?" She sounds raspy and confused.

"I'm sorry, Princess. This is just a dream."

"Oh. Then I guess I'm dead."

"Yeah. Yeah. For a long time now. And this never happened." I admit reluctantly.

She begins to sob softly and sit down beside her head and cradle her in my lap. I brush some foxtails out of her hair and wipe at her tears.

"Oh, Princess. I wish we had more time. I wish I could tell you all the times my mind drifted to you. I wish I could read you all the poems and stories I wrote. But there's never enough time here."

"I hope you loved again." She says softly as her eyes drift to the horizon.

"Oh, yes, Princess. I love very easy. Too easily. I love loudly and often because life is too short. You taught me that." 

"I'm sorry"

"Shh. Shh. It's all okay, Princess. I promise." 

"I love you, Chance" She says as the dawn's light peeks over the horizon.

And I'm awake gasping and shaking again.

[lurkerwithcomputer]

Melon Tears - WIP

Rain beats against the window, distant thunder rumbles and Ui's mind churns like the stormclouds beyond the glass. He stares down at his phone. At the last message Hairu sent before she disappeared.

Disappeared. Don't even know if she's alive-- No. She has to be. She's pregnant. Pregnant.

In his mind's eye, Ui replays the moment she told him.

Hairu's face was pale, tension pulled her normally chatty mouth into a tight line, eyes wet and red-rimmed, unable to meet his own, as she stumbled over the word "pregnant". She clung to his shirt with a desperation he'd never seen before even while she looked like she wants to cringe away and curl in on herself. Tangling his fingers in her hair and stroking circles with his fingertips didn't make her light up like it usually would.

He thinks of the crime scene, her ransacked apartment, splattered with blood that belonged to someone else.

Hairu, did you already know something was horribly wrong? And I couldn't tell. I'm a terrible boyfriend. And I'm going to be a terrible father. A father... wait. Did--

Terror and horror seize his lungs with freezing fingers, make the air feel like cold black water.

What if she faked her death and ran because she lost the baby? A miscarriage? ...If there's any god listening, please not that. Please give me a chance to actually fuck up fatherhood before taking it away.

He feels sick even as he sucks in a breath that makes the room stop shuddering. He looks at his phone again, running his eyes over the message. The words haven't changed, no revelations suddenly strike him, but it helps blot out the mental image of Hairu skulking in a damp, decrepit bathroom, bleeding crimson goop and little lumps of flesh into a grimy toilet bowl. He locks himself onto the glow of the screen, and the nausea fades a bit. It'll have to be enough.

CreamSodamelon: Koori. I'm so sorry. I can't tell you about the Garden. I just

CreamSodamelon: I don't want you to hate me. I know you'll understand if I say show SaltyRamen this text. He can explain why. I hope you don't hate him too. Please delete it after.

CreamSodamelon: I love you, Koori.

A codename. SaltyRamen. He knows that's Shio, with his name pronounced like sea salt ramen sauce. I hope that's Shio, because I've got nothing else. He takes a deep breath. He's going to corner Shio in the office tomorrow.

Ui crawls out of bed with his head already sore and his eyes sandpapery. The early morning light just makes him feel hung-over. He blunders his way to the shower, not caring about the bruises thumping into the doorframe is going to give him, exhausted enough to barely feel the pain. He turns up the hot water until it almost stings.

Being clean makes him feel a little more human, if not any less tired - his freshly loosened muscles just highlight his exhaustion. His face aches under his eyes, just a bit. He looks in the mirror. Eyebags dark and wide enough to hide a pile of corpses in stare back at him.

His shirt clings uncomfortably, even though it's the same shirt he has a dozen of, chosen to be comfortable in both an office chair and a life-or-death fight. He keeps his tie loose compared to his usual triangular knot. No need to dredge up the choking feeling that haunts him when he thinks of Hairu and make it physical. His suit jacket makes him sweat despite the unusually cool and clammy weather.

He steps into the CCG Main Office to find Hirako and Sasaki waiting for him in the coatroom, coats already hung. Sasaki doesn't look all that great himself, but he smiles as always, his half-wave calling attention to the plastic shopping bag he holds. The Quinx are lined up like ducklings next to Sasaki - each of them waves, too. Ui's neck prickles with the feeling of eyes on him. Yonebayashi is looking at him with a look he's never seen on her face before - although most of his experience with her so far is that she's childish, lazy, and rude.

Although I heard she did well at the Auction operation. Maybe she is capable of taking things seriously.

"Mediocre morning, Hirako-san, Sasaki-san, Sasaki's ducklings," he says, and he doesn't have to fake the flat voice this morning, "how are you?"

Sasaki laughs, Hirako snorts quietly, as does Shirazu. Mutsuki looks openly concerned, Urie says nothing, but eyes Ui with a sharply appraising look.

"Not bad. Got a bit rained on," replies Hirako. Indeed, water darkens the collar of his shirt and jacket.

"I'm doing well," says Sasaki, touching his chin.

The Quinx reply at the same time, blurring their words into a nonsense chorus, except for silent Urie, who is still watching him sharply. Sasaki motions with the plastic bag he's holding, not quite holding it out, but obviously trying to coax Ui into taking it.

"Squad Zero and the Quinx put something together for you," says Haise, with a smile that makes Ui already feel bad for wanting to refuse.

"No offense," Hirako starts, "but you look like you need to take a sick day."

The thought of Hairu spending another day somewhere unknown, maybe kidnapped, maybe running away from who-knows-what - or who, or me - burns in his stomach.

"I can work," Ui protests.

"If you say so," says Hirako, tone soaked in disbelief.

Haise fully extends his arms, holding out the bag. Well. It would be incredibly rude to say 'no' now. And yet Ui finds himself hesitating, pulled in two directions by emotions he doesn't have the energy to sort out. An arm wraps around his waist, and body-warm, sweaty plastic is pressed into his palm, held there by a wide, soft, inhumanly strong hand. Not Sasaki, but Yonebayashi, who is still looking up at Ui with an expression he can't decipher.

"Special Class Bowl-Cut," she says, and he doesn't have the energy to rebuke her, "Hirako-san was being nice about it. You look like you've been scraped out of an ashtray in my mom's bar. So you're going to take the gift bag, and if you need to cry, Saiko-oneesan will lend you her shoulders."

For a moment, shock holds him immobile. Why is she doing this? I thought Yonebayashi doesn't like me. Ui isn't sure whether he's offended or reassured. Maybe both. His eyes burn as he takes the gifts. Sasaki looks mortified, mouthing the words "special class bowl cut" to himself. Hirako is staring blankly. Ui looks around at the other three Quinx.

Mutsuki wears a troubled half-smile.

Urie has sucked in his lips, he looks as if he has no mouth.

"That's my girl," mutters Shirazu, in what sounds like approval.

The gift bag turns out to be a box of kleenex, a few instant noodles, a couple strawberry ramune... and the rest is melon bread. His burning eyes feel wet now. Look what losing Hairu has turned me into, I feel like a pathetic soggy rat. He swallows, throat dry. His stomach grumbles. He looks back at Yonebayashi.

"Can we go to a breakroom? I haven't eaten breakfast, and I might need your shoulders."

The breakroom couch is soft and somewhat lumpy. Yonebayashi leans him against herself, warm and anchoring. Office talk about the Quinx Squad vaguely comes to mind now that he's sitting right next to her. Isn't she an older sister?

The melon bread is delicious. Images of Hairu float in his mind - smiling in the sun, stuffing dry autumn leaves down his jacket, waking up next to him, sleepy and warm. He's never eaten a better breakfast in his life. He's never eaten a more painful meal in his life. He's vaguely aware that Yonebayashi is rubbing his back. He doesn't realize the quiet sobbing is him until his blurry vision makes the melon bun miss his mouth and hit his cheek instead.

It's wet.

[n7punk]

I know you write for yourself but do you ever ask your homies for feedback or advice on drafts or ideas?

oh yeah. that's just growing as a writer. i dont like, send drafts or anything, but i might ask for votes on an idea, or advice on something that's not working, or just talk through it with them to get there on my own. one of my friends has beta read for other people and another is a writer herself, so they can be a good resource when im having trouble, even if it's just sending a sentence and being like what is WRONG with the grammar here someone fix me LMAO. sometimes you get advice and then immediately realize what you actually want to do and it's not the advice you were given, but if it isn't what you were going to do before you asked someone, that's still helpful! it's not something i do that often because i like to just do my own thing, but it's definitely helpful when i do.

oh, thank you! it's something i have a lot of fun with. it's not something you can really do in any medium BUT fanfiction or like, a reboot, you know? so i really like to play around with it here. It's like, all my fanfictions are dozens of parallel universes revolving around the same characters and concepts, and i like seeing all the ways i can spin those out. i also just really like putting in references to canon. i always love when people pick up on a line i referenced or something.

lol you're welcome! it was a pretty different angle i've wanted to poke at before, but usually she's too emotionally constipated to even get that far lmao. in this case, she channeled that into a coping mechanism and it worked out.

it's so funny that this dumb little story is what has elicited so much, but i think it's mostly because the responses are centered in my inbox rather than the comments this time around. like, i can check my inbox and have five messages, and then there's only one new comment on the fic. and yeah, i can guess that's because it's so horny LMAO

unrelated, but im almost done with my first draft of the last chapter, so the next chapter should be coming along fairly soon even if im going to have a busy weekend. and now, more spoiler asks beneath the cut

you get it <3 ive loved how many people have gotten it because i was a little worried with this one people would be Unhappy with the direction so im glad i havent gotten any hate anons lmao. it has been so much fun to write and explore. on the sensory front, oh boyyyyy is this girl autistic. It's directly implied in chapter four, actually, though adora isn't formally diagnosed. and muscle tees are like. catnip on butches. it was made for them so like, good taste.

ohhhhh boy. what ISNT in the scene in LMR lol. I have never had a fic outlined like i did for this one. Like half the conversations came to me while i was lying in bed trying to fall asleep or wake up and i had all of that to work with (and tame) when i went to write.

I started working on it in late december and it's been my "bedtime story" for the most part since then, so a lot of the scenes played out there, which is where Scenes usually originate from. i had a really full outline from that. i had so many scenes that i had to cut and combine some that i really liked because they were just superfluous and would have dragged it down even if they were good on their own. or i had multiple versions of one conversation that i had to pick the best fit between, or when it came time to write it i had to buck the outline even though i liked what i already had because something else was a better match.

basically all of chapter 3 is A Scene. several scenes are in 4 and 5, too. i couldn't really pull just one thing but... god no i was trying to pick one and i cant. chapters 3-5 is my answer lmao. chapter 2 is the only thing i didnt have any Scenes for, that was basically just a hole labeled [insert smut here] while i was planning it, and chapter one was finished so early on that there's not really a Scene there, but nearly everything in chapter 3 onward is a contender for The Scene.

[mattcaliber]

Calbert IronBelly OC

Race: Half elf and half minotaur

Gender: Male

Age: Early 80's

Occupation: Bounty hunter

Familiar: Buttercup

Bio: Another day. Another bounty. Bit of a pain this one but at least the coin is good. Gotta keep my Buttercup happy. Huh. Wonder how long I've been at this. 20? 30 years? When your lifespan is naturally longer than others it's hard to tell at times. Though with my profession it seems shorter than most at times. Guess I should start at the beginning.

Born of an unusual couple. An elf man tougher than a dragon's hide and minotaur woman sweeter than dwarf's brandy. To say the couple was odd would be an understatement. Wouldn't think it if you saw them though. Anyone with half a brain could tell they were match made in heaven. Even after having a half dozen kids there was no doubt, they be together for eternity. They're even retired to this nice place down south by the beaches.

They set up a nice ranch with some good folk they knew. It was fine for me for a while. But for some reason, something felt missing. Wasn't family. Got enough blood-related and otherwise. Money? Naw. Was tough from time to time, but we did well for ourselves. Purpose? Maybe. Something did tell me I was supposed to do something but never knew what it was. Till that day.

I remember that day as if it just happened. The clouds were darker than tar. The critters were scarred out of their mind, but nobody could figure out why. Till they came. Riding on various mounts was the Scarlet Hoof gang. A mix of the meanest S.O.B.s you'll ever meet. Tried to take our ranch before. Offered all kinds of things, but folk would say no every time. This time they weren't taking no for an answer.

Before I knew what was happening, the leader grabbed me and threatened to off me if the ranch wasn't handed over. Could see the fear in everyone's eyes. And as everyone's emotions was shining in my eyes, so was something else. Something glistening in the distance, but I couldn't tell what it was. Next thing I knew, eight shots rang in the air. All but the leader was laid on that sun-bleached grass. The last shot I heard was after their leader dropped me and tried to run away. While crawling away, that's when I saw her.

A dragonkin with scales like copper, muscles stronger than iron, and eyes brighter than any gold you'll ever find. After helping me get back on my hoofs, she whistled for her stead pulling a big Ol wagon. Turns out she be tracking the Scarlet Hoof gang for a while. Was even gonna ambush them by their camp till the leader got impatient. That impatience of his was the last nail in his coffin.

After loading up her bounties, she apologized to everyone for all the trouble that happened. Even gave us some of her prized whiskey as compensation. Didn't give me none cause I was too young to drink, but she did give me something else. First, was her hat. Said I'd frow into it. Can't say she was lying about that. The second was just as important. My calling.

She told me she does what she does to help folk like us. And get a bit of coin, of course. After she left, many things went through my head. Wasn't till after I had the most realistic dream that it all made sense. What was missing in me had many names. Destiny. Purpose. Fate. Whatever you want to call it, I knew it was. And what I had to do.

I trained, practiced, learned, and when I was of age, I set out. Be it for coin, glory, or even a free drink. I knew what I was meant to be. A bounty hunter. And as long as there are those like the Scarlet Hoof gang out there, I'll bring them in. Dead or alive.

[crossbowking]

Beneath The Stars

Summary: During a party, you find yourself growing closer to Eddie, sharing things you never thought would come to light.

Word Count: 3.3k

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

A/N: This is my first ever Stranger Things fic! I'm super excited and a little nervous to share, but I hope I've done Eddie's character justice - he truly is such an incredible addition to the show and I'm fully obsessed with him :')

This story contains brief talk of mental health struggles, so trigger warning for those who would prefer not to read such topics!

Happy reading!

xx Jess

“Back! Back, you heathens!” you heard a voice shout from somewhere behind you.

Peering over your shoulder, you watched in amusement as Eddie Munson engaged in a pretend sword fight, facing off against the handful of partygoers that’d spilled through the open doorway after him. The corners of your mouth lifted at the sight, a familiar warmth settling in the pit of your stomach, though you were hesitant in admitting so.

For now, you’d blame the booze.

Eddie managed to herd the others back inside, the sound of Bon Jovi’s latest hit now muffled as he spun around and fell against the closed door, huffing a dramatic breath. When he noticed your stare, he held up a bottle of Jack Daniels he’d managed to snag, shooting you a lopsided grin. “Mission accomplished,” he jeered, taking a quick bow before sauntering towards where you sat on the front lawn.

You clasped your hands beneath your chin. “My hero,” you cooed in your best southern accent, batting your eyelashes as he plopped down beside you.

He unscrewed the top and flicked it away, the cap disappearing somewhere in the grass. “For you, m’lady,” he held the bottle out, offering you the first drink.

You grabbed hold of the whiskey and took a long swig, pulling a face as the liquor burned its way down to your belly. “Bleh,” you sounded through a shudder.

Eddie snorted a soft laugh as you passed the bottle back, his dark eyes catching yours over the rim as he brought the glass to his lips and took a drink.

You pulled your gaze away, feeling your stomach flip-flop.

Definitely the booze.

Corroded Coffin had played one of their first real gigs that night. It was a small venue, only about half-full, but it was something — it was exciting. You loved watching Eddie perform —it was like seeing someone come alive, truly come alive, right before your very eyes. It was one of the sides of him you loved most, the passion, the charisma, the secondhand thrill of experiencing him in his element.

Afterward, Gareth invited everyone back to his house since his parents were away for the weekend. Initially, there’d only been about a dozen people. But word of mouth moved far more quickly than anyone realized and suddenly, the small get-together had turned into a full-blown house party.

Not much of a partier yourself, you’d lasted about an hour inside the crammed house before you’d begun to feel overwhelmed, the jungle juice you’d drank sitting like a rock in the pit of your stomach. There were too many people, too little space, and not enough air. Before you could completely panic, you’d slipped outside, immediately feeling the tension in your chest loosen. 

Eddie had found you not long after.

“So, what’d you think of the show?” he asked, breaking the silence that’d stretched on. “Was it everything you dreamed of and more?” he smirked, flicking away a loose curl of dark hair that fell over his face.

A soft laugh bubbled out of you as you reached for the whiskey. “Mhm,” you hummed, taking another swig, feeling your limbs loosen, your muscles ease. “Thank you for allowing me to experience peak human existence, Eds. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you,” you remarked, your tone sarcastic as you played coyly with one another, a dance you knew all too well.

Eddie mirrored your mischievous expression before placing his palm against your cheek and pushing your face away, grabbing the bottle at the same time. “Hard liquor makes you sassy — noted,” he shot you a wink before swallowing another mouthful, his face twisting as the liquor burned through him. 

You leaned back on your hands with a contented sigh. “No, really though — I had a lot of fun,” you relented truthfully. “Watching you on stage is, like, one of my all-time favorite things.” 

The booze had turned you into a braver, more honest version of yourself. 

“Yeah?” he murmured in response, pressing the edge of the bottle against his bottom lip, an almost bashful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

You swallowed the lump that grew in your throat. “Yeah.”

You’d never been more grateful for nightfall, otherwise, you were sure he would’ve noticed the redness creeping across your cheeks.

The alcohol had begun to numb you, clouding your mind and thickening your tongue, and before you could say anything else, you dropped onto your back with a huff. The grass tickled your bare arms, soft and dewy, the stars glistening against a cloudless, darkened sky. You shifted onto your side after a beat of easy silence, propping yourself up on your elbow. 

“What’d you wanna be when you grow up?” you asked quietly, ignoring the fact that you were both nearing your twenties, he a year sooner than you.

Eddie looked down at you, narrowing his eyes as if trying to decipher where the question had come from. When you simply met his gaze, intrigued and waiting, he tilted his head back, his hair falling in waves down his spine as he stared up at the sky, humming a breath in thought. “A goddamn rockstar,” he finally answered, peeking down at you and waggling his eyebrows before launching up to his feet, teetering slightly.

You grinned up at him, pulling yourself back into a seated position.

“I’m talkin’ world tours, sold-out stadiums, toilet seats made of goddamn gold or some shit,” he continued, painting a picture with the type of flare only Eddie Munson could muster before he spun around, his back now to you. “I love you, New York City!” he howled towards the empty street, holding his hands high above his head in triumphant fists as he imitated the sound of a roaring crowd, fully immersed in his fantasy.

As you brought the bottle of Jack he’d left behind to your mouth, a giggle slipped past your lips — a fucking giggle — and you decided to take that as a sign to slow your roll. You were feeling good, really good, and didn’t want to risk the night ending with the contents of your stomach…on the outside. 

You noticed that Eddie had turned back around and was now staring down at you, twisting one of his dark curls near his lips, the corner of his mouth quirking in a playful expression. He dropped down beside you in the next instant, tapping your nose with his index finger. “Boop.”

You swatted his hand away, stifling another laugh. “Uh, oh,” you shook your head at his antics.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one needing to ‘slow your roll’.

But Eddie appeared unaffected, shifting in the grass until you wound up face to face, just two feet between you. “Your turn, sweetheart,” he beamed before reaching towards you and pulling away a stray leaf that’d gotten tangled in your hair.

You crossed your legs beneath you, pretending the graze of his thumb against your cheek hadn’t set your skin ablaze. “I don’t know,” you shrugged, looking down in thought and twisting your hands in your lap. “When I was really little, I’m pretty sure I wanted to be a veterinarian?” you posed, the statement coming out more so a question than anything else.

Eddie quirked a brow. “A vet, huh?”

You nodded. “Mhm,” you sounded. “But then I found out I’d have to stick a thermometer up dogs’ asses and well, that dream was quickly squashed.”

His eyes widened, a surprised laugh rumbling from deep inside his chest as he leaned back and clapped once, the rings he wore clanking together at the motion. You watched him quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips, the sound of his laughter finding a nice, cozy corner in the back of your mind to call ‘home’. 

“Never pegged you as the squeamish type, L/N,” he remarked once settled, his features returning to their usual placidity — though something in his eyes had shifted, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

You merely shrugged, your voice lost beneath the heat of his gaze.

Eddie brought the side of his thumb to his mouth, chewing on the edge of his nail as he studied you. His eyes flickered down to your lips, lingering for no more than half a second, the movement practically imperceptible — but you saw it.

For the second time that night, you were grateful for the darkness.

“So, since all jobs that require the probing of anuses appear to be off the table,” he chaffed, a twinkle in his spirited gaze, “what do you want to be when you grow up?” he threw your question right back at you, cupping his hand beneath his chin, the intensity of his stare making you squirm.

Your shoulder met your ear in another half-hearted shrug. “I honestly have no idea.”

“Oh, come on!” Eddie exclaimed, his usual theatrics returning. “This big, beautiful world is your — metaphorical — oyster, and if you don’t dive head first into the oceans of possibility, you’ll never uncover any of the sweet, sweet, pearls life has to offer,” he declared with a cheeky grin. “End speech,” he finished, holding his arms out on either side of him as though awaiting a thunderous applause. 

You stared at him for a long moment. “You should stitch that shit into a pillow, Munson,” you retorted blankly.

Eddie tilted his head back and let out another resounding laugh. “What can I say, I’m an inspirational drunk,” he shrugged, albeit smugly, before he twisted around and fell back onto the grass.

You huffed a laugh of your own and followed suit, dropping down onto your back beside him, the sides of your arms just barely touching. 

Neither of you spoke for a long while, a pleasant quiet stretching on as you each rode out your buzz, laying beneath the stars. You fell lost in your thoughts as you studied the sky, the party continuing in the background, steady beats and bases thumping, the vibrations almost palpable from where you lounged.

“Still waiting for an answer, you know,” Eddie voiced then, breaking through the otherwise mindless noise.

You glanced over at him, the grass tickling your cheek as you shifted. He was much closer than you realized, less than a foot between you, the air suddenly growing thick. His dark eyes glistened in the moonlight, as though peering straight into the depths of yourself, the parts you hid from the rest of the world. But he said nothing else — he simply laid there and waited patiently.

You turned your face back towards the sky, scared of the sudden desire you felt to close the space between you.

“I guess if I’m being really honest, nothing’s ever — nothing’s ever stuck, you know?” you finally murmured, focusing on the stars instead of the feeling of Eddie’s eyes boring into the side of your face. “I think about it all the time — and people ask me all the time — and I…I just don’t have an answer,” you remarked. “I can’t say there’s one, singular thing that’s ever jumped out at me, that’s convinced me that that’s what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

Eddie hummed softly, knowingly.

You rested your hands against your stomach, drumming your fingers back and forth. “I mean, it’s kinda ridiculous, don’t you think? The pressure society puts on people our age to ‘have it all figured out’? It’s such bullshit,” you scoffed a humorless laugh, shaking your head as you continued “I wasn’t sure I’d even make it past the age of fifteen and now here I am, three years later, and it’s like —”

Your breath caught in your throat as your words registered, words you’d vowed would never come to light. Yet, there they were, floating between you, far too late to swallow back up.

Eddie stilled beside you — as though he’d turned to stone.

A soft sigh slipped past your lips as you sat up, forcing yourself not to look at him, afraid of what you’d see. “Sorry,” you murmured. “Definitely the booze talking there,” you quipped lamely, your attempt at humor falling on deaf ears.

Eddie slowly pulled himself up into a seated position beside you, remaining uncharacteristically silent. From your peripherals, you noticed him wrap an arm around his knee, twirling the rings laced around his fingers in absent circles.

Still, you didn’t dare look at him.

You’d never told anyone about that — about the dark place you’d found yourself in some odd years ago, the bleakness that’d followed you into adulthood, blanketing over your soul like thick, black ink, billowing like clouds of smoke around your lungs until it felt as though you’d never take another breath.

It wasn’t all bad, though.

Sometimes, the heaviness was manageable, neither staggering nor all-consuming. There were tricks and tips you’d learned over time to keep the sadness at bay — going for long walks, baking your favorite childhood dessert, surrounding yourself with those who exuded light, present company included.

It wasn’t all bad.

But voicing those thoughts aloud, allowing them to come to the surface, had made them real and not simply a figment of your overactive imagination. And now, they weren’t just yours alone.

Now they were his as well.

“You still feel that way?” Eddie whispered, a rare fragility to his words that sent your stomach plummeting.

You shook your head but when you noticed his downward casted eyes, you spoke up. “No — no, this was — this was a long time ago,” you said quickly. “I mean, everyone goes through rough patches, right? It was nothing. I’m fine. I’m good, I’m — yeah, I’m good,” you nodded though your words tasted like acid as they slipped off your tongue.

When Eddie finally looked over at you, catching your gaze, the small smile you’d plastered on your face faltered — you’d never seen him look so…so…

The thought hit you like a ton of bricks.

So fucking sad.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you urged, ready to do just about anything to bring back the old Eddie, the one you had before the night soured.

Eddie opened his mouth to respond, but when no sound came out, his expression eased in the slightest. “You mean like this?” he twisted his features in a cartoonish way — squinting one eye, sticking his tongue out, flaring his nostrils, breaking the tension.

A soft laugh slipped past your lips, relief flooding through you. “Yes, exactly like that,” you rolled your eyes, huffing a breath as you climbed to your feet, ready to put the discomfort to rest. “Come on, you weirdo,” you said fondly, reaching down and grabbing Eddie’s outstretched hand, pulling him up with a grunt.

You turned to head back inside, feeling your buzz beginning to disappear and really preferring that not to be the case — you’d much rather black out than face whatever it was that’d transpired a few moments ago and another glass or two of that jungle juice from earlier would most definitely do the trick.

But you’d only taken a single step when you felt Eddie’s hand lock around your wrist, yanking you backward and whipping you around in one fell swoop.

You gasped as your body crashed against him, his arms tightly enveloping you, one snaking around your back while the other slid along your waist. You stood stunned for a moment, your arms dangling limply at your sides as he pressed you flush against his chest, comforting you in the only way he knew how.

Then he ducked his head down, resting faint lips on the soft spot between your shoulder and neck, and any reserve you carried dissolved.

Winding your arms around his middle, you tucked your face against the side of his neck, his curls tickling your skin as you breathed in his scent — whiskey and leather, cigarettes and cedar. His pounding heart mirrored your own as one of his hands slid up to cradle the back of your head. Your eyes fluttered shut as you committed the feel of him to memory.

Then Eddie lifted his head, just an inch or two, and brought his lips close to your ear. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” he murmured, his voice nearing a rasp, sending a chill down your spine. “Even the sad shit?” 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, tightening your hold around him in response, unable to formulate a single syllable but hoping he understood nonetheless.

“Good,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss against the side of your head. He pulled back a few inches and brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face, resting his palm against your cheek. His gaze, warm like honey, regarded you steadily. “Don’t make me think of a world you don’t exist in,” he said quietly, his fingers slipping around the back of your neck with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t break my heart like that.”

While your voice remained lost, somehow, you managed a nod.

You hadn’t realized you’d started crying until a single droplet spilled over, a small smirk toying at the edges of Eddie’s mouth as he thumbed away the moisture. “Such a mush,” he teased, his tone laced with affection.

“Says you,” you sniffled, sliding your hands away from his waist, instead settling them against his chest, atop his jean jacket, toying with the pins fastened there.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, each holding the other in ways you hadn’t allowed yourself to before. When you gazed at him from beneath your lashes, you heard Eddie suck in a sharp breath. 

The dwindling space between you thickened without warning, his lingering thumb brushing back and forth over your cheek, your skin tingling beneath his touch. His eyes flickered down to your mouth, his usual bravado vanishing, making him look much more vulnerable as every nerve-ending in your body screamed at you to lean closer.

Your hands curled around the lapels of his jacket in anticipation, the material balled inside your fists as he tentatively began to bring his lips towards yours, the remaining gap between you nearly nonexistent when all of the sudden…

The door behind you ricocheted open with a deafening slam. 

You leaped away from each other, like snapping out of a trance, sounds from the party beginning to fill the air as Gareth abruptly stumbled into view, red solo cup in hand.

“Hey, we’re —” hiccup “— gettin’ our fuckin’ asses handed to us in there, guys!” he shouted, his words slurred as he swayed just outside the door, oblivious to the situation he’d just walked into. “Beer pong is —” hiccup “— no joke, okay? No —” hiccup “— joke,” he warned solemnly before holding up his pointer finger and letting out a loud and obnoxiously long belch.

Then without another word, he staggered back into the house.

A stretch of agonizing silence lingered as you stared at the door your friend had disappeared through, feeling slightly bewildered. But before you could completely shrivel up into a pool of mortification, you glanced over at Eddie — and despite the blush surely creeping up the base of your neck, you had to admit you felt slightly better seeing his equally sheepish expression.

“Well, that settles it then,” he announced suddenly, resolutely. “Gareth’s a dead man.”

You pressed a hand against your mouth, attempting to stifle your laughter as Eddie shot you one of his megawatt grins, the tension between you settling. 

Choosing to set aside the ‘almosts’ and ‘maybes’ for another day, you slowly began to make your way back to the house together, falling in step side by side.

“So, where should we hide the body?” you mused, the flirty banter you were accustomed to returning, the music from the party growing louder the closer you neared. 

Eddie’s brow shot up exaggeratedly, feigning surprise. “Look at you, sweet talkin’ me,” he smirked, sounding impressed as he tossed an arm across your shoulders and tucked you against his side.

You slipped an arm around his waist as you reached the doorway, tightening your hold. “Gee, wonder where I learned that from?”

A soft laugh rumbled from his chest as he pressed a gentle kiss against the side of your head.

And you simply melted. 

A/N: Eeeeeeek! I hope y'all enjoyed this one! Feedback is super important so please feel free to share your thoughts with me :)

Thanks for being here and let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

@ghosttownwherenoonegoes @superflannel @allwomenarequeenthots

[sylverstorms]

Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch. 6

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

It becomes a sort of evening ritual between the two of you, waking Cassandra up at sunset.

You're always cautious with your movements and how much light you allow in from the hallway as you enter her lavish bedroom, but the cold fear that used to grip at your chest is no longer there.

Measured steps take you to the edge of her bed.

Cassandra usually sleeps on her side, yet today she's on her front, firm back and creamy thigh tantalizingly on display against satin crimson sheets. Her pretty face is turned halfway into her pillow, a river of rich brown waves falling behind her ear and over one shoulder.

The sight makes you stop and stare for a moment. A strange feeling —accomplishment?— swells within your chest at the thought you know just how smooth and sensitive that skin is.

Then you shake your head at yourself. Pull it together. It's one thing to accept you're in a mutually beneficial arrangement with a killer —you remain intact, she scratches an itch, both of you share the pleasure as a means of escape or passing the time— but it is entirely another to be proud of it.

She's nothing of yours. Not your lover, certainly not your girl. That would imply you stand on equal ground which you most certainly do not. You're exactly what she calls you;

A plaything.

The question is, inside your head, what do you call her?

"My lady." you say, keeping your voice low. She doesn't stir but somehow you know she's awake.

"Either wake me up nicely or don't wake me at all." the words come semi-muffled against her pillow. "If I wanted to hear 'my lady' I'd have another maid come."

Well. She does seem to enjoy when you take some creative liberties. So you lean forward and press your lips just over her knee, then move a tad higher on her thigh, then kiss the veins visible on her hand.

Cassandra's mouth slowly pulls into a pleased smile as she turns onto her side. Her fingers then curl on the neckline of your shirt and tug you forward, into a quick little kiss that ends with a nibble on your tongue.

You always get anxious when she does that —it's probably why she does it in the first place— that you'll end up with a piece missing, but so far you haven't even been cut. And if you're honest with yourself, which you're not, but if you were... the thrill is a turn on.

Cassandra licks her lips and scoots back, patting the spot she just vacated on the queen-sized mattress. You look at her, confused. Surely she isn't suggesting...

"Come, now. I don't bite." A devilish smirk curls her mouth while she tells probably the biggest lie of the year. "Keep me company until dinner."

You climb onto her bed like it's a freaking minefield. As carefully as you lower yourself onto the crimson sheets, however, the bruises across your sides still protest. You subtly suck in air through your teeth.

Cassandra's fingers slide over to you, to the exposed part of your waist from where your shirt has risen up. There's a visible patch of purple there that she traces —the coolness of her skin is so soothing— until she presses into it. The brief flare of pain makes you gasp. She giggles.

"You make such nice expressions to pain." she says, as though tempted to draw more from you.

"I've been told my pleasured ones are better." you reply quickly.

Cassandra chuckles. "Is that so?" Her yellowish eyes are gleaming with amusement as she pushes you onto your back and straddles you.

The sight is enough to steal your breath away. The sinful black of her underwear peeks through the royal red of the sheets tangled around her waist, all a wonderful antithesis with her incredibly pale skin.

You want to touch. But then you may lose your hands, so you lock your muscles down and wait for her move.

Cassandra slowly trails a slender finger up your neck, all the way to the underside of your bottom lip. "...yeah, they're good too." she breathes, although you've almost forgotten what you were talking about.

"Can't hold a candle to yours." you whisper back. At this point, you're not really capable of rational thought.

You loathe the effect she has on you. How everything she's done can just be bypassed in your head whenever she gets like this with you.

Cassandra's mouth twists into a near coy little smile. "I'll take your word for it." she says. "There hasn't been anyone else to see them, so."

Wait. Your mind stutters to a halt. Wait. What?

According to rumor, the Dimitrescus have been around for over one hundred years. From what you've seen in the castle, probably longer. And you... you're her first?

"Cat got your tongue?" she giggles again, taking your chin between two long fingers. "I think I may like surprise on you best."

You want to ask if nobody's ever interested her before, but you're afraid to overstep. Cassandra seems to know, though and has no problems answering your unasked question;

"The first few dozen years after the mutations were... very bad. The hunger and thirst were enough to drive one mad. Didn't leave much room for anything else." she explains. "And humans in general are only attractive to me chained up and bled out."

Something inside you recoils at how casually she says it. Like she's simply commenting on the weather.

"But you... you have a little spark that I like." She smirks down at you.

"What about before?" you ask.

"Hm?"

"You said after the mutations. What about before?"

Cassandra's smile gets swallowed up by the abyss so quickly you wonder if you imagined it there. Tension builds at her temples and her eyes take on an icy quality that feels like it extinguishes all warmth in the room.

"There is no before."

You've never heard her voice like that. You hope you never will again, either.

The conversation drifts to lighter subjects, then. She asks you about the world beyond the village and you share what you remember from your childhood, until it is time to escort her to dinner.

But even as she eats and talks with her family, even when she leaves with her mother and sisters and you're left alone, to clean after bloody plates with the other maids, you can't shake off that look in her eyes when you dared ask about her life pre-mutations.

The more you linger on it... there's only one word that comes to mind as an accurate description.

Haunted.

-

-

Deep in your slumber, you hear the telltale buzzing of flies.

Something winged flutters against your cheek, but you merely stir. It prods at your jaw and you grunt. Leave me alone, you want to protest, brain muddled with sleep still.

Until.

A nip that cuts a thin line on your jaw has you springing upright in bed. "Agh!" Your hand flies to the wound, eyes wide.

A familiar form materializes out of an insect swarm, right in front of you. Cassandra grabs at your hand before you can start flailing and panicking any harder than you already are. Your lungs empty of hair in the milliseconds it takes you to realize she's not here to kill you.

Probably.

"Calm down." she says it like you're overreacting.

You try to take a deep, relaxing breath, but she leans forward in the meantime, running the tip of her tongue over the fresh cut on you. So much for oxygen. She even hums against your neck. Despite the sting, your stomach flutters.

Cassandra pulls back, licking her lip. "There. All better now?"

No. Your heart is trying to jump out of your chest. Has she never heard of knocking? For the love of everything Holy out there, it's the middle of the night.

"W-what are you doing here?" you ask.

A dramatic huff escapes her. "I'm bored."

Ah, yes, that makes a lot of sense. You spare a moment to wonder what your life has come to, then accept lack of proper rest and sit back against your pillows. Cassandra takes it as an invitation to push off her hood and plant herself next to you.

"Do you... want to go for a walk outside?" you suggest, uncertain.

Her eyes light up like a Christmas tree for a moment. Then she seems to remember something that dims the glow. "Ugh. Can't. It's way too cold tonight."

That... shouldn't be and issue for her, should it? It makes you wonder.

"Well, if I stay here I'm going to fall asleep." you sheepishly admit.

Cassandra's gaze darkens as she runs her fingertips down the taut skin of your bare middle, leaning over you like a lioness cornering her prey.

"I don't mind biting you awake if you do."

You want to say that you mind, yet her lips are on top if yours, smooth, tasting of strawberry lipbalm and that's the end of that conversation.

"But I am willing to cut you a deal." A manicured nail presses a bit at the middle of your chest. "Put that smart tongue of yours to good use and I'll let you get your sleep."

So spoiled and so demanding, you think. But then, looking at her face this close up... So beautiful.

You forget all about sleep for the next half hour or so as you focus solely on Cassandra, your bedroom filling with her quiet sighs and moans.

True to her word, she does ease back when she's satisfied and you're so tired your eyes start drooping before you've even lowered your head to your pillow.

She doesn't move to leave though... and you find that you don't mind.

When you drift off to sleep this time, your last thought is that the gentle chill of her body beside yours is almost...

Comforting.

[believerindaydreams]

me: ok fine. if the problem is that you don't want to decide what bits Time Lords have, just write porn where you don't describe one of the participants

brain: say what

me: oh look I wrote fic

"Doctor," Sarah says sleepily, tugging at his curls.

He rolls over, back in her direction- she'd mentioned tiring of being squashed all the time, so tonight the Doctor's taken middle. Harry snoozes on his other side, warmly sheltered by lengths of knitting.

"Sarah Jane." As delighted and fresh as if he hasn't seen her for absolute ages. "I hope you're feeling quite as well as I do."

"How would I know," Sarah murmurs, nestling against his side. The flowered polyester wrap she'd been wearing has rucked up to her belly, but it's too slight to pose any real resistance. "Not a Time Lord, am I?"

"I could check." He helpfully places his head against her chest, ear pressed flat against her skin. The feel of his cheek is cool, not disagreeably so. "No, I don't think you could be. Not with that single heartbeat- mind you, it's quickening now."

"I couldn't imagine why," Sarah says, in the dry sarcastic tone that appeals to him so- the same one she'd been using about half an hour earlier, teasing him to come. "Are you licking again?"

"Not if I'm talking," the Doctor informs her with great satisfaction; and immediately resumes work on her bosom, his tongue tracing tiny circles around her nipples. She buries one hand in the nape of his neck, carefully tangling her fingers in the delectably soft strands.

"I say. Did you two get started again without me?"

"Not everyone wants to sleep all day, Harry." It's the sort of remark the Doctor would make if he was talking right now, and she doesn't want him to start.

"Well, that's not exactly fair. I mean, any ordinary man would have trouble keeping up with you two..."

"Do shut up," Sarah says, rather dreamily.

The Doctor's attentions are moving in a downwards direction, allowing Sarah a good view of Harry attempting to extract himself from the all-encompassing scarf. Stark naked otherwise, it's a screamingly funny sight and her body trembles with suppressed laughter.

"I'm not hurting you, am I?" the Doctor whispers.

"No, no, keep going," Sarah hisses.

He takes her at her word.

*****

There's a line chasing through Harry's head, something from Kipling probably- I've taken my fun where I've found it.

His companions certainly take that sentiment to heart. Here they are on a desolate space station, having nearly died half a dozen times today, and Sarah is acting quite as if they're in a palatial hotel suite. Instead they're on this cold metal floor, cushioned by his coat and the Doctor's corduroy jacket.

He strokes, somewhat tentatively, at the Doctor's back. This is the first time he's been in a relationship with a man (fumbles behind the bicycle shed don't count, surely) (the Doctor isn't so much a man, more a force of nature) (camaraderie under fire is an old naval tradition, of course)

he really is babbling at this point. And not even aloud.

With great care, he chooses a spot on the Doctor's shoulder- that seems safe enough, doesn't it? Presses his mouth against the deltoid muscle.

Harry's aware he isn't the world's finest kisser, but he's not altogether inexperienced either. Aside from fumbles, there was Esther: dainty blue dresses, soft-spoken, drawing room with the curtains closed. She'd given him reason to think he was at least passable in that department.

"Passable" is hardly the correct descriptor for the Doctor's joyous screech, with a full-bodied resonance that's all but deafening. Not altogether voluntary, Harry considers: the abrupt jerk of the vertebral column looks very much like an involuntary reflex.

"Harry. Don't do that."

Sarah Jane's laughter floats upwards. "You really ought to have told him, you know."

"Ought to? Do I have to recite every piddling anatomical difference before getting into bed with someone?"

The Doctor has turned all his attention on Harry, pulling and grasping and sucking, in ways he finds extremely difficult to get to grips with but rather enjoyable despite that.

"Something about nerve clusters in the shoulder," Sarah Jane calls. "He's awfully sensitive there."

"Oh, I see. A corpora cavernosa?"

"Something like that," the Doctor growls. The usual sort of madness in his eyes has faded to something more human than usual, not less. "My dear Harry- my very, very dear Harry-"

"Yes?" Harry asks; and then yelps as the Doctor's mouth closes around his cock.

The only word he can think of for the sensation is indecent: positively indecent. This is an act he's always associated with great delicacy, gentleness of touch coupled with nervousness and shaky hands, which is no more the Doctor's style here than in any other regard. Rather it's passionate, leaves no uncertainty about the extent or sincerity of the associated enthusiasm, and shifts his cock back and forth with tremendous jerking motions that quiver on the edge of pain without reaching it.

Ah, some detached part of his mind processes, that would explain why it's called jerking off.

He repeats this revelation as best he can, between gasps.

"Harry, you idiot," Sarah Jane says warmly. "That's masturbation."

"Oh."

Perhaps it's the frisson of femininity that brings him to climax, perhaps the Doctor's ministrations are solely accountable.

It is rather a comfort, that nobody is going to quiz him as to the precise cause.

*****

Perhaps, the Doctor considers, he should put a trifle more effort into remembering this sort of thing. He's almost positive humans don't really need sex, but then they don't need stuffed owls either and Sarah is very happy with hers.

New life, new body, who's to say things can't be different this time round-

"I wish I could hypnotize you," Sarah says out of the blue.

"Why bother," Harry mumbles. He's worked off some previous uncertainty to have adopted a sprawling all-over pose atop the Doctor, chest to chest and ankles draped on calves. It seems to be making him happy, which is nice. "You know I'd do anything for you, Sarah."

"I meant the Doctor."

"Ahhh," the Doctor says, as a stopgap while he spends an unusual amount of time processing the statement. "Yes. I only do it for your own good, you know."

"That's what's so terribly aggravating about it," Sarah says, and sticks her tongue out at his request for clarification.

Well. As a small puzzle in the mechanics of mental control, it could be interesting enough- "I suppose that by inducing your neural pathways to express volition while subsuming my own to minimal levels, it might be done-"

"Oh, would you?"

She does sound so enthused at the prospect; so he takes her face in his free hand (Harry's cuddling the other one), cradles it. "Think of nothing, Sarah. Think of nothing at all."

"But this is just like the other times," she starts to protest; which is a help instead of a hindrance this once.

"And now think of something," the Doctor says, disengaging his will.

Like floating underwater, in a state of blissful suffocation. Generally he doesn't have the luxury of appreciating the curious qualities of this state-

"I say, how do you know it's worked?"

"I know."

Her voice draws attention like clanging cymbals, the loveliest sound in all the worlds. "It's like he's sleeping in my mind. If I pulled the leash-"

"I say, old girl, no need to be smutty."

Her laughter is like the autumnal migration of brightly coloured frogs, like a handful of melting nonpareils, like a steam-driven puzzle box the size of a house. "Do you think you can describe what we've been doing without being smutty?"

"Erm, no. I suppose not. What are you going to do now?"

"I'm not altogether sure- I mean, I didn't think he'd really do it."

"Don't underestimate yourself," Harry advises. "Doctor, are you really under Sarah's control like that?"

If he had eyes in his mouth, he could watch it working of its own accord; but he doesn't so he can't. "Yes."

"Do handsprings? Sing? Say you're in love?"

"Harry," Sarah intercedes, then pauses. "Are you in love with us?"

He's fallen in love with everything from funny bits of broken architecture to the Trans-Jupiter train shuttle to the moonsglow on Arcturus Four. "Of course I am!"

"...I suppose that's all I wanted to know, really." Her small sigh could explain the whole of the cosmos, if he meditated on it long enough.

"Not going to make him do any party tricks?"

"I- I-" and he adores the stumbling hesitation, that this is what it takes to render her perplexed. "He wouldn't, though. The Doctor's never treated me like- a thing, when he's doing this."

"So no sailor's hornpipe."

"I wouldn't know how," the Doctor interjects. "I don't know everything yet, or what would be the point in travelling?"

"Be happy to teach you."

Sarah snorts at him. "Before you start, I'd better take this hypnosis off him- Doctor, how do I do that?"

Ten bewildered seconds later- "It's all right, Sarah. Don't worry about it."

"Oh good. I wouldn't have felt right about kissing you under the influence," Sarah says, and does.

(He's not at all clear how to undo it. Probably won't happen without the aid of his TARDIS, a bout of unconsciousness and possibly some of those wretched mental exercises they taught back at the Academy.)

Not the worst problem he's ever faced though.

After all. He trusts Sarah with his life.

[mooniefics]

— a life in your shape

pairing : jean kirschtein / reader

word count : 2.5k

tags : unrequited love, pining, near death experience, confession of love, hurt no comfort lol

warnings : canon-typical violence, descriptions of injury to the reader

summary : you've always wanted it, always pictured it, always ached for it. you loved when jean looked you way. all you'd ever wanted was a life with him, not just a life in his shape.

— originally posted 1 / 22 / 21 on ao3 —

the mess hall was buzzing with life, rowdy with the chatter of dozens of cadets seated at long tables and speaking through swallows of their food. glasses were lifted and set down, bowls and plates clinking, utensils scraping sharply over various surfaces, nearly so loud that you could barely hear yourself think. but it all seemed to come to an abrupt silence when you settled your eyes back on him, taking in his formerly pale complexion now bronzy and sun-kissed from your hours of training, the annoyed yet playful glances he shot to connie and sasha as he worked through his soup and bread, full lips forming words that you couldn’t quite focus.

you were almost embarrassed of how smitten you were with jean, but in your mind, you couldn't understand how anyone wouldn't be taken with him. his thin frame had filled out with lean muscle in the year and a half that you'd been training together in the 104th corp, somehow managing to grow even taller than he already was on that first day, still so spirited with his persistence to be among the best of this class, a lively spark that never seemed to dampen gleaming behind his eyes.

"oh god, this again, jean?" you heard connie bemoan exaggeratedly, pulling you from the trance that you were surprised the other three at the table hadn't taken notice of.

jean was almost pouting now, and you would've found it so endearing had it not been the next words to spill from his mouth, indignant and full of tenacity. "don't be an ass, i've been trying to figure out a good excuse to sit with her for days now."

you followed his gaze despite knowing exactly who you'd find his eyes locked on, and forced yourself not to frown when you were met with the sight of mikasa just a few tables away.

"she's out of your league, man. not to mention having a thing for jaeger already, and not to mention that jaeger wouldn't hesitate to hand your ass to you again if you pissed him off like you always do. cut it out."

"connie, that's mean!" sasha feigned offense on jean's behalf, most likely for the sake of goading the reply that came as a distraction to snatch the remainder of bread from his plate.

"i'm just being honest with him here. he's asking for advice, so i gave him some. jean always talks about being realist and yet he— hey is that my food?!"

you turned away just as connie was lunging himself across the table, hearing the sounds of his fruitless efforts to tear the loaf from the girl's mouth, propping yourself up on your elbows and allowing your head to fall into your hands with a heavy sigh.

"what do you think?" in an instant, jean's eyes were on you, amber irises looking so intently at you that you could already feel a bothersome heat flushing your face. but registering his question sobered you, and stealing a glance at the beautiful dark-haired girl seated somewhere to your left was all in took to snuff out the light flutter in your chest.

"i don't know, jean. i think connie's kind of right about the whole eren thing." you were honest with him on a surface level, but it still didn't feel good to see him frown when you told him something he obviously didn't want to hear. you tried to remedy it by offering something more introspective—something a bit more true to your heart. "what i mean is that.. i think you're selling yourself short. mikasa obviously has her sights set elsewhere at the moment, and i just think you deserve someone who can bring the same sort of.." you struggled with your words for a moment, how could you not when he was leaning forward like that, listening so intently to you and you alone. "the same sort of passion. someone who can reciprocate." someone like me. but you bit those foolish words back.

"you understand, don't you?" he implored, looking past the bickering mess that sasha and connie had devolved to and gazing with such longing in the other girl's direction, "i mean.. i've never seen anyone like her, no one as beautiful.." each word gouged at your heart, a cold, empty sensation that left your chest feeling painfully hollow. "i know you're a girl, but you can see it too, right?"

you could see it, you were painfully aware of how you could never match up to her unfamiliar yet alluring features, that graceful, slender frame that could somehow soar through the air with ease and still thrown you down onto your back so hard it would knock the wind out of you, introversion that gave off such a charming air of mystery to her admirers.

"yeah," you mumbled back, ignoring how a huffing connie fell heavily back into his seat beside jean, defeated, sasha happily gulping down her unfairly earned chunk of bread, only taking notice of how jean was too fixated on mikasa to pay your dismay any mind, "i see it alright."

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

the air was thick with an unrelenting heat, stinking of steam and coppery with fresh blood, your vision fading in and out. your head was ringing with a deafening, high pitched peal and such an unbearable, crippling pain. you could feel your boots dragging across the hot dry dirt as something tugged you back by the collar of your shirt, and the terror of a titan with its misshaped limbs and mouth hauling you to your demise made you thrash aimlessly, screams for help spilling out as a disjointed groan of pain. and though it almost sounded as if you were underwater, sinking further and further beneath the lapping waves of your impending unconscious, you heard it, muffled, desperate, thick with tears, your name spilling from his lips.

and suddenly you remembered, you remembered the kidnapping and the unfaithful comrades and the mission to save humanity's last hope, your former friend now an almost unrecognizable abomination with ymir, bertholdt, and eren sitting atop his shoulders, clasped in his monstrous hands, that had now resorted to flinging titans in his primal desperation for escape. and as you blinked away the spots blacking out your vision, head lolling uselessly to the side, you could see your horse, half crushed in a puddle of red on the yellow grass, and realized that the warmth streaming down the side of your face is your own blood.

"jean..?" you mumbled, uselessly, barely coherent, but the near sob of relief from behind you is like an anchor back to reality.

you could see his calves on either side of you, feet kicking up clouds of dust as he pushed you both back, further from the fray and carnage, as far as he could muster. one of your blade scabbards was missing, you could feel that the clip on your gas tank had snapped off in your spectacular fall caused by the titan that was flung down in your path, irreparable damage most likely made to the fine mechanisms within the housing of your gear. you felt utterly hopeless, watching as the shade of a tree just barely shielded you from the blazing light of the sinking sun, hearing jean's gasping pants from behind you, feeling how rapidly his chest was rising and falling against the back of your head as you slumped into his body, leaden limbs weighing you down uselessly.

"jean." you wheezed, trying desperately to crane your heavy head back to meet his eyes one last time, eyes that no longer harbored the naive passion of youth but still gleamed so radiantly, "leave me.. here. you're g'nna— gonna die.. if you stay..."

you could feel his violent trembles now, feel him rip his green cloak from his shoulder to press against the throbbing wound on your head. "no. i-i'm staying. i n-n-need," he was scared, you knew he was terrified of allowing what happened to marco to happen to you, or sasha, or connie, or anybody, even if the boy's death was nowhere near his fault, "i need to s-save you."

but you could also feel something else—feel it coming—the terrible, earth trembling footfalls of a titan making a shambling, uncoordinated advance to you and the scent of your blood. and suddenly jean was screaming, a sound so raw and petrified that you couldn't help but cry yourself at the sound of it. he laid you down on the ground, bunched cloak pillowing your bleeding skull, unable to push himself to his feet but still drawing his last blade to swing at the thing coming to kill you both, covering your battered body with his own.

and in that moment, you hated yourself. though your head was swimming and your lucidity was waning, you knew that you would both die there, under the baking sun and in the jaws of a titan, and it would be your fault. every regret that you'd ever harbored flooded your mind: not hugging your mother long enough when you still had the chance, not drinking that liquor when squad leader hange had offered it to you, and, most of all, never having the bravery to be honest with jean.

and you mourned all that lost time in those final moments, every late night you'd spent as trainees under the stars when you and your friends would sneak out of the dormitories to talk at some ungodly hour, every shared meal where you didn't speak nearly enough to him, every second of the crushing embraces you'd offered each other when the thought of your fallen friends caught up to you and proved to be far too much to handle on your own. how could you have done so much yet so little with your life?

and just as the titan was stumbling upon you, jean's scream of terror dampening out into a faithless cry, the thing was gone, galloping away to join a newly assembled horde descending upon one single point on the plain. but somehow, you felt no relief, not as you reached out a weak, trembled hand to grasp the blood and dirt streaked fabric of his shirt.

and as he turned to you, eyes still wide and body shaking with horror, thrumming with the adrenaline of near-death, you whispered, hoarse and tired as your grasp on the world slipped away. "i love you, jean. i love you."

your eyes fell shut, the involuntary spiral down further and further into the deep waters of unconsciousness pulling you in deeper and deeper by the second. you were grateful that you at least got to say something meaningful as your last words.

─── · 。ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

there was a bright light, delicate, billowing fabric flouncing about in your bleary gaze as your eyes barely opened, something wrapped tight around your head, not making the pressure of the pounding headache any better. you couldn't fight the groan that even the small movement of turning onto your back caused, but you tried to force your lids open just an inch more at the sound of a gasp coming from somewhere in the room.

there were fast footsteps, a few shouts of "sasha, no!" and then a crushing weight on your chest, squeezing around you, pulling you up in bed as a tearful sob of your name came from a comfortingly familiar voice.

"sasha. please. h-hurts." you barely managed to croak out, feeling yourself been torn free—or rather, her  torn away—as connie yelled.

"get off them, you moron, they're fucking injured!!"

"i'm s-s-sorry!" she wailed, allowing herself to be dragged to the door by the disgruntled boy, "i'm j-just so happy you're s-s-still alive!!!"

"and i am too, but that doesn't mean i'm gonna go throw myself on top of them while they're in the hospital!"

their bickering was almost comforting in a way, allowing the strain in your chest from sasha's hug to ease as you watched them elbow each other in the sides on their way out of the room to take their loudness out into the hall, blowing raspberries and struggling to not laugh through their feigned anger. and finally your gaze was allowed to wander over to the furthest wall from your bed, and you saw jean, staring down at his shoes, brow furrowed and lip bitten. and he seemed almost startled to find yourself in his gaze, feet slowly taking him to your side.

"i owe you my life, you know?" you said as he settled himself on the edge of the mattress, still not meeting your gaze.

"you don't owe me anything. you shouldn't feel in debt to me."

"but i do," you risked to settle your hand over his, finally drawing his worried, amber eyes onto yours, and you could feel your heart beginning to pick up, the butterflies that you had always forced to settle with a pessimistic thought to squash your optimism light in your chest, "i meant what i said before i passed out in the field. i always have."

and for just a moment, you thought that this was finally it, that you would no longer have to languish over wasted time and wasted words, fingers just barely curling around his warm palm. then, a knock at the door, light and delicate before the handle turned, pushing open to reveal mikasa.

and you caught every small movement of jean's features, the way his eyes sparked with a familiar light, the sudden, faint flush of color across his slender face, lips parting and just barely perking up at the ends. an endless, unwavering adoration.

"eren is awake, if you'd like to talk to him." that was all she had peeked in to say, but jean was still gazing at the door for a moment too long after she'd left.

"u-um.. if you don't mind—"

"go ahead." you told him, gently, pulling your hand away, retreating as far as your body could into the mattress, under the covers, turning your gaze away.

and though he'd slowly, almost nervously exited your room, you could hear the clear pick-up in his pace as soon as he'd shut the door behind him and exited into the hall, probably rushing to try and catch mikasa for a moment alone in the hallway before he had to share her attention with everyone else.

and it hurt, like a blade buried between your ribs, being jerked and twisted with every memory of his affinity, the one that was never directed at you despite how you craved it. and you'd realized that you had melded a life in his shape, a life where you were always just a few steps too far behind, hand outstretched, reaching for him as you hurried to grasp at any minuscule opportunity to be with him, speak to him, hear his laugh and see his near blinding smiles that never seemed to last long enough to you.

but, perhaps one day, someday farther into the future. and if not then, maybe in another life.

[herslipnslide]

my girlfriend has always had an odd habit of shoving anything and everything into her mouth and swallowing. she doesn't see anything wrong with it, she just gets an urge at random and will do it whether the object in question is hers or not. I'm pretty sure it's not unconscious, as it never seems to happen when someone who could get her in trouble is watching. I've seen phones, handbags, utensils, even the trailing sleeves of sweaters and coats dissappear behind her lips. she has a big appetite for food and non alike but it's never bothered me, even when I'm paying. Like I said, she's careful not to get in trouble and how happy she gets when having meals for three is worth every penny (not to mention, soloing an entire bottle of vodka then the bottle itself is a pretty neat party trick)

I woke up on a flat white plane. confused and with a head full of sleep-fuzz, I looked around. it was my bed. Except several dozen times larger than it was last night. shocked, I turned in place while processing what I was seeing. it's ridiculous, right? to just wake up, half a foot tall? I looked to my girlfriend, the nearest chance of help who happened to just be waking up. She yawned, stretched, and turned to face me before doing an obvious double take.

She gripped me gently in her hand and lifted me up to her face. I looked up at her, her now-massive eyes pointing down at me

"hey babe"

"hey"

"what's happening?"

"I'm not really sure"

she thought this over for a second, then closed her eyes and pursed her lips. I could only laugh as she gave me a kiss bigger than my face. that is, until, something crossed my mind

don't think it. don't think it. please don't think it.

my head slipped passed her lips, and my shoulders soon followed. she thought it. she sucked in more of my body, my head hitting the back of her throat and her lips around my hips. I'd appreciate the rhyme if the scenario weren't so bizarre. I had another thought

she's just messing with me. Yea, she's gonna pull me out any second now

my hopes were dashed again when I felt her finger placed against my ass. she pushed me in deeper until her knuckle was in her mouth, leaving me fully inside. she rolled over my body a few times with her tongue then began to swallow. as terrified as I was, the experience is really unlike any other. the softness of her throat and the tight grip of her muscles offset eachother, making it comfortable in the way a weighted blanket is. A very wet, heated weighted blanket.

it took a lot longer than I thought it would to reach her stomach. as I slid down her throat the area around me tightened gradually and I was pushed through into a wider space, where I trailed out of her esophagus like toothpaste from a tube. I landed on something soft but different from her, coarser and... fibrous?. A scarf? I took a moment to steady myself. Being scared wouldn't do anything for me right now. I felt around what space I had to get oriented, then took inventory. definitely a scarf, the elastic from... a pair of underwear, something hard and smooth, based on shape a glass bottle, a lot of sludge, and... holy shit my watch! I lost this days ago!

my excitement from finding it did not last long. I couldn't even see the face and it wasn't like it was going to be much use to me soon. I layed back with a squelch on the scarf. She still loves me right? this was just an impulse. She's eaten things she liked before and regretted it, it'll be the same for me. At least I'll be some nutrients for her. These thoughts weren't exactly helping.

"oh my god babe! ah. ah I'm so sorry." it was weird hearing her talk from inside her, but immediately I was at attention

"uhm. okay. I'll just... I'll-" she stammered further for a few seconds, before sighing. "I don't know. I don't know what I'll do." the world shook around me. "I'm sorry honey, I don't know if there's a way out of this." A bit of vertigo, then still. she must have sat down.

"can you hear me?" I called out to her. .... no reply. I settled into the comfortable, if gooey, scarf to wait out my demise. I know it sounds absurd to be so calm in a situation like this, but what am I supposed to do? when she started to whimper I tried to comfort her again, but was met by a lot of sudden movement and being thrown around in her stomach, which fell still again soon.

"oh shit I know!" she jumped up again, throwing me around some more. she moved around quickly and I heard the sound of her swallowing again. Bracing for something to cramp the space further, I was instead met by a piece of string that folded over me. "are you holding on?" she called out, and I scrambled to wrap my arms and legs around it, just in time for it to lift upwards. In a moment of quick thinking I hooked my leg around my watch to bring it with me. I struggled to keep hold against her throat which seemed insistent on keeping me down but before long, I was facing light and fresh air again, then herself as she dangled me in front of her on the string. I smiled weakly

"oh my god, I'm so sorry, I don't know what came over me or what made me think that was o- hey, you've got a little gunk on you" she swung me back into her mouth, queueing me too start writing and kicking, not wanting to be swallowed again. but she just pinned me against the roof of her mouth with her tongue and started sucking until a thin layer of spit was all that wa left, then pulled me out again. "okay, that's better" her look of relief changed into one of worry "I'm so so so sorry, I never sh-"

"hey, shh, it's okay" I did my best to comfort her from my odd position. "it's okay. you didnt mean any harm, you got me out, it's all alright." she looked me over then pulled me in for a kiss, that didn't lead to impromptu swallowing

"okay. okay." i could tell she was very distraught, and wanted to help her.

"it's okay." I hugged her face as best I could. "let's make the best of the situation. If I could fit in your mouth, where else do you think I could fit?"