#box is just a failed version of suitcase... something something... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tomtenadia · 4 years ago

Text

Island Dreams - Chapter 26

Hello people! Chapter 26 is finally here.

So, Aelin and Rowan go on an adventure for a while because something happens (you will found out what in the first line)

Toward the middle, they have a Harry Potter chat. I am not a fan but i inserted the dialogue because of where they are. And guess where Rowan gets sorted? Also, sorry I was nasty to Gryffindors... the little I know about them it's enough for me not to like them. Once a Slytherin always a Slytherin.

All the locations I have mentioned and the restaurant actually exists. Please google them if you are curious :)

Aelin during one part of the trip sings a song (near Loch Lomond) The song she sings is Loch Lomond by Runrig. This is a very, very sad song but is also one of those that it's almost impossible not to sing along. At least the version by Runrig. You can listen to it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CHu0h9XaNcg

As of this morning I officially wrote the last sentence in the fic. One chapter still has some parts that needs developing, plus my usual editing but i wrote the end this morning.

Anyway, for now I'll leave you with chapter 26.

Have fun :)

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

It was the beginning of May and Aelin and Rowan were packing for a small adventure. Two months before they had received an invitation from Elide and Lorcan to attend their wedding in Glasgow. They had accepted and they were now getting ready for their little getaway. This was going to be their last chance to have a holiday before the arrival of the twins. Lysandra was going to look after Rowan’s shop. She and Aedion had arrived a bit earlier than scheduled as he had been asked to start working a bit earlier. Lysandra, on the other hand did not have as much luck on the work front. Her job had been put on hold for the foreseeable future so when she had overheard Rowan talking about hiring as assistant for the shop she had volunteered. She had admitted that she was not a book nerd like the two of them but she liked to read so she was happy to run the shop. He had given an intensive training and once he was happy he decided to leave her in charge while he was away with Aelin.

“I can’t find my hoodie.” Aelin grunted while she was finishing packing her case. Their house was now a sea of boxes. They were a few weeks away from moving to their new place. The works had taken longer than expected which in the end it turned out to be a blessing. Lys and Aedion were there and they had offered to help with the move. Aedion had joked that they were Aelin’s personal removal company. “Which one?” “Yours. The uni of Glasgow one. It’s big enough that I can fit my huge belly in it.” Rowan came back two minutes later with the hoodie in his hands “You can’t function without me.” She stuck her tongue out and donned the hoodie “It’s far too early in the morning.” “We need to leave in half an hour. Is your bag ready?” “Yes. It was ready last night but then I realised I forgot some bits.” And she placed her Scotland’s guide in her carry on backpack. “You don’t need that.” He said pointing at the book “I know Glasgow very well.” “It was mostly for the drive from Skye to Glasgow.” “I know that very well too. I have done it a million times.” He grabbed the book from her. “Fine.” And he put the book aside. Ten minutes later she announced to Rowan that she was ready to go and he sighed in relief. They had a ferry to catch and he was being his paranoid self. He grabbed her suitcase and his duffel bag and walked out to the car to load it. Once he was done he went back to the house. Aelin was already in the car and noticed him coming back with a bulky pillow that he bought her to help her for the long road trip and stay as comfortable as possible. She smiled and noticed his other hand holding a bag. A moment later she found out that bag contained snacks for their very long car ride. Since the accident with the Korean he had been even more careful with her food. “Are you ready?” He got in the car and made sure she was all set to go. Aelin smiled “Punch it.” They arrived in Tarbert with plenty of time for their ferry. Rowan had gone to buy the tickets and Aelin waited in the car all excited for this big adventure. She had driven a part of the road they were taking when she arrived a year before but she knew that with Rowan as a guide it would be much, much more different. She had a look at her phone and realised that a year ago exactly on that day she had arrived on Lewis and walked into his shop and changed their lives. She patted her belly “It’s a big day today for mum and dad.” “I am back.” Said Rowan while getting back in the car and placing a ticket on the dashboard of the car “They should start loading soon.” “Is this one of those where we can go on deck?” “Yes, we will be able to go on deck. It’s a gorgeous day. This is an amazing crossing.” Aelin took Rowan’s hand a placed it on her bump “Do you know which day is it today?” He stared at her “hmmm… I think it’s the day when my favourite menace walked into my shop looking for books and never left.” “Happy anniversary.” She whispered while leaning forward to kiss him. “Thank you for coming into my shop.”

It was over an hour later when they docked in the tiny village of Uig on the Isle of Skye. And Aelin was in hyper mode already. When he told her they were going via Skye she had started reading all about it and it looked like the most magical place she had ever seen. They would stop in a few places along the road but they had planned to stop a bit more on their way back when they had more time. They got back on the road and not long after she noticed Rowan taking a very small road “Where are we going?” “There is a place I need to show you.” They arrived not long after and Aelin’s mouth fell open. The place in front of her seemed like it came out from a fairy tale book. And she could not stop staring at how green and lush it was. “Welcome to the Fairy glen.” Aelin’s head whipped to his side “You are kidding.” “No, that its name.” He got off the car and reached her side “We’ll go for a short walk. We’ll stop again in Portree and have proper lunch there, but I had to show you this place.” Slowly they walked to the small hills. Aelin spotted what looked like the remains of a castle and was annoyed that she could not climb there. Rowan held her from behind and turned her “Look over there.” And he pointed at the big hill in the distance and Aelin spotted a few waterfalls “This place is amazing.” “Why is it called Fairy glen?” “Skye has a connection with the Fairies thanks to the Fairy flag at Dunvegan castle, which will visit when we come back.” “Is Schatach’s castle far away? According to the legends she was a warrior on the Isle of Skye and there should be a place called Dun Scaith which allegedly was her home.” His arms tightened around her, he loved her interest in Celtic mythology “It’s in the south. I’ll take you there when we come back. I promise.” Then he grabbed his backpack and took a couple of sandwiches from it “Sit down and have a little snack” He helped her sit down in the grass and she took food and strawberry milkshake from him. Once their breakfast was over Rowan helped Aelin to stand and hand in hand they walked around the glen and Rowan had to restrain Aelin from climbing in places where she shouldn’t “Seriously?” And he folded his arms at his chest. “Fine, I am not climbing.” They explored a bit longer and then Rowan pressed to go back in the car and on the road. “I was planning on getting into Portree for lunch. Fancy doing a very touristy thing?” “If I can get a fridge magnet, yes.” Rowan roared with laughter. That had become their recurrent joke “I think so and you will be able to get more once we are in Portree.” “Good. Our new fridge will be fully covered.” “I have not agreed to that.” He complained, giving her a smile at the same time. “Where are you taking me?” “We can take a detour to Carbost and we can have a tour of Talisker distillery. All the tourists go to whisky distilleries when they come to Scotland.” “Yes. I know I will not be able to drink but I don’t care. I always wanted to do it. Yes, let’s be tourists.” “As you wish, Fireheart.” An hour later they had arrived at the distillery and Aelin jumped out of the car “This is so awesome and I can smell the whisky.” Rowan took her hand and they walked in. The next tour would be in half an hour so they explored the shop and Aelin bought her magnets and a bottle of whisky for Aedion, she knew he’d love it. She just had to find a nice present for Lysandra now as a thank you for covering the shop. “Let’s go and sit outside, it’s gorgeous.” The view in front of the distillery was breathtaking. The loch in front of them seemed infinite and it was framed mountains in the background. Aelin ate another sandwich while suntanning. She had shed her hoodie and was in a t-shirt, her bump pointed at the sun “The girls and I are suntanning.” Rowan sat on the bench beside her and kissed the bump “how are you three doing?” “They are quiet. They kicked a couple of times but now they are probably snoozing.” And caressed the belly. “If you get tired you let me know. I have enough breaks planned so you don’t spend too much time sitting in the car.” “We are doing fine. I promise.” She brushed his hair. After her night trip to the A&E he had been even more over protective and his fussing levels had sky rocketed. But he had been wonderful to her. He had gotten her all the food she was craving and cooked for her all the recipes she wished. He was with her at every single appointment and he had started reading a lot of books about pregnancy and parenting. She had realised a while ago that Rowan had been brooding. He had confessed to her that he had wanted a family for a very long time and she knew that Lyria was against it and Aelin had a feeling that it had been one of the things that destroyed him the most about the failed relationship. “Let’s put the bag in the car and go for our tour.” He offered his hand and she took it and followed him.

It was later when they came out of the distillery and Aelin was ecstatic. “I had no idea you guys had so many varieties of whisky and it was so fascinating.” He kissed her head “glad you loved it.” “One of the ladies in our group kept staring at you.” Rowan took her hand “Thank you for leaving her alive.” “She got some cold stares from me. Seriously woman, stop staring at another woman’s man.” “Let’s go, menace.” Aelin followed him back to the car and not long after they were on the road to Portree. Rowan had explained it was the main town and after a year on the islands she had an idea of what main town meant. Once in Portree, Rowan parked the car, Aelin grabbed her backpack and off they went. When in the main square, she noticed the tourist office and she dragged him inside explaining that that was the perfect place for another fridge magnet. Rowan sighed and followed her inside. He waited for her in a corner of the office and she came back later with a big bag. “That’s a bit of an oversized magnet.” He joked. “It’s Lys’ present. I got her a lovely bag made locally here on Skye. Lysandra loves bags and I know she will adore this one.” “It’s actually really nice.” He added, looking at the present she had bought. They dropped the bag in the car and Rowan had convinced her to put her stuff In his backpack so she didn’t have to carry anything. Once they were all sorted they walked to the marina and Aelin squealed when she saw the houses painted in pink and blue and green “That is so lovely.” For a while they followed the path along the marina until Rowan declared it was time to feed her and for her to sit down for a while. Aelin did not protest at the idea of food and followed him to his favourite seafood restaurant. The meal had been superb and Aelin leaned back on the chair with a satisfied smile on her face “I wonder if the desserts here are nice.” Rowan scoffed “How can you still have space?” “You should know that you have agreed to marry a bottomless pit.” Once lunch was over they were back in the car. Rowan had told her they were taking the ferry across to Mallaig instead of the bridge back to the mainland. They would do that on their way back. He had also explained that once across the water there were some amazing beaches they could stop to and have another break and Aelin was easy to convince. During the trip down to Armadale he had chatted away being her personal guide and she realised they might need a week just to explore Skye. She loved the islands but she realised there was so much on the mainland that a lifetime might not be enough “we should take breaks more often. There is so much to discover.” “We can definitely do that and it would be nice to travel with our two girls.” She put her hand on his knee and in that moment one of the girls or both kicked “They agree.” “Are they moving?” Aelin smiled as his hand moved to the bump. “Every singe time, it amazes me.” And she saw love in his eyes “It just the idea that there are two small human beings growing inside you. It’s just… incredible.” She took his hand and kissed it “just don’t be too in awe. You will be less impressed by the process when you will see how it happens, live.” “I will be in awe of you and what you will do.” She turned to him and blew him a kiss “You will be such a loving dad.” “I will do my best.”

They were just about to dock in Mallaig when Aelin’s phone went off and she noticed it was Lysandra. “Hi Lys, how are you doing?” “I am doing amazing and the shop is fine. I had a busy morning and I had no idea how fun it was to work in a bookstore. Tell Rowan the shop is fine and that I had good sales as well.” “He will be happy to hear that.” Aelin gave Rowan the thumbs up after she noticed the worry in his face when she said it was Lys on the phone. “How are you guys doing?” “We are about to dock on the mainland in Mallaig. The weather down here is amazing and we are having fun.” “Gotta go. Customers. Keep me posted.” Lysandra hung up and Aelin followed Rowan back to the car “Lys says the shop is fine and that she had a busy morning with good sales and that she is having a great time.” Rowan laughed “good. You can tell her that she can keep being my interim assistant until she gets a job at the hospital. It seems like she has a knack as well. She might want to keep busy and well, I need an assistant and we could not find anyone I liked so…” “You had very high standards.” “No. I just wanted someone who had a bit of interest and willingness to work.” “Time to drive, old man.” Joked Aelin when one of the car deck crew motioned them to move forward and disembark. They drove for a very short distance until Rowan pulled in, in a car park. Aelin was giddy, while they were driving past Morar bay, her face was attached to the window. There were sands everywhere, but Rowan kept driving. She was dying to get off the car. She new he was trying to get them as close as possible to their destination. Walking for long was getting very problematic for her so he was just being his thoughtful self. Once at the car park, she opened the door as soon as the car stopped and was out. “Come on, Buzzard. I need to go to the beach.” He grabbed the backpack and put a hat on her head “Now we can go.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the small path. Usually he was the guide, but when it came to beaches, she was the one leading the way. Rowan would joke saying that she would smell beaches like a bloodhound. Aelin stopped when the beach finally appeared in front of her. It was not Luskentyre but the water was still crystal blue and the sand white. “This is Camusdarach beach.” Aelin toed off her shoes and started walking to the water. Rowan picked up the shoes and followed her. By the time he got there, she was already in the water, waves gently brushing her ankles. “Come on, this is beautiful.” Rowan smiled and toed off his shoes as well, dropped his backpack on the sand and joined her in the water, right behind her with his arms folding on her bump. His smell of pine engulfed her and Aelin leaned against his chest “I am glad Elide and Lorcan are getting married and invited us, it gave us a lovely excuse for this amazing trip.” Hand in hand they walked the length of the beach and eventually Rowan dragged her back on the sand and they sat down enjoying the sun. Aelin started playing with the sand and began building a sand castle and Rowan joined her a bit later. “Aelin’s castle.” After her castle was finished, Rowan pulled her down on the sand and he rolled to the side, facing her “thank you for not giving up on me.” “You were a bit of a hopeless case,” she added, flicking his nose “but being cute saved you.” “Just cute?” He pouted. “Fine, as Lys would say, you are sex on two legs.” “Poor Aedion.” “Ach, she just looks. She loves him.” His hand caressed her face “You can look as well, but remember that I exist. I can be jealous too.” Aelin snuggled closer and five minutes later she was snoozing and Rowan let her. They had a very early start and he wanted her to relax as much as she could. He rolled back on his back but then sat up and kept playing with the sand castle she had built. When she woke up it was an hour later. “Hello, sleeping beauty.” “Did I just fell asleep on the sand?” He leaned forward to kiss her “that you did.” “And you let me?” “Yes.” Aelin fought to stand but failed miserably so Rowan helped her. “We can’t waste too much time dillydallying. We need to hit the road again.” She tried to bend over to grab her shoes but she had no such luck. Rowan stood and patted the sand away from her and squeezed her ass in the meantime. “Aye, aye captain.” He said picking up her shoes and patting the sand away from him as well. Ten minutes later they were back on the road and Aelin was happily sipping on her smoothie. “This road we are on is called the road to the isle because it’s the road that connects Fort William to Mallaig where you can get the ferry to the islands.” “Were you a Harry Potter fan?” He asked. “Not really. I have only seen the movies to keep company to Lysandra. Why?” “There is one place on our way that became quite famous in one of the movies.” “Oh, the viaduct?” She asked. Lysandra on the other hand, was obsessed with Harry Potter and they had watched the movies together. “Lys is a huge Harry Potter fan and since I haven’t read the books she convinced me to at least to watch the movie. She had told me the viaduct was in Scotland.” “We will pass Glenfinnan and if you want we can stop there.” “Yes, I need to take a picture for Lys.” They arrived at the site half an hour later and Rowan parked in a small car park and Aelin could see the viaduct in the distance. “There is a visitor centre and you can get your magnet there.” He joked and they started the walk to the viaduct and Aelin took a lot of photos and started sending them to Lys via WhatsApp. “Were you a Harry Potter fan?” She took his hand. Rowan shook his head “I read the books just to see what all the fuss was about but I never got into them. Not my kind of thing.” “You could be a Slytherin.” Added Aelin looking at him with a wicked smile. Rowan looked away for a moment “Lyria made me took a test. She was into the books. I was sorted in Slytherin.” Aelin lifted the hands they were holding to his mouth and kissed his “Let me guess, the bitch was a Gryffindor.” Rowan laughed “that she was.” “As if I needed another reason to hate her.” Rowan squeezed her hand “you don’t like them?” “I hate them. And I hate Potter. He is the most annoying, most useless and most boring character ever written.” She confessed “Lys made me take the test and I am a Slytherin too, Lys is a Ravenclaw and Aedion is alas, a Gryffindor.” “Poor Lys.” They finally arrived under the viaduct and Aelin took a picture of her holding the pylons of the viaduct. “This is quite impressive. Do train actually run on it?” Rowan nodded “The regular Scotrail trains from Glasgow to Mallaig come through here but from Fort William there is also the Jacobite steam train, which by the way was used in Harry Potter 2, and it’s a very fancy train that runs twice a day.” “That must be one heck of a gorgeous train ride.” “It is, I have done it a few times, the regular train, I mean. Probably one of the most stunning we have in Scotland.” He started walking back and took her hand again. “Lys is saying that she is so jealous right now and told me that I am lucky girls because my fiancé is not a Gryffindor.” “Come on Buzzard, I have a few tacky things to buy.” She pulled him toward the visitor centre. Slowly they got back to the car and Rowan drove the small distance back to the visitor centre. He parked there and Aelin went inside the shop and bought stuff for her and Lysandra and got back to him who was waiting for her outside. Together they walked to the monument standing in front of Loch Shiel and sat down at the table at the viewpoint “Remember the scene in the third Harry Potter movie when Harry flies on the big flying creature whose name I can’t remember?” Aelin nodded. “This is the loch in the scene.” He looked at her puzzled expression “I only know because I have a book in the shop about movie locations in Scotland and in the summer is quite popular with tourists and once I had a look through it out of curiosity.” “I need to read it next time I am in.” He sat down beside her and pulled her close “How are you feeling? Are you tired?” “Are you joking? This is amazing. I will sleep tonight. I have a feeling I will be out as soon as I hit the bed but for now I am fine. Really, Ro.” He grabbed his backpack and opened it “Are you hungry?” She nodded and Rowan offered her another sandwich and Aelin munched away while taking in the incredible view in front of her. “Did Elide tell you where they are getting married?” Aelin nodded “The cloisters at Glasgow University. I have no idea what it is, but I assume you know. But Elide told me that she loves that place so much and felt like it was a cool place where to get married. They don’t have a large numbers of people so we will fit.” Rowan had a large smile “It was and still is one of my favourite places around the University and once we are there you will know why. I will take you there tomorrow. Our accommodation is very close by to the university so got very lucky.” “She said that they are having the reception inside the centre hall at Kelvingrove art gallery.” Rowan laughed “they have amazing taste. That’s all I am saying right now.” “I googled some pictures and they are amazing sites.” Then she looked up to him “are you looking forward being back in Glasgow?” Rowan nodded “I love the islands but I have some great memories of the city.” Eventually Rowan stood “Let’s go. We still have a very long drive. I want to show you Glen Coe before we continue our drive south.” They got back in the car and on the road “sleep a bit, “said Rowan caressing her head “it will take us about an hour to reach Glen Coe.” Aelin blew him a kiss and did as was told and woke up only when Rowan nudged her awake. She opened her eyes and gasped at the beautiful view in front of her. “We are driving through Glen Coe.” “I am speechless.” “It’s quite incredible, I agree.” A few minutes later Rowan stopped the car and he got out and motioned for Aelin to follow him. They both sat on the hood of the car and he put an arm around her shoulder, “see this three ridges in front of us?” Aelin nodded. “They are called the three sisters of Glen Coe.” “That’s a cute name.” “Did they film anything in GlenCoe? It seems like such an mazing film locations,” she asked curious. “Tons of stuff, actually. Some more of the Harry Potter movies, some bits of Braveheart, one of the James Bond movies, Skyfall I think, and another one I remember is Monthy Python and the Holy Grail.” “I really need to read your book.” They sat in silence for a moment, then Rowan pushed her to go back into the car “Come on. We’ll have a last stop in Balloch and then from there we will do the last leg to Glasgow.” They got back in the car and Aelin was asleep again within minutes and he let her sleep. From time to time he brushed his hand on her bump but the twins seemed asleep as well. She woke up again much later “where are we?” She asked with a sleepy voice. “Near Tarbert, we are on Loch Lomond.” Aelin smiled “there is a song.” And she started fiddling with his mp3 player to find the song. A couple of minutes later she found it and pressed play and Rowan smiled fondly. He had created a monster in terms of music. Aelin started singing and he laughed. “You’ll take the high road, and I’ll take the low road and I’ll be in Scotland afore ye. Where me and my true love will never meet again on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.” “You know this is a sad song, right?” “I know I read the meaning behind it but it’s so good. I love it so much.” Once in Balloch, Rowan took Aelin for a walk into Balloch castle country park but when he noticed her trailing behind slowly he called it a day and decided they were going back to the car and drive the last leg to Glasgow. She was getting tired and he felt as if he had pushed her enough although he was alway careful and walked always short distances. Aelin slept until Rowan woke her up announcing they were arrived at the hotel. “We are in Glasgow?” He kissed her “yes, we made it.” She gave him a big smile and slowly got out of the car, grabbed her backpack and followed him. Rowan unloaded the bags and they got inside the hotel and at the receptions. She let Rowan check them in. She was feeling tired and only wanted to take a shower and collapse in bed. Once in their bedroom Aelin sat on the bed and then lay down heavily under Rowan’s worried stare “are you sure you are okay?” “Yeah, a shower and a nap and I will be okay.” Rowan had a look in the bathroom ��even better, you can take a relaxing bath and if you behave I might join you. I am pretty wiped as well.” At that statement Aelin stood and went to open the taps in the bathtub “no take backs.” Fifteen minutes later they were both in the tub, Rowan behind her and he was washing her hair and then her back “That’s not fair, I can only wash your legs.” Then she leaned back against him and he purred. “Will you manage to go out for dinner or shall we order in?” Aelin shook her head “I want to go out. Do we have to go very far?” “No, it’s a twenty minutes walk. Or we can walk five minutes and take the underground for one stop. There is a lovely area for food in Hillhead, the uni area. There is a wonderful Vietnamese restaurant that I adore and I haven’t been there in a lifetime. Or we can try something else. Whichever takes your fancy.” “Vietnamese sounds perfection. But can we do the half walk half underground option?” “I would drive but parking is a nightmare in that area.” She took his hands and placed them on her bump “half and half is perfect.” Rowan kissed her neck caressed her bump when he felt a kick. “I think we are getting close to the stage when they will be able to hear sounds. Their ears should be formed by now and they will hear muffled sounds from outside.” “I need to go back reading to them.” He asked tugging her even closer. “I’d love that. But only stories with badass females.” “Of course and I’ll make sure I will read them about their namesakes.” “Morrigan is going to hate us for her name as soon as she discovers where it comes from.” Rowan kissed her head “We can change it.” But Aelin shook her head in dissent “I adore it.” They cuddled in the bathtub a bit longer but when the water started to cool down Rowan ordered them to get out. Aelin, in her bathrobe collapsed in bed. It was still far too early to go out for dinner so they were going to chill out in bed. Rowan had driven all day and she was positive he was exhausted as well. He joined her in bed and snuggled against her “What are you doing?” Aelin took her phone “what’s the name of the restaurant?” “Hanoi bike shop.” “That’s a very random name.” Rowan chuckled “look at some photos and you will see why.” Aelin did that “oh wow. The place looks amazing. There are actually pieces of bikes hanging… and look at the lanterns.” “And their food is delicious.” “Let me see the menu.” She was too busy browsing her phone to notice that Rowan had fallen asleep in her arms. She set an alarm for half past six and cuddled against him and placed one of his hands on the bump, then kissed his head and slept a while as well.

She woke again five minutes before the alarm was meant to go off. Rowan was still fast asleep and she felt horrible at the idea of waking him up but her stomach was grumbling and she was getting hungry. She kissed him gently and brushed a hand through his hair and slowly he woke. “Hi you.” “Hey,” his voice still gruff “did I fall asleep?” “Like a baby” she kissed him “I didn’t want to wake you but I am starving.” Rowan laughed and rolled on his back. A second later he was off the bed and went to the suitcase to grab some clothes “Come on, let’s get you fed, then we can come back and relax.” Ten minutes later they were both ready and outside. Aelin had a look and in the distance she noticed a park. Rowan had told her they were near his uni. They walked for a bit along Sauchienall st. until in the distance she noticed some amazing buildings and pulled him to walk faster. Rowan stopped her and went back into guide mode. He went behind her and took her arm and pointed “that, is Glasgow university. And this amazing red building in front of us is Kelvingrove museum. Glasgow uni is the second oldest uni in Scotland dating to 1451 and the fourth oldest in the UK.” “I am jealous. I went to a modern uni. Yours looks amazing.” “We’ll have a proper look tomorrow, same for the museum.” They reached the underground and while they were waiting Rowan explained that it was a circular line and they only had the inner and outer circle. And that the only mistake you could make was to take the wrong one and having to go all the way around before reaching your destination. The whole concept puzzled her, behind used to the London tube and all. Once out of the subway the restaurant was at a minute walk and Aelin loved the place already. The restaurant was busy but they did manage to get a seat. Aelin would have killed if they told her that there was no space. She was now dead set on that restaurant and did not want to go somewhere else. She had already studied the menu in full. An hour later Aelin relaxed back satisfied. The meal had been wonderful and after her dessert she finally felt full “I think we can walk back to the hotel, I ate too much and I need to walk it off.” Rowan laughed “are you sure?” It took them forty minutes to walk back to the hotel. Aelin had decided to be brave and walk and she soon realised it had been a very bad idea. Rowan had tried to convince her to at least take the subway again but she had been stubborn. Rowan knew she was struggling but had given up when he suggested a taxi and he got a deadly glare from her. They were finally in front of the hotel and Rowan relaxed a bit. “Don’t.” She snapped. “What?” “You have a ‘I told you so face’ I know, I was stubborn and now I am paying for it. Now stop gloating.” He gave her his hand “Come on, Fireheart, I am curious to see which funny pj you have with you tonight.” Aelin took his hand and followed him to the lift. Once in the room, Aelin threw herself on the bed but Rowan grabbed her hands “get changed first.” Then he let her go and grabbed her suitcase and placed it on the bed “come on, jammies on and then bed.” “Can we cuddle? Perhaps with a back massage.” “That can be arranged, but I need you in your jammies to do that.” Aelin dragged herself up and grabbed her night clothes from her bag and got changed and Rowan did the same and both get ready for bed. Rowan was the first one under the blankets and once she joined him he pulled her to him, her belly facing him. His hands went to her back and started rubbing the sore spots. Aelin melted in his arms. “Thank you for today,” she mumbled against his chest, snuggling against him a bit more. She felt a kiss on her head and then laughed when he felt a kick “I think our girls had a great time as well.” “They did, but now they are exhausted like mum.” Rowan pulled her down to an horizontal position “Turn around,” he said to her when he noticed she was not on her left side. “But I want to face you.” “You know the left side is the recommended position. Turn around.” He helped her and once she was settled he climbed over and lay down in front of her “Sorted.” “You are such a mama hen.” She joked, running her hand through his hair. “Your hair getting longer.” “I was thinking about letting it grow. What do you think?” Aelin kissed him “very naughty thoughts right now.” Rowan laughed “I used to have them to my shoulder when I was t uni. Not practical for swimming but I loved it.” “I can braid it.” She smiled “Please let it grow back.” He leaned forward and gave her a kiss back “As you wish, my Queen.” Then he took her hand and placed it on his heart “Now sleep, please.” He told her gently, closing her eyes with her fingers. Then his arm reached out over her and pulled her as close as possible. “Goodnight,” he whispered to his favourite women.

Tag: @rowaelinismyotp

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #rowan x aelin #fanfic #Throne of Glass series #fluff

33 notes · View notes

shemakesmusic-uk · 4 years ago

Photo

youtube

Texan-born, Brooklyn-based singer-songwriter and TikTok personality Allison Ponthier makes a splash with 'Cowboy' – it's the enthralling first taste of her upcoming EP. Finding a path away from her conservative upbringing, queer singer-songwriter Allison Ponthier is another artist making country music her own. Taking references from Kacey Musgraves and Orville Peck, Ponthier's take on the genre is high camp and features a kaleidoscopic visual world too. Growing a huge following on TikTok, 'Cowboy' marks the start of a whole new chapter for Ponthier with her debut release with Interscope and Polydor. The track itself references her move from the bible belt to New York City and her journey accepting her sexuality. Warm and inviting 'Cowboy' is cinematic pop with some real heart-on-sleeve confessional songwriting. Complete with a masterful music video that runs like a mini-movie complete with impressive special effects, on reflection, cinematic is an understatement. The video itself is a striking and exciting introduction to this new artist, “I probably watch movies more than I listen to music,” Ponthier says of the video. The clip, directed by Jordan Bahat (Christine and the Queens) adds a whole new cosmic energy to the track and aims to amplify the lyrics' detailed storytelling. As she unveils more of her forthcoming debut EP, Ponthier explains what we can expect from her; “a lot of my songs are about being uncomfortable in your own skin but getting to know yourself better, figuring out who you really are.” [via the Line Of Best Fit]

youtube

Miley Cyrus has shared the full video for 'Angels Like You'. The pop rebel returned in 2020 with her excellent album Plastic Hearts, a series of superb empowerment anthems. Album highlight 'Angels Like You' has received the video treatment, shot at the Superbowl in front of an audience of fully vaccinated healthcare workers. Miley has also provided a note for the video describing her feelings of gratitude to these workers. [via Clash]

youtube

LA punk four-piece The Paranoyds have dropped a new video for track 'Egg Salad', taken from their album Carnage Bargain which is out now on Suicide Squeeze. The video's director Nicole Stunwyck comments "The video presents the glitzy & glamorous world of a teenage girl who, after accidentally catching a beauty pageant on TV, dreams of her rise to stardom & subsequent downfall... It’s not a commentary on anything but an experimental depiction of my own personal fascination for young tragic starlets alà Valley of The Dolls."

youtube

Noga Erez and collaborative partner ROUSSO have shared a fifth compelling new single from forthcoming album KIDS which is set for release on March 26 via City Slang. 'Story' is a snappy, addictive song about how couples relationships are always a relationship between two people’s past and present. "Everyone brings their past experiences to the relationship even if things are great" Erez comments. "Sometimes past situations come in and take over." As with the album's previous singles 'Story' is brought to life with a captivating video, starring Erez and ROUSSO, who also provides vocals on the track. "ROUSSO is my partner in music as well as my partner in life" she explains. "This is the first time we tell a story about our relationship in a song and video. It’s a song about a couple fighting and how, in that situation, sometimes what you hear the other person say is not what they actually said. The making of this video was a 10-day couples therapy session for us. As we rehearsed the pretend fighting and martial arts moves we knew that, at times, one of us would get punched just a little too hard. It was so intense and interesting to live in this world, where our relationship comes alive in the most physical way."

youtube

After announcing Detritus with lead outing 'Stories' last month, Sarah Neufeld has unveiled the album's second single 'With Love and Blindness'. Neufeld says of the song and Jason Last-directed video, "The video for 'With Love and Blindness' came together through a long-time collaboration between myself and videographer Jason Last. I knew that Jason and I would work together again on some visual aspect for my third solo release, and it so happened that before I even began recording the album, we were presented with the opportunity to do a mini residence on Corsica with Providenza; an amazing collective with a farm, cultural laboratory, festival and residency program." She continues, "I was doing a short solo tour in Europe in the summer of 2019 in order to re-work some of the pieces from the dance collaboration to begin to find a shape for the album that was to be recorded in the Fall. In the middle of that tour, Jason and I travelled to Corsica for several days (graced once again with a suitcase containing Esteban Cortazar’s unique and beautiful creations). Besides performing in Providenza’s outdoor amphitheater, we were immersed in nature, literally staying in a treehouse perched on the side of a mountain, overlooking the dramatic coastline." Neufeld adds, "I found that the pulse of the landscape resonated with the essence of the music, especially "With Love and Blindness"; a sense of rawness, of sensuality, of a strange gravity intensified by the hypnotic summer heat and the general otherworldliness of the place." [via the Line Of Best Fit]

youtube

Molly Burman was brought up around music. At every family event, every party, the soundtrack would resonate with her, providing an education in itself. Both parents were gigging musicians, and she always wanted to follow in their footsteps, to use performance as a means of self-expression. Lockdown brought the time and space to bring these ideas into focus, and she's working to unveil a series of one off singles. Her debut single proper 'Fool Me With Flattery' is out now, a blissfully melodic piece of indie pop with some whip-smart lyricism. There's a tongue in cheek element to her sound that is fantastically endearing, matched by the subtle lo-fi elements of her bedroom pop confection. She comments: "I wrote the song after a long day of feeling overlooked and ignored by some of the guys in my life. I was fed up, angry and used the stereotype of a mansplaining misogynist to let it all out. This song is for anyone who feels belittled and like they’re being made to shrink themselves; be as big as you possibly can, and don’t let anyone fool you with flattery." The video is a hilarious showcase for Molly's offbeat sense of humour. [via Clash]

youtube

Punk provocateurs Pussy Riot have unveiled their latest song 'Panic Attack', as well as a music video that features a hologram of singer Nadya Tolokonnikova. This is the final release from Pussy Riot’s new Panic Attack EP, a collection of three linked songs that, for now, can only be streamed as separate singles. The title track features punk guitars underneath a tinkling music box melody, as Tolokonnikova turns anxiety into a sports cheer. “Gimme an A,” she says, “Gimme a T/ Gimme a T/ Gimme an A/ Gimme a C/ Gimme a K/ Okay? Okay.” While upbeat and seemingly cheerful, the synth-punk song comes out of the trauma she experienced in a Russian prison camp. As she explained in a statement, “After serving 2 years in a labor camp, I’m still struggling with mental health issues. Trauma, fear and insecurity never fully go away, causing depression episodes and deep anxiety. ‘PANIC ATTACK’ was born as the result of me staring at the wall for 24 hours in the middle of the pandemic, feeling 100% helpless. I was trying to write something uplifting to encourage people to get through the tough times. But I was just failing and failing. Magically, at the second I allowed myself to be honest and write about despair I was experiencing, I wrote the track in like a half an hour. Depression is a plague of the 21st century, and it tells me that there’s something broken in the way we treat each other. The video ‘PANIC ATTACK’ reflects on objectification of human beings, loneliness, disconnection from the environment that causes us to feel small and powerless. And it’s us who caused it with our own hands – that’s why in the end of the video I’m fighting with my own clone.” The music video for 'Panic Attack' was directed by Asad J. Malik. He used 106 cameras to capture all angles of Tolokonnikova, then converted that information into a photoreal hologram. Afterwards, Tokyo-based creative technologist Ruben Fro built out landscapes reminiscent of video games through which the virtual Tolokonnikova could frolic. But as the visuals progress, those idyllic settings give way to a hellscape, and the singer faces off against a clone of herself. [via Consequence of Sound]

youtube

The wait is finally over. BLACKPINK’s Rosé shines like the star she is with her official solo debut. On Friday, she released two solo songs on her debut single album titled R, 'On the Ground' and 'Gone.' With its deep lyrics, angelic bridge, and Rosé’s high note at the end, 'On the Ground' is an exemplary song for her solo debut. Add the fact that Rosé is credited as a writer for the song, and one can really tell how much time she spent perfecting it for release. The accompanying music video, meanwhile, expands the story of life and growth. Rosé starts off looking lost and trying to find herself amidst all the wildness of life; she eventually encounters past and present versions of herself while searching for answers and purpose. By the end, she finds herself and her path forward, and one can’t help but smile as she sings an explosive outro. [via Teen Vogue]

youtube

On Ellise's latest alt-pop concoction the rising pop star gets gothic as 'Feeling Something Bad...' transforms a crush into an obsession. An expert at catastrophising everyday experiences, the LA-based artist has arrived fully formed with not only a consistent and cohesive sound but a striking visual identity too. That's even more clear when you press play on the accompanying video for her latest infectiously catchy track. With the clip directed by Joakim Carlsson we get to see Ellise in her absolute element as she brings "Feeling Something Bad..." to life in a macabre world of its own. “I just love dramatising little everyday feelings in life, so this is my big dramatic ‘I have a crush on you’ song,” Ellise explains – it's a song she wrote about a boy she barely knew. [via the Line Of Best Fit]

youtube

With President Biden determined to get the majority of American adults vaccinated by summer, bands are earnestly beginning to look forward to the return of live music. Purity Ring are the latest to announce 2021 tour dates, which they’ve shared alongside the video for their track 'sinew'. The song comes from WOMB, the synth-pop duo’s first album in five years that was released just before the pandemic struck. Directed by Toby Stretch, the clip brings back the abstract graphics and costumes that featured in the 'stardew' music video, continuing the enigmatic story of the domed bicyclist and their sun-headed sidecar companion. [via Consequence of Sound]

youtube

Australian Pop Princess, Peach PRC releases the official music video for her debut single 'Josh'. Peach PRC comments on the official 'Josh' visuals, “The music video was inspired by growing up watching the same five infomercials, morning news channels and old movies on my little pink box tv when I was a kid and couldn’t sleep on a school night. The idea was to have “josh” feel just as harassed the more he tries to call. Every creative step along the way was entirely my vision, from writing the music video script, to the lyrics and everything in between. I’m so happy and hope all the girls, gays and theys who dated “josh” will sing along.”

#videos of the week #allison ponthier #miley cyrus #the paranoyds #noga erez #sarah neufeld #molly burman #pussy riot #rose #ellise #purity ring #peach prc

10 notes · View notes

goldeneyedgirl · 4 years ago

Text

Jaliceweek20 Day 1

Against a Wall Part 2

Jaliceweek20 Day 1: Human/Vampire

Words: 6264

Notes: It is DONE. JALICEWEEK IS DONE. I am tired, so I’ll do a wrap up tomorrow. I’m honestly not sure how happy I am with this ending - I’ll write more notes tomorrow once sleep had been acquired but there still might be a third enormous rewrite.

I’m just so excited I finished EVERY SINGLE PROMPT.

Warnings for: suicidal ideation.

—

Nineteen.

There was a shoebox under his bed with a bunch of stuff in it, that he’s collected over his life. Stuff that was special - Sorates’ collar, a rock shaped like a dog, the rubber spider his grandfather bought him from the dime store. And the last thing he put in it was an unopened back of Skittles.

He wonders where that box is now.

—

Things are hard to remember. The doctors say his memory should return, with time, and everything will stop feeling like someone scooped them all out of his brain and threw them up in the air like confetti.

He remembers… Ava. No, not Ava. Yes, Ava, his sister.

She did something.

Ava lit the fuse that had been dangling over the family for six years. Wasn’t Ava’s fault. Never blamed her. He hurt for her.

Louise found the bit of paper and freaked out, yes. It was Ava’s paper. Evidence. And Louise was shrieking. And Jerry heard.

Everybody heard. He remembers making Flo and Hettie stay in the kitchen, hide under the table if you need to (the screen door is banging, Lydia is gone like a puff of air at the first sign of trouble; wish she’d taken Flo and Hettie this time). Hettie had already been sniffling, and he’d left the kitchen.

Bang.

He’d gotten between Ava and their father.

He would have killed them both; that look in his eye. There wasn’t love or affection in that gaze. There wasn’t recognition of his children. There was just rage. That’s a look he wished he could forget; of all the things lost in the confetti, he wants to know why that moment that Jerry looked at him and Ava (Ava was bleeding, can’t remember why) is still there?

Then it’s a blur. Then there’s nothing.

Then he joins the military. He walks away entirely, with only what he can carry and doesn’t leave any parting words because there’s nothing to be said.

No. Something happens before that.

Ava packed her car, yes, packed in Hettie and Flo, suitcases and boxes, and at the last minute Lydia materialises into the passenger seat, whilst their mother tries to … beg? Yell? Ava’s face is black and blue and bandaged, and there was someone he knew who could fix that, with Mary Poppins’ bag…

Then Ava drives off, and their mom is crying, and he walks straight to the nearest recruitment office even though he doesn’t graduate for another three months because once the bomb has gone off, there’s no taking it back.

—

What was the bomb again?

Bomb. Which bomb?

Ava’s, not the one that… not the other one.

Paperwork from Planned Parenthood. There was a baby, but Ava’s already raising her sisters, so she sucked it up, stole $500 from their father’s study, and took care of it. She’d thrown the money back in their father’s face, money she got from her own account, and their father had punched her so hard he broke her nose and her orbital bone, and then it gets blurry again.

His body stings and aches and itches. He recites all the swears he knows in his head, and a few he doesn’t, and he wishes everything would put itself right again.

Bang.

—

The other bomb. That’s why he’s here, in the VA hospital. The one that was strapped to a little boy who ran up to one of the guys in his unit, grinning and clutching a soccer ball to hide the shape obscuring his torso.

Bang.

Bombs don’t sound like ‘bang’ either. They are a vacuum of noise and pain and detritus and fire and he now knows the sound-taste-smell of roasted human fresh. They are wiping out all but two members of a unit and a little boy who didn’t have a choice or an idea of what he was getting into.

The images are burnt onto his brain forever; when he closes his eyes, all he sees is a face roast black and splitting open to reveal the ruby red of the blood and muscle underneath, leaking clear and yellow fluid.

Empty, black eye sockets staring, just sticky blackened holes.

Bodies arched and twisted in pain, looking like blacked trees and burnt bark until you remember where you are and what you’re looking at and some of that burnt bark flesh is your own.

He wishes those memories would disappear.

Less than a year in the army, and already medically discharged. So much for an escape plan. Has to be a record, shortest army career in Whitlock family history. Shorter even than Uncle Wyatt’s, but Wyatt was smart enough to die outright, so it’s just a damn tragedy instead of a humiliation. He knows how the game is played.

Fuckin’ Whitlock curse comes for all of them eventually.

The skin graft hurts like hell, and the medication is still scrambling him, and even when the doctors have pulled out every last stitch, he still looks like some kind of monster pieced together from leftovers. There are still scars, dozens of scars. He asks when they’ll go, but the doctors just brush over his question - plastic surgery is the most solid of answers, but nobody wants to commit to an answer, so he guess he has it. This is how he looks now.

They fill his pockets with pills and send him on his way with their gratitude for his service, as if he has somewhere to be, someone to go to. He’s got nearly ten months of army pay just sitting there - minus a chunk that confuses him until he remembers he’s been sending money to Ava, a neat row of transactions he’s simply labelled ‘miss you’.

Should’ve sent her more.

He stays in Houston, doesn’t bother going home. There’s nothing there for him - his sisters are gone; Ava’s in Austin for college with the girls. Ava, who is somehow juggling three sisters, a college degree, probably a part-time job, and all her own pain.

Maybe he should go to Ava. But the idea of dragging himself all the way to Austin, to sleep on a couch or something, and have his sisters see this ruined version of him makes him want to hide.

The idea of his shaking hands, and the crisscross of scars, and limp being seen by sweet Hettie, dear Flo, sharp Lydia, and tired Ava; knowing they’ll hear his uneven pacing, his wild panic, his endless nightmares makes him stay away - he can’t even pick up the phone. He failed them so many times, and he can’t expect them to put him back together now. Ava’s got nothing left for herself, the others are too young; Lydia’d be graduating this year, she doesn’t need a fuckin’ ghoul of a brother hovering in the background after everything she went through. Better they remember him as he was, as the name on a receipt, that whatever he is now.

His mother is probably still there; working too many hours at the VA hospital and burning toast and being tired. She wrote to him once or twice after he left, and he hated how those letters made him feel. They were all messy apologies and excuses and blame and misery framed in the day-to-day monotony of her life. He felt her hollowness at being left, the mother of five with no children in her home. She should have been helping Lydia pick a prom dress, arranging her graduation party and college tours; driving up to visit Ava at college; sending him inedible cookies; dropping Flo off on her first date, and spoiling baby Hettie even though she’s almost in middle school. But she couldn’t. Because they’d all walked away.

He didn’t write back. He was too angry then, and now he’s … nothing. She feels like a ghost to him, like she died the first day Jerry hit him, and she slowly faded away every Tuesday after that.

And Ava’s the only name on his paperwork, for next of kin and power of attorney shit; and that’s only so she could have his money when he was gone.

His father’s still in Sheldon, he has no doubt of that. He hopes Jerry dies in that empty old house, abandoned by everyone he should have loved better, cared for better and surrounded only by the bottles that he let salt the earth and poison his family.

His uncles are still there, as reliable as the rising and setting of the sun, most likely ready and waiting to jeer at Jasper for his wasted attempt as a soldier, for his patchwork of skin and scars, for his limp and his confetti memory; to fail so fantastically after ten lousy months. No diploma, no future, no plan.

Not even old enough for a fuckin’ drink.

Still a better shot than Bo, though. Sometimes he wants to ask them, though, to look ‘em in the eye and demand to know what they expected from him - the sole Whitlock boy, the heir to a name that meant sweet fuck-all these days - when all they did was punch him when he was down? That letting a kid get beat up, then get insulted and demeaned and mocked and yelled at… that didn’t create a good man, that didn’t create a happy, successful person. They did everything they damn well could to see him gone, failed, erased and that was before he joined the goddamn army. There was no brotherhood in the Whitlock name. Even if he had gotten out unscathed, he would have run til no one knew him, and he wouldn’t have gone home again.

But he didn’t, and here he is having bitter arguments with old men who aren’t even there.

He sits in his motel room, takes his pills with water from the bathroom, and occasionally remembers to find food. He doesn’t sleep well on the hard, musty motel bed; the nightmares come in waves even when his brain is like mush from the medications. A car door slamming, a yell from the street, the smell of cooking meat - it all sends him skittering, panicking, pacing. He can’t stop moving, and his bad knee swells up and finally he gets his hand on some liquor and he ends up slung into the stained bathtub barely able to think. Definitely not able to stand.

He just wants it to stop.

The mostly-empty bottle hits the grimy tiles and smashes, but he thinks of a girl with amber eyes and a magic bag and a watch that she gave him - hurled at him. He remembers sleeping on a cold, bony shoulder in an alley, her voice sweet and warm.

She was so mad with him that last night. He did end up back behind Dewey’s again, on more than one Tuesday, but he didn’t see her again. And it wasn’t long after that when everything went to hell, so he never got to say goodbye. Say sorry for being a dick.

He can’t quite remember what they were arguing about that last night. Whiskey and valium have chased that memory away, and his head slumps over as he sleeps. Or looses consciousness. Either way, he doesn’t have to exist for awhile, and it suits him just fine.

—

Time passes. He finds a cheaper motel, because there’s a corner of his brain that is somehow still functional and practical, and he knows what money he has has to be stretched. Someone from the VA calls his cellphone and he ignores it. He takes his pills - less than usual, because they’re running out.

His knee hurts.

He breaks a lamp and the mirror after a nightmare, and ends up at urgent care getting his knuckles stitched up by some intern who asks him too many questions. Tries to give him pamphlets, and he resists the urge to punch the doctor in the face.

The doctor does write him new prescriptions though. That’s helpful. And he gets something to eat at the cafeteria. It starts out as a bad night and ends up being one of those mornings he almost feels human, as long as he doesn’t look in the mirror.

That’s why he picks up the phone when the VA call again.

That’s how he finds himself sitting outside the VA hospital with a paper bag of the shit he left behind. His mother’s letters, his dog-tags, and an extremely broken watch.

“Happy freakin’ birthday.”

He looks at it closely now, more closely than he did when he was given it - even if it was thrown at his head, it was a gift in his mind. The brown leather strap is stained and nearly torn through, and the brass buckle bent. The face is cracked in an almost perfect spiral. The face is mottled cream, with neat gold Roman numerals; several have come loose and rattle along the bottom, along with the minute hand. It no works, and he hopes that the internal gears are still functional.

The watch will need to be repaired professionally, to be taken apart and pieced back together. A new glass face and band, the numerals and hands put back in the rightful place.

He doesn’t even remember wearing it, that last day. He knew he had it with him the entire time, through basic training and everything, but he didn’t remember wearing it. He’d had some chunky digital thing that told him the weather and GPS and shit that had been responsible for the mutilation of his left wrist.

Carefully it into his jacket, Jasper stands and begins the walk back to the motel.

Nineteen, still.

Sometimes, he thinks about going back to Dewey’s, just to see if she ever turns up again, on a Tuesday. For some reason, when he thinks of her - Miss Alice, in her funny clothes, and her lilting voice - he thinks of her exactly how he remembers her, that she is fixed in time and will never change. That he could return to that alley a week, a year, a decade from now, and she will still be there with her bag of tricks and big golden eyes.

He thinks about her a lot. He never knew where she came from, how old she was, why she spent Tuesday nights in an alley with him. He hopes she’s safe, comfortable, and happy.

He hopes she still thinks of him.

Time marches on, and he can see his twentieth birthday rushing up to greet him. He’s done nothing to change his circumstances - the cheapest hotel room, a fistful of pills on an empty stomach, patchwork sleep haunted by corpses. The PTSD special.

He finds a bar that respects his service more than his age, and they’re happy to let him drink himself numb in the corner as long as he doesn’t make trouble, and slips out the back if the cops come round. But even when they do, and get a good look at the scars, at his jacket, at the look in his eyes, they usually just nod and move along. No one asks questions, just counts out his crumpled money and then slides his drink along the bar.

Life doesn’t feel worth much on those nights.

Stumbling back to the motel, drunk and dull, he never notices the footsteps. He just goes to his room, his home, and passes out on a stained bedcover fulling clothed, waiting for the nightmares to kick in.

—

When the nightmares press in on him, and he’s lying on the bed staring at the discoloured popcorn ceiling, all he really wants is to go home again.

Not to Sheldon.

To the ranch.

Before Hettie, before Tuesdays, before everything. Where they buried Socrates under the tree with the treehouse, where he learned to ride, and would catch rabbits, and everything was easy. He still got told off by his father for being such a disappointment, but back then, they still had the family property, so his father wasn’t so angry.

He’s stone cold sober - aside from the Vicodin and Valium rattling around in his stomach - when he decides to go home again. He even stops in at a grimy diner and shovels in a plate of eggs and some coffee before he buys the bus ticket.

He knows the old place never sold; bank couldn’t shift it. Sold some of the land, but the old farmhouse just sits there, rotting. The Whitlock curse strikes again and again, into the heart of everything.

It’s a long trip; only way out there by bus is to go via San Antonio, and then down towards the old farm on another rural bus that only runs a few times a day. And he didn’t think much about how to get from the last bus stop to the old house proper, but some old guy in a truck takes a good hard look at him - his stained jacket, his limp, the scars twisting around his limbs and under his clothes, and offers to take him wherever he’s going.

He’s stiff and sore and hungry, but he doesn’t worry about any of that. The driver’s polite, amicable, doesn’t ask too many questions but gives him the number of the only cab in town for his return trip. He nods his thanks, and begins limping up the old driveway, towards home.

The house is… sad. Not like his memories, of blood red geraniums in the window boxes, and a pile of sneakers and boots in a jumble by the front door. There aren’t any bikes leaning up against the porch railings, either. Hell, the porch has a hole in it, the wooden rotten through. The yard is an overgrown tangle - probably concealing a few snakes.

The treehouse has long since collapsed, the wooden remains jutting out from the overgrown grass like a shipwreck. Socrates’ little grave is probably still there, under it all, with the brick he and Lydia painted his name on. He was a good cat.

He’s not going to go into the house, and now that he’s here, he’s not sure why he came at all. It’s just a house he once lived in, like Sheldon. But there is something peaceful about being back here, sitting on the - thankfully brick - front steps and staring out at the road. No cars come by, neighbours are too far away to matter. It’s just him.

He lets his thoughts float. More than once, he’s wished he’d been able to keep his service weapon, finish the job the bomb started. He thought about other ways - swallowing all his pills till there’s nothing left in the bottle; buying some razor blades and cutting along his seams; finding a motel with rafters he can loop a belt around. But he doesn’t. He hasn’t. He doesn’t know why - the thought is like a mischievous cat looming over his shoulder. The cat with a too-big smile, from Hettie’s books. Sinister yet convincing and trustworthy. But the thought lingers, and right now, he wishes he’d come prepared because … it’s quiet here. It’s quiet and he associates it with good things, and he’s really, really tired.

His VA shrink said that disassociation was a common symptom of PTSD. There were methods of dealing with it, techniques he could use, but he didn’t bother remembering them. Sometimes it was nice not to feel things, to be entirely seperate from himself for awhile.

When he comes back to himself, the afternoon has turned to night, and he’s an idiot sitting outside an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, in a town with one cab. He swears under his breath, and the two braincells that are still desperately trying to keep him alive blaze into action, as he fumbles for his cellphone.

At least it isn’t dead.

He doesn’t even notice the sound as he dials, but as the phone rings he looks up in confusion, as a woman walks up the drive. She’s small enough for his heart to jump in misguided hope, waiting for that smile, those eyes, and that stupid bag that he placed so much faith in.

Her eyes are red, and her hair is long and brown. Her lips stretch too far like that stupid cat, and she takes the phone from him so gently and crushes it into a find powder. And he wishes he’d stayed drunk and high instead of staying sober and coming back to his childhood home like some kind of fucking book character.

She calls him ‘mi amor’ and apologises for what comes next.

He tries to back away, but stumbles on his bad knee, and when she hurls him back up effortlessly, she dislocates his shoulder and probably breaks his arm, and for a moment his vision swims and he yells, and that is only the very beginning of the pain.

—

In his few lucid moments over the next seventy-two hours, he wonders when he gets to stop suffering. When he finds the end of the tunnel of pain, from Tuesdays behind Dewey’s, to being half-burned alive, to be put back together and drugged senseless to function, to whatever this woman has done to him.

It feels kind of like the bomb did, except like it is taking him slowly. If he could open his eyes, he’d expected himself to be blackened and splitting, like the crust of a volcano.

If he could be sick, he would.

He thinks he screams himself hoarse. He might just think about doing it.

Red eyes watch him the entire time, with the ruby-coloured too-big smile, and if he still believed in god or fate or family curses or anything aside from the slow drip of pain in this veins, he would think she was the devil incarnate.

—

Time passes. He doesn’t know how much, since he woke up in the rotting remains of his family’s home with a burn in his throat, and Maria waiting for him. She’s quick to reassure him of his new status as a god, quick to find him something to quench the burn (the boy is young but strong and bulky; probably a high school football player. Healthy and full of blood and cries for his momma when Jasper half-rips his throat out. She is quick to caress his cheek and to kiss him long and deep and to fuck him in the wreckage of the house.

Maria’s clan is small - only nine of them counting him. They are suspicious of him, of the way he stares and stays quiet. But Maria is quick to ease any of his own misgivings - newborns are entirely unpredictable, volatile. He is her new pet, her treasure, her mijo.

He loves what he is, truly. He leaves the pill bottles rattling in his pockets in the dirt of the farmhouse floor, and strides confidently after his new mistress. His leg is strong again, and all the scars have melted away into smooth, hard stone. He came to the farm looking for something, and he found it - himself, the way he was always supposed to be. If life had been kinder.

He’s found himself a soldier in another war, but war is a lot easier when you aren’t weighed down with equipment or fear or stupid fucking rules. When winning a battle means glutting yourself on blood, and losing means instant death, and there’s nothing in-between.

They are so fast now, hunting grounds stretch from Monterrey to Corpus Christie to San Antonio.

He refuses to go to Austin but sometimes its hard to remember why. He nearly kills Lucy when she tries to take the others to Austin, and Maria’s lips purse but she says nothing and they go to Laredo instead. They create a few more newborns, but he notices Maria’s attention to him never wavers; they are like pets, whilst he is her devoted prince.

(Later, he’ll find out it was only six god-damned months he lost. That he turned twenty and Lydia graduated somewhere in an Austin high school, and a bunch of people - mostly social workers and VA employees - were looking for him with the fear of the worst. He’d tell them that whatever ‘worse’ was, they weren’t even close.)

They figure out his gift during one furious early battle that leaves his arms and neck littered with bite marks, and they don’t go away. The venom works too fast, the bites are too deep, and he is once again a mess. A monster. His rage ripples around the camp, and everyone huddles in on themselves, and even Maria cowers a little, cooing and trying to settle him.

He makes them afraid, he makes them tremble, he tries to force them into fixing the unfixable.

Maria is so pleased with his gift, he is never punished for his tantrum. And more bite marks layer upon his skin; when he frets over them, with a sneer on his face, she laughs and promises he’ll have many, many more before they are done.

—

Nineteen, always.

Reconnaissance in the back of Houston is required, and Jasper and Maria take a small group with them. Maria is insistent there are others on their lands, and that is a crime of the highest order. They will destroy the newcomers, feed, and return to Monterrey. They each pick a point of Houston, and agree to meet in the centre.

He is ordered to the northeast, and he goes without resistance; he knows soldiering is following orders, and Maria lets his resistance to Austin go unremarked upon.

Most of his human memories are hazy, like they are so very much older than they really are. The streets he stalks are almost familiar, and he keeps his head low - more because of the blazing red of his eyes than any fear of being recognised.

There’s an aged but enticing aroma that he follows, that smells of nice, soft things; not fresh enough to guarantee a confrontation (or execution), but one that is a regular in this part of town.

It’s late enough there are few people in the street, in this working-class part of town. Even the dive bar has gone dark, and only the drunks and shift workers are left stumbling around. It’s not even hard to snag one of the less aware drunks around the wrist and vanish around into the alley with him.

His blood is nothing memorable, and it’s not hard to make the drunk look like he tripped and slashed his neck on a smashed bottle in the alley. He’s good at staging these scenes; at making things look like terrible, despicable accidents.

“Oh, Jasper.”

The words are soft and murmured, and he can’t decide whether they are sad or relieved or something in between. All he knows is that there is a sweet-smelling threat behind him, and he spins around with a snarl.

She’s only as tall as a child, with uneven black hair curling around her cheeks. She’s one of the prettiest girls he has ever seen, with huge amber-coloured eyes that remind him of porcelain dolls. She’s wearing a sky blue sweater a size too big over jeans with stars on the knees, and staring at him with hope and regret.

In the back of his brain, that little bit that is not quite human and not quite animals looks at her hard and breathes in her roses-and-rainwater scent and simply thinks, “Yes. Good.”

But the louder part recognises her as the trail he has been following, the one that Maria wants destroyed. A growl rumbles from within him, and the girl just looks sad.

“I’m so, so sorry Jasper,” she says, still standing there, not the least be defensive. “Carlisle and Edward forced me to stay away once you left, and then I tried to watch you but I lost track of where you were…” Her eyes are shiny, as if she wants to cry. “Do you remember who I am?”

The question hangs in the air between them, his growl fading away as he stares at her.

She steps closer, and he glares at her. The animal brain is getting louder - “Yes-good-yes-good-yes-good.” Her emotions are threatening, mostly sad, and she’s tiny. Nothing bad could be so dainty and pretty.

She’s right in front of him, standing on her toes as she presses her hand to his face. “I’m Alice,” she says simply, and his mind folds itself over and over again in an instant to provide him with an answer to this riddle, to this girl that is so clearly something good and known to him.

And he remembers.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s a stupid fucking decision you’re about to make.”

“At least I didn’t break it worse.”

“Happy freakin’ birthday.”

"They just looked nice. Happy.”

“I’ve come too far to watch you die in this disgusting place,”

“Alice,” he says hoarsely, and his memories of her are clear, sharp. He can remember that one strand of hair that always fell into her face; her ice cold hands roughly patching him up; the constant, lilting companionship of her voice, even when he slept. She is so clear in his mind he wonders how he forgot her in the first place.

Her smile and emotions bloom with joy all at once, and it warms him all the way through. It’s the kind of happiness that eluded him during his human life, and one he has not felt, waking up with this gift that feels like everyone’s emotions are constantly crawling on him. It’s something he wants to wrap himself in like armour.

“I’m so, so sorry,” her fingers brush a scar on his neck so gently, he wants to shudder.

“What for?” he asks, wanting to know if he can touch her. She’s so pretty and clean and is a good thing, a precious thing.

“I see things. Things that are going to happen,” Alice says, as she inspects his arm with a frown. “And when I saw what was going to happen to you in the army, I got mad that I couldn’t protect you anymore. And when you came home, I didn’t realise she was following you until it was too late and I couldn’t work out where you’d ended up. I would have come sooner if I’d known, I swear.” She turns his arm over to reveal a bite mark on his wrist and impulsively kisses it.

He flinches; the contact magnifies her emotions - and his - and it skitters pleasantly along his body.

“I don’t…” he begins, his voice still gravelly from lack of use. “I don’t blame you.”

“I do,” she replies softly, and then she backs away and that is disappointing enough that he takes a step closer to her. She giggles and smiles at him again, and he will follow her anywhere.

“You have to make a choice now,” she says, and he nods hypnotically.

“You can go back to Maria,” her voice wavers again, and he doesn’t like the coldness that sweeps through her at that statement. “And fight and kill until she’s bored with you. She creates war and destruction and monsters, Jasper, and I don’t want you to go with her. She will destroy you, and I couldn’t bear it if…” She stops, turning her head away and stays silent for a moment.

“Or,” her voice is steady again, “you can come with me.”

She holds out her hand.

“My brothers and sisters are distracting Maria and her friends for now, you and I can get away, and go somewhere safe,” she continues. “Just you and me together. I can…”

He never knows what she was going to say because his choice is made, his hand taking hers without a second thought, and she stares up at him with wide eyes, her mouth a perfect ‘o’.

“Are you sure?” she manages, and he nods. He thinks of pain, human and immortal. He thinks of rage and regret. He thinks of his lowest point as a human, of the permanent bite marks on his arms, and the weight that has only shifted now that he’s immortal, not lifted away.

He thinks of being happy and safe and clean and peaceful. He thinks of a girl sitting next to him in an alley, with her throat burning, but her only worry about his bruises.

The girl who can back for him.

Everything is still muddled, from his human life, but he knows that lot of people took him apart and remade him in both his lives. She’s the only one who tried to heal him.

“Let’s go,” he says, and she laughs sweetly, and then they are running faster than anyone can see as they disappear into the night.

—

‘Home’ is a cabin in the middle of the forest, somewhere towards the north east, he thinks. No people around, just wild animals for him to glut himself on. There is the constant running of the river beside them, covering their scent against nomads. It is quiet here - a good place to figure out the edges of his gift, to learn resistance and control, to try and heal and reconcile all that happened to him in such a short space of time.

Alice tells him Maria was indescribably desperate after his disappearance; their exit covered by a well-time rainstorm that washed all the scents away. She had torn apart Houston in her fury, and now she was in more trouble than she knew.

Meaning that Maria wouldn’t come hunting for him any time soon. And, he supposes, when she does, Alice will know. Alice knows everything.

She knows that he likes to sit on their front steps and just stare out at the forest without being disturbed. That the scent of smoke and fire sends him twitching worse than any vampire she’s ever met. That the scars that mark his arms, neck, and face are simply placeholders for the ones he gained as a human, and his disgust over them lingers from the injuries he suffered in war. That he misses his sisters, and they are one of the reasons he is so resolute in his control training. That, if nothing else, he will say good bye and fake his death to give them closure. Alice promises him that she knows someone who can help them figure all those kinds of details out, but she wants him to see his sisters one last time almost as badly.

He knows that Alice loves him, as truly as anyone has loved before. That feeling never wavers, not through his rages, his depressions, his disassociation. That just watching him read a book on their (broken) couch has joy blooming inside her. He knows that Alice will never pressure him, never ask him for more than he is ready to give - and because of that, he is willing to give her anything she asks.

Some days are harder than others, especially when Alice talks to him about her family - the one she walked away from for him - and he knows that she wants the both of them to return to the Cullens sometime in the future. And he feels obliged to do it, eventually, since her jumble of siblings were a part of his escape plan - the most dangerous part, if it involved aggravating Maria. But she never asks, just talks to him about them.

But mostly, he’s okay. Good, even. Animal blood is disappointing, and sometimes he’s so agitated he can’t sit still and wishes for … a battle, to run, to do something other than sit, and read, and hunt animals, and talk. Alice blames it on his newborn year, and he tries so hard to contain it, but it’s hard.

She tries to make it better, and on days that he can stand to be touched, she teaches him all the old-fashioned dances she knows, and he spins her around and sometimes it does make it better.

He’s got regrets, a laundry list of them, but Alice says that isn’t unusual; it takes very specific circumstances to be changed - especially young - and be satisfied with the final outcome. When he asks her regrets, she shrugs and admits that she doesn’t even remember being human. Leaving him unprotected is her biggest regret, and that makes her sad, which he doesn’t like the feeling of.

So he puts his arm around her, and she curls against him, and that makes the sadness evaporate, and she beams up at him with golden eyes he could drown in, and one thing he will admit is - that despite the pain and unhappiness that followed him from human to immortal - that he will never, even regret taking her hand.

#my fic: against a wall #my writing: against a wall #jaliceweek20 #jasper hale #alice cullen #twilight fic #jalice

25 notes · View notes

iwaswritingmywayout · 4 years ago

Text

BTMH: Chapter 13: Costume

(Y/N's short program costume)

Y/N’s face turned bright red. “I think it’s time to get you back to Yu-topia,” Y/N said. Seonghwa had already finished his food, so Y/N got up and basically stood him up so he’d follow her to Yu-topia. “Jongho, you can stay and finish your food and then come back when you’re done or you can come with us. It’s up to you.”

“I’m done, I’ll come with you,” Jongho said.

The two struggled to make Seonghwa go back to Yu-topia, but once he got there, he basically went to his room and passed out.

Y/N looked at Jongho. “Let’s just agree to never bring up what was said, for his sake,” YN said.

Jongho nodded. “Trust me, I wouldn’t have brought it up anyway,” Jongho said.

The two headed their separate ways, and Y/N went into her room. She sat down on her bed, picked up her pillow, and screamed into it. Seonghwa liked her, and he admitted it while he was drunk. How was she supposed to tell him how she felt if he wouldn’t even remember telling her how he felt?

Her eyes widened. ‘He thought of me when making Eros, so I’ll do the same. I’ll think of him and the pork cutlet bowl, but he will only know about the pork cutlet bowl,’ She thought to herself. She shook her head before laying down on her bed, falling asleep soon after.

The next morning Y/N and Jongho headed to Ice Castle Hasetsu without Seonghwa since he was still asleep.

“I can’t believe Seonghwa still isn’t here,” Y/N said.

“Did you see how much he drank last night? What a dumbass,” Jongho said, walking away.

“Oh, Jongho,” Y/N said.

Jongho turned back to look at her. “What?” He asked.

“Please teach me how to land a quad Salchow. Please!” Y/N asked.

After Jongho showed her what to do, Y/N attempted to do it. She failed, landing on her hands.

“You suck! Hey, Pork Cutlet Bowl. Watch me do it one more time,” Jongho said, glaring at her.

Y/N nodded but glared back at him, Seonghwa entering soon after.

“Sorry I’m late!” Seonghwa said.

Y/N turned to face him, and he looked disheveled. When she saw him, she was reminded of everything he said the night before, and immediately shook her head.

When Seonghwa saw that he raised an eyebrow, why was she shaking her head? He didn’t remember anything the happened the night before and wondered if he happened to say something he shouldn’t have. He thought had good self-control when drunk, so he was sure he didn’t do anything, he was wrong, though.

“Y/N what were you practicing just now?” Seonghwa asked.

Y/N and Jongho skated in opposite directions, neither answering him. “I’m just gonna practice my choreography,” Y/N said.

Jongho started to work on Agape, his moves becoming more graceful gentle as he went on. ‘Agape…Unconditional love. To me, that means Grandpa,’ Jongho thought.

Seonghwa brought his hand up to his chin, studying what Jongho was doing. “Looks like Jongho found his agape. Maybe he’s ready for his next stage.”

‘Huh? Next Stage? Does that mean I have a next stage, once I perform the Eros of the pork cutlet bowl and Seonghwa?’ Y/N thought.

Y/N practiced the routine, sighing when she stopped. “I still can’t find it, though. I still lack what would serve as the backbone this program needs,” Y/N said.

Later on at Yu-topia, Seonghwa, Y/N, and Jongho were eating. Minako was standing nearby scrolling on her phone.

“So, what will you do for a costume tomorrow?” Minako asked.

“Oh! I totally forgot,” Y/N said. What would she wear? She didn’t really have any outfits.

“I didn’t bring any, either,” Jongho said.

Seonghwa smiled and set down his drink, then made a piece sign with his hand. “That’s taken care of! Y/N, I had female versions made for my most popular costumes, and then I had all my costumes I’ve ever worn in competition shipped for Jongho to pick from. It’s in my room-“ Seonghwa started to say.

Jongho got up and ran to the room, Y/N following after, almost slipping because of her socs. “Slow down! Wood floor is not made for socks!” She shouted after him.

When they got to Seonghwa’s room, there was a suitcase full of costumes on his bed. Next to it, was a box of specially made female costumes. Y/N wasn’t sure how he got her measurements, but she decided she didn’t want to worry about that.

“Wow!” Y/N said, lifting the costumes out of the box.

“There are lot’s of stupid-looking ones,” Jongho said.

“Hey, this is the one based off the outfit you wore at the Grand Prix Final last year!” Y/N said, lifting the costume.

“Hey! Don’t pick anything flashier than mine!” Jongho said.

“This is based off the one from the Junior World Championship!” Y/N said. That costume had always been her favorite. It was gorgeous.

“Oh, yeah. I had long hair at the time, so my costume suggested both male and female genders at once,” Seonghwa said.

‘Oh, that’s right,’ Y/N thought to herself.

She looked down at the costume before nodding her head. “I choose this one,” she said.

Later that night Y/N showed up at Minako’s apartment and rang the doorbell.

“Oh, come on! Who is it?” Minako yelled as she went to open the door. Once she did, she poked her head out. “Huh? You want to practice in my studio this late at night?”

Y/N nodded. “Minako, I need you to teach me something.”

#born to make history #seonghwa x reader #ateezxreader #yuri!!! on ice #park seonghwa #xreader #ateez

3 notes · View notes

bubmyg · 6 years ago

Text

wonder - jjk

pairing: jeongguk x reader

genre/warnings: pool boy/waiter/kind-of-baker/first-aid-extraordinaire/aspiring singer!jeongguk(ft. cherry!guk), writer/journalist!reader, the CHEESIEST fluff, tiny amounts of angst, a bad attempt at original poetry, there is a tiny blood mention

word count: 14,906

summary: romance novels lie about finding some deep epiphany in the ocean because you find your inspiration in some chlorine tainted red locks or where jeongguk isn’t smooth with a pool net.

a/n: this is. the longest fic i’ve ever written. also the longest i’ve ever worked on a fic (...a month ajfdks) and im really proud of it :-( i hope u like it :-(

There’s a certain breaking point for an advice columnist, one that isn’t supposed to come three years into the job and over a handwritten letter from a nine year old who has just had her dream of becoming a vet shattered by this sudden discovery that she, in fact, passes out when she sees any type of blood. Or if that breaking point comes, the draft of the response isn’t supposed to make it past an unsaved document, (Dreams are a scam, anyway. Learn that.) scrapped and used as emotional support to formulate the real answer.

There’s a nine year old little girl who rushes to the paper for a week after sending her letter, hoping to find some sort of solace in the advice column she finds fascinating, generally filled with advice on things she doesn’t have the capacity to understand: cheating husbands, the capitalist nature of the makeup industry, why “business casual” isn’t a reward for women, and taxes. She’s memorized her opening line enough to have her heart racing into her throat when she catches sight of it on its usual page, her letter transcribed and italicized just above the tiny portrait of the columnist and the bold font that would be her response.

Her mother finds her sobbing on her bed fifteen minutes after she called for her to come to dinner and consoles her enough to acknowledge that being a Disney princess is just as good of an aspiration as a vet, not before writing a strongly worded letter addressed to the editor of the paper and canceling the family’s subscription.

There’s a different document you should have scrapped completely, the sixty-seventh page of your never ending novel, never ending in the sense that it would never end because you were going to give up on everything with the exception of the column for the next day: an obscure sex toy shop escapade that isn’t fit for the nine year old and her canceled subscription in the first place.

You’d been glaring at the grainy lines across your monitor, ones that cut through the middle of the words on the sixty-sixth page, when Hoseok’s figure glided past the glass wall of your office to enter without knocking.

He cleared his throat and you turned slowly from the monitor, as if your gradual spiral cascading to a head had brought an end to your cordiality as well. There was a paper in his hand, the day prior’s edition, ink thick on the outside where a picture of a local elementary school’s service project was displayed. He opened it silently, turning to a page, your page, outlined heavily in red ink pen.

The gold links of Hoseok’s watch reflected off your monitor as the paper smacked and slid its way across your desk, forcing you to wince for two separate reasons.

“I’m sorry—”

Hoseok withdrew his latter hand from the pocket of his black slack and your fingers itched to close out of your novel but his gaze was steady on the blinking cursor next to a piece of grammar you’d fiddled with six separate times.

“Any progress?” You blinked at him and he jerked his head in the direction of your desktop, black fringe parting against his eyelashes so his dark eyes dropped a deeper shade of black.

There was a raw spot ready for you on the inside of your cheek and the taste of stale metallic flooded your tongue. Your legs unfurled from where they’d been folded up underneath you in your desk chair, gaze sweeping to the wilting ficus underneath your desk, “Not exactly…”

Papers fluttered together and you caught sight of the dogeared letter from the little girl as Hoseok brushed a bare spot on the corner of your desk to take a seat. There was a smiling cartoon character patterned to the surface of his short-sleeved button up and it’s smiling muzzle appeared to mirror that flit of an upturn on the edge of Hoseok’s dimpled lips. The subtle cock of his chin was anything but of praise, sympathy more so bleeding out the strict in his dark irises as he sighed.

“I understand this job and this column are not your first love,” He mirrored the snarky response that swallowed on the back of your tongue, “Hell, this probably isn’t even your third or fourth love.”

“But I do expect you to uphold a certain level of professionalism in your column. I’ve never had an issue with you in the past. In fact, I nearly stopped looking over your submissions before sending things to print,” Hoseok leaned forward, elbow on his thigh, chin on curled, ring clad knuckles, “However, as of recent…”

“It won’t happen again, Hoseok. I swear, I was just—”

You quieted when his fingers curled outward from underneath his chin. “...this was not the first column as of recent that hasn’t exactly been up to par.”

Quieter, barely a breath, you nodded, “I’m sorry.”

Hoseok’s index finger straightened, leaning from his lips to press into the side of your monitor, tapping his nail against the screen, “I know how much this means to you. I know how little progress comes when inspiration comes. I know that inspiration doesn’t just strike when we ask it to. I get it, I really do.”

“...and I think some time away from here, from this place, from your column, would do you wonders.”

There was something defensive in your next inquiry, “What are you saying?”

“I’m giving you the summer off—” His finger wagged in your direction when you choked, “—no I’m making you take the summer off.”

“The whole—”

“Two months. Away from here, as in, I’m sending you to the coast for two months. Beach house, all to yourself, all-expense paid. Except for your food, I know you like—”

You squinted at him, “What?”

“Namjoon,” Hoseok provided and you tensed at the name of his friend, a high-powered executive at a publishing company you’d failed three times over to score an internship at, “He really understands the plight you’re going through. It’s his house.”

“There has to be a catch.”

“Yes, I’m giving Jimin your column while you’re gone.”

You grit your teeth at the mention of Hoseok’s blonde headed assistant and Hoseok chuckled at the reaction he desired, “I’m kidding. I mean, I am giving him your paper space. But, Namjoon said, providing that you make some sort of sizable progress on your manuscript, he’ll review it.”

“What?”

“You’re my friend. He’s my friend,” He plucked your turtle shaped paper weight into his palm, tracing it with the same index finger, “I want the best for you and I want my employee’s to be working at their utmost capacity. Namjoon can never have too many clients—” He made eye contact with you when he set the turtle down, “—and he probably owes me some sort of favor.”

Your gaze wandered out the window, eyeing a taxi as it sped away from the curb and forced its way into the flow of traffic. “All because I told a nine year old that Disney princesses’ aren’t real, huh?”

“No,” Hoseok’s hand covered one of yours, patting gently, “Because you’re better than this version of you. And I miss her, frankly. Old you used to bring me coffee in the mornings, so—”

“That’s when I was in Park Jimin’s position.”

“Jealous?”

“No,” Your jaw clenched but the smile on your lips was tiny and genuine regardless, “Thank you, Hobi.”

He hummed, pushing himself up off your desk to trail around toward the door, “Put your novel away, you have two months at the beach to work on that. Submit tomorrow’s column and then get your ass out of here. You have a flight to pack for.”

You weren’t sure if it were the wet tropical air that clung to your hair follicles or the grains of sand already wedged underneath the platform of your sandal but stepping off the plane gave you at least the vague sense that your inspiration was back. You itched for the keys on your laptop, letters worn and granules of salt from potato chips lodged in between, the space bar with two glossed circles from the unconscious tap of the side of your thumbs.

But the device was lodged in your backpack which was lodged between your shoulder blades as you tried to balance the lopsided baggage while maneuvering the cheap wheels of your suitcase over cobblestone sidewalks.

The keypad granted you entry when you’d barely pressed down on the last number of the combination you were given and your suitcase thanked you when sand rippled stepping stones became smooth, white tile. You nudged the luggage aside, dropping your backpack from your shoulders in the process of the long exhale you released from tense muscles, sand splaying messily over sleek flooring as you peeled your sandals from your ankles.

The house was open concept, white tile outlined in golden, sand like consistency, flooring that disappeared from the entryway to the wide room in the middle and down a short hallway that pointed into a wide, sliding glass door. Stainless steel appliances encased by black cabinets and white marble countertops, blue accent pieces and a fruit bowl filled with plastic treats completed the kitchen while compact leather furniture in the same hues boxed in a towering entertainment center on the opposite end of the room.

Your bare feet welcomed the shag grey rug that resided under the living room furniture, carrying you toward the various DVDs peeking out of the glass case underneath the TV. Nature documents sandwiched a singular copy of The Notebook, the cover worn and tattered underneath plastic from being parted so many times.

He’ll like her then and your fingertips twitched at your thighs in search of your laptop keys.

You turned a collection of faux grapes in your palms, pressing into the waxy material, eyes squinted for the typed letter lodged underneath the wire basket.

Welcome! I trust that you’ll find your accommodations satisfactory for a few months, yes? I’m eagerly awaiting your progress, Hoseok speaks very highly of you and your skills. Happy writing!

Underneath was a bulleted list of contact numbers and a FAQOTH (Frequently Asked Questions of the House), trash days, the number of the nearest pizza delivery, the code to the shed outside that contained noodles and an inflatable flamingo for the pool. It was skimming that provided you with that information and your brain short circuited on the mention of a pool, abandoning memorization in favor of your bare feet scuffing across the warmed concrete of the pool deck.

If the pesky sand rubbing raw at the arches of your feet or the palm trees you’d spotted out the windows of the plane weren’t enough to immerse you in the mindset, the clear blue of chlorine tainted water twitched at your knuckles just a fraction more, especially as engulfed by a privacy fence and vining vegetation cut neatly through the rungs of thick white.

Your stomach argued for lunch from one of the pizza places Namjoon had suggested and your heaping luggage argued for organizing the white wicker drawers in your bedroom but your gut said your laptop and your swimsuit. You were pressed onto a candy-striped towel in a lounge chair with the sun trickling at the sweat on your hairline before any other option could out weight, your clothes half strewn in the entryway of the house where you’d dug for the spandex material but forgotten as you furiously hacked away at editing your outline.

You bolded the newest addition to your outline inside your outline, the one that held all the tropes you wished to tackle in the sensical nonsensical manner that was a novel centered around the beauty of clichés. If other authors avoided clichés at all cost, the adverse relationship of shoving any and all that you could correlate between the confines of two plastic ends and a spine could produce a similar effect, pique the interest if marketed as the cliché of all clichés, work against and for itself between worlds of bubblegum high school romance and stale mint flavored coworkers, strangers, and enemies to lovers.

Besides, eliminating stereotypes within clichés counted for something in itself. A commentary on something much larger, at least, you liked to think it was.

SEND THEM TO A BEACH HOUSE appeared directly beneath THE SPAGHETTI SCENE FROM LADY AND THE TRAMP BUT WITH EXCESS CHEESE FROM A PIECE OF PIZZA and the giddiness from typing it out had you overloading the software with how quickly you switched documents to your outline outline, swiping your index finger until the setting appeared and you deleted it in one long, blue highlight.

You thought back to the young adult romance you’d read in high school that had taken place in a beachside town, then to the very same romantic thriller you adored as an adult, to the whimsical short story you’d written in an undergraduate, elective creative writing class, to the first time you’d dug your toes into slightly damp sand and let the soothe of the waves lap at your ankles and the fall of your eyelids to be as dark as the never ending water disappearing over the horizon.

Nothing is more cliché than a beachside town, you thought and spoke the words all the same, shoulders hunching over your keyboard as you clacked the same sentence across the screen and quickly deleted it to amend more specifically. It was the most you’d typed, switched tabs for research, and had the curled feeling of anticipation for what would flow from your fingers in the last year and you briefly wondered if Namjoon had pumped something into the seashell shaped air fresheners stuck in every outlet in the house.

Your trusty search engine provided little response for “beachside towns with little to no tourism” and you instead found yourself typing in the name of the city you’d directed your cab to from the airport, a homage to the sudden rush of inspiration. More details flowed than necessary but you allowed them in the haze of humidity and sun, the name and country and zip code following out next to the bolded location bullet point until your cursor dropped down to the third line and you cut yourself on the words Sunny Drive, where the speed limit signs end in threes?

You cracked your knuckles first, then your toes, then rolled your ankle to pop it, too, crooked fingers still sat on the middle row of the keyboard, asdf-jkl;, tapping in tune with the hum that slipped through your sealed lips.

The high top of a golf cart cruised over the links of the white fence encasing you in your writing utopia, the whir dying as the vehicle rounded the corner. Your fingers were back in action, deleting the modest, white four door sedan assigned to your main character in favor of a high-powered golf cart that you’d research later if realistically existed.

Somewhere in the distance was the call of a bird, traveling over the thrash of the waves onto the shore just in reach beyond the tops of houses suspended on frames around the boardwalk. It was the call of a sea gull or something of the same variety, but you considered giving your main character a parrot and added an entire new section of your outline for the very plot piece.

Something bubbled in the depth of the pool stretched at the end of your pointed ankles, something that had curled into the filter and elicited a burst of air. In your head, you extended the pool by significance on either side and gave your protagonist the trait of an accomplished swimmer in high school.

Nothing more cliché that dropping some characters into a seaside town, one with a parrot, a tricked-out golf cart, and an affinity for swimming rather than surfing like her love interest, antagonistic counterpart and his four door sedan with a dent in the side and caked sand on the rims.

Three documents over was your actual manuscript, one you marked with various highlights to change major plot points later. A major rehaul of location but worth it for the electricity snagging and pushing your joints to click across the keys. Your brain left a footnote to revamp the scene you’d left your characters at, previously at a crossroads of figuring out the vibe in their acquaintance, stuck in a grocery store with the love interest clutching a bouquet of flowers and squinting at your protagonist.

It was quickly changed to a late night scene at a beach, the bouquet of flowers instead a ghost crab and the line of dialog a do you want to hold him? rather than the, awkward albeit, I could buy these for you? To give to your mom, of course—

And then the artificial blue of the water behind you seemed to engulf your laptop screen, draining it into a lower quality of pixels and blurred lines that categorized your work computer, the giant stone turtle hidden behind a bush of thick vegetation shrinking into your paper weight, the line of documents open across your screen erasing into your next column that, for some reason, included every curse word you could imagine in angry red font.

A tiny emoticon reminiscent of the talking paperclip from early Microsoft word processing appeared in the corner, but in the shape of Park Jimin.

In short, you were stuck, the fire of inspiration eager to boil in the pit of your stomach evaporating like the footprint on the pool peck after you’d dipped a singular foot in. You’d transported back to your office in the uncomfortable desk chair stolen from the insurance office a story down with Park Jimin breathing down your neck for your position by bringing Hoseok coffee every morning but in a slightly better quality than you had, because it was handmade with love in the longue, with a novel that was no closer to being finished than it had been when you’d fell in love with the concept and got paid to outline the entire thing not a week into your position at the newspaper (and in between running Hoseok coffee and trying to hide your work in the limited privacy of your cubicle).

A massive control + Z was in order and the fingers on one hand stretched to do just that on the first of three documents, latter cuticles shoved in between your teeth to nibble miserably on. You’d erased any mention of a beachside town and ripped away the sticky note on the inside of your conscious that suggested touching a ghost crab for romance when something rough and cold dripped against the outside of your thigh.

Confusion caused you to place your laptop to the concrete below your chair and terror caused the startled gasp to bubble out of your throat at the sheepish looking figure stood knee deep on the pool stairs.

“Uh, hello,” The figure had obnoxious red hair to match the obnoxious yellow shirt hanging off his shoulders, a similar hue that colored the apples of his cheeks, shading embarrassment over sunburn and traveling to the peek of his teeth and the twinkle in gentle brown eyes that much resembled that of a deer pinned by some oncoming headlights. “I’m...here to clean the pool.”

It was a pool net that had hit you, misjudged from the sopping pile in the mulch of leaves and bugs and neon colored specks of unidentified objects. Your eyes trailed upward from the damp pleats of rope at your side to the holder of the pole, one who hadn’t tried to jerk the net away from you but instead kept in place, as if he didn’t move a muscle maybe you’d disappear.

“I clean the pool twice a week?” He tried again but you were too focused on the rosy shade of his lips matching the moussed fringe that curled into his eyelashes. “It should have been on the note Namjoon left—”

“It probably is,” You dismissed and he finally pulled the net away from your side, the wide sweeping circle he took to plop it back into the pool not succeeding without dripping some onto the top of your head. Unconsciously eager to amend the endearing pout that graced the stranger’s lips as he stirred the net into the center of the water, you added, “I just got in this morning. I haven’t had time to read everything yet.”

“Oh. Oh,” The man straightened from where he’d been crouched trying to snag a red thread at the far end of the pool, the ends of blue pool shorts darker than the rest and trickling against toned thighs, “Well, I’m Jeongguk. The neighborhood pool guy. And groundskeeper. And...whatever else you need me to be, I guess.”

You quirked an eyebrow and Jeongguk faltered, “I mean, like, I can fix shit. If you need me to. Like, if the cable goes out. But don’t ask me about the Wifi. No clue how to improve that.”

“Do any of us?”

He laughed and there was a peek of a dimple at the corner of his lips, turning away from you, “Fair point.”

You watched as he navigated the net with a finesse that suggested he didn’t just smack your thigh with it, depositing the red string in a sad heap near the filter. The calculated wander of your gaze drew your mouth to dry, following the jump of his calf muscles as he stepped from the pool, dragging the net with him over his shoulder.

“Seriously though,” Jeongguk’s voice snapped you out of your trance and you wet your lips and longed for your chapstick lodged somewhere in the depths of your backpack. He stood by a plastic looking brown shed, the net out of his hands, arms instead folded to his chest. “If you need anything, just call the front desk. The number is pasted on the fridge.”

“Noted, thanks.”

“My pleasure—” He paused halfway through the sliding glass door, fingers poised in an awkward pointing motion, “—what was your name again?”

You uttered it and Jeongguk winked, fingers shaking as his latter foot joined him inside. “Well, then I’ll see you later.”

“Perfect,” You breathed to yourself and you realized after the roar of his blue maintenance truck pulling from your drive that your collection of tattered bras and panties were scattered in the only entrance to the house.

Romance novels lied and movies an even bigger scam about wearing sandals for long periods of time without developing stupidly coarse blisters on the surface of the faux leather straps. You were heaving and limping and confused by the time you found the main office at the far end of the neighborhood.

In retrospect, it was hard to miss, an obnoxious aqua shade of paneling, outlined in a thick white trim led to by an equally bright staircase. Bikes accented in the same white but a clearer shade of blue lined the racks outside, complete with wicker baskets on the front and shiny metal bells that glinted just right to make you shield your eyes and trip up a single stair in your ascend. Inside the barn like doors came a refreshing burst of air conditioning, eliminating the humidity from outside and immediately calming some of the sweat curling into the hair at the nape of your neck.

A man sat behind a glass top counter in the middle of the room, legs delicately crossed on the stool he perched to, sunglasses nudged in the darkest part of dyed blonde roots, thumbing through a tourist style magazine that advertised May, the current month, as it’s date of publication. When the doors rattled shut behind you, he looked up, sunglasses bouncing to the bridge of his nose as he let out a tiny, startled noise.

“Hello!” He greeted after a moment, broad shoulders setting as you approached the counter. The magazine was flipped shut and slid closer to you, eyebrows wiggling at you beyond the frames of his fallen glasses, “Can I interested you in an entire article on the shrimp business in town?”

You giggled then, gently nudging the magazine back to him. The gold on his nametag fastened to the pocket of a blue surf shop t-shirt read Seokjin.

“No, not today.”

Seokjin balled the gloss into a roll and with a shrug, pitched it over his shoulder. “You know what, me either,” He winked, folding his hands on the counter and leaning toward you, plump lips curled back to let out an endearing wheeze of a laugh, “What can I do for you today?”

“Do you rent the bikes outside?”

“I’ll rent you two of them,” He laughed again at the expression on your face, turning to fish a clipboard off the tiny table behind him. “Kidding. I’ll rent you three.”

“I love it, but I think I only need one for right now.”

“If I weren’t on shift, I’d accompany you,” Seokjin scribbled something on the clipboard, “What house number are you in?”

You recited the number to him and he nodded with his tongue between his back molars. The clipboard was returned to the table in exchange for a set of tiny keys, ones he held out to you by the dangle of their miniature, metal hook. “These work on the first bike on the rack,” He smiled again, all full lips and an endearing red tinge to the tips of his ears, “Bring them back to me to check the bike back in or I may have to hunt you down.”

Your eyes widened and he cackled again, slapping a palm down on the glass countertop, “Kidding. But there is a fine if it’s not returned in twenty-four hours so—”

“Noted. I’ll have it back,” You pressed the keys into your palm and offered a halfhearted wave, “Thank you!”

“Always! Happy riding!”

The keys were deposited safely into the pocket of your shorts after you’d managed to wiggle the bicycle away from the rack, clacking against your phone screen as you clambered aboard the leather seat and pushed off in the direction you’d came.

You pedaled first in search of the house, finding it easier on the retrace and mapping it to memory as you dared a new trail, the one that looped and met a dead end when asphalt curled into white sand. The house whirred by again and then the main office, the air cooler in a breeze and with an easier travel than walking with a dozen blisters. You cycled slowly, taking in the unruly wind of cobblestone sidewalks and curiously planted palm trees near the planned planted flowers and each house in their own entirety in comparison to your own and the license plates of each car in each driveway as they advertised various regions and places and worlds aside from the one you were living in.

The blue maintenance truck elicited bile in the back of your throat from the incident earlier in the week as it sat parked on the street corner where sprinklers poked out of the turf and sprayed onto the green and yellow logo pasted to the side. The cab was empty but the yard it was parked in front of wasn’t, the knee height gate surrounding the shrubbery open with Jeongguk’s feet planted just on the other side of it.

You whipped your gaze from the slice of hedge trimmers through an exotic looking tree, instead looping your bike onto the opposite sidewalk and in the opposite direction. To no avail, the cul de sac throwing you back around like an out of control speed skater and suddenly the distance in front of you was filled only with the image of Jeongguk’s bare shoulders.

The bike coasted underneath you, leather relaxing its strain on your blisters as you concentration instead fell to the defined ridges between his shoulder blades, ones that rippled under a thin sheen of sweat each time he drew the trimmers open and shut, fluttering confetti like green to the grass below. The gardening tool fell as you watched, one arm staying above his head as he wiped a glove covered hand across his forehead, pasting more of the faded red fringe to the sweat already glistening there than clearing it. In the same moment did he pivot, trimmers dangling at his thigh, but this time you weren’t focused on the short black clinging desperately to his lean hips or the bunched white shirt sticking out from the waistband, rather the defined lines of his trimmed stomach starting underneath his ribs and disappearing underneath the elastic.

Jeongguk calling your name wasn’t part of the mirage and your rounded mouth jerked up just in time to notice the rapidly approaching edge of the curb.

Your dry mouth didn’t need water when it instead got the sprinkled of gravel, your bike tire colliding with the blocked concrete below and throwing you off to the side. A pain registered as a skid down your elbow but nothing quite matched the shamed embarrassment that flushed at your cheeks as a distant shit, hey! echoed in your ears and gravel crunched under approaching footsteps.

“Hey, woah, are you okay?—” You felt like you were underwater, like the ocean had suddenly decided it could eat the human race and was choosing you as its first victim, “—shit, you’re bleeding.”

A sting to your arm drew you above water and fingers that weren’t your own wiggled in front of your blurry vision, coating in a glob of dark red. The dots in your vision worsened when there was a pressure around your arm, Jeongguk’s t-shirt yanked from his shorts to act as a makeshift bandage and you couldn’t even appreciate the feeling of his hands touching you when you felt like you could vomit all over them any second.

“Hey, hey, babe can you hear me? Don’t pass out on me, it’s just a little scrape. C’mon, hey, I have some water in my truck, give me a second—”

The grass was a welcome pillow to the throb in your head, clearing the specks of black and white in your vision just enough for you to welcome the overhead blue curling around the landscape. You focused your attention on a cloud, one shaped like a disfigured dolphin, until it slipped in front of the sun, the rays spilling out in thick shards from between the transparent water vapor chilling the new layer of sweat that had slipped over your skin in your near faint.

You shuddered as more of the dots in your vision transferred to a seeming chill in your veins, goosebumps crawling across your arms and leaving a dry, cotton taste in your cheeks. Scrambling footsteps in the gravel returned as quickly as they had retreated and a gentle hand slipped behind your shoulders, aiding you in sitting up enough to bring your lips to a cool splash of water.

“I’ve been telling Seokjin to replace the brakes on these for months,” Jeongguk passed the water bottle into your still twitching fingertips, instead taking a seat next to you in the grass.

You were shaky in taking another gulp of the lukewarm water, letting it slide thickly down your throat. Various retorts snagged in the back of your throat and you suppressed them like the urge to glance over at him. Instead, a soft hum came out, one emitted through another cheek full of water.

“Well, when you’re ready, I’ll drive you back to the house and take the bike back—”

“I’m fine,” You croaked but you punctuated the sentiment by gathering your feet underneath you. A dull pain throbbed in your forearm and you swayed slightly in your crouched position, but you managed to stand with no more than a few stars decorating the back of your eyelids.

Jeongguk stuttered behind you, scrambling to his feet as you hunched over the fallen bike, dragging it to an upright position by one of the protruding handles. He slipped a warm hand to the small of your back, stalling you. “You’re not going to try to ride back, are you?”

“Yes?”

“You nearly fainted just now. Do you really think that’s...the best idea?”

Your knee caught on the seat in your first attempt to straddle the bike but you were successful the second time, standing with shaky palms clenched on the handles. “Not really. But it’s not very far…”

You thought you’d shaken him, the bike wobbling as you pushed off, getting two tire rolls away before his figure was jogging up beside you, placing an insistent hand on the bars. “At least let me walk back with you,” Jeongguk insisted, red fringe not obscuring his wide-eyed concern.

You begrudgingly ignored the veins in his forearm, slowing the speed of your pedaling to let him guide you through the desolate roads of the quiet neighborhood. It was a quick but silent trip, Jeongguk turning to balance the bike with two hands as you clambered off on shaky legs. He’d barely pivoted from depositing it back into its empty space on the rack when you’d pushed the tiny set of keys against the center of chest, too engrossed in a range of mortification.

“Here,” You bit out, “Thanks again.”

You took off in a rumpled mess of gravel, sunburn, and a bloody t-shirt as Jeongguk called after you some variation of be careful! that almost sounded like he was laughing.

The blood caked off his t-shirt on the third wash (when you managed to understand the complex mess of dials lining the top of the machine) and you hung it on a wire hanger on the tiny awning that extended outward from the house onto the concrete. He’d have to duck underneath it to do his job as you hid faithfully in your bedroom and pretended to nap for the duration of his visit.

There was a distinct clattering outside as the morning hours drew into the afternoon and you buried your head underneath the puffy duvet, taking comfort in the flash of colors across your phone screen even if you were mute to the video you’d played. But then the clutter outside transferred to the slide of the patio door and the video disappeared as your phone fell face down against your waist and you froze.

Jeongguk was calling your name, fluctuating in volume as he moved about the main part of the house. You winced each time the scuff of his bare feet moved closer, relaxed when it was farther away, and sighed when he tried, “I know you’re in here. Seokjin didn’t see you leave today. Or yesterday. Or the day before.”

You swallowed your pride and the unattractive scab growing on the flat of your forearm as you stalked out of your room. You found him mostly clothed this time, hands braced on the lip of the bar in the center of the kitchen with his phone pressed toward his nose in one hand.

“What, have you been watching me?”

There was a fond smile that crept to Jeongguk’s lips as he turned to look at you, “Making sure you didn’t bleed out, actually, but if you want to look at it that way.”

You paused in the hallway, feet as wide as your shoulders and arms folded tight to your chest. Only then did you realize you still had flannel pajama shorts and a flimsy white shirt on. “Well. Here I am. With only minor injuries. So uh…”

There was a glass plate in the flat of his palm before you could blink, a pyramid of chocolate chip cookies wrapped with plastic presented before you. “I, uh, made you some cookies,” He blinked, tossing his head toward the refrigerator. The red in his hair had faded to a harsh pink, “and there’s fresh lemonade in the fridge.”

“Your t-shirt is hanging outside,” You blurted in response, “free of blood.”

Jeongguk’s nose wrinkled, turning to deposit the cookies to the countertop again, “Didn’t want it back. I have fifty of the same thing. But thank you…”

You stared at the back of his head, where dark brown roots had begun to weave through the sharp red. After a moment, you blinked, “...so you can bake?”

He shrugged without looking at you, peeling the plastic away from the plate to pluck a cookie into his palm. He glanced over his shoulder, endearing smile dimpled into his cheeks and you melted like the bits of chocolate that brushed against his digits when he stretched the treat out to you, “Eh. Try one?”

Jeongguk’s gaze followed you as you shuffled around the kitchen, sliding out one of the bar stools with the crook of your foot to slip onto the round leather. You reached over the countertop, snatching a napkin from a pile near the sink to spread out in front of you, lips pressing into a geometric shape in your cheeks.

“C’mon, hand it over.”

He bypassed your wriggling fingers to place the cookie down on your napkin, watching you with a bated breath and round eyes. Soft irises followed the path of the piece you broke off the cookie to where you nudged it into your mouth by the curve of your thumb. The cookie crumbled across your tongue, melting in a mess of sugar and chocolate that gurgled a pleasured moan from your throat as you dived in for two, four more nibbles on the soft corners.

An amused expression wrinkled at his cocked eyebrows and the small sliver of his teeth when your eyelids fluttered open from devouring half the treat, “Good?”

“You can bake,” You affirmed, breaking off another bite sized corner. “Maybe I should wreck bikes more often.”

“No,” Jeongguk assured, replacing the cookie with a fresh one before turning to your fridge to yank out the pitcher of lemonade, “You definitely should not.”

His stature went fishing about the kitchen area, yanking open cabinet after cabinet until he found something suitable, glass pieces smudged from years of use. He pulled down two, placing them in front of the pitcher.

“You know, your food selection here is pretty sad,” He handed over a full glass, watching as you took a languid gulp.

“I don’t exactly know where the grocery store is,” You argued of the boxes of leftover pizza stacked inside your fridge and the singular bag of pretzels you’d smuggled onto the airplane. “Nor do I have a car, and biking is certainly out of the question—”

Jeongguk ignored you, opening and closing drawers until he found the packet of paper Namjoon had left for you, the FAQOTH. His thumb lodged between the pages, squinting at the ink as his voice muffled around the rim of his own glass.

His tongue swiped at the lemonade clinging to his upper lip, sighing, “You really didn’t read this, did you? There’s, like, seven cab services to choose from. And at least six of them know where the Walmart is.”

You dismissed him with a wave of your hand, snatching the packet of paper from his grasp to flatten it over the napkin you’d been snacking from. “All Namjoon has listed are pizza places…” You trailed off, “I need restaurant recommendations. Throw some at me.”

“That’s a pretty broad question. I have a lot.”

“You’ll have to show me a few before I leave.”

You stared at each other in a passing silence that heightened your mortification like bile on the crux of your throat, especially when Jeongguk cocked an eyebrow, the slightest of smirks slanting his lips as his chin unhinged, falling to his chest as he fished aside for another napkin.

“Maybe…” He trailed off, snatching a pen from the same drawer the FAQOTH had came from. “But for now—” He scribbled some more on the surface pebbled in design, scratching out a name and an address before presenting the drooping napkin to you, “—try this place. I think the cab drivers can find it...”

The Dusty Dolphin bordered the line between the natural white sands of the beach and the main strip of highway that cascaded down the coastline. It was as if sitting on the border in territories, the inside seating of the restaurant on soft grasses sticking through sand like soil with an asphalt parking lot lined in chipped neon parking spaces just a walking distance away, while the outside seating was perched on the beach, a patio raised on wooden platforms with brightly colored umbrellas stuck through the center of wooden tables.

Your fingers paled your knuckles with how tightly you clenched your fists, flip flops slapping against the wooden surface as you climbed up a rickety staircase to tell an uninterested looking hostess that it would be just you.

“Outside?” It wasn’t really a question of yes or no, more of a confirmation of what she was expecting you to say as she hopped down from her stool and began to collect silverware and a glossy menu.

Your sure was lost under your breath as she took your curt nod as the answer, weaving through the close knit tables in the indoor seating to lead you through a single set of double doors and to an empty table on the far corner. Again, her, “Is this okay?” was a confirmation, not an affirmation, and your nod had her saying your server will be right with you when she’d already slipped back inside.

The sun peaked out from behind the lapping waves on the horizon, the blackness engulfing the farthest waves a taste of the sun’s sleep for a few hours, leaving the world with a brilliant mesh of pastel hues, colored together like oil crayons as brushes of wispy clouds rushed by to the melody of the water rushing to the shore. A breeze rolled with the motion of the water and you tugged your thin cardigan closer to your torso, not helped with the fans bolted to the overhead framing that continued to rotate softly, a cooldown from their midafternoon duties where they whirred fatefully.

“Hey, told you the cab driver could find this place.”

Jeongguk stood in front of you with the dopiest of grins on his lips, a tiny and audible giggle stumbling out from the shocked expression that met your features. He was adorned in all black, tight black jeans, a black belt cinching a black t-shirt into his waist, a black apron snug just a beat above the belt buckle. His bright locks were styled, parted away from his forehead in a calculated fashion that made one swoop a tad bigger than the latter side. Pens and straws and a tiny notepad were tucked into the pouches of the apron and he held a notepad of a similar fashion up, pen clicking rapidly as he continued to giggle at you.

“You work here?” You blinked, and then added with flat palms slapping against the front of your menu, “Is there anything you don’t do?”

“Can’t quite train the dolphins at the wildlife reserve yet, but we’re getting there,” His nose wrinkled in another laugh, pen clicking out finally as he rested it against the paper, “What can I get you to drink?”

“Uh. Water, I guess.”

“Boring,” Jeongguk scribbled shorthand to the pad, “Are you going to get something a bit more exciting than chicken strips for your meal?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to be heckling the paying customer.”

“Seriously,” He eyed you again, “Do you know what you want?”

You opened the menu for the first time, the array of seafood and pastas and salads and various other dishes overwhelming you with him hunching over you, shuffling to read over your shoulders.

“What do you recommend?”

“Well, we’re pretty known for seafood—” You shot him a look, “—obviously. But like, all the shrimp is pretty good—”

“Because of the shrimp business in town?”

Jeongguk laughed, “Seokjin?”

“A little bit.”

He hummed, chin hovering dangerously close to your shoulder before he straightened, shuffling between the railing around the porch area. “I’ll bring you a couple things,” He decided, mostly to himself and absently over his shoulder,

A couple things meant a platter of shrimp, cooked, seasoned, piled, and ripped in different variations, piled high like the pyramid of cookies you’d nearly devoured after he’d left your house. His manager complained twice upon finding him sitting with you, judging your expression as you sucked some butter contraption off the ridges of a steamed shrimp and teasing you of the flakes of garlic clinging to the corner of your mouth. He returned to refill your water when you’d only taken a few sips from the candy striped straw and ignored you three times when you asked for the bill as the sun completely disappeared beyond the water, leaving the sea to one giant stretch you could not see but could hear the threat of.

“Here, I guess,” Jeongguk settled the black fold down on your table, leaving with a wink that illuminated in the artificial porch lights hanging from the center of the still turning fans. It was enough lighting to read that he’d paid for your bill, scrawling a giant smiley face underneath the amount.

You sighed, prepared to reprimand him as you carefully folded the receipt to slide into your pocket but two colored notes underneath caught your attention. The pink one read wait on me, I’ll drive you home. You placed it aside with a check to your phone, finding it five minutes from closing time of the restaurant as a majority of the other patrons who had long fled the premises.

The second note was yellow, the handwriting a bit more loopy, calculated in a sense.

A mirage is the peace the night time sea suggests; a reality is the beauty your soul creates.

Jeongguk was free of the apron when he returned, shirt untucked, and a large blue jacket shrugged across his shoulders. The same giddy smile from before remained plastered to his features as he dug in his pocket, pulling out a set of keys that he tossed and caught in the same palm.

“Ready to go?”

You folded the sticky note carefully, slipping it with the collection of bills in your back pocket.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

He left notes while you were asleep and he had another schedule to get to, choosing your pool as the first to clean and assess and correct the chemical balance of, leaving the bright blue paper with tacky glue stripped on the top to the patio door.

You caught it when you shrugged outside with a piece of toast in hand and your laptop folded under your arm, crumbs decorating your knuckles as you slipped the paper off the sizable smudge on the glass to bring it to your nose.

Think of dream, sleep of you.

He left notes on the hedge just outside your door on his way to the neighbors to fix a faulty outlet in the upstairs bedroom for a family who’d just arrived and had decided to cram three children with twelve electronic devices between them into that very room.

It was bright pink and sealed to the petal of a flower you debated picking, a petal that dislodged anyway when you plucked the note instead, decorating the stone walkway with a single question of soft red hues.

Bloom in my heart like the question of my soul.

He left notes on the inside of your refrigerator, right on top of a family sized bottle of orange juice he’d watched you haul through the front gates of the neighborhood while Seokjin assumed he was paying attention to his instructions for the disposal of some lawn chairs at the community pool near the beach.

You found it after he left in a flurry of more cookies, the smell of chlorine, and an off handed comment about you needing more variety in your life than water and orange juice, a yellow note that rivaled the unnatural coloring of the juice when you’d purchased a brand name rather than the more expensive, family brand.

Orange juice sucks, that much I do know.

You scattered them across the screen of your open laptop like an investigator piecing together the details of a crime while your neglected novel watched on, the cursor mocking you from beyond a note that said procrastinating my destiny with a useless metal fence. Color coding failed when Jeongguk switched from pinks, blues, and yellows to purples, oranges, and greens. His handwriting didn’t falter, suggest a trend with a certain harder press of his pen. The medium in which he wrote varied, lead or red pen or what appeared to be a blue colored pencil. Some told a story, only to be ruined with orange juice or elbow scabs or half eaten shrimp.

Your laptop screen was coated in a thin layer of film from placing and plucking the notes into various orders, one that hazed over your novel as you began to stack the notes into a neat pile in your cupped palm. It mirrored the midday haze that had curled across the neighborhood, the sun eliciting the mirage of steam curling off the pool water that seemed to hinder your conscious unable to understand the growing tree of poetry in your grasp.

The contents of the last paragraph, even without a layer of tacky glue and humidity stained air, made little sense, only one of five you’d written in three weeks. It was thick and expositional, a writing exercise within the draft, a rambling discussion of your surroundings when you’d decided to have your characters visit a beach rather than force their stories into some sand and sun.

Your outline answered your rhetorical question.

Why are they going to the beach? TBD.

You deleted the fifth paragraph and shut your laptop. Four paragraphs in three weeks.

Soft fluttering of the notes between your fingertips kept the distracted state of your conscious occupied long enough to seek out an unnatural sound of nature. It was a scurrying from around the side of the house, scattering through dry pine needles and gravel poured between the concrete stepping stones. The cloud of your thoughts cleared enough to panic in confusion, leaving the notes underneath a corner of your laptop as you crept into your flip flops.

The wire gate was left open, swinging gently against the side of the house. Clear footsteps rut deep into the coarse brown needles, smudging into the mud below still damp from the morning rain shower.

Your first rational thought of it being a squirrel erased as you reached for the gate, pulling and latching it. Someone was walking a dog across the street, a tiny white poodle with a ridiculous haircut and a cat bell on its collar. A childlike scream traveled upward from the beach. The breeze clattered against the leaves of a towering tree planted entirely too close to the house.

The same gentle breeze fluttered a strip of pink against the side of the house.

“Dammit, Jeongguk,” You cursed, needles lodging between the rubber of your flip flops and your bare feet as you moved off the stepping stone path. It was pasted high, too, barely in reaching of your pinching fingertips as you leaned into the house and stretched as high on the balls of your feet as you could go.

Your back slumped against the house as you glared at your prize for thin scratches and a strain in your shoulders. A number. A phone number.

With a shitty smiley face, a curve and two dots, beneath it.

You cursed through another layer of pine needles, deserting your flip flops on the far end of the pool deck as you hopped across seething hot concrete to retrieve your phone from underneath your towel. Pointed thumbs jabbed in the number to a new text thread, equally as prominent in clicking out a message.

What the hell are you trying to tell me with these notes, Jeongguk?

For thirty-seven agonizing seconds, you thought your only answer was the smiling emoticon with tiny red hearts dotted around the surface. And then three little dots appeared in the bottom left corner.

Everything. Meet me at the beach tonight?

You followed the sound of music, passing only a family with two tiny girls, headlamps strapped to their foreheads and plastic sand castle buckets clutched in their fingers as they chatted eagerly about what they’d seen underneath their feet, and a colony of the very crabs they’d been trying to capture. Your flip flops followed the beat of the guitar melody, pattering against the flex of your thigh where you clutched them in loose fingers at your hip, bare feet sliding through the cool sand, occasionally catching on snags of sea shells and scurrying sea creatures.

The sounds grew louder, dimming the thrash of night time waves, and you found him, seated not far down the coast line on a ratty looking, red lawn chair.

Jeongguk glanced up from furrowed eyebrows when you cleared his throat, hunched over a guitar balanced neatly on short clad thighs. Confusion erased into elation as he grinned, tossing his head toward the empty lawn chair next to him, blue and with less frayed edges.

“Hey! Have a seat. I brought beer in the cooler behind you. And water. I can go get you anything—”

You ducked for the red plastic container, drawing out a dripping water bottle and cracking the lid, “It’s okay. Thank you.”

He visibly relaxed, the lingering stare on your lips wrapping around the bottle diverting back to his work on the instrument in his lap, fiddling with some of the tuners at the top. You watched as he worked, thumb coming out to strum at the bottom few strings before he sat back with a satisfied hum.

And then Jeongguk began to sing. Softly at first, a testing glance in your direction as soft pink lips seemed hesitant in parting. When intrigue lit your features, body visibly tensing, his mouth curled into a smile, voice a higher volume but a soft octave nonetheless, gentle and soothing like a retreating wave that lipped gently across the shells it was leaving behind. His gaze faltered from yours to hit a note, a scrunch to his nose, a vein down the length of his neck, a passion that you longed for as his voice fishtailed into an easy run. It was an unfamiliar tune to you, one that ended in a handful of endearing head bops and cheesy hums from Jeongguk as he strummed once, hard, down the strings of his guitar.

The smile on his lips wobbled, trying to contain his teeth but still dimpling in his cheeks as he blinked at you. He lost the battle with his smile when he spoke, testing “Good?”, with a slight giggle.

“The notes,” You said dumbly, “They’re your lyrics?”

“Some of them…” He sat the guitar in the sand with a shy hand wrapped around the back of his neck, “Some are just, I don’t know, poetry.”

“So you sing.”

“I sing,” Jeongguk nodded, “I like to think I’m a better singer than pool cleaner. Or cookie baker.”

You followed his gaze from your eyes to his clasped hands on his knees. “Have you tried to pursue anything in it?”

“No point,” His gaze moved onward from his hands to the ocean, squinting and closing, “Just a hobby.”

“For now—”

“For always,” He was staring at you again, curt in his sharp correction. After a moment, a tiny smile slanted his lips, “It’s okay, really. I enjoy doing it in my free time.”

You tilted your head, “Why are you sharing this with me?”

Jeongguk was standing above you, hand outstretched, shy smile flushing his cheeks even in the darkness. “Walk with me.”

He took the initiative the thread your fingers together, leading you down to the edge of where the water reached. The water still warm from the heat of the season lapped around your ankles as you trudged down the coast, hand in hand, silence welcome to the soundtrack of the ocean. After a sizable distance, Jeongguk sighed, footsteps stalling to yank your unsuspecting figure to a stop.

“I’m showing you because lately, they’re all about you.”

You blinked at him, hands still clasped but pulled at an unnatural distance between your statures. “Jeongguk, what—”

“Look, I’m extremely lame and not as good with actual words as I am with the notes I left you but…” He stepped closer, dropping your intertwined hands to swing between your bodies, “I like you. Basically.”

“Basically?”

A disgruntled whine left his lips and his gaze trailed over your shoulder, upward toward the sky, “I know you’re only here for another month and I know I barely know you but. I don’t know. I like you. And I felt weird envisioning a future where I didn’t at least try.”

Your skin warmed through the thin flannel draped across your sun irritated skin. Another step closer, this one initiated by you, followed by a soft squeeze and tug on his palm. “Like you said, I’m only here for another month,” Soft eyes darkened into the stars dancing around you wandered back down to your gaze, hopeful even as you sighed, “I’m supposed to be writing, anyway. That’s the entire point of my trip and I’ve barely got anything done…”

“I won’t be a distraction.”

“You already are.”

Another shy smile graced Jeongguk’s features, mumbling, “Sorry.”

“But a good distraction…” One more step and there was but a fingertips length distance between your torsos, your thumb running along his knuckles, “You’re a good distraction.”

“So what you’re saying is…”

You held up your free hand, pinky presented. “I’m willing to try, Jeongguk but—” You punctuated the word before he could hook the digit in yours, “—no obligations. Not really, anyway.”

“Do the obligations include or exclude kissing?” He braved leaning closer to you, even as the rosy hue on his cheeks spread, “Pleasesayinclude, pleasesayinclude, pleasesay—”

You tugged down on his hand, loose fist with your pinky presented falling against his shoulder as you connected your lips. He hummed happily into the seam of your lips, arm snaking around your waist to eliminate the distance between your torsos. “One month,” You punctuated between a breath of air, one he ignored with another languid kiss into your mouth.

“So I can’t tell Taehyung you’re my girlfriend?”

“Who’s Taehyung?”

“My roommate,” Jeongguk linked your pinkies while you were distracted, kissing your jaw, “I’ll introduce you to him.”

“Jeongguk,” You squeezed his hand and pinky in tandem, “One month.”

“Stop, you’re making your not-really-your-boyfriend sad.”

Kim Taehyung was all surfer, the stereotypical bleached blonde hair with dark peeking out of the roots, baggy black shorts with the white strings untied, a thin white undershirt hugging his lean figure underneath a blue shirt with some intricate design of flames and waves and a surfboard ironed on the front. His bare feet slapped through the corridor, grumbling something to Jeongguk’s greeting call, hair tossed back with a thick white headband around the middle of his forehead that pronounced his harsh eyebrows, ones that furrowed to inspect you.

“Hi!” He was loud, like an over excited golden retriever, especially when he beamed to tease his roommate, “So you’re the beautiful lady Gukkie here courted by flashing his stellar abs and less than comparable thighs.”

You gawked, cheeks heating because well, kind of, but the hand on the small of your back fist into the material of your shirt, pushing you forward and past his broad figure.

“Don’t you have a wave to almost drown in?”

“C’mon, I was just kidding, love!” Taehyung’s footsteps were heavy behind you, following your figures through a narrow hallway, “No part of Jeon is impressive enough to get you. Did he bribe you? I’ll pay the ransom.”

You giggled as Jeongguk paused around you, sucking in a breath through his teeth that materialized into a whispered, “If you ignore him, he goes away. Eventually.”

Your nose wrinkled, turning to look at the red-faced man pressed against your back, “But he’s funny.”

You’d paused in front of a doorway, one Jeongguk pushed open and glared pointedly at you. “Don’t encourage him. Go.”

Jeongguk’s room was wide, a contrast to the narrow hallway lined in creaking hardwood and paneled walls. It was open concept, not much furniture aside from a few dressers and the bed. Blacks, whites, and greys told the story with color sprinkled in from accented belongings, like a collection of keychains hanging off a billboard in the corner, the cork material of the wall hanging filed with various photographs pinned up by neon colored tacks. A string of lights hung above his headboard, polaroids dangling from the wires, similar ones pasted in a haphazard pattern on the same wall.

“You like photography?”

He watched you step to his corkboard, delicately sliding your fingers underneath a photograph so as not to touch the ink on the front. It was a picture he’d taken of Taehyung at a surfing competition, purposefully edited to look straight from a vintage yearbook.

“A little. Filming too....”

You nodded, letting the photograph flutter back against its board. Pivoting, slow steps carried you toward his slumped figure standing rigid in the center of his room, sliding your palms over his shoulders when you got close enough.

“All of these talents and you can’t dye your hair by yourself?”

Jeongguk’s fingers fell into the fringe hanging over his eyes, now blonde with hints of pink clinging to the ends of certain strands. A pout materialized but he didn’t whine, just leaning closer to you with tendrils of hair still secured between a hand behind his head.

“Just because it’s your first visit doesn’t mean I won’t subject you to Taehyung’s three hour lecture of proper surfboard waxing techniques.”

“Stop threatening me with a good time and lead me to the hair dye.”

His bathroom was as small as the hallway and you found yourself seated on the edge of the vanity with Jeongguk crushed between your legs. He didn’t seem to mind, fingers twitching from their place beside you to creep up to your thighs as you squinted at his head, plastic covered fingers globing harsh red through his hair.

“What’s your natural hair color?”

“Brown.”

You tapped at his roots, taking a glob with the crook of your fingers. “Why don’t you leave it at that?”

“Because red is cool.”

“Who told you that?—” You pulled your hands into your lap, careful to hold the stain away, “—Your girlfriend?”

“Don’t know,” Jeongguk leaned close enough to smear red on your forehead with his bangs if they weren’t pasted to his forehead, “Is my hair color cool?”

A playful look of disgust wrinkled at your nose, “Only half of your hair is dyed right now.”

He glanced behind you in the mirror, eyeing the glob of dye on one half of his head to the straight blonde on the latter. “So?” He blinked back to you, “Is it cool?”

“I don’t know,” You began to peel the gloves off, “Wash it out and we’ll see.”

You sat cross legged in the center of Jeongguk’s bed when he returned, half of his hair back to the vibrant red it had been when he nearly impaled you with a pool net, half the blonde it had been trending toward when he asked you to entertain his affections for a month more. He didn’t give you an option of a yes or no, flopping at the foot of the bed to press his cheek against your ankles, arms stretched out across your thighs.

“Hey,” He said after a moment, muffled against your jeans.

You tested the waters of placing a hand against his scalp and when he cuddled into your affection, you softly ran your nails through his hair. “Hey, what?”

“I let you read my things—” Jeongguk shifted to place his chin on your naval, blinking owlishly up at you, “—my things about you. When do I get to read part of your novel?”

“Hmm, when it’s finished and published and available in bookstores.”

“Is that soon?”

You shot him a look but he didn’t seem to be kidding. “No. Probably not. Especially since I’ve made virtually no progress.”

“Well,” He pecked your belly button over your shirt, snuggling back against you again, “I’d love to read an advanced screening version.”

You’d deleted the four paragraphs you’d completed in three weeks. Zero paragraphs in five weeks.

“We’ll see…”

You printed your outline in three separate copies, each one with their own unique set of markups of various color pens and pencils and highlighters, colors born out of your tiny sparks on inspiration that you tried to hold onto like a the end of a rope, one that would pull you to the surface for clarity, creativity, anything. But each time the trill of your red pen reached the end of the page, transferring over to your fingers on the keyboard, the half an ounce of rope had slipped through your fingertips, leaving you to tread underwater.

Those stapled pages were spread across a table on the patio area of The Dusty Dolphin, half sandwiched between your laptop that was attached to an extension cord. Jeongguk had hijacked both the Wifi password and an extra long cable, seating you in the far corner of the deck area and keeping you stocked with fresh water and samples of mozzarella sticks.

It was the third time you’d marked through and rewrote a certain bullet point, the result a smear of dying highlighter in neon yellow that you could barely read. You capped the highlighter and the open pen rolled to the center of your keyboard, turning your attention instead to the goosebumps that had appeared across your bare forearms and Jeongguk’s figure as he jogged out onto the patio deck.

“That my hoodie?” He questioned as he approached, your head halfway through the black fabric you’d had tied around your waist for the duration of the day.

“Could be Taehyung’s. I stole it from your laundry room.”

Jeongguk placed the new glass of ice water down, avoiding your papers and electronics to wrap a hand in the collar of the hoodie to tug your mouth to his.

“Nope,” He teased with a nip to your bottom lip in a whirling departure, “Mine.”

“Wait!”

He turned, nearly colliding with a high chair protruding out into the walkway.

“Come back, waiter.”

The pad of paper was drawn from his apron, just to appease the look the child’s mother shot him as he moved to stand next to you again. “Yes, paying customer?”

“Can you bring me real food, please?”

He began scribbling something before you could talk, mirroring your sentiment the same time you uttered it.

“The shrimp pasta?”

A bashful smile sunk your chin into your shoulders and you nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Course,” Another chaste peck on your lips that turned into two, then lingered on the third, only for heavy footsteps and a rough voice to have him jumping away.

“Jeongguk…” A figure was leaning out of the doorway dressed in an ironed white button up and black slacks, the tiny gold nameplate advertising manager first reading Yoongi. “Stop kissing customers, please.”

This time a horrified gasp from the mother in question, one that caused Yoongi’s eyes to widen as he moved for the table, shooting you a comforting wink as he began to explain the concept of a joke while Jeongguk disappeared back into the depths of the restaurant.

You managed to hack out two paragraphs while Jeongguk put your order in with a handful of dialog sprinkled within. His kiss was to the top of your head when he slipped the plate in front of you, careful to avoid your twitching fingers over the keys as he hummed.

“Any progress?”

Your response wasn’t a total lie. “A little bit…”

Two paragraphs and useless dialog tagged with edit later in six weeks.

You’d managed to catch a handful of the rope promising to pull you ashore, one you clung desperately to while your fingers, coiled equally as tight, wore the letters on your keyboard to nothing, backspace barely a factor as you left in typos and grammar issues and a myriad of useless punctuation. The lines from where your laptop sat in relation to the cover your swimsuit bottoms provided was of little concern, just as your hair tied messily on the nape of your neck and the lack of towel underneath the bare parts of your stature not covered by the swimsuit you’d stumbled into in route to reach the rope.

The paper outlines sat somewhere inside but you didn’t need them anyway, the digital copy enough to mark off pieces from as your word count skyrocketed, pages clicking over and over the hump you’d previously been stuck on, the rope dragging your belly first over but getting you there nonetheless. You typed until your mouth begged for the ice water you’d left inside and one of the two cookies of Jeongguk’s left, but you powered through into another page, giddy with the possibility but more focused on the emotion somewhere between determination and greed.

You heard the gate open but ignored it, you heard a call of your name but ignored it, and you felt the splash of water hit your ankles and glared at it.

“Hey!” Jeongguk resurfaced on the side of the pool. He’d fixed his hair, vibrant and red against where he brushed it out of his eyes. “Come in for a swim?”

You pursed your lips, determined to ignore him as your fingers started slow on the keys again. When you arrived at your previous speed, you huffed, “You aren’t supposed to clean today.”

He dunked his head under, resurfacing in a flurry of bubbles, “Does it look like I’m cleaning?”

“Jeongguk. I’m busy today.”

“You’re only here for another week.”

“Exactly!”

He sighed, forearms folding onto the concrete as he leaned forward, watching you, “Whatever you have is great. Better than great.”

“You wouldn’t know.”

“I have a vague idea because you won’t let me read anything.”

You were glaring at him again, the playful expression previously on his features hardened into something you couldn’t quite understand, one that softened only marginally as the seconds passed.

Jeongguk uttered your name, a gentle request, “Take a break.”

Your laptop sat open on the bare lawn chair, battery zapped the longer the heat bore down on it but the pointed stalk of your footsteps across the pool area had shoved it aside. The water was cold upon first touch but the reactions of your body didn’t show it, carrying you down the staircase until you were submerged, body crouching so that your chin skimmed the surface of the water until you were treading directly in front of Jeongguk.

“I’m in the water,” You hissed, “Is this what you wanted?”

He didn’t have it in him to giggle, a sad smile instead not quite reaching the dimples in his cheeks.

“No. I want you to believe in yourself.”

The push of your mouth against Jeongguk’s was wet, tasting of the chlorine that splattered around you when you stood to grapple for purchase on his shoulders. Strong arms encased your waist, accepting you anyway as one liquid staining your lips was replaced with something warm and tinged in salt, dripping in unwarranted streams from the corners of your eyes.

You whimpered when your back was pressed to the side of the pool, legs coming to wrap around his waist while your fingernails scraped at his back. “I’m sorry,” You gasped, his lips mouthing at your neck while he held you.

“Don’t be,” He reprimanded you with teeth on your collarbone, arms sliding higher on your waist to press you flush to his chest, “I’ve got you.”

Another miserable apology fell from your lips and your chin was jerked upward by a soft palm cupping your cheek, latter hand pressing into the concrete behind you. “I said, I’ve got you, baby girl,” Jeongguk reiterated, forehead pressed to yours. Something sad rippled in his starry irises, something that dug the dagger deeper into the hammering organ in your chest, “What do you need me to do?”

“Just, I—”

Words failed but the bury of your face into his neck, securing your ankles around his back and holding to him like he’d disappear any second, didn’t.

Jeongguk’s arms threaded around your stature again, nosing into your damp hair with a shaky sigh. “Okay. Okay, I’ve got you. Shh, it’s okay, it’ll be okay…”

Fourteen pages in seven weeks.

The weight of his palm in yours had never quite reached home, a foreign weight laced through your fingers from the hesitancy echoing a mantra in the forefront of your conscious, eerie and daunting and to the tune of your rapidly beating heart.

No obligations. A distraction. A good distraction. No obligations. Broken laptop charger. Not enough complete. No obligations. Too much dialog. Too little progress. No obligations.

Fourteen pages. Seven weeks. No obligations.

You squeezed your fingers together just to watch the joints retract under your skin, the moonlight a ghost over your knuckles. Again and it was inevitable to catch Jeongguk’s attention, his hand flexing underneath yours, smooth and gentle and waiting, accepting of the home your lost heart would need.

If you’d just let yourself knock on the door. No obligations.

“Hey.” He’d stopped walking next to you, the sand cold on your toes, the plastic straps of your sandals rubbing a blister on the soft crease between your fingers on your free hand. “Hey, can we…”

“Look,” You overlapped him, sandals falling from your grasp when you pointed instead. A small group of crabs ruffled through the sand in front of you, bumping through languidly, over and under each other. Jeongguk’s eyebrows nearly met at the wrinkled bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth slightly downturned when you glanced at him. Softly, you nodded, “Crabs.”

He let go of your hand, crouching. A cupped palm scooped through the sand, effectively excavating one of the crabs. It shook the sand from around itself, scurrying eagerly about the surface of Jeongguk’s hand as he straightened, stretching the creature out to you.

“Do you want to hold him?”

Thoughts of your novel and the overwhelming overhauls it’d endured in your eight weeks, the first a modest to a beachfront neighborhood, from a grocery store to a beach, from a bouquet of flowers the boy had been clutching onto for months while you worked on the details around him to a tiny crab who lasted long enough for you to hate the idea.

The tiniest of smiles made it to your lips, “Is there anything you can’t do, Jeon Jeongguk?”

He crouched again, releasing the crab in a flurry of sand dusted from his fingertips before returning to you. Curled fists made it into the pockets of his shorts, foot nudging into the ground below him as he shrugged. Wide eyes lifted from their spot at the tips of his toes to yours, the same sad smile lacing his features, “I can’t figure you out, apparently.”

“Can we...can we talk?”

He nodded, slowly at first and then all at once. A hand stretched in your direction again, fingers wiggling, the smile on his features a step closer to genuine. “C’mon, let’s go sit down.”

You followed Jeongguk up the beach, finding a space just in front of where the long grasses began, fluttering gently in the night time wind so much so that their soft ambiance almost outweighed the ripple of the ocean from farther up on the shore. Your hand retracted from his, sandwiched between your thighs but your shoulders still touched, sitting side by side as the moonlight crawled up the waves to be deposited onto the coast.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” You said after a moment. Features scrunched to the breeze, eyes shutting as you sighed, “I really don’t know what I’m doing.”

He hummed, “Do any of us?”

“You seem to,” Your cheek pressed to your shoulder, offering a smile when he glanced at you, “Mister gorgeous pool boy who can sing, play guitar, write poetry, bake, and catch ghost crabs without blinking.”

Jeongguk hummed once more, a lower sound this time, nose pointed toward the breeze. “If you think my ambitions in life stopped at tourist neighborhood groundskeeper and a waiter at a place named The Dusty Dolphin, I must have done a really shitty job at letting you get to know me over these couple of months.”

“I know that,” You nudged him, “but how are you content with your passions just staying passions? How can you not want more?”

“Let me ask you a question,” He nudged you back, chin meeting his upper arm to peer at you under vibrant bangs, “Why do you write?”

“Because I want to have a published novel.”

Jeongguk quirked an eyebrow, “Why do you want to have something published?”

“Because I’ve put years of work into the idea. I’ve drained my soul to invest it in this project.”

“Do you love it?”

You blinked, “My novel?”

“Your novel, your column, the newspaper, writing,” Jeongguk shrugged, “Any of it.”

“I did…”

“Did?”

“I’ve always been in love with the craft of writing—” Softly, you amended, “—my writing. My creations. And I’ve had slumps, I’ve endured writer’s block. I’ve gone past deadlines and I’ve scrapped entire plots, ideas, paragraphs, sentences. But never this bad. Not to the point where I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Why I even started writing the piece in the first place, what the end goal. What it was even supposed to be about, let alone anything about it.”

Jeongguk nodded, nose pointing toward the breeze again, cheek lulling to his arm, “Why did you come here, of all places?”

“I was sent here. Work leave.”

“What’d you do?”

“Told a nine year old that, not only are Disney princesses not real, but not a viable career option.”

He chuckled next to you, legs stretching out in front of him. “Harsh.”

“What about you?” You nudged him again, “Why do you write?”

“Because I love music and words are the language of music,” Jeongguk’s finger dug into the sand, absently drawing geometric shapes before brushing them away with the heel of his palm, “Even instrumental pieces can be described in words. Whimsical, haunting, pretty. That kind of thing.”

“I didn’t have to ask you if you loved it…” It was a rhetorical sentiment, trailed off as you stared at the nudge of his fingernail into a crooked rectangle.

“Can you do me a favor, when you go back home?”

“Please don’t tell me not to forget you. We live in the twenty-first century. I expect a picture of Seokjin with his shrimp magazine once a week.”

He was smiling when his hand slipped to your cheek, turning your gaze to his. “I’m serious,” His eyes flicked between yours, dizzying you in a mess of stars that never seemed to blur with the speed of his insistent gaze. “Scrap your entire novel. Start over.”

“What? Do you understand—”

Jeongguk’s lips felt like home. You hadn’t placed your guard around those. “I don’t understand. You won’t let me read it,” His forehead pressed to yours, “but just try it.”

“But Namjoon—”

Another kiss, gentle, a brush of your mouths together, just enough to swallow your insecurities. “The new one will be just as great. Better. More than enough to send to Namjoon.”

“How do you know?”

His thumb brushed against the apple of your cheek, eyes following the movement, “Would you allow him to read your current draft in its entirety? Not just what you’ve gotten finished while here.”

You hesitated long enough for Jeongguk to kiss you again, lingering enough to properly swallow what you were going to say. No, absolutely not.

“Might as well try—” His cheeks dimpled and it was the first genuine smile you’d allowed yourself in days, “—right?”

“Can you do me a favor?” You asked after several seconds of indulging in each other’s affections, lips swollen and brushing against his mouth.

“I won’t send you shirtless pictures every morning, no—” He shifted enough to shed himself of the pink checkered flannel on his shoulders, wrapping it to your shoulders to pull you against his side, “Taehyung already thinks I’m vain.”

You smacked Jeongguk’s shoulder and he giggled, leaning forward just enough to brush the tips of your noses together. Once. Twice. Four times.

“No,” You tilted to squish your noses together, locking his gaze to yours, “Try to pursue something with music. I don’t care if it’s DJing at that shitty club Taehyung was trying to get us to go to last week. Or maybe busking on the weekends. You can set up in front of the pond as you enter the neighborhood.”

“I don’t…”

“Try it,” You punctuated it with a hard kiss to his lips, “What can it hurt?”

You’d shifted to lay between his legs, cheek on his chest, kisses shifted to his chest over his shirt, his sprinkled to your forehead, cheeks, nose. He hummed into the ministrations, nosing over your hairline.

“Theoretically, if I were to become a famous musician, would you come to my first gig? It’ll never happen, but you’re a writer. Speaking in hypotheticals...”

You settled your chin between the hard planes of his chest, “Depends. Will you buy my novel?”

“Three copies. I’ll come to three separate book signings to get personalized notes from you.”

You giggled and Jeongguk couldn’t help but kiss your nose. Twice. “Then yes. I’ll come to your first gig. Maybe two of them, if you pay for my plane ticket.”

He seemed satisfied with the answer even as an insecurity seemed to linger on the tip of his tongue, one that festered when he glanced over your head to the ocean, still as dark and thrashing as before. “You really won’t forget about me, will you? Because truthfully, I don’t think I’ll ever forget about you.”

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately. Give me your email and we can be penpals. You can remind me not to crush the dreams of elementary students while I’m at work…”

“...but no, Jeongguk,” You squeezed his waist, pressing your lips to the center of his chest, “I won’t forget you.”

“I’ll still send you my lyrics. They’ll probably be about you for a while, anyway.”

“I’ll let you read snippets of my novel, once I restart. Actually let you read something I’m proud of.”

“I’ll send you a picture of the first dollar I get from busking. It’ll probably be from Seokjin, but it’ll count.”

“I’ll miss you. And your cookies.”

“Miss implies forgetting,” His index finger lifted to prod at your pouted bottom lip, “We aren’t forgetting.”

Another sad smile, a different type of sad, one of the up most cliche smile because it happened, adorned your features as you raised a pinky finger. Slightly crooked, open, without your guard, “Pinky promise?”

Jeongguk’s lips distracted you from the feeling of home that came with the link of your pinky’s, squeezing onto your digit. “Pinky promise.”

Zero progress in eight weeks.

Park Jimin was standing in front of your desk with a copy of your novel in hand, a nervous smile pasted on his plump lips, feet shifting awkwardly beneath him as he waited on you to finish typing. He’d told you to keep working and who were you to deny him of that request.

“What can I do for you?” It wasn’t anything work related. You’d already passed the advice column and your office down to him in exchange for a feature column and a better office with a better computer monitor. He wasn’t getting that too.

The book hit your desk and he scurried to amend the flurry of papers that kicked up around it, speaking as he shuffled through the documents. “My girlfriend, she, uh, loves your novel and I was wondering if you could, uh, sign it for me? Maybe? It’d make her day, year probably, and—”

“Yeah, Jimin,” You reached for the book, dismissing his efforts to clean your desk with a flick of your wrist and a smile, a genuine one, “Of course I can sign it. What’s her name?”

The waxy cover contained the result of your efforts, the painstaking nights you’d stayed up sobbing over your manuscript, the early symptoms of carpal tunnel from hacking at your backspace too much, your familiarity with deleting and recovering entire documents. But most importantly, the return of your passion, your love, your fears the ultimate roadblock to the end of your novel and the beginning of a new, the one currently hidden behind a couple emails and your column for the following week.

The beauty of dual screens.

“Thank you so much,” The blonde gushed, clutching the novel against his chest when you were done scrawling on the cover with a ballpoint pen, “She’ll be so excited. Thank you!”

Your phone was prepared to text Hoseok, did you pay Jimin to do that?, when you noticed another notification, red and glaring at you from your messages application. It was a familiar contact name, a message written in a font generated by something, a three step process he must have taken to type, copy, and paste it. Even through the silly font did your heart swell.

They say lest we forget, but why forget when I can be there with you, if you’ll let me.

You kicked away from your desk, propping your foot onto the seat of your chair, phone onto your knee.

Alright, Guk, what’s the significance of this one?

There was several seconds of typing, deleting, typing again, silence, more typing. Finally, a message. A single emoticon, the side eyes, the ones that knew something with a slightly upturned mouth. You were halfway through another inquiry, an okay, what the hell does that emoji mean, Jeon? when you received a picture.

His hair was brown now. Dark and fluffy and disheveled across his forehead where a single pink note was pasted to his skin. The ink was dark, prominent, like he’d sat and scraped at it for hours.

I’LL SEE YOU SOON.

You called him.

“Jeongguk, what the fuck are you talking about—”

“I got an audition.”

You paused and he continued with a shaky breath, “I got an audition. In your town. For music. Singing.”

“...so what you’re saying is you’re going to become a big superstar and I’m going to have to pay my own way to your first concert—”

“Baby,” Jeongguk whined, “I haven’t got the spot yet.”

“Yeah, but you will.”

There was another pause, some rustling in the background and then he hummed, “I’m going to sing a song about you. For the audition.”

Your cheeks heated and you rolled toward the window, blankly staring at the towering building next to the office. “Yeah? What’s it called?”

“Wonder.”

“Yeah I wonder what you’ve titled the song about me, if it’s not my name—”

“The song is called Wonder…”

There was a pause and he was singing again, just as soft as you remembered, the same lyrics he’d serenaded you with on the beach holding a different weight now, both literally without the organic strum of a guitar and figuratively to what the polished poetry did to your healed heart, open and ready.

You murmured into his soft, teasing hums, hugging a knee to your chest, “That song, huh?”

“I told you already. I can’t seem to write anything that’s not about you,” You could hear Jeongguk’s smile, “That didn’t change in the months since you went home.”

Your cheeks heated all the way to the back of your neck, filtering to the shy roll of your shoulders as you hunched over your knee, squeezing it tighter, and you reveled in that he couldn’t see you to quip, “You know what has changed though? Your jokes. I think they’ve gotten dumber.”

There was still a smile in his voice, even as he threatened, “Alright, listen here you little—"

“Watch it or I’ll sue for you using ‘me’ without my consent.”

“You based an entire character in a bestselling novel after me. It’s only fair.”

You spluttered, “I did not—”

“And for the record? Washboard abs is a lame description of my godly physique. Even I know that and I’m but a mere lyricist.”

“I’m going to kick your ass when you get here.”

“...so you’ll want to see me?”

“Of course,” Your voice softened and you watched a bird climb altitude before fluttering to the windowsill, “I have to sign your three copies of my novel.”

Jeongguk laughed, sweet in your ears.

“I can’t wait…”

#bts #jeon jungkook #bts reactions #bts scenarios #bts imagines #jungkook scenario #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook scenarios #jeon jungkook imagine #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook fluff #bts fluff #bts x reader #i changed the summary from what i had on my wip ajfdklasjf #ANYWAY :'-)

1K notes · View notes

thollandthot · 6 years ago

Text

cartier alt ; tom holland.

A/N: told y’all i’d post a different version !! this one is where reader is more aware that she’s a sugar baby and loves it. still the same general concept tho so sorry if i sound like a broken record. i’m so glad so many people liked the first one so i hope this doesn’t disappoint !! WORD COUNT: ~1.5K PAIRING: sugar daddy! tom holland & female reader. WARNINGS: sugar daddy stuff, fluffy as heck.

cartier alt

Tom always liked to make sure the people he cared about most were well taken care of, so once he had the means to do so, he didn’t hesitate to spoil them. Things started small, with him only getting members of his family and closest friends small gifts on a whim, or something they had their eyes on for a while. But as his Marvel paychecks grew in size, it only gave Tom more of an incentive to buy his loved ones lavish gifts. Eventually, that generosity came around to you. His family and friends may have gotten annoyed by the constant gift-giving, but you didn’t mind at all, which was the main reason Tom slowly began to spoil you most. He liked taking care of someone, and you liked being taken care of. It was a match made in heaven.

Throughout the time of your relationship, Tom’s little presents got larger price tags. It started as him only trying to relieve some of your financial burdens by setting up your student loans, rent, and car payments on autopay linked to his bank account. The designer clothes and shoes came later, followed by relaxing vacations to beautiful foreign countries, accompanying him on press tours and film shoots. It wasn’t that you weren’t grateful for all the things Tom did for you, not in the slightest, but you decided long ago that you would revel in his benevolence as long as he would allow.

Which was why you were laid up in your shared London hotel room, spread out in a starfish position across the crisp white sheets. Tom had a long day of press, forcing you to entertain yourself, which wasn’t too difficult thanks to online shopping and Tom’s credit line (he gave you your own card, insisting you buy whatever you wanted and not to worry about it. You weren’t going to argue). Your ears perked up when you heard the door to your hotel room open and shut, signaling Tom had returned.

You didn’t hesitate to hop out of bed to greet him, grin spread across your face. You still hadn’t changed out of his t-shirt you slipped on after your shower earlier that afternoon. “Hi, baby.” you cooed, eyeing a black shopping bag Tom held in his hands curiously before wrapping your arms around his waist.

After kissing your forehead in greeting, Tom pulled away to take in your appearance, including your outfit that only consisted of his t-shirt and a pair of panties. He chuckled, “I buy you clothes from Gucci and you still choose to wear my old t-shirts?” His brows were raised in question, but his tone was joking and fond. You tugged at the hem of the shirt that hit your mid-thighs.

“They’re comfy.” You defended, which caused Tom to pull you back in to give you a proper hug after setting his bag down. You still hadn’t forgotten about it, but you decided to hold off on asking. “How was your day?”

He hummed his reply, hands that were on your waist crawling lazily up and down your back. “Was good.” He replied before pulling away to dig his phone out of his pocket. “I saw you had a pretty good day today, too.” He waved the iPhone in your face playfully, and you knew immediately he definitely got bank statements from your earlier online shopping escapades. You giggled and nodded in response. Neither of you were mad about it, especially since Tom would most likely enjoy some of the things you had purchased.

“So, what’s in the bag?” You finally asked, curiosity getting the best of you. Patience was never your forte, and Tom knew this fact well, which was probably why he stifled a laugh upon hearing your quizative words.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Tom unraveled his arms from your waist for a moment as he turned to rummage through the shopping bag. It took him a few moments to retrieve a square, blood red colored box, the word ‘Cartier’ embossed on the top in gold lettering. He held it out to you, nodding to silently suggest you open it.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to take in just how gorgeous the wrapping was, your freshly manicured fingers grazed over each golden letter. Tom wasn’t shy about gifting you things, and you learned early on that he never spared any expense when it came to you, but the fancy and expensive brands he’d get you on a whim never failed to amaze you. It made him smile, knowing that you not only loved getting his presents, but that you were grateful for them. That you were grateful for him. “You know, I didn’t just get you the box.” Tom whispered to you after a few moments, the smirk on his lips evident in his tone. “There’s something inside.”

His prompt caused your eyes to flicker up from the box they were focused on, meeting his gaze for a moment before you rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” You grumbled playfully before gently pulling off the top to reveal the box’s contents. Inside sat a white gold necklace, a small diamond situated in the middle of the chain. It was subdued, but undoubtedly gorgeous. Your mouth went agape before you looked back up at Tom, leaning into him for a kiss. “Tommy, it’s beautiful.” You murmured against his lips, which caused Tom to hum against yours before pulling away from you.

“If I may?” He raised his brows at you expectantly before you handed him the box carefully, turning your back to him and pulling your hair away from your neck. Tom reached around you, laying the new necklace flat again your collarbone before clasping it in the back, spinning you around in his arms to get a good look at you. The diamond sat perfectly at your sternum, showcasing the gem as if it was made to have been there your whole life. “As gorgeous as ever.” He mumbled, goofy grin spread across his features. The skin next to his eyes crinkled, happiness radiating on his whole face. In those soft brown hues, you saw nothing but love staring back at you.

You couldn’t help but return his smile, your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck as you pressed your chest against his, wanting to be as close as you possibly could when you kissed him. You could only hope that the kiss displayed how much you cared about Tom. How thankful you were for him and his generosity and kindness and affection. Tom made you feel special, and that was something you couldn’t thank him enough for.

The kiss lasted a long while which allowed you to savor the feeling of his lips on yours and the way his hands gripped your waist, his fingers spread as if wanting to feel as much of you as he could. Your fingers ran through his gelled hair before they settled on the tiny curls at the nape of his neck. If only you could freeze this moment forever.

Unfortunately, you were the first to pull away for air, resting your forehead against Tom’s, nose nudging gently at his own. He still had the same look of adoration in his eyes and it made your heart swell. “How could I ever thank you?”

“Meet me in bed and cuddle with me?” His reply was spoken like a question, as if he was asking for your permission. Nevertheless, you nodded before pulling away from him, taking the red Cartier box so you could put it in your suitcase before sauntering back into the bedroom. You lingered at the door frame, pausing to turn your head and see Tom was still in the same spot by the door. “I’ll be in in a moment, darling.” He grinned at you, and that was all the answer you needed before you nestled the Cartier box on the dresser beside you and crawled back into your shared hotel room bed, anxiously waiting for Tom to cuddle up beside you.

Before coming into the bedroom to join you, Tom made sure to hide the black Cartier shopping bag somewhere in the hotel room. Of course, the necklace wasn’t the only thing he had gotten you tonight, but he was saving the next gift for the proper time. Tom had become more confident in himself since getting into a relationship with you, but he was still terrified he would mess this up. That he was reading everything wrong and you would turn him down. You never labeled your relationship, so he wasn’t even sure he should consider you his girlfriend. In his head, the two of you were exclusive, but maybe you didn’t have the same outlook.

Tom shook his head at himself. He knew these thoughts got so big they swallowed him whole every time they passed his mind, so he tried not to think them. He just wanted to be prepared for when the time was right, which was why he threw caution to the wind when he bought the other piece of jewelry for you tonight. So whether the right time was tomorrow morning or three years from now, Tom decided to wait before inevitably asking you to marry him.

-----

@tom-hollands-eyelash / @ophcelia / @tiny-parker / @jackiehollanderr / @starlightfound / @wearemakersofmusic

#tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot

449 notes · View notes

magnoliawhetstone · 4 years ago

Text

scorched earth

trigger warnings: eating disorder/ disordered eating, passing out, verbal abuse, abusive parents, therapy

“Magnolia.”

Lia let her gaze linger on the tree outside the office a little longer, debating on how much longer she could ignore Tonya’s calls. She had never been excellent at avoiding people--her guilt often caused her resolve to dissolve immediately. Another second passed and the blonde turned her head toward the shorter, blacked haired woman.

“We can’t talk about anything else?” She asked, biting her lip as she let her fingers pass over each other in a constant motion. There were two topics that Magnolia had artfully avoided in her therapy sessions and they were, in part, dominoes of each other. One didn’t occur without the other--which meant they also existed symbiotically in her brain. To speak of the incident was to speak of the consequence, and neither made Lia feel warm and fuzzy.

“We don’t have to talk about anything, Magnolia. It’s your appointment, we go where you want to.” Tonya said calmly, assuredly. She was giving her the power back--classic counselor move. Lia had been with her long enough to figure out what she was doing, but even her knowledge didn’t change the outcome: she did feel slightly more empowered. She wouldn’t speak of it. She didn’t have to.

And yet...

She had started therapy two months ago, and great progress had been made. She had stood up to Mr. Worthington--and failed, but even her attempt at advocating would have been unheard of six months prior. She was taking more risks--going to the club with Moira, learning piano with Beck; she even made the first move with Jack all those weeks ago. Lia was finding someone else inside her--no, not someone else, but rather herself, the real version. The version that she had shackled to the darkest part of her heart, terrified of what mayhem might occur if she let her free. This version of Magnolia was bolder, more curious and she was also tired--tired of having a darkest part of heart. She wanted to see what happened when light touched the scorched earth, when fresh air wafted through the boarded up windows.

Tonya could tell--she had a knack for seeing parts of Lia that she had yet to find. That’s why her questions were always so pointed and it was why she could confidently tell Lia it was her appointment. She knew. She always knew.

“I haven’t talked about it before.” She whispered, her eyes now trained on the ground.

“I know, but it’s like we talked about--there’s no right way to say things, Magnolia. Not in here. There’s not one perfect story. It’s just your story. And this is a part of it. No matter how ugly it is.”

“It’ll hurt.”

“But doesn’t it hurt to hold on to it? Do you think it’ll be even more painful to talk about?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, I can’t say it will or won’t--but remember, you’re stronger than you think. I hear you always so fearful of pain--and for good reason, it’s not pleasant. But you’re not fragile, Magnolia. You’re not the delicate porcelain that you seem to always think you are. You can handle so many things--this included.”

Lia took a breath and closed her eyes. Inside, she could feel the tug of war within--the familiar push and pull of her mother’s words against the desire of the version of herself that had been set free. Freedom. What a word. What a feeling. Her heart flipped at the thought. Freedom.

“Momma had kept it a secret...”

Magnolia stared at the nondescript garment bag hanging in closet, her mind running wild. She had been dreaming of prom since starting high school--and talking with Jack about it for almost as long. It was a given, in her mind, she’d go with him--they went to all the school dances together. It hadn’t crossed her mind it could be a...date until a few weeks ago at the county fair. A small, faint grin danced on her lips, the memory of the kiss sending butterflies through her stomach and even into her chest. Magnolia had never been one to take a lot of risks. Risks meant potential failure and failure meant an angry Momma. If there was one thing she learned to avoid in her short sixteen years of life it was an angry Momma. But Momma hadn’t been at the county fair--and she wasn’t around when Derek had dared her to kiss Jack. Something had taken over the blonde in that moment, but as she pressed her lips against his--she was certain she’d never regret taking that leap. A giggle passed through her as she felt her cheeks flush at the thought of it all. She often found herself reminiscing about that night--or what prom could be like with him. Magnolia had always been a day-dreamer, but this felt different. It felt...well, for the first time in her life, a dream of hers felt within reach. Like it could actually happen.

A door slammed and she jumped, nearly falling off her bed. Reality. Blinking a few times, she remembered that even if that dream was closer than any other she had, it was still a reach--especially now. Momma and Father had been on edge for the last two weeks, causing Magnolia to spend more time locked in her bedroom than out of doors. She’d even cut her time with Jack shorter, for fear of setting her momma off on another tirade. She supposed she couldn’t blame her--if the one rule in the Barnes household was to uphold the family name, then Magnolia had screwed it up royally.

Passing out on stage was not her plan--of course it wasn’t. She hadn’t intended to push herself so hard, both in her food restriction but also the length in which she had been practicing. It was just that...Momma had been extra persnickety leading up to the Semi Finals--her blowout at the dress store had just emphasized the point. Magnolia didn’t want to disappoint her, even if she felt Momma had been being extra unreasonable. Even now, after the years of screaming orders and vindictive behavior, Magnolia still wanted to make her proud. She thought maybe--well, maybe if she could win Miss Teen America, she could finally earn her love.

It was like building a house of cards in a hurricane--impossible.

After the doctor had spoken with her about why Magnolia had passed out on the stage, there had been no “honey, are you ok?” or “sweetie, why didn’t you tell me?” No, that was not Mrs. Barnes style.

“Magnolia, how utterly selfish you are--don’t you know what this could cost your father?”

“I can’t believe you’d be so dramatic--if you just wanted attention, you could have saved us the histrionics and just said something.”

“What kind of daughter would sabotage her mother like this?”

So, her attempt to please her momma had backfired and now she was walking on eggshells. Well, at least I have some good dreams to run away to, Magnolia though, her unfailing positivity trying to make the best of a bad situation.

As she let her mind wander again, the door of her room burst open and there stood her father, large cardboard boxes in one hand and a suitcase in another.

“Father--what’s going on?” She furrowed her brows as he strode into the room to her closet and began throwing things in the boxes.

“Pack this--you’re going away for a bit.”

Magnolia felt her stomach drop. Going away? For a bit? What does that mean?

“Going away? Where? For how long?”

Silence exuded from her father as she watched him shove her perfect prom dress--garment bag and all--into a box. If she was only going for a bit, why would he be packing her whole closet....

“What’s going on?” She tried again, but it was her mother who answered.

“You’re going to London. Boarding school.” She said simply, taking the suitcase and throwing even more clothes inside.

“B-boarding school? I don’t--I’m, I like going to school here, though. W-why am I going--”

“--Magnolia Barnes, I don’t want to hear it. You’ve made enough of a mockery of this family, I won’t stand to see you drag our name through the mud anymore. All I asked you to do was be a good daughter, and you clearly can’t even do the simplest of tasks. Your only expectations were to smile, not make a fuss and win pageants. I made it oh-so-simple for you and you still couldn’t handle it. So this is my only option left. The Royal Academy for American Scholars is an excellent school--and you’ll be in no one’s way there.”

London. London, England. Like--like across the ocean, away from her friends, away from Bennett, away from Jack and Mrs. Whetstone and her whole life. And she had not a single say in the matter.

“What--Momma why?”

“Magnolia, I said enough. Now get to the car, your flight leaves in four hours and aren’t going to be late.”

“Don’t I get a say?”

“You had your say when you passed out in front of all those people and cameras. You made quite the statement, don’t you think?” Magnolia cringed at the memory.

“But what about my friends? Bennett? Ja--” Her mother cut her off.

“You needed concern yourself with Jack. I’ll handle it. You are not to say a word of this--we are keeping this quite as to not attract any more attention to you and your dramatic ways.” She rolled her eyes at the words. “Now I won’t say it again--Car. Now.”

The younger blonde blinked--how did her entire life just turn upside down in five minutes. How could her momma just...send her away so easily? She felt herself floating toward the car, as if she was having an out of body experience. She heard the car door shut and the hot leather of the seat against her bare thighs. She didn’t dare speak another word--though she didn’t have much to say. As the trunk slammed shut and the car rolled forward, she caught the last glimpse of her home and felt a tear drop from cheek. Wiping it away quickly, she cleared her throat softly and clutched the plane ticket her momma had handed her. In her lap sat a brand new copy of Pride and Prejudice from her brother--the only two remnants of her family since it was only her and the driver who would be going to the airport. Her heart twisted in the most painful of ways as the feeling of rejection settled into her heart. Magnolia had always known her momma wasn’t proud of her--but rejection, so bold and outright, was a new addition. It would become the foundation for fifteen years of self-hatred and heartbreak, but in that moment it stung like the fresh slap it was. The blonde closed her eyes tightly, letting her mind drift off to the dream that once had been so close--at least her momma couldn’t take everything from her. She’d always have her imagination.

Lia felt like someone had cracked her chest wide open without anesthesia. Their hands were deep within her chest cavity, rummaging around looking for something they didn’t even know they wanted. She wanted to run, hide, scream--anything to get rid of the searing pain that honesty often brought.

“Why didn’t she love me?” Lia gasped out, her cheeks still soaked from the sobs that accompanied her story. “Why wasn’t I enough?”

Tonya was silent--if Lia had been in more a perceptive mindset, she would have noticed her counselor was always misty-eyed. It wasn’t often that she heard such cruelty toward someone. She had no answer for Lia--not that she often did, but even this felt hard for her to think on.

“What about me was so abhorrent that she’d send me away instead of getting me help?” It was the first time she had ever admitted she might have needed help--truthfully, she still did. Her questions were punctuated with staccato gulps of air. “What--Am I really that broken that my own mother can’t love me?”

Upon the utterance of the last sentence, something clicked. Almost immediately, her chest felt like someone had sewn it shut and she stopped crying.

“No.” It was short. It was quiet. But it was firm. And it came straight from Lia’s mouth. “No, I’m not broken.”

“I--I didn’t deserve that. No one does. No one deserved to be shipped away from all they’ve ever known because their momma said so. No one deserved to be disowned and abandoned by the people who were supposed to love them the most. No one deserved to be treated like that. And that includes me.

“I was sick--I am sick. Sick people need love, they need compassion and care. They don’t need to be blamed, shamed and abused because they aren’t well. They need healing--and healing doesn’t come from being sent to boarding school.

“I am a lot of things--but I am not broken. I did nothing to deserve this, I did nothing to lose the love of Momma. Momma is a grown woman, she makes her own choices. I was sixteen--I knew nothing better. Did I make my own mistakes? Yes. But they don’t mean I am unlovable. It just means I’m--I’m human.”

Here’s the thing about sunlight--it burns at first. Your eyes, your skin--sunlight had the power to scorch what it hasn’t touched. But sunlight also gives life--without it, nothing would exist. The burn makes way for new soil, new earth--a new chance. Sunlight drives out darkness and provides new beginnings. Sunlight is redemption. The sunlight hurt, but Lia finally understood that this pain, the pain she was running from--it was the very pain that would save her.

Tonya smiled softly, nodding. She didn’t need to say anything--this was the point of her work. She’d be more content to never speak once in a therapy meeting, if it meant that her client could do it better. And Lia had done it beautifully.

Lia blinked a few more times, the tears in her eyes starting to dry and she let a small smile grace her lips. “I am strong enough, aren’t I? I lived through all that and I’m here to tell the tale--and write a new one too.” A giggle of astonishment escaped and she placed a hand on her mouth in surprise.

“So this is what freedom feels like.” And boy, it felt good.

( @malnatimedia )

#tw eating disorder #tw abusive parents #tw verbal abuse #tw passing out #tw disordered eating #tw therapy #[[homecoming queen?; headcannons]]

1 note · View note

crescentmoon223 · 5 years ago

Text

Two Worlds Collide Chapter 6

Read it on AO3 | Rated: NC-17 | Stella x Scully

As promised, here’s chapter 6 of my Stella/Scully fic, Two Worlds Collide. 7 and 8 will be along very soon! Oh, and if you’d like a little visual inspiration for Stella’s boss-turned-friend Fran, she was very much inspired by the fabulous Fiona Shaw as Carolyn on Killing Eve.

Chapter 6

May 2012

Scully arrived in London on a brilliantly sunny day, so different from the heavy, gray days she’d spent here fourteen years ago. Hopefully, it was an omen, a sign she’d made the right decision in coming here. Back then, she’d been hunting a vampire. Now, she was searching for a new version of herself, or something like that anyway.

She sat on the bed in her new apartment, bouncing slightly to test the mattress. It squeaked beneath her weight, and a smirk tugged at her lips as she imagined the noise it might make if it saw any action. She’d shipped several boxes of her belongings, but they hadn’t arrived yet—it took longer to clear customs than she’d realized—so all she had was the suitcase she’d flown over with. Thank goodness the rental came furnished.

She picked up her cell phone and dialed, listening as the line crackled across the Atlantic.

“Hello?”

She smiled involuntarily at the sound of Maggie’s voice. “Hi, Mom.”

“Dana,” her mom said, relief palpable in her voice.

“Just letting you know I got in safely, and I’m all settled in my new apartment.”

“And how is it?” Maggie asked. “Does it look okay in person? Clean? Safe?”

“It looks pretty much like it did in the pictures.” She glanced around the loft bedroom, open to her left with a low railing that overlooked the living room and kitchen below. A blue quilt covered the full-sized bed, with matching curtains on the windows. “I can’t wait for you to see it.”

“I can’t either,” Maggie said.

Scully would only be here for two months, and she’d insisted Maggie come for a visit before Scully started her fellowship next week. They were long overdue for a mother-daughter vacation together. The sad truth was, Scully was overdue for any kind of bonding time with another human being.

“I’m so lonely,” she’d whispered to Mulder one night as she lay beside him in their unremarkable house in the middle of nowhere. She’d breathed desperately past the tears clogging her throat, wondering how she could feel so alone when she shared her bed every night with the man she’d loved for most of her adult life, the man she’d thought she would spend the rest of her life with.

But as she’d lain there, waiting for a response that never came, she’d felt the truth of her situation. The man holding her wasn’t the same man she’d fallen in love with. He’d become a shell of the man he’d once been, retreating inside their house, inside his office, inside himself. Nothing, it seemed, could fulfill him the way the X Files once had, not even his love for her or the life they’d created together after they left the FBI. They’d become isolated in their little house, and despite her job at Our Lady of Sorrows, she was lonely. So achingly lonely.

What she hadn’t expected was that once she’d left him, once she’d gotten an apartment in Annapolis closer to work and her mom, she’d felt even lonelier, so lonely that when she lay in bed at night, she could hardly breathe past the emptiness inside her. Sometimes she felt like her chest might collapse in on itself.

Every morning, she got up and went to work. She fought for other people’s children, tried to fix them, tried to make them whole again. Sometimes, she succeeded. Sometimes, she failed. Never as greatly as she’d failed her own son. William’s absence felt like a missing piece of her soul, and losing Mulder only seemed to intensify it, until she felt like she was only a shell of herself too.

When she’d first heard about the opportunity here in London, she’d applied without thinking, desperate for a change. But when she received the call that she’d been chosen to study under Dr. Linenburger at The Royal London Hospital, she’d panicked. She was forty-eight years old. What the hell was she doing, considering yet another career switch and traveling halfway across the world to set it in motion? Was she having a midlife crisis?

In the end, she’d decided to go with the momentum she’d already set in motion. A few months in London might shake her out of the stagnant slump her life had fallen into. Maybe she’d find something here she’d been unable to find at home.

Once, a very long time ago, she’d found something here, someone here, who’d shaken her out of a similar—if milder—slump. Those two nights with Stella were a sparkling memory she’d carried in her heart all these years, a shining moment when she’d grabbed hold of what she wanted, when she’d shared something special, something wonderful with another human.

For two memorable nights, she hadn’t been lonely.

Smiling at the memory, she finished up her conversation with her mom and walked downstairs to the living room. Having already unpacked her only suitcase, she found herself at a loss for how to spend the rest of her first afternoon in London. She needed to grocery shop. And she should familiarize herself with her new neighborhood.

Deciding that was as good a place as any to start, she shrugged into a thin jacket, tucked her phone into her back pocket, and headed out. The sun still shone brightly overhead, and she squinted as she walked, taking in the buildings on her street, rows of two and three-story dwellings in aged stone. There was a sense of history etched into each elaborately carved façade that she’d missed since the last time she’d been here.

Spotting a café at the end of the block, she headed for it. A coffee might help clear the jetlag-induced fog from her brain. Tea, perhaps. She wasn’t a big tea drinker, but when in London…

What was Stella up to these days? Scully had hardly let herself think about her over the years, had semi-successfully convinced herself that her decision to accept a fellowship in London had nothing to do with the detective who’d once turned her world upside down.

She and Stella had kept in touch, albeit barely. Stella had indeed emailed to tell her when Ronnie Strickland was convicted and again after he mysteriously died in prison a few months later, having apparently starved to death despite receiving three meals a day. He’d been severely anemic at the time of his death, a fact Mulder had celebrated as proof Ronnie had indeed been a vampire, deprived of his usual diet of blood.

But a handful of emails and phone calls spanning more than a decade hadn’t given them any real insight into each other’s lives. She knew Stella still worked here in London, that she had climbed the ranks of the Metropolitan Police like Scully had known she would. But would she want to hear from Scully now? Would she want to see her?

And did Scully want to see Stella? That yearning deep in her gut said yes, desperately so. But after all these years, she could hardly expect them to share the same connection they’d shared then. It might be awkward. What if it somehow tainted the perfect memory Scully harbored of their time together? She couldn’t bear for anything to tarnish those moments.

Anyway, she had time to decide. She certainly wasn’t going to contact Stella on her first day in London. Scully entered the café and ordered a latte, figuring she’d been British enough for one day. She sat at a table by the window and sipped her drink, scanning local headlines on her phone. It grounded her somehow to know there was just as much murder and mayhem here as there was on her side of the Atlantic. Some things were the same no matter where you lived.

“Met Officer Attacked by Belfast Strangler”

The headline jumped out at her, although it took her a moment to realize why, and it wasn’t the headline at all. It was the photo below it, the photo of Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson. Scully quit breathing, nearly dropped her coffee, as she registered what she was seeing.

Attacked.

A sick feeling spread through her belly, and she gripped the edge of the table as she read the article, which told her little other than that Stella and another officer had been attacked by a serial killer while in police custody. Both had been treated at the hospital and released. It had happened almost a week ago.

Was Stella okay? Was she still in Belfast? Was she here in London? Is she okay?

Scully pulled up Stella’s email address on her phone and composed a message. They didn’t know each other well enough for Scully to ask the most burning question in her mind, so instead she stuck to the facts. She told Stella she was here in London for a few months studying pathology from a respected doctor at The Royal London Hospital and asked if she’d like to get together sometime to catch up.

Safe. Straight forward.

So much for not contacting Stella right away, but Scully wasn’t worried about protecting her feelings or her pride anymore. She just needed to know Stella was okay.

Before she could second guess herself, she hit Send.

***

“Are you sure you don’t something more to eat?”

Stella sipped from her tea. “I’m sure.”

Fran made a sound of disbelief as she bit into her steak sandwich, eyeing the empty soup bowl in front of Stella. She’d known Stella long enough to know soup wasn’t her lunch of choice and also not to question it, not to make her explain the soft diet that had her longing for the satisfaction of sinking her teeth into something, literally anything at this point, a hunger that grew steadily stronger with each passing day.

“Soup,” Fran muttered, eyes searching Stella’s for an explanation she knew she wouldn’t receive. Many years ago, Fran Kingsley had given Stella her start at the Met. She’d been Stella’s boss, had given her a leg up in a male-dominated world, and along the way had become one of her dearest friends. About ten years ago, Fran had been recruited into MI5, leaving the Met behind. Her short brown hair was shot through with silver now, but it only seemed to intensify the power of her presence. “So, how long until this bullshit inquiry is resolved?”

“Hopefully no more than a week.” Stella’s phone dinged with a new email, and she glanced at it instinctively, hoping irrationally that the inquiry into her handling of the Belfast Strangler case had been dropped and she might be allowed to return to the office this week after all. She swiped her finger across the screen, calling up the message.

Dana Scully, the sender’s name announced itself, and Stella inhaled sharply. There was a name she hadn’t seen in years, a name that stirred something warm deep inside her soul whenever she saw it. They rarely emailed, and when they did, it usually involved a case one of them was working on, but just knowing Scully was out there had always brought Stella a strange sense of comfort.

Today, it brought the opposite. Stella’s name had been in the news a lot over the last few weeks, for reasons she’d rather leave solidly in her past. She couldn’t tolerate the thought of any kind of “are you all right” message from Scully now.

So, she set her phone aside, returning her attention to Fran, who was watching her out of gray eyes as sharp as knives, ready to peel back Stella’s protective layers, an “are you all right” of her own. “You should at least drink something stronger than tea with that soup.”

Stella’s lips twitched. “Bit early in the day for that, don’t you think?”

“Never too early,” Fran said with a meaningful lift of her eyebrows. “Not in our line of work. Have you seen someone?”

Stella swallowed the question with another sip of tea. “I have an appointment on Friday.” A mandatory condition of her return to work.

“Good. Well, I’ve got to dash, but give me a ring if you need someone to have that drink with.” Fran was offering more than her company, and they both knew it.

“Thank you,” Stella told her quietly.

“Take care.” Fran’s hand rested briefly on Stella’s shoulder, and then she was off, striding toward the door as other customers in the café stepped to the side to let her pass. She was a force of nature, all right, and Stella was fiercely glad for her presence in her life.

She sat for a few minutes to finish her tea, fighting the growing sense of emptiness inside her that had nothing to do with the pitiful bowl of soup she’d eaten for lunch and everything to do with the week ahead. Without the prospect of work, it loomed impossibly long before her, almost overwhelmingly so.

Eventually, she left the café, stopping at the market on her way home to pick up a few things, including a fresh sleeve of flowers since the ones she’d bought at the airport two days ago had already begun to wilt. At home, she took Fran’s advice and poured herself a tumbler of whiskey, then set about putting away her groceries. She stocked her fridge and wiped down the counter before clipping the stems on the fresh flowers she’d bought and arranging them in a vase, a splash of red and purple against the otherwise muted tones of her kitchen.

She bent her head and inhaled deeply, eyes shut, lost for a moment in the intoxicating scent of fresh roses, until her cracked ribs spasmed, shooting bolts of fire through her chest. She froze, not daring even to exhale, one hand braced against the counter as she cursed furiously inside her head, waiting for the pain to subside.

Then she eased herself onto a barstool at the counter and took a hearty gulp of her whiskey. She reached absently for her phone, searching for a distraction, almost having forgotten the email waiting for her there. Dana Scully. Really, what was one more “are you all right” at this point? Stella had already fielded dozens of them. Even her mother had called, and they spoke about as often as she spoke to Scully.

I’m fine. Thanks for thinking of me. Just biding my time until I can get back into the office. She mentally composed her reply as she clicked on the message.

And then her breath caught in her throat again, but this time it had nothing to do with her cracked ribs. Scully’s email wasn’t an “are you all right” at all. She was here in London, and she wanted to meet. Stella set her phone on the countertop, taking measured breaths as she considered how to respond. This was the worst time to re-introduce herself to someone from her past, while she was bruised, physically and mentally.

Once upon a time, she and Scully had shared something incredibly intense and meaningful together, maybe the most intimate moment of Stella’s life. She’d been young then, so fucking young. But it wasn’t as if it would happen again. Scully had been with Mulder almost since she’d left London the first time, and while that wasn’t necessarily a hindrance for Stella, it certainly was for Scully. So, this would be dinner with an old friend, nothing more.

Stella desperately needed an escape from her flat, from the chaos in her brain, from the reality awaiting her at the inquiry next week. And right now, her escape had arrived in the form of Dana Scully.

***

Scully fidgeted in front of the mirror in the bathroom. What did you wear to have dinner with someone you’d once shared two of the most passionate nights of your life with? Someone you hadn’t seen in over a decade? She’d never been one for dresses. To wear one tonight felt disingenuous, like she was trying too hard to impress Stella. Instead, she put on dark wash skinny jeans and a black top, leaving her hair loose down her back. She touched up her makeup, adding a bit more eyeliner than she would usually wear.

And then she left the bathroom before she started overthinking things or second guessing herself. She headed downstairs, picked up her jacket, and set out. The restaurant Stella had suggested was only a few blocks away, so she decided to walk. She needed the fresh air to clear her head, because she had no idea what the etiquette for a night like this was.

Outside, dusk purpled the sky over the rowhouses on her street. The air was cool and refreshing, just what she needed. She started walking, heels clicking against the sidewalk, the knot in her stomach loosening with each step until it unraveled completely. Seeing Stella again tonight would be a good thing. She was almost sure of it.

She could use a friend here in London, and while she and Stella had never exactly been friends in the past, maybe they could be now. Maybe they could be more than friends. Warmth spread through her belly as she remembered the nights they’d spent together in their youth. Scully had been a single woman for over a year now. Whether or not she and Stella rekindled things, she was overdue to put herself back in the dating game.

It was intimidating at her age, especially after having spent over a decade with Mulder. It had been so long, so very long since she’d been on a date. Not since Stella, fourteen years ago. And here she was, on her way to meet Stella again. Maybe a date. Maybe just dinner with a friend.

That knot in her stomach tightened again, pinching at her ribs. She rubbed at it as she walked. What if she froze completely when she saw her? What if they’d changed too much to rekindle even a friendship? What if they were just two strangers trying awkwardly to generate enough conversation to make it through a meal together?

Scully huffed a breath, casting her eyes skyward. She was being ridiculous. She knew it but was powerless to stop herself. There was a reason she’d buried herself in work for most of her life, why it had taken seven years for her and Mulder to take their relationship to the next level. She wasn’t very good at this, at putting herself out there, at making romantic connections with people. She never had been.

Which was all the more reason for her and Stella to keep things platonic this time. A friendship would be more likely to last the duration of Scully’s time in London than any kind of romantic relationship, after all, and Scully was pitifully short on friends. After her case in Belfast, Stella might need a friend too.

Scully forced herself to keep walking as the restaurant came into view, not allowing her footsteps to slow until she was reaching for the handle to the heavy-looking wooden door. Inside, the restaurant bustled with activity, snippets of conversation in British accents drifting past her ears, but her gaze was locked on a figure standing to the left of the hostess desk.

Stella’s back was to her, but she’d know that stance anywhere. Her hair was shorter now, reaching just past her shoulders in perfectly coiffed waves. She wore a black pencil skirt with a blouse the color of a shiny penny, glistening beneath the restaurant’s track lighting. Scully sucked in air, heart racing, heat spreading through her like a wildfire, an instantaneous, almost overwhelming physical reaction she hadn’t experienced in, well…in fourteen years.

As if sensing her presence, Stella turned. Their eyes met, but the fresh-faced detective who’d swept Scully off her feet way-back-when was nowhere in sight. The detective superintendent who faced her now was older, hardened in a way that made Scully stand a little taller, her spine straightening almost involuntarily.

Stella still retained every bit of her ethereal beauty, azure eyes coolly assessing Scully as she toyed with the curve of her hair, fluffing it between her fingers before tossing it over her shoulder. Scully was so taken with the sight of her that it took several long seconds for her to register the bruising and stitches at Stella’s left brow, the discoloration over her cheekbone and her chin, carefully concealed with makeup but still visible to a doctor’s eye.

Scully’s stomach dipped, lust mixing with concern and the completely flustering experience of seeing her again for the first time in so long. The intervening years had strengthened Stella’s armor, her expression unreadable behind that icy stare. Scully hesitated for another moment before stepping forward, wrapping one arm around Stella in a brief hug.

“It’s so good to see you,” she breathed against her neck. She smelled the same, something fresh and feminine and uniquely Stella that had Scully’s head spinning through a whirlwind of memories, Stella’s bare skin pressed against hers, lips and teeth and more pleasure than she’d known possible.

Stella was stiff against her now, one hand tangling in Scully’s hair as she hugged her back before pulling free. “It’s good to see you too.”

Scully stood there, smiling nervously, hoping Stella hadn’t felt the frantic beating of her heart. They were older now, so much older, toughened and scarred by life. Scully felt a crushing pressure in her chest as she imagined herself trying to explain everything that had happened since she last saw Stella. And what things did Stella need to confess in return?

“Shall we get a table, then?” Stella asked, breaking Scully out of her spiraling thoughts.

She nodded, falling into step beside her as they approached the hostess. They were shown to a quiet table near the back of the restaurant, and Scully felt somewhat calmer once they were sitting across from each other with a bottle of wine between them. She sipped from her glass gratefully, watching as Stella seemed to settle as well, eyes softening as she looked across the table at Scully.

“So,” Scully said with a hesitant smile. I read all about Paul Spector this afternoon, and I’m so fucking sorry. But she knew better than to broach such an uncomfortable subject before they’d gotten reacquainted.

“So,” Stella repeated, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “Did you fly in today?”

Scully nodded. “This morning.”

“The redeye?” Stella’s eyes were sympathetic.

“Yeah. I got a few hours of sleep on the plane, but I’ll be glad to crash tonight.”

“I bet.” Stella sipped from her wine, eyes never leaving Scully’s. “And you’re here for work?”

Scully had forgotten the magic of her accent, that smooth, smoky voice, the way it crawled over her, melting her from the inside out. Stella’s voice was lower now than she remembered, somewhat scratchier. Scully found herself leaning in every time she spoke. “Yes. I’ll be working with Dr. Linenburger at The Royal London Hospital. He’s a noted forensic pathologist whose done some really interesting work in digital imaging that I’m excited to try my hand at.”

“You’re interested in pathology, then?”

She knew Stella was just making conversation, trying to get to know modern-day Scully, but the questions felt almost like an interrogation beneath her intense stare. She nodded. “I’ve been practicing medicine for the last decade, but lately, I’ve started to realize I miss being involved in the investigative side of things. So, yes, I’m considering a move into pathology.”

“Dr. Scully,” Stella said, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “I like it.”

Scully reached for her wine to cover the blush she felt rising to her cheeks. “A lot has changed since the last time I saw you.”

“Probably too much to cover during one meal,” Stella said, arching an eyebrow. She was playing coy, but also saving them both from diving too deep into personal territory tonight, and Scully was thankful for that.

“Yes. My life has been…I’m not sure there’s a word for it, really.”

Stella reached across the table, covering Scully’s hand in her own. “I’m so sorry about your son. I can’t even imagine.”

Scully felt the hot press of tears behind her eyes, her skin gone warm and prickly. She had foolishly mentioned her pregnancy during one of those occasional emails she’d exchanged with Stella, which meant she’d later had to explain William’s absence. She’d never had the words to describe that time in her life. Whenever possible, she tried not to speak about it at all. She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

Stella’s brow wrinkled. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry.”

Scully shook her head, swiping beneath her eyes. “No, it’s okay.”

“Thoughtless of me,” Stella said quietly, staring into the ruby depths of her wineglass.

And Scully couldn’t bear her guilt, not over this, not over anything. She couldn’t let their evening turn sour because of her own sad history, barely ten minutes after they’d been reunited. “No, really. It’s…it’s gotten better.”

Stella met her gaze, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. Scully was torn between the urge to laugh or cry at the ridiculousness of it. Here they were, stumbling through the personal territory they’d both wanted to avoid tonight. Maybe the only way around it was to go through.

“I’ve seen pictures of him,” she told Stella, her voice hoarse from the lump of emotion lodged in her throat.

Stella’s eyes widened. “William?”

She nodded, willing herself to get the words out. “Once the charges against Mulder were dropped, things finally settled down. His life wasn’t in danger anymore, and neither was William’s. Last year, his adoptive parents reached out to us through Agent Doggett, the agent who’d helped me coordinate the adoption. They sent us pictures.” She closed her eyes, feeling the tears splash over her cheeks. “He’s happy. He’s growing up on a farm in Wyoming. He rides horses.”

Stella’s chin quivered slightly as she reached forward, brushing the tears from Scully’s cheeks. “I’m glad things have gotten better…that you have some peace.”

“I do.” Scully nodded as she blinked back more tears. “Not knowing was a living hell. Every day, I worried. I imagined awful things. But now…now, I know he’s okay.”

“And Mulder?” she asked.

“He’s still Mulder.” A wry smile curved her lips. “Actually, no, he’s not. He lost his purpose after we left the FBI. I went to work at the hospital, and he…he closed himself up in his office.”

“His purpose wasn’t loving you?” There was that arched brow again.

Scully dropped her gaze to her wineglass. She took another long sip. “He loved me. I think he still does. But the X Files were always his true passion. He didn’t know what to do with himself once he’d lost them.”

“It sounds like things have been very difficult for you both.”

“We broke up.” She glanced at Stella. “I moved out about a year and a half ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” If Stella had any reaction to learning Scully was single, she didn’t show it.

Scully blew out a breath, grateful to have it all out in the open. “Thank you.”

“Do you still love him?” Stella asked gently, eyes locked on Scully’s.

“I’ll always love him,” she said, “but I’m not in love with him. Not anymore.”

“I see,” Stella said, and Scully wondered if she did. As far as she knew, Stella had never loved anyone the way she’d loved Mulder, had never spent a decade living with someone she’d thought she would spend her whole life with.

Their waitress interrupted them to bring their meals, and they fell to lighter topics as they ate, Scully’s upcoming fellowship, her new apartment—flat, Stella called it, and Scully immediately embraced the term—things she should do and see while she was in London. Stella deflected Scully’s casual attempts at shifting the conversation in her direction.

This was hardly surprising. In fourteen years, Scully had barely learned more about her than her last name. But she knew parts of Stella few others had seen, understood her in ways she doubted many other people ever had or would.

It didn’t stop her from worrying about how Stella was handling the aftermath of the case in Belfast. Did she have someone in her life to confide in? A friend? A therapist? Anyone at all to share the emotional burden? Those weren’t questions she could ask, not tonight, anyway.

Still, they had to address the elephant in the room, so after they’d settled the check, she decided to just do it. “I read about what happened in Belfast.”

Stella went unnaturally still on the other side of the table, turning her head slightly to stare over Scully’s shoulder[RB1] . “I assumed you had.”

She touched Stella’s arm, offering comfort the same way Stella had done for her earlier. “I’m one of the few people in the world who can honestly say I’ve been there. I know what it feels like, and I’m here for you if you need a friend.”

Stella did meet her eyes then, just for a moment, gratitude gleaming in their crystalline depths. “Thank you.”

“Also, it’s not why I emailed you.” Scully sucked her bottom lip between her teeth as a smile threatened. “Or, it’s not the only reason, anyway.”

“No?”

She shook her head. “I had been thinking about you since I took this position, wondering…”

“Wondering?”

She shrugged, trying to keep things light. “Haven’t you ever wondered?”

Stella stood from the table, brushing a hand against Scully’s waist as she led the way toward the front of the restaurant. “Once or twice.”

[RB1]A shadow flashes in her eyes that makes Scully’s worries intensify. She’s afraid Stella’s keeping it all bottled up, and no one’s armor can be that tough all the time. It has to come out sooner or later.

#fanfic #Two Worlds Collide #stella and scully #stella x scully

3 notes · View notes