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redjaybathood · 9 months ago

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Beacon Hills was a sleepy Californian town where nothing ever happened, complete opposite to Gotham - and that's why Jason chose it for his new place of residence. Talia didn't get it.

"You have spent a year with the All Caste, trained with swords and mysterious arts that are forgotten everywhere else on Earth..."

He refrained from reminding that he was kicked out by the cult she put him in when she just restored his higher brain function. For reasons such as prophecies foretelling the doom of said cult.

"And I can give you resources, contacts, everything you need to get revenge..."

He put his hand up.

"I don't want revenge, I never did. I wanted justice, and I see that it's a futile pursuit. Now, all I want - I want just some peace and quiet."

"So just like that, you changed your mind." She looked at him not quite with judgment or dissatisfaction - more like she really didn't get that he wanted to stop.

He shrugged, warming his hands on the coffee cup.

"Look, All Caste? You know what sort of place it is. You were taught by Ducra. You had Trials of your own. You saw it, didn't you? Every variation of you, in 52 Universes. Was either of them happy?"

"I'm not in the League for happiness," she said, almost scandalized.

"Well, why are you in the League at all? I was pondering that, all the year I was in All Acres, a doorway from any point in my life. I could go right through and warn myself, I could go kill Joker before Joker even existed. And it never helped. Gotham's cursed. Batman is its white knight in shiny armour. I'm just..."

He shrugged.

"Poor boy," Talia sighed, cupping his face.

"Don't. I don't need your sympathy," he put his hands over hers, but didn't remove them from where she was touching his skin. "I could use your company, though. I'm serious - why are you even doing all this? Just... Go with me. Take him, and let's settle down where nobody knows us, nobody will..."

Talia froze, then took her cup in both hands.

"I will not ask how do you know about him, even as your father does not. How fast, do you think, it will take Ra's to find us? With our edges dulled, our blades rusty, how fast will he end our lives - and take him?"

Jason shook his head.

"If you want me to believe Damian is the reason you're still in the League..."

Talia put the cup down with a clunk.

"Don't. Ever. Say his name. Even if you think we're alone, if you think nobody is listening in. I will not risk him."

"You already are. You do. He is at risk, and will be until one of two things happen - and maybe even then..."

"I'm aware," Talia said dryly, standing up. "This conversation is over. Do with your life whatever you will. You will find me if you change your mind."

"You too," he said, but the room was empty already. "Jeez."

In one of these 52 Universes, they got together. Jason didn't cultivate with mystical immortals in that universe. He had taken something like a gap year, traveling, mostly Europe, and learning from the specialists League of Assassins sometimes employed. Killed most of them - for good reasons. Reasons he supplied anonymously to Interpol and Checkmate, in this universe.

Because in that world, no matter how many people Jason saved by killing "animals", "monsters", he left behind a piece of himself. At least, with the Soul Swords, he knew what was fueling them, what he was spending.

The story of him and Talia wasn't a happy one. Or even particularly romantic. Both of them were hurting, Bruce-shaped wound in their hearts, but also what was done upon them, what they were made to do, what they thought they should do. Their hearts were more sieves than anything else. One night, they had to each other, and then they never talked face to face ever again.

He didn't want that. He very much hoped, knowing it was futile, that Talia just - went with him, to a sleepy Californian town where nothing ever happened. They would raise her kid - maybe he could be her partner, maybe her son's brother, he would take it any way she could give.

But he couldn't stay for her, and she wouldn't leave for him.

So, he went alone.

***

He had fake documents, keeping the first name and changing the last, using the same day and month of birth and making himself a year younger. Only fair, seeing how he was dead for six months, and catatonic for another six. He put down a local attorney's phone number for his contact information on the school application. That same attorney, Whittermore, had helped him with emancipation, seeing how he was only 17, still, and would need to find someone to pretend to be his parents, or go into foster care, otherwise.

Enrollment in the school was easy. Finding a place to live as well - there was a lot of property built during a dot com bubble era that still was sitting empty. Rent was cheap, compared to Gotham. But without League's backing, he needed income. So he started to check jobs.

There was not a lot vacancies that could be filled with a teenager who was still in school. Waiting tables, washing dishes, making coffee, retail - that was about it. Gabby, his friend from another life - life before Bruce, even - was a waitress. So that's what he applied to. There was no real training, but he had the skills he needed already. Good memory, from the time he used to devour dossiers on criminal individuals and organizations. Coordination, from his movement training. Cheerful smile and small talk, from all the times, infrequent as they were, that he had to follow Bruce to some event or another. He didn't like them then - now, he was just grateful for experience, because life in Himalayas didn't nurture his social skills, to say the least. And good thing Bruce never allowed his picture to be taken, unlike how it was with Dick. At the time Jason was self-conscious, thought Bruce might have been - finding him lacking in some way. Not fit for the public to see, regardless of the new suits he ordered from his tailors for him, or haircuts Alfred gave him. Who knew, maybe Bruce indeed didn't want him to be recognized by anyone from Jason's past who would come knocking. Still, it let Jason feel free in his new life. Nobody will see his tag and his face and put it all together as American most eligible millionaire's dead son.

Beacon Hills was so small a town, Jason had learned the names and occupations of the regulars in his first week on the job. One of them, the local Sheriff, asked a few questions about where he moved from and how old he was. After finding out that in a few weeks he was starting as sophomore at high school ("I was held back a year, sir, after a car accident"), Sheriff asked him not to tell to his son, Stiles, that he's eating his lunches here.

"He's making me those low salt, low cholesterol lunches," the Sheriff chuckled. "His heart is in the right place, I can't bring myself to tell him that it all tastes like a wet cardboard."

"I can tactfully suggest a few recipes to him," Jason offered. "There are nutritious and healthy options that are quite tasty. There's so much you can do with chickpeas."

"What, and leave Robby without steady income? I couldn't do that, not until he sees his daughter through college. Who taught you to cook, by the way?"

"My grandfather."

It took a lot of Jason to keep the smile on his face. But it might have been a wrong choice.

"Well, pass along my greetings. There's not a lot of teenagers nowadays who have the skill."

"He... I'm alone now, after the accident." Jason didn't like to lie about anyone dying, it seemed like he was cursing them in this way, so he picked his words carefully.

"I'm so sorry, there's a foot in my mouth, I swear it's a family trait," Sheriff rummaged in his pocket, and then thrusted a card to him. "Here. If you need anything, you can reach me on a cell, it's written on the back."

Jason briefly considered - he had some cards with his personal number on it on him. Always ready to offer assistance to the needy? Or... Noah Stilinsky seemed like a good guy, and Jason, pocketing his card, hoped as hell that he was.

Because there's another kind of explanation why nothing big came up when he researched Beacon Hills. All sorts of things can be covered up and never see the light of the day when it's the police doing the covering.

He will call, he decided, as soon as he can find a suitable reason. He needed to know if the Sheriff and this town was what they seemed.

***

Before the school started, though, Jason couldn't find the time. He was a freshman when he died, and he had no access to schooling after his resurrection. Even with all the knowledge learned under the tutelage of a former Batgirl, there was a lot of ground to cover, to catch up with the rest of the class. It wasn't his first rodeo, and arguably it was way easier now than when he also had Robin training. But he had a job, now, working as long the hours as the diner's owner would allow him before the school started. Besides that, he took up running in the Preserve, as much to familiarize himself with his new habitat as to stay in shape. It also replaced the meditations, in part - he cut them down from the recommend by Ducra two hours per day, to half an hour, before going to sleep.

He met some people in that way, too. His new classmates, actually: Jackson Whittermore, son of Mr. Whittermore whose services he employed - finding that out, Jackson toned down his smirk and offered a handshake. He was running with his friend, Danny Mahealani. Both of them were on the school's lacrosse team, and invited him to the tryouts that would happen before the Spring.

"Maybe," Jason said. "I don't know much about lacrosse, though. And never played any team sport at all."

"Really? Not even football?" Danny gave him a once-over. "Seems like a waste."

"Believe it or not, I was a tiny, skinny kid up until recently." Jason shrugged.

Jackson asked him about his regimen. Jason couldn't explain that it was a magical fountain of youth and cure-all that fixed his stunted by malnutrition and smoking growth. He wasn't even sure that was it. Maybe years with Bruce, and then the time spent in cultivation, changed his body as well as his mind and spirit. He didn't need to eat that much now, although he didn't progress to inedia. So he bullshitted, recalling the diet Bruce was on.

It actually inspired him to start a side hustle. Food blog for teenagers who wanted to bulk up. He always loved writing, and he had some expertise on the topic, although he ended up posting more about training and exercises, than food. Every recipe required pictures, so he had to make everything from scratch, and sometimes redo the whole thing because his cell phone photos were simply shit, videos (face always out of the frame) not much better.

He looked up Donna's work, one of those times. But in the end, Jackson introduced him to Matt Dalaher, whose hobby was photography. Matt's advice and explanations were shit, and he was all too glad to tall about girls, topic Jason could offer nothing on.

"Come on, there's don't kiss and tell, and there's me starting to suspect where's nothing for you to say," Matt joked one time.

"That's exactly it," Jason smiled back, not even particularly trying to hide the edge anymore. "I'm saving myself for the marriage."

"What does Whittermore see in you? This, and the cooking shit..."

"I have amazing thighs, I was told," Jason spread them to empathize the point. "One of my best features."

"Oh, so it's like that, huh? He's trying to set you up with Danny? Damn, he did the same thing with me, he gotta give it a rest."

Jason wasn't aware Danny played for the home team, and wasn't particularly trilled to find out like it was a butt of the joke. He still smirked.

"Do I have a chance, you think?"

Matt sputtered, apparently not expecting him to, Jason didn't even know, freak out because of the gay cooties. That was the last time they really spoke. It was fine, though - Matt's speciality was more portraits than still life, anyway.

***

Before the school started, Jason was invited to a party at Jackson's girlfriend house. He had work that day, but his shift ended at seven, so he could, in theory, make it.

"Come on, man, the whole school will be there," Jackson said, running along him. Danny was a few feet ahead of them.

"I don't know anyone from school, except you and Danny," Jason pointed out.

"And Matt," Danny called over his shoulder.

"Matt isn't worth knowing!" he called back.

Danny laughed. Jason smiled to himself. He liked that sound.

He didn't know whether he liked boys, to be honest - he didn't even know if he liked anyone. Things with Talia were circumstantial - and not even in this universe. Before his death, he certainly flirted with girls - older, cooler, the ones he would have no chance in hell with, like Babs, like Koriand'r (and oh, here's another trait they shared: Dick's ex/girlfriends). But the only time he approached dating was with Rena. And they went out only twice: when she thought he could score her some drugs, and when he ditched her for Bruce. For a case, he meant - but essentially, for Bruce.

It was all kinds of fucked up, Jason was starting to realize, how Bruce was all over his life. His father, his boss, his teacher, the only friend he managed to keep - up until he wasn't anything, anymore. It left Jason unmoored, swayable to the winds. They blew, and here he was in Northern Africa, on the quest to find a woman who didn't want to be found. Here he was, letting her know a secret that cost him his life, when he didn't even manage to save hers.

He wanted someone, anyone, in his life. It made him blind to the red flags. He might be better off without feeling this way ever again - but with his new life finding its rhythm, he started feeling those pangs of loneliness again. Thinking of people he left behind. Meditation became more difficult again.

He needed to prevent that, he realized. He couldn't just will and discipline himself not to need people. So the only way was to... Find new ones.

It wouldn't be the same, of course. Nothing like life or dead situations forging a bond between two persons. But it would, should be enough.

"You know what?" He said, looking briefly at Jackson and then back at Danny's back. "I'm game. I will be there."

And then he sped up, to run along with Danny.

***

The party itself was everything that the early 2000s romcoms warned him about. If you were Jason, first time in this sort of environment, sober (he didn't know how he will react to alcohol, and wasn't about to experiment in this sort of environment), knowing no one - he didn't manage to find neither Danny nor Jackson yet - it was awkward and boring.

He knew how to talk to people if you wanted them to open up to you, but it was when he had a mask on his face. He tried very hard that his new life didn't become a new sort of costume, so he didn't want to construct a persona around his future classmates.

He found a relatively quiet corner where only two people were sitting, and sat down with his half full beer cup (poor rhododendron, but he wasn't drinking this shit for real, and an empty cup would attract a refill, and full - askance glances to why wasn't he drinking). He nodded and smiled at them. They stopped talking, although the one with darker, longer hair smiled back and nodded.

"Hey, I don't know you," the other guy said.

He had a shaved head and a graphic T-shirt, like the one Eddie wore. Eddie, flashed in Jason's mind - last time they were in touch, he lived in California, too, although way closer to Hollywood. But getting in touch with anyone from his old life was dangerous, so he didn't. Now, he kinda felt a short pang of regret.

Jason shook his head to ward away this dangerous feeling.

"Yeah, I don't know you either. But then again, I don't know anyone here, except Jackson and Danny. I'm Jason."

He offered a handshake to both of them. The dark-haired one responded first, albeit slightly awkward in the movement.

"Scott," he said.

"Nice to meet you," Jason nodded.

"Uh, you too?"

Shit, don't people say that anymore?

"I'm Stiles," the shaved-headed one said, shaking his hand, with the emphasis on "shake". "Though I don't know how nice it is to meet you if you're friends with Jackson Whittermore."

"Stiles," Jason remembered. "I heard about you."

"Definitely not nice, then."

And yet, he was still shaking Jason's hand.

"Don't worry, it was only complimentary. Well, almost."

His cooking was shitty, Jason recalled. Everytime the Sheriff took his lunch at the diner, Jason made a point to ask what his son prepared for him that day. Even texted his blog's URL to the Sheriff, so he could pass it along. Some of Stiles' attempts at his recipes were a success, it seemed, because as the Summer progressed to the end, Sheriff patronized the diner less and less.

Stiles scrunched his face.

"No way in hell would Jackson say anything positive about me."

"He isn't my sole source of information," Jason smirked.

Stiles looked at him for a second or two, and then snapped his fingers.

"Jason! From the Robby's!" He elbowed his friend in the side. "The dude who runs that fitness blog? We're, uh, we started some protocols you describe, to enhance our physic and all."

"Yeah, but I'm afraid it's not gonna help us, come Spring," Scott smiled sheepishly. "I really can't do some of it without wanting to cough up my lungs afterwards."

"That's, uh, that's not supposed to happen," Jason said carefully.

"It's fine," Scott said. "I have asthma, I'm used to it."

"Even more, then. I was basically describing some of what I was doing, when I had started to," train as a vigilante, to kick ass and take names. "Bulk up. But I had no underlying conditions except I was somewhat... Thinner than other kids my age. Look, it's important to talk to your doctor, but if there's, you know, issues with that - you should always start small. Steady wins the race, yeah?"

Jason shared some tips, and then the topic switched to lacrosse - Jason still had only the vaguest idea of what this sport entailed, or how expensive it was. That topic - the money - wasn't the one he wanted to broach with Jackson or Danny. They were under impression he has it - from him being able to afford Whittermore's law firm fees - and worked at the diner basically for shit and giggles, because he was sad son of the bitch who knew almost no one in town. He didn't dissuade them, not because he thought they're gonna be assholes about it, but... He didn't want to chance it either. He knew how some things about you that were quirky if you had the money, like reading newspapers during breaks between classes - they added to the character. Weird, but a character. But if you didn't have the money, reading newspapers was just another proof of it. A sign that you can't afford any other entertainment, like a cell phone.

Scott was just telling him where to find used gear and armor when someone walked up behind Jason's back. He managed to keep himself relaxed, so even when the hand lowered at his shoulder - and Stiles and Scott's faces tensed - he didn't lost his cool.

"Hey," Jason said, turning to see Jackson behind him.

"Why are you here with the loser brigade?" Jackson scrunched up his face. "We were waiting for you."

"I was lost, and I found myself some company. Jealous? Should have responded to my text twenty minutes ago."

"Ugh, come on, come on, I will introduce you to Lydia."

"Now's my turn to be jealous," Jason said, getting up.

He didn't quite know what to say, so he said everything that came to mind. Jackson was kind of used to it, from their weeks of running together. Stiles and Scott, though, gaped.

Jason hoped they weren't like Matt. He waved at them on the chance they weren't, and Scott waved back. Though, not Stiles.

Jackson noticed his sigh.

"What?" He looked back and scowled. "Stilinsky said something funny to you?"

Jason shrugged.

"I mean, he seemed pretty chill. But might have disliked my jokes about jealousy. And I don't know him enough to know if it's the gay thing as in, me treating homosexuality as a joke, or gay thing as in, he is going to stay away from the gay guy thing."

"Don't worry, Stilinsky is an asshole, but he's not that kind of asshole. If he was, I would kick his ass to the next Tuesday. But, uh, you're gay?"

Jason shrugged.

"I dunno. I don't know if I'm anything, if that makes sense. My father... Was pretty strict. I didn't have much friends, and. I dunno, it's just never came up. But," he stopped Jackson with the hand on his shoulder, looking into his eyes. "I really was joking about jealousy. You're not my type."

Jackson punched him in the shoulder, and they both laughed.

"So what's your type? I know you said it never came up, but, the best you figure."

Jason glanced at Jackson, who was trying for nonchalant but missing a beat. Maybe Matt wasn't far off when he suggested that Jackson was playing a wingman for Danny.

He smiled to himself, feeling a bit nervous. He didn't really know how to answer the question best.

"I really have no idea. It's not about the looks, for sure. I grew up around professional model-looking types. Nobody really rang a bell for me. I like chill people though. People with a nice smile. Or a mean smile, maybe. A genuine one."

Not like the one he himself wore, most of the time.

He shrugged again. He did like that, but he wouldn't call it attraction.

"Alright," Jackson said, and clapped him on his back. "You will figure it out."

***

Jason might have been mistaken in thinking that Jackson wanted to set him up with Danny. Or maybe his answers were unsatisfactory, and he changed his mind. Over the course of the night, Jackson introduced him to a shit ton of people. Presumably, to help him "figure it out".

It wasn't hard for Jason to remember their faces, names, and basic facts they shared about themselves, but it was hard to come up with the topics of conversation. Jason didn't follow sports, or celebrities, knew nothing of local gossip, wasn't even into online gaming. He talked a bit about his blog, but in the end, the topic bored him before it could bore the new people, so he just shared a link when they asked.

When Jason noticed Danny, he wanted to make his way other, but noticed a guy who struck up a conversation with him. Danny had a nice smile. Damn.

He didn't feel particularly crushed. Maybe it answered the question, maybe it didn't. He was a bit overwhelmed, and went to catch a breath outside.

There were people by the pool, but not further into the backyard, where the garden started. He almost bummed a cigarette from a random guy, just so he wouldn't feel out of place, but then he thought, fuck it. He was out of place. He wasn't relapsing his smoking habit because standing alone in the middle of a crowd of unfamiliar teenagers was unsettling. Because if he did, he would smoke all two years of high school that were left, and then he simply wasn't stopping.

It was a short lived relief, being alone in the garden, because very soon he was not alone so much. There was Stiles, and a girl with a small designer dog.

"Uh, how did your summer..."

"What do you want, Stiles."

"Nothing! Just saying hello. It's your party, after all, would be rude if I didn't even say a word to you."

"And this is why you followed me when I took Gucci for a walk. Sure. Because I'd talk to all three hundred of guests currently in my house. Otherwise it's rude."

Jason tensed. So that was Lydia. And Stiles was... Stalking her a bit?

"No, not you-rude, me-rude. Sorry. I can leave if you want."

"Oh, wouldn't it be rude of me if I sent you away."

"Not that it stopped you ever before. Like when you publicaly ignore my existence."

"And you don't think I have a reason for that?"

"Sure. Your boyfriend thinks I'm a loser, ergo, you feel I'm a loser."

"Oh, Stiles, it's not that - it's that I have a boyfriend at all, and your puppy crush is obvious from space. I don't need the drama. And FYI? That's not how you use 'ergo', unless you think I have no mind of my own."

She picked up the dog and went back. Stiles stayed, sighing frustratedly.

Jason thought for a second, whether to disappear or come out. In the end, he whistled, before Stiles turned to head back.

Stiles immediately turned around, but it took him a moment to find where Jason was standing.

"Enjoyed the show, Greenberg?" He asked, harshly.

"Not particularly, no," Jason said honestly. "I really don't like when guys don't get the hint."

"You friends with Jackson for a month and now you're going to be teaching me a lesson on his behalf?" Stiles squeezed his fists.

Jason could see that he wasn't scared, but he was expecting an attack. And that wasn't who Jason was - not now, and not ever.

He put his hands in the air, placatingly.

"You keep your hands to yourself, I keep mine."

Stiles was taken aback.

"You think I would?.. I wouldn't!"

Jason waved his hand dismissedly.

"If I got a penny every time I heard "I would never" when a guy, in fact, would or had - I'm not saying I would be a Lex Luthor, but I might have no need for a waiter job."

"I know, I'm the son of the Sheriff, you don't need to..."

"Even if you were a Sheriff yourself, I don't care," Jason cut him off. "Okay?"

Stiles huffed, and then went back to the house.

Jason, though, he decided to call it a night and went back to the place he rented.

#jason todd #dc comics x teen wolf #crossover #my fics #wip #red hood and teen wolf i swear i don't understand why there's no more crossovers #because red riding hood get it? get it?#anyway #au for jason past his training with all caste #pre season 1 teen wolf

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alak-tool-the-dorkblade · 1 year ago

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Whenever I've heard people talk about having a moment of clarity, I always imagined it as sort of fanfic-style, with eyes widening and a small 'oh' of understanding.

A few weeks ago, I had my moment of clarity, not for the first time either, but this time it really sank in, and it was nothing like fanfiction. It was ugly; I was crying and trying to forget what I had realized because it meant that I was going to have to upend my life, that I was going to have to feel emotions I hate, and that I would have to hurt the ones I love.

I've spent the last month pretending it didn't happen, but it's been bubbling underneath the surface, throwing me into disordered thinking of self-loathing and suicidal ideation, where it was literally all I could think about for days on end. I haven't been able to go on walks, bike rides, or anything that leaves me alone with my thoughts.

I've self-medicated with low-dosage edibles, but that was just slapping a Band-Aid on an open wound.

It came to a head last night after two straight days of suicidal ideation. I opened the door to the possibility of returning to my home country, and I don't think I've ever felt so relieved.

I know that I'm going to have to deal with adversity, that I'm going to have to do a lot of hard work to get myself back to where I was before I moved.

The last time I had one of these 'realizations' was near the end of 2017, and it came with an emotional breakdown as well.

In early 2018, I went home for a month, and I felt so alone. I was curled up on my brother's couch, crying, and missing everyone I had left in California.

I swore that I wouldn't leave again, that I would do my best to always stay in California, where I was comfortable and content.

I think one of the differences between now and then is that I am more emotionally mature. Another difference is that I am not in constant agony from having my nerves compressed between two discs. The pain will still show up, and I need to take breaks, but it isn't as bad as it used to be, which I felt made me dependent on my Californian family

I'm going to visit my brother in December and see if that feeling comes back because no matter where you go, there you are.

Am I what is making myself miserable, or has it been my situation?That I've been trapped in a dead-end job with no room for advancement? My visa doesn't permit me to go to school (the cost of post-secondary education in the US doesn't allow it either); it doesn't permit me to apply for all sorts of benefits, nor does it allow me to apply for a green card.

I've been static for the last decade. I've certainly had emotional growth, but nothing else. I haven't been able to step forward or backward. I can move laterally, but I can't grow in any way (except in weight).

It's only been a day, but I've felt so much lighter. I've been thinking about all the things I can do back in Canada: go to the doctor and get my spine looked at, have a place to myself, enjoy the cold and snow, go to school, and start a new career path. I feel like I am regaining control.

I'm afraid I'll end up alone in the dark, crying for my California family, because I do love them, but I can't just tread water anymore; I need to swim towards the shore.

P.T. Barnum said that comfort is the enemy of progress, and he's right. I've been comfortable and content. I've been lazy. I've been happy to do nothing, except I don't think I've actually been happy. I've enjoyed not working my tail off for a boss that doesn't appreciate me and pays me a pittance, but now it's time to be responsible again. I need to see my family, visit my grandmother before I no longer can, get back into shape, and make a change. I want to help and advocate for people; I want to talk to whatever MP I will have and try to make a positive change somehow. I'm ready to be uncomfortable again.

When I had my moment of clarity last month, I couldn't imagine ever feeling relieved or excited; I thought I would only be scared.

I cannot emphasize just how chilling it is to have a moment of clarity; it feels like jumping into a frozen lake. There's the initial shock as it hits you, but then you're left shivering and trying to recover from the shock.

I hope I won't have another moment of clarity once I've moved back.

#personal #journal entry #cw suicide mention #cw drug use mention

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sweetestdiary · 2 years ago

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5. A Reunion Kiss

So I wrote this many nights ago but I'm just now posting it.

The pilot says the plane will make its landing in an hour.

Eve does not kid herself into believing that time will move by effortlessly. Aboard this plane she is restless; her music provided her with minimal entertainment and the films available on the flight did not interest her. Additionally, in the pursuit of keeping contact with the stranger sitting beside her at a minimum, Eve is left to do something she often does: think.

Looking at the thick, puffy clouds the young woman thinks of the homes she is flying over where people are ignorant to this plane and its passengers as they partake in their daily life. She thinks of small towns and cities - filled with people of different races, creeds, and origins. Most of all, what dominates Eve’s mind is how it felt to return to the Midwest. The butterflies in her stomach are a nuisance, but they have been a part of this entire flight as Eve plays the waiting game. It’s nice and incredibly unfamiliar, her enthusiasm for going home. It is without a doubt that personal changes are the reason why Eve feels delighted to abandon the glitz and glamour of Los Angeles for Dayton and all its nostalgic familiarity.

If she was making this journey in early 2022, she could easily envision herself as sullen, grimly questioning herself. If this was 2022, Eve wonders if she would feel as if she was departing from a place where she could rewrite herself - renew herself. Had she pursued a life in Los Angeles she could have been a dancer - no, a video vixen. Desired by young artists, seasoned film directors, and entertainers from all walks of life.

In such a scenario, Eve could see herself in tighter, trendier clothes. Her dark locks cut to a stylish bob - or maybe she would be like Tierra and dye her hair a brazen color like red or platinum blonde. Los Angeles Eve would not be a bad girl, but she would certainly not be the ballerina of Dayton with the soft, perfect image.

Had she departed to Los Angeles in 2022 with a heart full of loneliness, Eve wonders if she would have used her four days to explore her sexuality in an effort to forget Marcus. Eve could envision a moment of uncertainty, then a moment of passion, then an utter disaster of a Californian nightstand. Probably with a singer. Definitely with a singer. Such a man would have managed to win her attention after hours and hours of Eve brushing him aside. Only for him to explain once she defrosted - just like Marcus - that what they had was sex, nothing more. Such an idea almost makes Eve want to shake her head, shake the thought out.

The pilot says the plane will land in thirty minutes. The corners of Eve’s lips threaten to go upward. Soon, soon, soon, she will see him.

Yes, had she gone to Los Angeles in 2022 she would have been gazing out of this very airplane window in heavy thought and remorse, but because she left in 2023 the excitement of seeing him made her feel as if she could float from her seat and into the heavens.

It is in the airport when her glee dims and makes a gradual transformation into uncertainty. There had been an idea in her mind that when off the plane her man would be standing there awaiting her. It wasn’t fully foolish to consider, Eve thought, luggage tight in her grip. The night before her flight, Sal promised he would be here to take her home.

Her head turns. There’s an abundance of white men with dark hair here, dark-haired white men with leather jackets too. But none of them are Sal. Once she would have mistaken a handful of them to be her boyfriend but now she’s keen to the way he walks, even the way he moves his head. Her grip on the handle of her luggage tightens. There’s too much going on for her to focus. Eve is engulfed by the sounds of needy children, reuniting family, friends meeting for the first time. Eve also must be mindful of her stance, here everyone is in a rush to be somewhere and she does not want to earn their wrath. Sal, Sal, where is Sal? Was he caught in traffic? Did something happen?

“Evie!” She lifts her gaze, hears him but cannot see him. “Hey, Evie!!” Sal blends in with hundreds of men and yet it is his large smile that makes him stand out. Eve knows her feet moved to him. She knows Sal moved to her but between this and that it’s a blur. She has no idea when she dropped her suitcase as she was elevated into the air by his large arms. To press her lips against his felt natural and it was shameless, the way Sal deepened the kiss as if no one was there. But Eve thought not of shame, not of how she was leaving a large, glamorous city. No, as he kissed her with all the passion he could muster, all she could think was that she was home. For Eve to come home meant to come home to Sal.

#sal & eve.#will i try to recreate this moment in the sims? yes.

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explorenadore · 11 days ago

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Morocco pt. II - Essaouira

The next morning, I was thrown out of bed and chased up a dune so steep and long, I questioned my existence as a smoker, only to see the most perfect sunrise in my life. A Nomad man around 70, leather-like skin and eyes so kind, you’d almost forget he barely had any teeth left, asked me for a cigarette. My french sucked but we laughed.

After breakfast, we drove back to Marrakech and even tough we’ve made some friends along the ride, we were excited to rule over our vacation from now on.

We picked up the rental car in the city and got right to a four hour drive. The Bluetooth didn’t connect but other than that, the drive itself had already been freeing. We stopped at a small house that sold coffee, rugs, necklaces, vases, keychains, mirrors and whatnot, only to find the sweetest non-english speaking lady who made us some scrambled eggs. The conversation was rough but she showed us her YouTube account where she would post cooking videos. (YT: amina regragia )

The girls ate and then we headed off to the coast, off to the city that now has a piece of my heart. Essaouira.

Again, dragging our luggage over the cobblestone, we arrived at the airbnb. A friendly neighbor saw us desperately looking for the entry and started screaming somebody’s name. A face appeared at the window on the first floor above us, all sleepy and nodding. A few moments later, the door opened and the owner showed us our place for the next two nights.

We didn’t stay long, only to freshen up and off we were to visit the Medina. Essaouira is small, so it took us about two minutes to arrive at the center. Being really worked up by the desert tour, the nightly prayers and the long drive, we sat down at the first smoothie shop we saw and we met one of a kind: Jessica.

And 68 year old hippie with red curly hair and bleached streaks in the front, just like I had. Her nose piercing and tanned skin looked great together and don’t ask me how, but we ended up talking to her for about an hour. Two ex-husbands, Californian, somewhere between self employed and retired, this woman had been traveling Africa for the past eleven months and has only arrived in Essaouria a couple days before us. And there we sat, three young girls, drinking smoothies and clinging onto every word that Jessica uttered. She talked about her Hippie lifestyle, her travels, her past and her experiences with drugs and life. I was baffled. Each one of us made their own, deep connection with her and we were only about sixty minutes into our arrival on the coast. We said goodbye after exchanging numbers and booked a surf lesson for the next morning.

The people in Essaouira were gentle, nice and welcoming. As opposed to Marrakech, where I felt a little trapped and pushed around, this little town really calmed me down in an instant.

In the Evening, after bargaining some fruits from a vendor close to our place, we took Jessicas recommendation and visited Taros, a bar with live music, dozens of rooftop areas and, get this, real alcohol, which had been hard to find so far. We started drinking and dancing and ended up talking to so many new people, my head was spinning (maybe more so because I was on my third Martini).

I will not go into too many details, but I was really drunk and had the time of my life.

The next morning, my shaky hand was reaching for the ibuprofen as we emerged from our beds to drive to the beach.

Surfing lesson number one left me with a sprained ankle and half a toenail but I stood up on the board one and a half times, making me the slowest learner of our group. Still very proud though. The girls were naturals. Well, we all ate shit at some point but the moments I managed to keep my head above water, I saw them standing on the board quite a few times.

The second lesson was scheduled for the afternoon but we moved it up one day since the girls caught a really bad heatstroke. They napped for a few hours and in the meantime I went to the market and got all the veggies I could find to make a nice soup.

After they felt better, we went to the Medina, back to our favorite smoothie shop, talked to the owner (who was, I should mention, such a kind and genuine man. He helped us not to get ripped off by the vendors and always ran out to get more fruit for our juices)

The smoothie shop was the place to be. As we sat there, a guy from Taros, that I barely remembered, walked up to us and invited us for dinner to his place, which was a Riad he was managing. After Tarek left, Jessica arrived with a friend she just met.

We quickly decided to grab lunch together at Chez Omar. The kitchen was small, the staircase leading up to the rooftop was small, the rooftop itself was small but the food, oh god the food was everything you could ever wish for. I’ve always had the theory that the smaller and dubbed the place looked, the better the food. And I was right. Jessica told us more about her past and the way she managed to release all the anger and trauma that had built up inside her. She talked about dark times and downward spirals that had been haunting her in her twenties, glancing over at me quite often.

Talking to her made us feel peaceful and reassured.

#morocco #essaouira #surfing #travel

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youjustgotxfiled · 6 months ago

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Hello, everyone! Back with the second chapter of my Sashannarcy Reader-Insert Hurt/Comfort Fanfic (that's a mouthful XD). Thank you so much to everyone who's checked out my story so far, and everyone who's liked it! I hope you stick around to see what else I've got in store.

If you like what you see here, please reblog, like, and share with your friends! Any and all actions you do here will help me out a ton.

And now, below the cut for those unable to access the link above...our feature presentation! :D

************************************************************************

A series of excited footsteps come towards you from the other side of the door. You recognize them as Marcy’s right away, but you don’t show as much when she flings the door open.

“Woah! Marcy!” you say, exaggerating your surprise. “YOU live in this wondrous abode? I never would have guessed!”

“Oh stop it, you,” Marcy replies. She sticks out her tongue, then resumes a wide smile before giving you a hug. As she does so, you feel yourself beginning to cool off already. “Glad you made it! Anne’s finishing up setting the table, and Sashy’s drying the last of the chairs in the living room.” She pauses, having gotten a look at your wet face and top for the first time. You flinch, but remain calm. Your line’s already prepared. “Woah, what happened? You’re all soaked!”

“Yeah, the heat got to me a little bit,” you reply. You add a small smile of embarrassment, and your cheeks begin to flush. “Still takes me a bit to adjust to the Californian summer months. You know how it is.”

“Oh, do I!” says Marcy. “I remember when I moved out of state to get my illustration degree, and I was NOT prepared for the sun and heat of Long Beach when I came back. Anne and Sasha wouldn’t let me live that down for months!”

Your smile fades a bit, and your next breath intake is quite sharp. Anne and Sasha. Right. They live here, too.

You look around the hallway, taking in the scenery. A whiff of pot roast comes from beyond the dining room to your left, mixed in with the smells of warm bread and…some kind of salad dressing? You don’t quite recognize it. Along the wall of the hall, several portraits of the trio—and other people you don’t recognize, leading you to believe they’re family members of some sort—are hung in frames of many shapes, several of them decorated with an embossing of leaves or frogs. You smile. Guess Marcy’s proclivity for using a lot of “frog” stuff in her life isn’t exclusive to her in this household. Though it does make you wonder if Frogvasion might have something to do with that—but, no. She couldn’t have that much in-depth knowledge about it…could she?

You blink your eyes a couple of times, trying to concentrate on Marcy again. She tilts her head in response. “You all right? You look like you could use a drink of water.”

You sigh. “That’d be wonderful, actually,” you reply. You COULD use something to calm your nerves a little bit.

“Okey-dokey, then! I’ll be right back!” Marcy turns, then gestures to your right. “Why don’t you wait in the living room? I think Sash just finished cleaning in there and Annie still needs another minute to finish the—oop!” She covers her mouth, her cheeks flushing a bit. “Forget I said anything! I mean, we TOTALLY don’t have a surprise for you—I mean, what?” A nervous giggle. Then she bolts into the dining room and the kitchen beyond—and almost trips over one of the chairs in the process. “Eeek!”

You smile. At least she quit while she was ahead. Not that you don’t find her adorable while she’s like this.

Watch it, you idiot, your mind fires back. Remember whose house you’re in. And who you’re dealing with.

Of course. Sasha and Anne. And Sasha’s still in the living room, in all likelihood.

You huff out another breath, squeezing your eyes for half a second before reopening them. You look around again—dining room to the left, bathroom at the other end of the hall, a set of stairs right in front of you, the living room to your direct right.

You grit your teeth and head into the living room.

You walk in to an interesting sight.

To your left, a big-screen TV dominates a bookshelf taking up the entire wall, with video games and a fistful of controllers—all Nintendo stuff, from the looks of things—taking up most of the rest of the shelves, save for a few scattered Blu-Rays and magazines. The floor itself is dark-brown and wooden, with an oval carpet in the center of the room—green in the center, pink in the middle rim, blue along the outer edge. On top of it is a circular coffee table—one that, for the moment, is all covered up in wrinkled newspaper pages. To the right, a big couch takes up most of the wall space, with individual leather chairs flanking it on either side. Each of these chairs also has a big pile of wettened newspapers on them, and there’s another one in the middle of the couch where—

You freeze. The serration in your breath comes back, though you try not to be too obvious about it.

In the middle of the room, folding the last of the newspapers and putting them on the pile on the couch, is Sasha.

You clasp your hands behind your back so as to hide their trembling. You keep your smile on as you get a good look at her.

Her hair is cut down into a much shorter bob, but there’s no mistaking that incandescent blonde color. She’s also wearing a black leather jacket with a distinct crossing two-sword patch on the shoulder, both of which make you wince. Beneath that is a pink flared skirt stopping at the top of her knee, with black leather heel-boots stopping halfway up her muscular calves. You can’t quite see her eyes in the dimming sunlight, but you could swear that she has a scar on her right cheekbone. A remnant of her battle with the demon, maybe?

All of a sudden, she looks up. She locks eyes with you. No visible emotion on her face.

Your breathing almost comes to a dead stop. Your hands are starting to have a real tremble-dance party behind your back. You heart begins to pound again.

A pair of raised eyebrows from Sasha. A curt, questioning wave. “Uh, hello?”

It takes a second to register that she just spoke to you. As you jump, you can feel your eyes dilating as you blink them several times, shaking your head. “Oh! Uh, hi! I, uh, heh heh…sorry to startle you.” You scratch the back of your neck, then return your right hand behind your back to clasp with your left. You straighten up, chest pushed outward. “I’m Marcy’s friend, from her studio.”

Sasha blinks. Then she bursts into a guffaw, closing her eyes and tilting her head back as her chest vibrates from laughter. Wiping away some tears, still grinning, she turns back to you. “Yeah, you look like the kind of friend Marbles would make, all right. At ease, soldier.” She puts down the last of her newspaper and begins to walk towards you, hand outstretched. “And it takes a lot more than that to startle me. Name’s Sasha, by the way.”

“Yes, I know,” you reply. You venture your right hand forward to meet Sasha’s, your left now resting on your hip. Though you’re still tensed up, your smile feels a bit less strained than before. Perhaps her grasp might have something to do with your circulation coming back online. “Marcy’s told me a bit about you. Anne, too.”

Another hearty chuckle from Sasha. “Only the good parts, I hope.”

Good parts, you think to yourself. Sure. Let’s go with that. For now… “She’s been a little light on the stories, admittedly. You look pretty cool, though.”

“D’aw, thanks,” Sasha says, waving a dismissive hand. She flits her eyes and lifts her back leg as well, and you start to feel a weird tightness in your chest. “This is nothing, though. Wait until you see the rest of my wardrobe. It’s got like, so much more style than this ol’ getup. I’ve had this for, what, five years now?”

“Hey, far be it from me to tell you what’s in fashion and what isn’t,” you say, putting your hands up. You laugh a bit, though yours is much shakier than Sasha’s. “I’m just saying you seem like the type who looks good no matter what you wear.”

“Oooooh,” she coos, putting the tips of the fingers on her right hand over her mouth. She wags her pointer finger at you as she replies. “You better not tell anyone else you said that to me. Some little birdies around here might get a little jealous.”

Your smile begins to stiffen. You feel yourself beginning to sweat again. Oh no. Have you made a mistake? Better backtrack, and fast.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything! I just—”

“Hey,” Sasha cuts you off. You swallow, your smile now melted away. You HAVE to be in for it now, don’t you?

Sasha steps forward, making it impossible to look anywhere but right into her eyes. You brace yourself.

To your surprise, however, she doesn’t yell at you. In fact, her tone is quite quiet and calm as she speaks, even if still clipped and short. “Don’t EVER feel the need to apologize for complimenting someone on how good they look. Okay? I do the same to plenty of people other than my wives, and they don’t really mind.” She takes your right hand, and her firm touch seems to cause at least some of the tension in your body to leave. “You just enjoy yourself tonight, okay? We’re all friends here. If any of us actually have a problem, you’ll know. Believe me. Besides, you look too nice for that.” She slaps your shoulder with your other hand, and it’s all you can do not to yelp in fright. “Now come on. Let’s have ourselves a little fun. It’s the weekend, after all!��

Ah, yes. The weekend. That thing the rest of humanity does where this magical concept called “fun” is the primary thing people love to engage in. Yes. Something you’re very familiar with.

Not.

You jump again when you see Marcy out of the corner of your eye.

“Hey! Sorry that took a bit,” she says, handing you your promised glass of water. “I, uh, got into a convo with Anne about her workday. Oh, and the roast’s just about done!”

“Thank frog,” Sasha sighs. “I’m starving. What say we all make our way to the table?”

“Heck yeah! Let’s do it to it!” Marcy replies, flapping her hands just a bit. Sasha grins, a peculiar twinkle in her eye. You don’t trust it, and brace for the inevitable even as the three of you begin to make your way to the dining room.

“So, what is this ‘it’ in ‘do it to it’ you speak of, Mar?” Sasha inquires.

Marcy looks at her, perplexed. “What do you mean? You’ve never heard the phrase before? It’s been a pretty common one for at least the last few decades.”

“Oh, I’ve heard it before,” Sasha says. She’s beginning to grin now, and you don’t like the looks of it one bit. You take a couple of sips from your water glass, hoping against hope the other two don’t hear the ice rattling thanks to your unsteady hands.

Marcy’s frown deepens, as does the lowering of her brows. “Then what are you trying to ask, Sash?”

Now Sasha’s grin seems to stretch across her whole face, and her eyes have narrowed. Unbeknownst to the two—please let that be the case, you hope—your eyes have widened, and your mouth is pursed shut as you brace for impact.

Sasha leans in to Marcy, her voice a near whisper. “I’m asking if we haven’t already ‘done it to it’ enough.”

For a moment, Marcy looks at her. Then her eyes widen, her cheeks going red. She grabs big tufts of her long, silky black hair, attempting to hide her face from a now-chuckling Sasha. “Sashaaaaa!” she groans, still trying and failing to hide herself. “You KNOW that wasn’t on purpose! I tried my best! Honest!”

By this point, you’re thankful you’ve all made it to the dining room table and sat yourselves down. Otherwise, you’re certain you’d have lost your ability to walk right by now, and the others would not have failed to take notice even if they’d tried. As it is, you’re now avoiding any and all eye contact with the other two, narrowing your world to just you and your medium-size, multi-ridged water glass as best as you know how. Even so, a stampede of flashbacks to them, and to every time they and every student, teacher, and principal at school teased you and berated you like this for being slow and weird and…worse, roars through your mind, with you just trying to take cover, hoping they all pass by. It always does. At some point. You’ve just got to wait it out. You just need a little time.

But you don’t get time.

Because that’s when an all-too-familiar voice rings out.

“Come on, Sasha. That’s enough.”

Every part of your body now refuses to move. Petrified doesn’t even begin to describe the state of your mind and heart right now. In fact, your eyes seem to be the one part of you that hasn’t lost agency, and it’s these very eyes that turn towards the source of the rebuke.

They stop when they find it. Because you KNOW who it is.

Even with her curled hair now tied back in a bun, sweat glistening on her brown face and forearms under the bright lights of the kitchen, and a few more wrinkles under her eyes than you remember, there’s no mistaking that glare. Those wide eyes. That booming, commanding contralto voice.

It’s Anne Boonchuy-Plantar.

The charge of thoughts and images in your head is back now at full force, but it has a curious effect this time: you feel compelled to keep your eyes on Anne, as if missing a single word, movement, or even breath she takes might be somehow tantamount to death on the spot. One image that sneaks into your conscious in the middle of your internal tsunami is that of a rabbit in a park, keeping a close watch on an overenthusiastic dog wanting to play chase. Or hunt. Either way, diplomatic negotiations by other parties—be it dog owners or Marcy and Sasha in the here and now—must be maintained posthaste, lest one misunderstanding create the spark of war.

Lucky for you, Anne seems not to have caught on to your off-putting stare, at least not yet. Fists on her hips, a large bread knife gripped in her right hand, and sporting a bright-blue apron with several dark blotches on it (not unlike the cuts and bruises she had when she killed Andrias, your very unhelpful mind chips in), she cuts quite the profile as the flustered housewife. Right now, she’s glaring daggers at Sasha, like you’ve seen her do so many times before. Too many times before.

“You know she’s been wanting to do the cooking for this one dinner for weeks. It’s not her fault our oven’s as old as dirt.”

“Oh, lighten up, Boonchuy! I was just kidding,” Sasha protests, holding the still-hiding-in-her-hair Marcy to the base of her own neck and stroking her love’s black hair for emphasis.

A grin appears on Anne’s face. You feel yourself starting to sweat again, but you remain resolute in keeping your eyes trained on Anne. You sure as hell aren’t going to let the same thing get to you twice.

Anne points the knife at Sasha as she retorts. “That’s Boonchuy-Plantar to you, missy. A name you and Marce share with me, in case you forgot.”

“I know. I was the one who suggested it to you,” Sasha deadpans. Her eyes narrow even more, her grin now beginning to resemble Anne’s. “And you did not just call me ‘missy.’”

“Uh, I was the one who asked you guys, thank you very much. And so what if I called you ‘missy’?” Anne takes a couple of steps forward, moving around the counter separating her from the dining room, still maintaining her wicked smile. You swear your heart is in your throat right now. “Watcha gonna do about it, commander?”

Keeping her own grin, Sasha turns her face up to the sky, her hair whipping behind her in dramatic fashion as she does so. She uses her free hand to rub her chin. At last, she shoots a glance back at Anne. “Don’t you worry, Annie. I’ll…think of something.”

Anne responds with a slow raise of her knife up to chest level. By now, you’re wondering if you’re ever going to be able to breathe again, though you somehow must be if the world hasn’t gone spotty and white on you yet. She points the tip of her knife towards Sasha, her own grin widening. “Not if I think of it first, Waybright.”

You’re shaking all over now—legs, arms, hands, head, you name it. Your brain is spinning with questions.

Something? First? Waybright? Knife? Hurt? BDSM? Possessiveness? Bad blood? Former warriors? Violent tendencies?

Violent tendencies?

VIOLENT TENDEN—

“Uh, guys?” Marcy says, giving you a lightning-bolt shock out of your fugue, at least for the moment. “Can we not do this right now, please? I think my friend’s getting a little scared.”

Anne seems to be yanked back to the here and now, too. She looks around—and makes eye contact with you for the first time. By now, you’re starting to get a bit exhausted from all the fear that’s been coursing through your spirit for the past twenty minutes, so there’s little to spare when she speaks to you for the first time. You figure that’s for the best.

“Oh. Hi. Uh…didn’t see you there. Sorry about that,” she says. Her cheeks have gone quite dark all of a sudden, though you can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or stepping into the dimmer lights of the dining room. She puts the knife down on the table and offers her hand out to you, her smile now much more soft. “I’m Anne.”

You hesitate for a second, fighting your uncertainty over which version of her you just saw is the more genuine one. The more trustworthy one. Realizing that you don’t want to be rude to the apparent master of the house on your first visit, however, you force your right hand to put down your water glass, then raise it back up to meet Anne’s. “P-Pleasure to meet you,” you manage to say.

To your surprise, her touch is quite calming. You could swear you feel caterpillars blooming into butterflies in your chest and flying away then and there.

You break off the handshake with unexpected reluctance, shaking your head, mind still spinning. Maybe you need to start working on that water Marcy gave you to get your head back on straight.

You clear your throat before grabbing your glass again, downing about a quarter of it in one swoop. As you do so, you take in what’s on the table for the first time. Feeling the surface of it with your free hand through a plaid tablecloth decorated in pink, green, and blue squares with multicolored frills, you discern it to be made of pretty solid oak. Everyone’s plates are as white as healthy teeth, with single blue stripes encircling their round edges. The utensils themselves aren’t too flashy, but the glasses are quite intricate in their decorations; in addition to the water glasses being triple-roll-ridged at the top, the others have beautiful wine glasses as well, with each corresponding to their apparent favorite color—Sasha’s already downing her pink one, Marcy smiling at her green one, Anne pouring out some red wine into her blue one. All three have alternating clear-and-colored stones, bordered and stitched together.

You take another sip of your water, smaller this time. Your thoughts are slowing down again, but you’re still very much unsettled. Something’s gonna break if this keeps up, and you know it. Should have come in here with an exit strategy…

No, your mind intones. You wanted this. You NEED this. You’re not going to let THEM dictate your evening, are you?

You grit your teeth. Another gulp of your water. You don’t know about needing this visit, but you sure aren’t going to let them dictate how this night’s going to go. That time has long since passed.

You think.

You turn your focus back to the table. Best to see what dishes you’ll be dealing with tonight.

True to Marcy and Sasha’s word, a big pot full of steaming roast beef dominates the center of the table, with fistfuls of chopped carrots, celery, and onions poking out over the top of it. Okay. So far, so good.

To the right of the roast, a mid-sized bowl full of bread rolls sits, radiating with heat. Right next to that is…a bottle of A1 hot sauce? Huh. Not the most conventional thing in the world, but could still be workable as long they were separable.

To the left of the pot, however…a dish you can’t quite begin to comprehend. It looks like a salad at first glance, but the construction of it is quite unusual. To begin with, a large, ridged leaf of some kind serves as a makeshift floor for the rest of the ingredients piled on top of it. Some of these you don’t recognize, but what perplexes you are those that do: tomatoes, carrots, peanuts, shrimp, lime juice, and garlic. Combined with the scattered flecks of beans, pulp, and sugar you see sprinkled on top, you can’t help but feel a touch nauseous looking at it. The last thing you need right now is something spicy or weird that could upset your stomach more than it already has been—and tip the others off to anything wrong with you.

You look at Anne. She’s been chatting with Marcy about her workday and how fascinating you seem to be to work with and talk to, and she’s now looking you in the eyes again. Which means…

Hoo boy. You don’t have a backup for this one. You consider coming up with an off-the-cuff joke, then think better of it. Not a good idea to make a bad first impression worse if you can help it.

You blink, clearing your throat. “I’m sorry, what was your question again?” you ask.

“I was asking if you had any hobbies. Outside of work, I mean,” she replies. No visible change of expression at your miscue, from what you can tell. Okay. Maybe this is still salvageable.

“Not really, to be honest,” you reply, forcing your happy smile back onto your face. “I mean, unless you count watching TV or listening to music or…reading.” You look down and blush at this last one. Good frog, you must sound like such a loser nerd right now.

“Hey, it’s okay! You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Anne replies. She smiles. “I mean, I was never super into books or anything, but I love music and TV shows!” She leans in. You could swear her eyes seem to be a bit wider now, as if anticipating your next answer. “Do you listen to K-Pop at all?”

Crap. Going straight for the garrote, are we? Well. Here’s hoping this is a quick death.

You let out a huff, hoping it’s enough to hide your momentary widened eyes and flared nostrils at Anne’s query. You lock eyes with her. “Can’t say I do, to be honest,” you reply, keeping your voice as even as possible. “Never really…struck a chord with me, I guess. At least, none of it that I’ve heard.”

Anne begins to smile. You feel the tiniest ball of ice beginning to form in your privates. “How much of it have you actually heard?”

Your hands start to wiggle again, and you thrust them under the table as quick as you can to hide them. From the corner of your eye, you think you see Sasha raise an eyebrow, but that’s not important to you right now. What is, is keeping composure. Keeping appearances.

“A very limited amount,” you say. Your voice is starting to dry up, and you hope Anne doesn’t notice. “Only what I’ve heard sneak onto Top 40 stations.”

Anne grin widens. The ice-ball in you begins to spread into your bowels.

“Dude! You’ve been missing out. There’s so many amazing artists out there that don’t get any airplay. Here, I’ll show you!”

She whips out her cell phone from beneath the table, looking to Marcy and Sasha. “Everyone all right with Blackpink with dinner tonight?”

No, you think. Your heart’s beginning to pound. You feel your eyes widening and dilating again. No. Frog. Please. Please don’t play the song I think you’re gonna play. PLEASE don’t play the song I think you’re gonna play.

“Yaaaaass!” Marcy yells, raising her arms as if in triumph.

“I couldn’t think of a better choice, Annie,” Sasha says, a big grin on her face.

I couldn’t think of a worse one, you think, though you bite your tongue for the sake of formality. At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself. You’re sure it’s true, though. Pretty sure.

You do, however, find room to voice one concern out loud. “Hold on a second. They’re a dance group, right? Or at least dance-pop?”

Anne raises an eyebrow, thumb hovered over her phone—over her music app, you presume. “Yeah. Why?”

You take a deeper breath, one you hope is not too needy-sounding. Frog knows you’ve made that mistake too many times.

“Wouldn’t it be, uh…hard to talk to each other, then? If we played it too loud, I mean? We are at dinner, after all.”

Anne’s face falls a little bit. Disappointment. Oh no. Oh no no no no NO. You need to—

“They do have a point, Anne,” Sasha cuts in, making you flinch again. Good frog, there’s actual amphibians who jump less than you do at the littlest things, it seems like. You feel a twinge of warmth in your chest for Sasha’s good timing, though that’s more because of sheer dumb luck on your part than any kind of perceptiveness on hers, at least from what you can see.

Sasha presses on. “I mean, we don’t have to listen to classical stuff or anything, but we should be able to have background music on without having to shout over each other.” She smiles, then reaches over to your right shoulder to squeeze it. “Plus, our new friend deserves to feel comfortable here.”

You can’t help but drop your head at that. How pathetic must you be to not just want music to be quieter, but to have someone request that on your behalf? Too much to be considered anybody’s “new friend,” that was for sure. Why couldn’t you just let people play their music the way they want to? Why did YOU have to be such a special snowflake that a harmless little EDM song left you on the edge of a nervous breakdown every time someone made a meme or repost out of it?

What validity did YOUR pain have compared to anyone else’s?

None. That was how much validity it had. None whatsoever. Nothing that could compare to what Anne and Sasha must have gone through in battle, or anything Marcy must have endured while watching her “loves” put life and limb on the line for the sake of your world and another. Bottom line, you didn’t deserve to be here. Plain and simple. Not in this nice house, not with this meal made with passion and love you don’t deserve to be given, not with this group of beautiful and amazing women whom you have no right to feel affection for and are too damn good for you.

Your breath starts to hitch, though it doesn’t quite feel like a struggle to breathe. Your chest feels very tight and heavy all of a sudden, but it’s not the kind of tightness you’ve experienced before that would preclude one of your fugues or fainting spells. You can’t quite place it, but you know you don’t like it. Perhaps you should do something useful for once and figure out a cover for it, double time.

You start to cough. You wait for a reaction from the others.

“Woah! Easy!” Marcy leans over, putting a hand on your other shoulder. Bingo. That’s your cue.

You cough louder, putting the crook of your arm over your mouth. You consider wiping away the tears starting to leak out of you, then decide against it. Better to use them to help sell this than give away their true nature. You squeeze your eyes shut for emphasis, then bring yourself back up again, blinking your eyes fast as you fix them on the ceiling for a moment.

“Hooooo,” you grunt, shredding your voice a bit in the process.

“You all right?” Marcy asks, rubbing your left shoulder just a touch. You’re blushing a little now—have been since Sasha started to do the same to your other shoulder, as a matter of fact—but this, too, can be covered up as part of the act. And now that it’s a bit deeper from Marcy joining in? All the better.

“Yeah, yeah! I’m okay. Just, uh…” Your mind blanks for a horrifying moment. Then you remember your sweating from outside, and decide to use it one more time. Just this once, though. More and they’ll be suspicious for sure. “—still dealing with a little dehydration, is all. I should probably drink more of my water here.” You throw in a patented embarrassed laugh for good measure.

You feel Sasha and Marcy’s hands leave your shoulders, though with odd slowness. You swallow. They bought it, but you’re out of deflection cards. Better step your toughness game up if you want to last the rest of the night.

You grab your water again, noticing it’s half-empty. All right. Not as bad as it could be. As you take another sip from it, you glance back at Anne. She’s put her phone down on the table for the moment, but she’s staring at you, quite tensed up. Waiting to see if you’re going to break even further, perhaps?

You smirk, raising both of your eyebrows. If she’s as on the wrong side of kindness as you think she might be, you’re not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing you break down even further.

“You see something green?” you ask her. You slurp your water, keeping your eyes on Anne’s as you wait for her response.

It's her turn to furrow her brows and tilt her head at you. Then a spark of understanding lights up her face, and she shoots you the same wicked grin she was giving Sasha a couple of minutes ago. “Well, no. First off, I was just wanting to make sure you wouldn’t hack a lung all over my table—”

“Our table, exsqueeze you,” Sasha interrupts. You slide your eyes to the right to see Sasha with a similar grin as Anne’s, then flick them back to Anne just in time to see her narrow her eyes and stick her tongue out at the blonde. Your own smirk begins to widen as Sasha continues. “What? I was the one who bought it with my own money.”

“Yeah, and all you ever do is eat off it, ya big meathead.”

A playful half-grimace from Sasha as she puts a fist on her right hip. “Takes one to know one, girlfriend. Remind me who’s been cooking Friday night dinners the last few weeks?”

Anne flicks her eyes to the ceiling in mock deep thought, then fires them back at Sasha. “Can’t say I remember exactly. Something about a musclebound brute with a psych degree.”

“Says the one who loves invading my gym room every chance she gets.”

“What can I say? You put on quite the show when you’re in there.”

“Uh, duh. It’d be kinda weird if the so-called ‘Strength Person’ in this family didn’t tear it up in every gym she went to. If anything, you’re the weirdo.”

“I’m sorry, who’s the super-saiyan between us again?”

You freeze at that. Up to this point in the banter exchange, you’ve been maintaining your smile and mischievous façade with surprising ease, considering what you’ve been through today. Inside, however, you’ve been feeling yourself teetering again. Now, Anne’s casual mention of that form of hers makes you feel like your grip’s slipped off the controls, stumbling into empty space.

In one unconscious motion, your right hand shoots up into view and grips the table with a firm claw hold. The soft bang of hand on wood causes Sasha to whip her head towards you, and everyone falls silent.

Dammit, you think. Thought I was a lot more quiet about it than that. Now what?

Now what comes in the form of Marcy reaching over to slide a couple of her fingers under your clawed hand, pushing upward against your palm to try to loosen your grip on the table. You don’t move it at first, wanting to make sure it won’t be trembling and give everything away when you do.

A moment passes. Two. The silence becomes more awkward as the atmosphere of concern in the room becomes more apparent. You maintain your focus on your hand, however. Doing this right is going to be crucial.

A couple of more seconds pass. At last, you feel some stability coming back into your hand as Marcy’s fingers somehow help relax it. You decide to take a chance.

You lift your fingers up from the table edge—one inch, two, three. Marcy takes the opportunity to slide the rest of her hand under yours. Frog, I hope Anne and Sasha aren’t seeing this, you think, your heart beginning to race yet again. I REALLY don’t want to get kicked out of their house for this.

You shoot a look at Anne, then at Sasha. They’re both watching you, but with strange looks on their faces. Concern? Panic? You can’t quite tell, but they both seem ready to jump at something. Someone, perhaps.

You swallow, turning your attention back to Marcy. She begins to lift your hand up in hers from the table, then lowers it into your lap. The ice-ball in your nether-regions, still growing after all this time, has now spread through all of your bowels. You decide to focus your attention on Marcy’s face in hopes of staving it off.

Looking into her eyes, you’re surprised to see her smiling. You decide to focus on her features in the hope of grounding yourself a little bit. Not because you think she’s as super-pretty as the others, though. No siree.

It’s fascinating, though, looking at her like this. You knew the general details of how she looked on a regular basis. Long black hair that went about a quarter of the way down her back. Green clip on the right side of the top of her head. Tan skin that’s smooth aside from the scar above her left jawbone. Small yet rounded eyes, nose, and mouth. Jean jacket with a fistful of frog-related pins and buttons on the collar and breast pockets, often covering a plain green t-shirt underneath. Regular blue jeans with the smallest of knee holes. Red sneakers scuffed with dirt along its white edges.

And yet, looking at her now, you feel yourself picking up on a few things about her that you somehow didn’t notice before. Like how she’s not bothering to pull her stray hairs back behind her ears. And how her dimples help accentuate her sweet smile and caring eyes when she’s talking to someone she trusts. And how her hands fit so well over yours like a pair of gloves, not to mention how the softness of her touch often makes you want to sway side to side.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Marcy asks. There’s no mistaking the concern in her voice now.

You grind your teeth. You hate to lie to her like this—to all of them, in point of fact. But…there’s no way you can tell them about this. Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever, considering their sources of whatever trauma they all have are a lot less mundane and stupid compared to yours. Better to just finish this evening off as best you can and try to get back home.

You put your smile on again. It feels like more of a struggle than before, as if your facial muscles are one of the apparent weights Sasha likes to lift. Not that you can afford to think about that right now.

So many traps for you to fall into, you oversensitive ninny…

“I’m fine, Marcy. Really. You don’t have to worry about me. Matter of fact, a round of food in my belly will probably do me some good right about now.”

Marcy scrunches her eyebrows up, her face contorted into an expression somewhere between frustration, helplessness, and unhappiness, as best you can tell. You look down. It hurts your heart to do this to her, but it’s just what’s gotta happen, right? Batten down, get going, get through it, and get out. Perhaps even Sasha could appreciate that.

Nonetheless, you feel her hands leaving yours with the same awkward slowness with which she and Sash took theirs off your shoulders after your fake coughing fit. She nods as she begins to turn back towards the table. “You know what? Yeah. Maybe we should.” She looks up towards the others. “What do you say, guys? You think we should start now?”

“Fine with me,” Sasha says from your other side. “That pot roast ain’t getting any warmer.”

“I agree,” says Anne. She’s smiling again—the warmer variety, this time. “We might as well rip the band-aids off and see just how good we are as ‘food rescuers.’”

That gets a big laugh out of all the girls, easing much of the tension in the room for the moment. Though you don’t join in, you can’t help but smile in solidarity at the crack. You have to admit these girls can be pretty funny with their banter. At least, when they want to be.

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unfoldingmoments · 11 months ago

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Alive

Nora felt something inside her all at once. A kind of fear, as real as the fear she had felt on the Arctic skerry, face to face with the polar bear. A fear of what she was feeling. Love. You could eat in the finest restaurants, you could partake in every sensual pleasure, you could sing on stage in São Paulo to twenty thousand people, you could soak up whole thunderstorms of applause, you could travel to the ends of the Earth, you could be followed by millions on the internet, you could win Olympic medals, but this was all meaningless without love.

And when she thought of her root life, the fundamental problem with it, the thing that had left her vulnerable, really, was the absence of love. Even her brother hadn’t wanted her in that life. There had been no one, once Volts had died. She had loved no one, and no one had loved her back. She had been empty, her life had been empty, walking around, faking some kind of human normality like a sentient mannequin of despair. Just the bare bones of getting through. Yet there, right there in that garden in Cambridge, under that dull grey sky, she felt the power of it, the terrifying power of caring deeply and being cared for deeply. Okay, her parents were still dead in this life but here there was Molly, there was Ash, there was Joe. There was a net of love to break her fall. Yet there, right there in that garden in Cambridge, under that dull grey sky, she felt the power of it, the terrifying power of caring deeply and being cared for deeply. Okay, her parents were still dead in this life but here there was Molly, there was Ash, there was Joe. There was a net of love to break her fall. And yet she sensed deep down that it would all come to an end, soon. She sensed that, for all the perfection here, there was something wrong amid the rightness. And the thing that was wrong couldn’t be fixed because the flaw was the rightness itself. Everything was right, and yet she hadn’t earned this. She had joined the movie halfway. She had taken the book from the library, but truthfully, she didn’t own it. She was watching her life as if from behind a window. She was, she began to feel, a fraud. She wanted this to be her life. As in her real life. And it wasn’t and she just wished she could forget that fact. She really did.

---

“Every life contains many millions of decisions. Some big, some small. But every time one decision is taken over another, the outcomes differ. An irreversible variation occurs, which in turn leads to further variations . . .”

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”

---

I don’t want to die. She had to try harder. She had to want the life she always thought she didn’t. Because just as this library was a part of her, so too were all the other lives. She might not have felt everything she had felt in those lives, but she had the capability. She might have missed those particular opportunities that led her to become an Olympic swimmer, or a traveller, or a vineyard owner, or a rock star, or a planet-saving glaciologist, or a Cambridge graduate, or a mother, or the million other things, but she was still in some way all those people. They were all her. She could have been all those amazing things, and that wasn’t depressing, as she had once thought. Not at all. It was inspiring. Because now she saw the kinds of things she could do when she put herself to work. And that, actually, the life she had been living had its own logic to it. Her brother was alive. Izzy was alive. And she had helped a young boy stay out of trouble. What sometimes feels like a trap is actually just a trick of the mind. She didn’t need a vineyard or a Californian sunset to be happy. She didn’t even need a large house and the perfect family. She just needed potential. And she was nothing if not potential. She wondered why she had never seen it before.

The only book not burning. Still there, perfectly green. Flinching at the heat, and with a careful index finger, she hooked the top of the spine and pulled the book from the shelf. She then did what she always did. She opened the book and tried to find the first page. But the only difficulty was that there was no first page. There were no words in the entire book. It was completely blank. Like the other books, this was the book of her future. But unlike the others, in this one that future was unwritten. So, this was it. This was her life. Her root life. And it was a blank page. Want is an interesting word. It means lack. So, she crossed that out and tried again. Nora decided to live. Nothing. She tried again. Nora was ready to live. So she stopped trying to think about what to write and, in sheer exasperation, just put down the first thing that came to her, the thing that she felt inside her like a defiant silent roar that could overpower any external destruction. The one truth she had, a truth she was now proud of and pleased with, a truth she had not only come to terms with but welcomed openly, with every fiery molecule of her being. A truth that she scribbled hastily but firmly, pressing deep into the paper with the nib, in capital letters, in the first-person present tense. A truth that was the beginning and seed of everything possible. A former curse and a present blessing. Three simple words containing the power and potential of a multiverse.

The sky grows dark The black over blue Yet the stars still dare To shine for you

“Life begins,’ Sartre once wrote, ‘on the other side of despair.”

Ref: Matt Haig. “The Midnight Library.”

#matthaig #themidnightlibrary #quotes #book

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calvinhobbs27 · 1 year ago

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Final Chapter: Free Love

Mr. George H. Himes, assistant secretary of the Oregon Historical Society, who has an encyclopedic knowledge of the pioneer history of Oregon, says it is an unquestioned fact that no other one importation of pioneer days did so much to add to the income and wealth of the people of Oregon as Henderson Luelling's traveling nursery.

Now he was taking it to California. In 1853, taking advantage of the Gold Rush, Lewelling moved to California, established a nursery and founded the community of Fruitvale. Today, Lewelling is known as the Father of the Pacific Fruit Industry. Again the business was a rousing success. But Lewelling was a restless soul. His first wife had died in Milwaukie in childbirth. He had married two more times, and became a widower both times. He remarried for a fourth time.

After these achievements, and having acquired for himself both wealth and an enviable reputation, he seemed to have reached the limitations of his work on the Pacific Coast. But he could not be content to stand still, and look back upon past achievements. He must still press forward, and be a leader among men.

A vision came to Henderson Luelling around the age of 55. Final ambition. His Grand finale was to establish a utopian community. He called it The Harmonial Brotherhood. It had grown and gained adherents, but there were problems for Luelling’s happy band. The biggest of these was the inconvenient fact that California society just wasn’t hospitable to their vision of the world — most Californians liked their social customs and institutions of monogamy, courtship, and marriage, thank you very much, and regarded anyone advocating a throwing-off of that yoke as a serious threat to the social order. Luelling decided he needed to lead his flock into a wilderness somewhere, where they might create a whole new society, a society founded on their own principles. In such a place, the Harmonial Brotherhood could demonstrate the soundness of its philosophy without interference and judgment from a prim, preachy, overdressed mainstream society.

Many of the early participants in Spiritualism were radical Quakers and others caught up in the reforming movement of the mid-nineteenth century. These reformers were uncomfortable with established churches because those churches did little to fight slavery and even less to advance women's rights. Women were particularly attracted to the movement, because it gave them important roles as mediums and trance lecturers. In fact Spiritualism provided one of the first forums in which American women could address mixed public audiences.

So Luelling sold his beautiful farm and, taking all the money, invested it in a schooner — the Santiago.

He knew that society would not succeed in the East Bay, so he looked to Central America. Luelling sold Fruit Vale to the governor of California, John B. Weller, in 1859. He organized a few eager families and along with his sons Eli and Albert purchased a ship called the Santiago. He knew that society would not succeed in the East Bay, so he looked to Central America.

BY THE STATE TELEGRAPH LINE. San Francisco, October 7th. An association of Free Lovers, known as the Harmonial Brotherhood, sailed for San Salvador this afternoon, in the schooner San Diego [Santiago]. They number about twenty-five persons, male and female. and are under the guidance of Dr. Tyler. They propose to settle in the interior of Honduras."

Things did not go well for the Harmonial Brotherhood.

Telegraph from Honduras. We extract the following from a recent letter to the [San Francisco?] Bulletin, dated at Tegucigalpa, Honduras, July 28th: I have just heard that the horde of Free Lovers, who left California some time before I did, have settled on the Pacific side, and are dying off rapidly. The coast where they are is very unhealthy, and the Government looks upon them with much suspicion. Poor, deluded wretches! the priests will finish them soon."

The journey appears to have been dogged with several major issues. The first was a question of leadership. Luelling was the group’s leader, but another fellow - referred to in the newspaper as “Dr. T,” a onetime circus performer who was now a preacher and spiritualist (hence the “Dr.” title) - thought he himself ought to be the alpha, and lost no time in initiating a remarkably unbrotherly and unharmonious feud with Luelling over who would be top banana. They all agreed to head back to California after realizing their dreams of a new community in an environment they were not prepared for. to this, Lewelling had been successful in his every undertaking, but in this project he met defeat. The enterprise was a disastrous failure. He was the principal capitalist in the scheme and he lost heavily. Returning to California, he engaged in the fruit business again; but by this time he had lost his former vigor, and he never regained his former financial standing. More bad news was ahead for Luelling. He only asset left that had any value was his boat the Santiago.

San Francisco News.- The following dispatch was in the Bee[?], yesterday: The schooner Santiago, belonging to the Harmonial Brotherhood, was completely wrecked at Mazatlan, on July 31st."

.He returned to California to live with in-laws near San Jose. On December 28th, 1878, while burning debris and clearing land to plant yet another orchard, he died of a heart attack. His brother in law found him dead in the prone position, partially burn and his beard singed. He was 69.

An epic life and somber way to die.

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sweetmusingss · 2 years ago

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"I have been in a few movies but music is where my heart is. Or it was..," I say a bit ominously. This was the longest I had gone in my whole life without singing. It wasn't even just professionally. I didn't sing at all anymore, not even singing along to the radio. "I am definitely tempted to try your grilled cheese in the future. I am probably going to bring him here soon. I just am very protective. It's the main reason why I left L.A. Between that and people gossiping about me. My son is my world though and I just don't want cameras in his face. I want him to have a normal childhood," I say before smiling nervously when realizing I had said a lot in the past two minutes. "I am going to tip you very well for being my therapist this morning. God, sorry about that," I laugh softly, running a hand through my hair.

“Well you made the right choice. No child should be raised like that…” he felt for you which was different for him. He didn’t normally side with celebrities, thinking they were all egotistical narcissists who deserved the hate they got, but you were different. You looked like you belonged over there in LA with your brand name clothes and your blonde hair, but it was clear that you had a good head on your shoulders which most Californians didn’t have. “I’ll just charge you extra for the next 3 iced coffees. Baristas tend to be therapists… I’ve never been one before but there’s a first time for everything”.

"Oh, look who knows my name now," Frank laughs softly as he pets his dogs before going over to where their treats were and giving them each a treat and petting their heads once more. He stares back at you, his cheeks slightly pink as he approached you again. "I didn't always live like this.. I used to live in a really tiny apartment too with my best friend. He was the groom at the bachelor party weeks ago.. We actually own the record label together. I wanted my own space though and I definitely have it now. Sometimes I love it here and sometimes I hate how quiet it is having this big house all to myself," he admits honestly to you. The truth was that Frank was desperate to find someone to share a life with. He wanted a wife so badly. His last relationship went right to hell when he had hoped that they would spend the rest of their lives together. Now that he met you though, he unhealthily thought that you were the one and that you were the woman he could picture as his wife.

I look up at him as he talks about feeling lonely in the big house, able to relate since I felt lonely in my small apartment too. Even when I was with my best friend, I still felt alone sometimes so I could only imagine how isolating this massive house must’ve felt to Frank sometimes. I wanted to voice that but it felt too personal; needing to remember why we were here. This wasn’t a date or anything like that, this was the ending of what we started at the club and no matter how badly I wanted to get to know Frank on a personal level, I couldn’t let myself fall into that trap. I walk over to him, running my finger along his chest, batting my lashes at him. “You can invite me over anytime you want, baby. Promise I’m really good company. And I can be quite loud.” I smile flirtatiously at him, leaning up and pressing my lips to his jaw softly, wanting to remind him why we were here.

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luveline · 3 years ago

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hi!! im pretty sure your requests are open, but if they’re not feel free to ignore this. i keep thinking about holding steve’s hand or like holding onto his bicep. especially in public and with a shy reader. i just want a steve and i want him to hold my hand when im feeling anxious

thank you for ur request! ♡ shy!gn!reader | 1k words

Steve can see you hesitating from the corner of his eye. The lunch club (minus its Californian counterparts) have all somehow managed to fit inside the 733i, survive the journey up to Indianapolis city centre, and now meander through a mall that feels bigger than Hawkins' in its entirety.

Robin and Max are talking about something Steve is too 'boy' to understand, apparently, and you're getting your ear talked off by Eddie and Dustin, though their nerd explosion seems pretty self contained. You're more of a bystander than an active part of the conversation.

And Steve knows it isn't their fault that you're anxious. It's just how you get sometimes, especially in places like this: it's loud, it's busy, people rush past and don't stop.

He holds his hand out across the way. You smile at him shyly and move from Eddie's left, almost stepping on Dustin's rubber toes as you cross the walkway and take Steve's hand.

Your hand is cold. He gives your fingers a good squeeze and pulls you close, your elbows brushing with every step forward.

"Look, there it is!" Dustin says excitedly.

Steve looks forward and finds a bad dream in front of him – a nerd store. Dork paraphernalia lines the windows, merchandise and action figures, posters boasting comic books and the newest sci-fi novels.

"Oh my god," he groans, tipping his head back just slightly. The ceiling is out of reach, big glass skylights that showcase the blue sky outside. "I can't believe we're gonna waste one of the hottest days of the year here."

Your fingers jump in his. He pulls his gaze back to you and is less than pleased with what he finds. You're tense, your back a stiff board, your shoulders rising slowly towards your ears and your eyes glued to the floor.

"Don't be a jock," Max says.

"Let's not stereotype our dear Stevie," Eddie says, his voice so smooth he knows what's coming before it happens, "he's not a jock. You have to actually play a sport to be a jock. Steve's more like, a washout." He says 'washout' with feigned perplexion.

Steve knows he's only joking – Eddie's funny, and despite any better judgement Steve really likes him these days. It's the perfect invitation for some bantering back and forth. He can feel something scathing on the tip of his tongue and Eddie looks excited to hear it, but you make this really small sound that stops Steve dead. A ragged inhale.

He smiles at Eddie and the metalhead looks surprised and then understanding, him and Robin ushering the kids inside the store.

You're in your own head enough not to notice their departure.

Steve walks past the store slowly, squeezing your hand in time to a song he can't hear. "Babe, are you hungry? I saw a pretzel stand somewhere on the map."

You blink and look up at him. You finally notice that you're alone and turn in a half circle, your joined hands tugging against your chest as you do. "Where did everyone go?"

"That weird nerd haven. I'm selfish so I thought we'd give it a miss. Do you care?" he asks lightly.

Your smile is chest-aching in its softness. "No. And yeah, uh… I'm hungry if you are."

He takes his hand from yours and draws close, head inclined to yours as he takes your warm cheek into his palm. "Thanks, baby. You're the best."

Your expression slackens. Steve loves to get you like this, loves to melt you to the bone with small, soft touches and pet names that you clearly adore even when you scold him like you do.

"Stop," you whisper. You're smiling so much it barely sounds like a word, more a fond sound, the 'o' completely disappearing.

"Sorry," he says. He moves his hand to kiss your cheek where it had been and then taps your shoulder lightly. "It's this way."

Your hand tucks itself between his torso and his arm, fingers curling around his bicep. Steve worries he might blush at your careful touch, feeling shy himself for once as he walks you both through the crowd to join the line for pretzels.

"You okay?" he murmurs to you.

You step closer until the side of your converse touches his. "It's… yeah, I'm okay."

"No, tell me. Honestly," he says, gentle but pleading.

Your hand tightens incrementally around his skin. He covers your fingertips peeking out with his hand and leans down, waiting. Your head drops into his arm.

"I'm really okay, it's only…" Your voice lightens a little. "My heart's, like, racing."

He isn't happy to hear that. "God, I'm sorry. I'll try to stop being so handsome," he jokes in efforts to get you to smile.

It works. You laugh, bringing your other hand to his arm as you say, "It would be a big help."

And to hear you joking around is always something he can't handle, it makes him weirdly, stupidly happy.

He laughs a riot and you come apart, drifting away from each other to giggle. Your hand stays firmly wedged in that place between his arm and his chest, but your grip relaxes.

"Just- you know. Let me know if you need to find somewhere quiet, okay?" he asks.

"I will. Thanks, Stevie." You say it like you're embarrassed, your eyes to the floor again. He wrinkles his nose.

"You're welcome. If you wanna find somewhere secluded for other reasons, I wouldn't be opposed to that either. For your information only, of course."

"Other reasons," you repeat wryly, giving him a knowing look from under your lashes.

He winks at you. It's not a good wink. You giggle and a lot of the stiffness you'd held before falls away. Not all of it, but Steve thinks it's a pretty good start.

#steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things

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inej-ruination-ghafa · 2 years ago

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gold rush - b.h

evermore masterlist | champagne problem | the damn season

Warnings: underage drinking, allusions to sex, high school parties, being intoxicated but still sober enough to make decisions

Pairing: Billy hargrove x reader

Summary: you don't want to end up in the gold rush of falling for Billy hargrove, no matter how enticing he may be.

Wordcount: 1.8k

"Who's that?" Nancy asked as she spotted a new car pulling up, they didn't have new people in Hawkins often because of how small it was so seeing a new car was exciting to the whole town.

People watched as a man stepped out, the sounds of people gasping and whispering and giggling to their friends filling your ears.

You looked over, inhaling sharply as you took in this new man. He seemed almost perfect, his hair falling perfectly over his face as he ran a hand through it.

His deep blue eyes landed on you and you were ready to drown in them. You couldn't stop looking away from him, like you were entranced by his intense gaze on you.

He smirked, taking a drag from his cigarette before throwing it on the floor, stamping on it with his foot. The whole time he never took his eyes off of you.

You had already piqued his interest and Billy was desperate to find out all about you. You seemed just his type, attracted to him.

“I don't know,” you replied before the two of you walked inside.

It had been a week since Billy had joined the school and you learnt all about his Californian past. That explained the effect of golden hair and the sunkissed skin. You tried to ignore him but you had been partnered together in a chemistry class and you couldn't fail.

You walked through the hallway when you saw him walking towards you. As you crossed paths, you felt the soft skin of your hand brush against his rougher hand.

You nearly froze in the hallway but you kept walking, ignoring the chills that ran through your body as you still felt the phantom touch of his hand against yours.

You didn't notice that he had turned to look back at you, his heart skipping a beat when he realised you hadn't looked back to see him.

You just kept walkimg, rushing outside to get some fresh air as your heart pounded at the action.

The thing about Billy that you didn't know, was that the chase was the best part to him.

There was something about you that he hadn't seen before, whether it was the general resistance to his charm or just because he found you attractive, he wasn't quite sure but what he did know was that he wasn't going to let you go so soon.

You stood outside of school, back pressed up against the brick as you took a deep breath, trying to resist the urge to look around the car park for him, knowing he must be around here somewhere.

God, you hated yourself for falling for the playboy Hawkins but you couldn't resist, not when it was him. Definitely not when it was him.

You hated parties and that was one thing that needed to be clarified, they were boring and you didn't get invited to many. You were only here because Nancy had asked you to come.

But she was off dancing with her boyfriend and Nancy already seemed intoxicated.

Halloweeen was your favourite holiday and now you are standing here, alone like you always were at parties, wishing you could be a kid again and go trick or treating.

Then you saw him from across the room.

Billy Hargrove had been pissing you off for a solid month now and you were bored of his lazy attitude and his ability to lure women in with just a look. It was old fashioned and stupid.

You groaned as you watched him walk in, his arms wrapped around Tommy H. two girls walked over to him, the one on the left twirling her hair around her ear as she tried to flirt with him but he smiled and kept walking towards the kitchen where you were.

You were angry, furious as all of these girls threw themselves onto him. You watched from the other side of the party, watching as he flirted with some girl over the counter of somebody's kitchen.

He smiled at the girl, his eyes flicking up to meet yours and you teared your eyes away, your face burning as you thought about it.

You hated yourself for it, for your face burning as you looked at him and thought about him. He still had his eyes on you from the other side of the party, watching your reaction to him.

He never really had a girl be nervous around him and about being with him, they were mostly self confident girls who cared about their looks more than school but you, you were different.

So as he leaned in to kiss this girl, he kept his eyes open and they landed on you. You couldn't pull away, almost hypnotised with the way that he moved his lips down this girls neck, his eyes bearing into your soul.

You pulled away, eyes darting around the room to find somewhere to look that wasn't directly at him.

To avoid him as much as you could, you decided to run off, finding an empty bedroom and sitting in it. You had had a few drinks that night and your brain was spinning at the events that had just happened.

Were you hallucinating or was Billy Hargrove, the new adonis, been teasing you from afar? It felt surreal and you hated the butterflies that danced around your stomach until they made you sick.

You weren't popular, you spent your days in the basement of school printing articles for the school newspaper, you had only come to this party because Nancy had asked you and you wanted to be a good friend.

But now? Now you are stuck in a bedroom, afraid that he could walk in any moment. You didn't want to be like all the other girls who fawned over him like he was a god straight out of some Greek myth, you wouldn't. But you couldn't help it when he would look at you with those piercing blue eyes that you were more than ready to drown in.

The door opened and you looked up with tears in your eyes, about to yell at whoever it was but you froze when you saw that it was billy.

“Mind if I join ya?” he asked and you just rolled your eyes.

He took your silence as an agreement and he walked over, sitting down next to you on the bed where he saw you holding a bottle of alcohol.

“You been drinking?” Billy asked and you wondered why he cared. At the party, he was just chugging beers all night with Tommy, he had no reason to scold you.

“It's a party douchebag, of course I've been drinking,” you said, words slurring slightly at the end.

"You better sober up kid, I don't think your friends will like that you've been drinking," he said, knowing that nancy was one for partying even though he had just seen her stumbling around drunk with steve harrington.

"I'm not drunk Billy," you said and his breath hitched in his throat slightly, you'd never said his name before and now he wanted you to never stop.

He didn't know what was happening to him, girls normally didn't make his cheeks burn and send a chill down his spine. He hoped that you hadn't caught onto any of his obvious signs but you didn't because you were too drunk.

"I think you are babygirl," he said, reaching over and brushing a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

Your face went red and you shook your head, "Don't,” you said, your words like a plea but he wasn't sure what you were begging for.

“Don't what?” he asked, that cocky smirk still present on his face as he looked at you.

You hated the way he looked at you, like he could give you the future that you wanted. You wanted to leave this town and be in love with someone and all that matters is that the two of you are together. But as soon as that dream appears you realise that with Billy, it all fades into the distance because he could never give it to you.

“The nicknames. You call me a kid then you call me babygirl and it freaks me out,” you said, the honest words just spilling from your lips.

“Sorry doll,” he said, a smirk still present on his face as he tried out the new nickname.

You groaned at his comment, “You're an asshole,” you said.

“Is that why you don't talk to me?” he asked .

You weren't sure what to say about that. There was no reasonable explanation about why you avoided him except for the fact that you didn't want to be lured in like every other girl in the god foresaken school by a spoke rpick who would sleep with you and then leave.

You just rolled your eyes, turning away as he leaned in towards your lips.

He placed two fingers under your chin, moving your face so that you were looking into his eyes. He leaned in, lips over yours, his breath mingling with yours and you could almost taste the cigarettes he had just been smoking before he came in herre.

“Tell me to leave,” he said.

This war was the most self restraint that Billy had ever had. He had been at this school for weeks and had already flirted with dozens of girls and slept with a handful of them. He had jumped their boes as soon as he could, in classrooms, sneaking into their bedrooms, closets, and his car. But with you, he wanted to take it slow. He wanted to show he meant it.

For a second, you almost jump into the blue sea of his eyes, the siren song too much for you to be able to resist.

You lean in, pressing your lips against his and he instantly is like a wolf, hungry for anything he can get as he pounces on you.

His hands go to your hips as he pushes you into the mattress of someone's bedroom and you realise that the sweet side of him that he had shown you was gone and this was what was left.

It was a rush as he pushed you so you were lying on your back and as he took his shirt off, throwing it somewhere else in the room, you realised that you'd given in, ready to drown in billy hargrove for the night, to be another notch on his bedpost, to be another conquest he could boast about to tommy H. but for tonight, you didn't care.

#billy hargrove #billy hargove x reader #billy hargove imagine #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove x female reader #evermore celebration #mj 500 followers evermore celebration #billy hargrove fanfiction #billy hargrove fanfic #dacre montgomery #mj writes nonsense #mj 500 followers celebration

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noisynaia · 2 years ago

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We'll be the talk of the town

[Eddie Munson x Californian reader] Part 1

summary: Your new dealer becomes your first acquaintance after moving to the small town of Hawkins, Indiana only a week before starting your senior year of high school. The stress of beginning at a new school, with a new cheer squad, is stressing you out and you need some help to relax.

word count: 2.1k

rating: M

pairing: Eddie Munson x f!reader

note: This has not been beta read. Mentions of drug use (weed). No use of (y/n). Reader goes by she/her pronouns. She is described as being shorter than Eddie and having hair, (length, texture, or colour not mentioned) but no other physical descriptions are used. Both Eddie and reader are 18+. I am not American, so I have no idea if this is even close to a realistic depiction of an American high school experience. It’s the first time I’ve ever written a reader insert and I’m not completely satisfied, but I had fun writing it, so all's good I guess. <3

crossposted on my ao3

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You kill the engine of your stepmother’s car. You had parked under a dim street light after some difficulties finding the right place and doubt starts to kick in.

The trailer park is relatively secluded, you have no idea who this Munson person is. Nobody knows that you're out here, in an area completely unknown to you.

You pull out the wrinkled scrap of paper, double-checking the address scribbled down on the back of it. You had gotten the address earlier from one of the construction workers that is installing the garage in your new house. You had smelled the faint but undoubtedly familiar scent of weed, as you had passed the youngest of the two workers on your way to get some of your many boxes. He must have smoked while wearing his work clothes.

You had asked him where he bought from, after finally getting a chance to pull him aside without seeming suspicious, or getting him in trouble with his boss. He had given you a surprised look like it was completely incomprehensible that you, of all people, would be interested in buying weed. He just told you that he couldn’t remember the phone number of the guy he bought from at the top of his head, but had written an address down for you as well as the name Munson. You had not questioned him further on the subject, already feeling awkward by the conversation, so you just thanked him for the address and returned to your room with your box before taking a long relaxing shower.

You had waited till your dad and stepmom had left for the cinema to go on your little mission. They had taken your dad’s car but had left the keys to your stepmother’s, just in case you needed to run to the store or as your dad put it “wanted to go explore town”.

You had never needed your own car when you lived in San Francisco, your school and most of your friends lived within walking distance and your dad and stepmom were usually willing to drive you or lend you their car if you needed to drive somewhere.

You had only arrived in Hawkins two days ago, wanting to spend your summer with your friends in California before the move to Indiana. You had stayed at your friend Olivia’s, followed by two weeks with your grandparents in Stockton before heading to Hawkins only a week before school would begin.

You had agreed to the move, knowing how badly your stepmom, who originally is from Indiana, wanted to be closer to her parents after her father had gotten his dementia diagnosis. It didn't mean you weren't stressed and a bit sad about the move though, and the thought of something that could make you relaxed and feel good was tempting. You usually only smoke socially, but you have had a hard time falling asleep and relax in your new bedroom.

Not that there's anything wrong with your new room; on the contrary, it’s much bigger than your old room and you have your own bathroom now. You just have a hard time getting used to new surroundings, especially a new home, you will get there, but a little pot would help you to relax.

You check your reflection in the rear mirror, trying to stretch out the time and convince yourself that you will be fine and should get out of the car. You had just pulled on a simple sweatsuit after your shower, and not bothered to put on makeup or style your hair. Your only plan for the night, after getting the weed, was to drive straight home to smoke and eat snacks in front of the tv.

You finally gather your courage and step out of the car to approach the trailer. You stop in front of the mailbox. W. Munson. You had found the right place.

As you get closer to the door you can hear loud music being blasted from the trailer.

Something about the song is familiar. Maybe you had heard it on the radio once or, more likely, you have heard it from Jacob. You mostly listen to pop and new-wave, all metal sounds kinda the same to you, but your stepbrother had made sure to expose you to a broad range of music. He had graduated from college in the spring and had taken a job in San Jose. You had been four when your dad had met your stepmom and your stepbrother Jacob had been nine. He had taken you under his wing from day one, fully taking on the role of protective older brother. You miss him a lot.

You take a deep breath before climbing the steps up to the door, hoping your knocks can be heard over the music. A few seconds go by, and then the music is turned down and the door is opened. You don’t know what you had expected. You have never tried to buy alone, only actually met with a dealer a few times before and that had always been with a group of friends. You mostly just smoked at parties where it already was bought.

The person opening the door takes you by surprise. You had already played out all the scenarios in your head of how this could go wrong. You had expected someone older, but the guy in the doorway is young, probably around your own age and he is the most stereotypical metalhead you could imagine.

His curly brown hair goes below his shoulders, the skin of his knees is visible through his ripped jeans, which have a chain connecting them to his belt. His torso is covered by a shirt with a band logo you don’t recognize. You find it kind of endearing, no matter how small of a town you’re in, you could still find people being unapologetically themselves.

He tilts his head, giving you a puzzled, but also surprisingly friendly look. The boy’s big brown doe-eyes kind of ruin the illusion of the hard-core facade his attire symbolizes.

“Hi…” You finally say, after realizing you probably should say something after knocking on a stranger's door.

“Well, hello.” He lilts, as he tilts his head to the other side. His voice is warm and rich, “Can I help you?”

“Uhm, yeah. I was told I could buy some grass here?”

“Ah,” he exclaims, like something finally made sense. “Of course.” He says as he steps aside, gesturing for you to come inside. “Sorry, I was just a little taken aback. You're not exactly like my target demographic.” He adds with a little chuckle. It makes you smile, he seems like a sweet guy and most of your nervousness has gone away.

“Let me just turn this off and then we can take a look at the goods.” He says as he moves to the stereo that still plays, even though it’s much quieter than before you knocked. You suddenly feel very guilty showing up unannounced and you don’t mind the music at all so you tell him to let it play. It makes him smile even wider than you already had seen making you smile too.

“Metallica..?” You ask, pointing to the stereo. It's the only metal band you can remember the name of and you really hope you’re right.

“Yeah! Seek and destroy.” He nods enthusiastically, smiling even wider - if that is even possible. You smile back at him, gaining more confidence. The trailer is cozy, a little cluttered maybe but you like it, it feels homely. It’s a nice contrast to the half-empty house you just came from that still doesn’t feel like home yet.

“So… some grass, huh?” He clasps his hands together and slips out of a door only to reemerge seconds later with a metal lunchbox.

You decide on your purchase quickly, you want to get home and have time to smoke before your dad and stepmother come home.

You get your stuff and get ready to pay him.

“So, are you like visiting for the summer or…” He tilts his head again. “It’s just I’ve never seen you in town before.” He clarifies.

You shake your head. “I just moved here. You are actually the first local I talk to besides my eighty-year-old neighbors and the construction workers fixing our house.”

“Well, it is my honor to welcome you to the town of Hawkins m’lady, Eddie Munson at your service.” He says with an exaggerated bow and you can’t hold back your giggle.

Eddie, huh? It fits him. You tell him your own name.

“You gonna go to Hawkins high?” He asks, fiddling with one of his many rings.

“Yeah, senior year.”

He gives you a crooked smile. “Me too!” He chimes enthusiastically and adds, a little sheepishly. “Well, it’s my second attempt actually.”

You smile back at him, you like his easy-going nature, you also have to admit to yourself that you really enjoy his smile too. Being the new kid in a small town where most people probably had known each other since kindergarten was scary, but knowing that someone as accommodating and easygoing as Eddie was gonna be at school made you happy.

You open up your wallet to pay, feeling so comfortable around him, that you just push it towards him to take the amount he wanted to charge. To your surprise, he only takes about half the amount you had expected. You knit your eyebrows together, giving him a surprised look.

“Let’s say it’s a welcome to Hawkins discount.” He said with a shrug.

You don’t know what to say. You have some things you want to buy before school begins, so the discount is definitely a welcomed thing, but you don’t want him to lose money on you.

“You don’t have to do that.”

He just shakes his head and pushes your wallet away. “I insist, I want to welcome you to town. Everyone moving to a place as boring as Hawkins needs something nice to cheer them up.” He says this with a smile, but something in his eyes tells you that something is bothering him.

You don’t know what to make of it. You almost ask him, but decide against it, not wanting to overstep. You thank him instead, putting your wallet and weed in the pocket of your sweatpants. You have enjoyed your little encounter with Eddie Munson, but you don’t want to take up more of his time and you have to get home soon if you’re gonna smoke while having the house to yourself.

“Well, I better get going.” You say. “Gonna get out of your hair”

He takes a lock of his hair and uses it to wave at you. You giggle for the second time this evening.

Eddie stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame as you go to the car. You wave at him before getting into the car.

It doesn’t take you nearly as long to drive home since you actually know the way this time.

You sit outside in the backyard taking a deep drag from the joint in your hand. You can already feel your body becoming less tense. You sit outside for a while, enjoying the warm breezy night air before finally getting up to go inside. You drop your plan about watching tv and grab some cookies from the kitchen to take with you upstairs.

You have already finished your cookies and buried your sweatsuit deep in your hamper to hopefully cover the smell of weed. Already finished your night routine you sit down on the edge of your bed and let your legs swing as you look over the many moving boxes on your floor. You have only got around to unboxing a few things, including the two items on your nightstand; a lamp and a framed group photo of your old cheer team. You were the vice-captain for your cheer team back in San Francisco. You love the sport but it will be hard to start up with a new squad, it almost makes you not want to go to the tryouts, but you had promised Olivia and Nicole that you wouldn’t quit. You had met some of your best friends through cheer and it would probably be a good way to get friends at a new school. You let your bare feet land on the floorboards getting your walkman from one of the boxes. Most of your music is packed down or you have given them to your friends before leaving California. You put on the headphones, your favorite tape’s already in, a mixtape your friend Nicole had made you for your birthday last year. It was gonna be tough to start senior year without your friends, starting at a school where you don’t know a single person, but then you remember. You do know one person now - Eddie Munson. It makes you smile as you lay down, letting your tired, weed relaxed body melt into your mattress, falling asleep with your headphones on listening to your mixtape as you remember the sweet smile that had welcomed you to Hawkins earlier in the evening.

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anonymousewrites · 2 years ago

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A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 1) Chapter Five

Chapter Five: Proper Genius

(Y/N) didn’t even think before they left the flat and bounded down the stairs.

“Cab for Mx. (L/N),” said the cabbie as they opened the front door of 221 Baker Street.

They narrowed their eyes, not responding at they observed the cabbie. They were right. It was the same man who drove the Californian an hour or two ago. “Not your passenger,” they murmured. “You.”

“See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It’s you’re invisible. Just the back of a ‘ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer,” said the cabbie, smiling.

(Y/N) glanced at the flat windows. Shadows still moved within, but nobody was looking down. Depending on how this went, that could be good or bad.

“Are you confessing?” they asked.

“Oh, yeah. An’ I’ll tell you what else: If you call the coppers now, I won’t run. I’ll sit quiet, and they can take me down, I promise,” said the cabbie.

“Awfully boring end,” said Sherlock’s voice from behind (Y/N). “I’d hoped you’d have something cleverer in mind.”

He stepped out the front door to stand slightly in front of (Y/N), a strategic place that would draw most people’s attention to him rather than (Y/N) and allowed him to move in front of them at a moment’s notice.

“Doesn’t matter, does it? You ain’t gonna call the coppers,” said the cabbie with a smirk and a shrug.

“Aren’t we?” challenged (Y/N), getting irritated with his “I’m smarter than you” smug routine

“I didn’t kill those four people, Mx. (L/N). I spoke to ‘em, and they killed themselves. An’ if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing.” He grinned. “I will never tell you what I said.”

(Y/N) was conflicted. They needed to turn the cabbie in, they knew that. But…they needed the How. The Why. Not just the Who of serial killings. (Y/N) felt the itch to know creeping up, and they shifted. Couldn’t they have him tell them and then turn him in? They knew his face, his age, his profession, his cab, it wouldn’t be hard to get a name with Lestrade.

“No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result,” said Sherlock. He disliked how much the cabbie was tempting (Y/N) to put themself in harms way. Already the cab had been for them, and now the cabbie offered them knowledge. It spelt trouble for (Y/N), and Sherlock didn’t like that. If he hadn’t of glanced out the window when he realized (Y/N) wasn’t in the room, he wouldn’t have put together who the cabbie was and the danger they were in.

“An’ you won’t ever understand how those people died. What kind of result do you care about?” challenged the cabbie as he opened his door and sat down in the driver’s seat.

(Y/N) looked to Sherlock. He took another step forward. He was also taken in by curiosity, wanting to know how the cabbie had done it. “If I wanted to understand, what would I do?”

“Let me take you for a ride,” said the cabbie.

“So you can kill me?” asked Sherlock.

“I don’t want to kill you, Mr. ‘Olmes. I’m gonna talk you ya, and then you’re gonna kill yourself,” said the cabbie.

Sherlock considered for a moment before opening the back door and sitting down. (Y/N) moved to climb in as well, but Sherlock blocked the door with a hand.

The cabbie shook his head. “No ride without the kid, Mr. ‘Olmes. Cab was ordered for them, after all.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “And you expect to get both of us to kill ourselves?”

“I expect you’ll play the game with Mx. (L/N) here,” said the cabbie.

Sherlock was frustrated at the vagueness but let (Y/N) slide in next to him. He had to to find out how the cabbie did it, and (Y/N) had no qualms about putting themself in danger either for a complete understanding. The cabbie started the engine and pulled away from 221 Baker Street.

“How did you find us?” asked Sherlock as they drove through London.

“He recognized us when we stopped the cab,” said (Y/N). “I thought it was surprise because you jumped out in front of him, but now I know it’s because he recognized us.”

“Smart one,” said the cabbie. “Yeah, I was warned about you. Been on Mr. ‘Olmes’ website, too. Brilliant stuff! Loved it!”

“Who warned you about (Y/N)?” asked Sherlock.

“Don’t worry, you were mentioned too,” joked the cabbie all friendly as he drove them to where he would try to get them to kill themselves. “Just someone who’s noticed them.”

“Who?” questioned (Y/N). “Who would notice me?”

“You’ve got yourself a fan,“ said the cabbie.

(Y/N) frowned, and Sherlock furrowed his brow with a concerned look at (Y/N). Keeping his voice casual, he said, “Tell us more.”

“That’s all you’re gonna know in this timeline,” said the cabbie.

A fan…? though (Y/N). A shiver ran down their spine, and a foreboding feeling passed through them.

The cab finally stopped in between two identical buildings.

Smart. Even if we’re tracked here, it would slow down a rescue if they have to check both buildings, thought (Y/N).

“Where are we?” asked Sherlock, not moving from the seat.

“You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are,” replied the cabbie.

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College,” said Sherlock. “Why here?”

“It’s open; the cleaners are in. One thing about a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I’m surprised more of us don’t branch us,” he remarked, getting out of the cab.

“And your victims just…walk in with you? Why?” asked (Y/N).

The cabbie pulled out a pistol and pointed it in through the passenger window. (Y/N) tensed, and Sherlock’s hand jerked out to grab them before they both recognized the gun was a fake and relaxed.

“Gunpoint? Cliché,” said (Y/N).

“Don’t worry, it gets better,” said the cabbie. He tucked the gun away. “Don’t need this with you, anyway, ‘cause you’ll follow me.”

Confidently, he walked away into the building on the right. (Y/N) opened the cab door and stepped out, Sherlock following right after them.

The cabbie led them up to the second floor and into a lighted room. Bookshelves with textbooks lined the walls, large windows looked out in its identical neighboring building, and benches, tables, and chairs covered the floor.

“Well, what do you think?” asked the cabbie. (Y/N) and Sherlock just looked at him, nonplussed. “It’s up to you. It’s where you’re gonna die.”

“No, we’re not,” said (Y/N), crossing their arms.

“That’s what they all say,” said the cabbie. He sat down at a table, waving two seats across from him empty. “Shall we talk?”

Sherlock and (Y/N) sat down. “Bit risky, wasn’t it? Took us away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen. They’re not that stupid. And Mrs. Hudson will remember you,” said Sherlock.

“Almost took Mx. (L/N) away under your watch, so not too risky,” said the cabbie. “This is a risk.” He pulled a glass bottle out of his pocket. Inside rested a large beige pill. (Y/N) and Sherlock regarded it carefully. “Oh, I like this bit. Cause you don’t get it yet, do you? But you’re about to. I just have to get this.” From another pocket, he pulled out an identical bottle containing an identical pill. “You weren’t expecting that, were ya? Oh, you’re going to love this.”

“Love what?” asked Sherlock imperiously.

The cabbie grinned. “Sherlock ‘Olmes. (Y/N) (L/N). Look at you! ‘Ere you are in the flesh. That website of yours: their fan told me about it.”

“My fan?” questioned (Y/N), probing for more information.

“You two are brilliant. You are. Proper geniuses,” said the cabbie with some degree of awe. “The Science of Deduction. Now that is proper thinking. Between us, while we’re sitting ‘ere, why can’t people think? Don’t it make you mad? Why can’t people just think?”

“Oh, I see,” said Sherlock sarcastically. “So you’re a proper genius too.”

“Don’t look it, do I? Funny little man drivin’ a cab. But you’ll know better in a minute. Chances are it’ll be the last thing you know,” he said confidently.

“Go ahead, then. Explain the two bottles. Show us your genius,” said (Y/N).

“There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you’ll live; take the pill from bad bottle, you die,” explained the cabbie.

“Both bottles are, of course, identical,” said Sherlock.

“Course.”

“And you know which is which,” said (Y/N).

“Course I do.”

“But we don’t.”

“Wouldn’t be a game if you knew,” said the cabbie. “Oh! And because I was advised to bring Mx. (L/N) out first to get you, Mr. ‘Olmes, I have a fun twist.” From yet another pocket, the cabbie pulled out another bottle, identical to the others, and put it on the table. “Two safe bottles, so you both have a chance, and one bad bottle. I won’t cheat. Whatever pill you two don’t want, I’ll take.

“This is what you did with the others. You gave them a choice,” said (Y/N).

“Now I’m givin’ you one,” said the cabbie. “Take your time. Get yourself together.” He had a sick anticipation for the death of one of them. “I want your best game.”

“It’s not a game. It’s chance,” said Sherlock, examining the bottles without moving.

“I’ve played four times. I’m alive. It’s not chance, Mr. ‘Olmes. Mx. (L/N) understands that already. It’s a game of chess, with one move, and two people will live, one will die. And this…this is the move.” He slid a bottle closer to (Y/N), who was looking at them intently. “Did I give you a good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose any of them.” Seeing (Y/N)’s eyes flicking between bottles in calculation and glancing at Sherlock, the cabbie grinned. “Mr. ‘Olmes, Mx. (L/N), ready to play yet?”

“It’s just chance,” muttered Sherlock. He was trying to think of which two bottles were good so both he and (Y/N) could have one. ((Y/N) was trying to figure it out as well, but they weren’t even thinking of actually taking the pill)

“You’re not playin’ numbers, you’re playin’ me.” The cabbie looked at (Y/N). “Did I give you a good pill or bad pill? Is it bluff? Or a double bluff? Or a triple muffin?”

“Still just chance,” said Sherlock.

(Y/N) didn’t think so. Four times couldn’t be chance. There had to be a trick. They just hadn’t figured it out yet.

“Four people in a row? That’s not just chance,” scoffed the cabbie.

“Luck,” muttered Sherlock.

“It’s genius. I know ‘ow people think. I know ‘ow people think I think. I can see it all. Everyone’s so stupid—even you. Or maybe God just loves me,” laughed the cabbie.

(Y/N)’s eyes narrowed. He was beginning to really get on their nerves. They eyes flashed mischievously. He wanted to have fun? Fine. They would have some fun, too. “You risked your life just to kill strangers,” said (Y/N) musingly. “Why?”

“Time to play,” said the cabbie, pushing the bottles forward.

“This is my turn,” said (Y/N).

Sherlock smirked as he saw the focused look in their eyes. (Y/N) was quick to worry and nerves when just, well, existing, but when in their element, they were confident and self-assured.

“You have shaving foam behind your left ear,” began (Y/N). “No one’s told you, and there are traces where it’s happened before. Obviously, you live on your own, no one to tell you when you’ve made such an mistake. However, in your cab there’s a photo of children. The mother is cut out of it. If she had died, she’d still be there. Picture’s old; frames new, all together you think of your children often but don’t get to see them. Ergo, estranged father. She took the kids, but you love them, so it still hurts.”

The cabbie’s face had fallen as his heart was laid open on the table as (Y/N) dissected him. It spurred them on.

“Your clothes are three years old, even if they are recently laundered, so you’re keeping up appearances but looking to the future. And now you’re on a murder spree…”

(Y/N) tilted their head with a little snake-like smirk. As much as they were uncomfortable around people, in the right circumstances, they were the ones throwing other people off their game. Because (Y/N) was smarter.

“They told you three years ago, didn’t they? That you’re a dead man walking,” finished (Y/N) as the cabbie’s face became stone cold, flat, a stark difference from the smugness he had been displaying.

“Aneurism,” said the cabbie finally. He tapped his forehead. “Right in ‘ere. Any breath could be my last.”

Wearing a proud smirk at (Y/N)’s ruthless deduction, Sherlock said, “And because you’re dying, you’ve just murderer four people?”

“I’ve outlived four people,” countered the cabbie. “That’s the most fun you can ‘ave with an aneurism.”

“No, there’s something else…” mused (Y/N). “If you were bitter, you’d be sullen and angry, resentful for sure, but it is a paralytic. Not enough for four kills. No, this is about your children…Love is a more powerful motivator.”

The cabbie grinned. “You reputation don’t disappoint.”

“But how?” interrogated Sherlock. He had come to the same conclusion as (Y/N), but as their tearing into the cabbie was so entertaining, he had let them speak.

“When I die, they won’t get much, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs,” he admitted.

“Or serial killing,” noted Sherlock sarcastically.

The cabbie smirked. “You’d be surprised.”

“Surprise us,” said Sherlock.

“I ‘ave a sponsor,” said the cabbie.

(Y/N) furrowed their brow. What sort of person sponsors killings…? “Excuse me?”

“For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they’ll be,” said the cabbie. “You see? It’s much nicer than you think.”

“Who’d sponsor a serial killer?” questioned (Y/N).

“Who’d be your fan?” responded the cabbie.

“What?” said Sherlock sharply. That settled it. Whoever this fan was, he didn’t like them. Not only were they focused on (Y/N), a fifteen-year-old, but they were sponsoring a serial killer. Sherlock wanted to figure out who they were immediately and keep (Y/N) safe. There was no doubt in his mind that this “fan” was a danger to them.

For their part, (Y/N) was equally creeped out and wondering what on earth was so interesting about them that the sponsor of a serial killer would be watching them.

The cabbie shrugged. “You’re not the only ones to enjoy a good murder. There’s other out there, except you’re just a man and a kid…and they’re so much more.”

“What do you mean, more than a man? An organization? What?” interrogated Sherlock.

“There’s a name no one says, an’ I’m not gonna say it either.” The cabbie straightened. “Now enough chatter. Time to choose our bottles.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What if we don’t choose any of them?”

“We could leave,” said (Y/N).

In response, the cabbie pulled out the pistol again. “You can’t take your chance, or I can shoot ya in the ‘ead. Funnily enough, no one’s ever gone for that option.”

“We’ll take the gun,” said (Y/N), of course, already knowing it was fake.

“Are you sure?” challenged the cabbie.

“Quite sure,” assured Sherlock.

“You don’t want to phone a friend?”

“The gun,” reiterated (Y/N).

The cabbie pressed the trigger, and all that appeared from the muzzle was a small flame, like that of a lighter.

Sherlock smiled smugly. “We know a real gun when we see one.”

The cabbie released the trigger. “None of the others did.”

“Obviously,” said (Y/N).

Sherlock stood. With all the information now found about the How and Why of the case, his curiosity was satisfied (the matter of the fan still rested on his mind, but this case was finished. And he could always question the cabbie more later on about that). “Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case.” (Y/N) rose and began heading to leave with him.

“Just before you go, did you figure it out…which are the good bottles?” called out the cabbie.

“Of course, child’s play,” said Sherlock.

(Y/N) glanced at him. They hadn’t figured it out. True, they weren’t as practiced as Sherlock so it was possible he had in fact figured it out where they hadn’t, but still…they couldn’t help but worry that Sherlock was being overconfident in his abilities. (That was at best. At worst, Sherlock was just lying to seem like he knew what he was doing)

“Well, which on, then? Which one would you have picked, which one for Mx. (L/N), which one for me?” questioned the cabbie. “Just so I know if I could’ve beaten one of you. Come on. Play the game.”

Sherlock turned back to the table and picked up a bottle. At the same time, he pushed another towards the cabbie. The last would be (Y/N)’s. Of course, they weren’t stupid enough to go near it.

“Oh, interesting,” said the cabbie, pouring the pill onto his hand with Sherlock, who began looking it over. “Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?” He glanced at (Y/N). “Come on, join. I bet you get bored. I know you do. Both of you, so clever… But what’s the point of being clever if you can’t prove it?” He held up the pill. “This is what you’re really addicted to, huh? You’d do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored.”

“Sherlock…” said (Y/N) quietly, seeing his eyes trained on the pill. Sure, they felt the slight pull, but they were going to risk their life so unnecessarily. But Sherlock…he was thinking about it. “Sherlock, please.” Sherlock began lifting the pill. “Sherlock!” Their cry roused Sherlock, and he quickly shook his head and pulled the pill away from his mouth.

“Oh, come on, don’t be bor—“

Bang!

The cabbie’s next temptation was cut short as a shot rang out. He was hit in the chest with the bullet as Sherlock pushed (Y/N) down behind a table. He vaulted over another to get to the window and look out. He deduced that the shooter had fired from directly across the way, but no one was there.

“Sherlock?” called (Y/N).

“Shooter’s gone,” said Sherlock.

“Sherlock, he’s not dead yet,” said (Y/N), staring, frozen, at the cabbie.

Sherlock ran over and pulled (Y/N) away from the body. He glared down at the cabbie. “Was I right?”

“Sherlock, you weren’t actually going to take it?” asked (Y/N) anxiously.

“No,” said Sherlock, honestly. He had been sorely tempted, but with how scared (Y/N) had been, it had jolted him out the adrenaline rush. “I just needed to know.” The cabbie sputtered a laugh, not responding. “Fine then, your sponsor—who is it?” demanded Sherlock. “The one who told you about (Y/N), about me. I want a name.”

“No,” muttered the man weakly.

“You’re dying, but there is still time to hurt you,” said Sherlock coldly. He glared down at the cabbie. He wanted the name. He couldn’t just let someone so dangerous and interested in (Y/N) remain anonymous. “Give me a name.” The cabbie shook his head. Sherlock put his foot on the his shoulder. The cabbie gasped in pain. “A name. Now.” The cabbie just whimpered, so Sherlock pressed his foot down. (Y/N) winced, imagining the sensation. “The name!”

“Moriarty!” shouted the cabbie in agony before his eyes clouded over and his body became limp.

#a study of the heart and brain #sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x teen reader #sherlock x teen!reader #sherlock holmes #sherlock x reader #bbc sherlock #sherlock #x teen reader #x teen!reader #gn reader #x gn reader #x nb reader #nb reader

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