#eye care in North York

[venusinmyrrh]

You said you love a good fashion doc- do you have any more to recommend?

Designers and tastemakers

Very Ralph (2019). The preeminent American designer of our time, one of the very few who can stand toe to toe with the titans of Paris and Milan. To call Ralph Lauren's work "sportswear" is to call the Sistine Chapel "kind of a big painting".

Halston (2019). Speaking of going head to head with Paris, Halston did it first. Skip Ultrasuede-- this is a much better doc about the king of American 70s disco glam.

McQueen (2018). When people talk about fashion as an art form, chances are they're thinking of Alexander McQueen. Worth watching for the pulse-pounding runway shows alone.

Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist (2018). Obviously you already know about this one, but it's gotta go on any comprehensive list. Without Vivienne Westwood, punk would have been nothing but a handful of noisy assholes.

Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel (2011). My icon, my north star, my personal hero. The empress of taste and high priestess of personal style. Watch this doc whenever you need encouragement to do and wear whatever the hell you want.

The Gospel According to André (2017). Diana Vreeland's protegé and a godfather of style in his own right. If it happened in fashion in the last fifty years, André Leon Talley was there for it.

Lagerfeld Confidential (2007). I have a high tolerance for difficult and unpleasant people as long as I like their work. Your mileage may vary, but Karl Lagerfeld's immaculate, relentless taste cannot be denied.

Institutions and events

The First Monday in May (2016). Witness all the hustle, bustle, savvy, and stress that goes into planning the Met gala!

The September Issue (2009). Same as the above, but for the famous September issue of Vogue. Watch this to learn who Grace Coddington is.

Dior and I (2014). How do haute couture collections get made? In 8 weeks from start to finish, I guess, if you're Raf Simons during his first season at the House of Dior. A documentary and a thriller.

Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf's (2013). No matter what other retailers might want you to think, Bergdorf Goodman is the last great department store. A portrait, already halfway to a time capsule, of what luxury shopping used to be.

Peripheral, but may be of interest

Nose (2021). The passionate, delicate art of perfume creation for the House of Dior. The French landscapes where they source their materials will make you swoon.

Larger Than Life: The Kevyn Aucoin Story (2017). As the makeup artist to pretty much every single icon of the 80s and 90s, Kevyn Aucoin invented the image of that era as much as any designer.

Fabergé: A Life of Its Own (2014). Come for the dazzling jewels and sumptuous objets d'art; stay to find out how this illustrious name ended up on hair care products in the 70s.

Crazy About Tiffany's (2016). Another luxury jeweler whose name alone is the stuff dreams are made on.

Bill Cunningham New York (2010). The original street style photographer, since before "street style" was even a thing. A love letter to curiosity, and a testament to the power of taking an interest in the world around us.

Still on my watchlist

Salvatore: Shoemaker of Dreams (2020). Directed by Luca Guadagnino, which is enough to put this Ferragamo doc at the top of my list.

Advanced Style (2014). Portraits of seven women aged 62-95 with truly fab personal style. Top Letterboxd review is seething about how out of touch they are with the real world, which means I am probably gonna love it.

Suited (2016). A study of gender through clothing in modern culture.

Dries (2017). A year-- and four collections-- in the life of Dries Van Noten, who, interestingly, doesn't see the point of clothes that people can't buy to wear, and so does not do couture.

Yellow is Forbidden (2018). This doc about Guo Pei appears to use her career as a framework to understand the gatekeeping of global culture by the West. Dope as hell, if it can pull it off.

American Style (2019). The political, social, and economic history of America through its fashion. Another one that could be really awesome if done with insight and panache.

Quant (2021). She may share the credit for inventing the miniskirt with two other people, but it cannot be argued that Mary Quant invented 1960s Swinging London. And for that we say thank you Dame Mary.

[coff33andb00ks]

Rule Breaker - Pt 1

max verstappen x single mom!reader

{next}

face claim: none, random pinterest find warnings: cursing, max is broody, jos is an asshole, fluff, barely proofread, idk red bull team aside from Max, Checo, and Horner... (y/n's bestie is named after my irl bestie bc she told me to write this, and y/n's son is not named after Magnussen i swear) Summary: Max has it all...right? Besides, he's too busy collecting trophies and completing side quests for anything else. Until... You moved across a whole ass ocean to start over, uprooting you and your son's lives to become social media admin for cars that drive in circles. word count: 4293 auth.note: hiii new to writing for f1 so I'm posting this in the middle of the night and hiding in bed - feedback greatly appreciated. also this is forbidden love/he falls first/friends to enemies to lovers

"Hey Max, come meet the new social media admin."

On his way out, he barely heard the words. But they registered and he immediately turned, knowing how important it was to have a good rapport with the social media personnel. He only had to meet them, then he could leave and go to the team apartment and… He didn't know. Pass time in his sim until he couldn't hold his eyes open. Maybe he'd go for a run until he was close to exhaustion. Or see if Lando was in the country and they could go out together. It was only when he was about to pass out that he was able to sleep and not be plagued with dreams.

His eyes swept the small office, swiveling to focus on the new face. She smiled, giving him a little wave as she set down her slice of pizza.

"Max, this is y/n. Y/n, this is Max."

"Hello," he said, watching as she wiped her mouth with a napkin.

"Hi, sorry." She took a sip of her drink and wiped her mouth again. "Sorry – It's so great to meet you."

She was American. Walking over, he extended his hand. "Where are you from?"

Shaking his hand, she smiled up at him. "Well most recently I was with—"

"No, no, where in America," he corrected.

"Oh! North Carolina. I try to keep the country accent to a minimum but sometimes I slip up." She motioned to the pizza box on the desk. "You want a slice?"

No, he had to leave. His work was done, he didn't need to hang around and kill his precious down time. Besides, his diet was strict for the next few days, what with the race coming up. He had to focus on… Within fifteen seconds he was sitting across from her, holding a slice in one hand. One slice wouldn't hurt, he decided as he took a bite. "How long have you been in England?"

"About three weeks?" She glanced at her watch and nodded. "Three weeks tomorrow. I was staying at an Airbnb until a week ago when I moved into my apartment."

He nodded. "Are you going to be based here or go to the races?"

"Races. Gonna be living the glamorous life of travel and hotels and surviving on caffeine and sugar," she said with a roll of her eyes.

"It's not so bad."

"I'm sure I'll get used to it. You've been doing it for, what, half your life now?"

Shrugging, he took a sip of his water. "More than that, really. Are you saying you don't travel?"

"Not like this. I lucked out with my last job because I was able to do it mostly from home. I think I went up to New York or out to Cali maybe six times total? But I know I can do it," she added when his eyebrows lifted. "It'll just take a little getting used to, especially with a little one in tow a lot of the time."

That surprised him. His eyes immediately moved to her hands, which were completely bare of rings. "A little one?"

Y/n nodded, her eyes lighting. "He's three."

"What's his name?" Max asked. It was none of his business about the boy's father, anyway, so he wasn't going to ask about him. And he didn't even care.

"Kevin." Her smile was both shy and sparkling.

His chest tightened. Kevin, he knew, was one of the most loved children in the world. "What's he like?" The words came out and only after saying them he realized he wanted to know.

"He's… He's Kevin." She laughed. "He asks a million questions and will talk to anyone about anything. He's high energy but has laser focus when it's something that interests him – Like the other day I took him to the park. I expected him to be running around and trying out all the swings and stuff, but he spent an hour crawling in the grass following a caterpillar."

"Laser focus can be good at times," Max told her, earning a warm smile.

"I know. He comes by it honest because I do the same thing when I'm working."

"Will you be bringing him to the races?" Finished with his pizza, he shook his head when she nudged the box towards him and sat back to finish his water.

"Yeah. Not all of them, but to the next few. I already talked to Mr. Horner and Wanda about it," she said quickly, as though expecting him to be upset about her bringing her child to work. "He won't be in the way. My best friend – Ellie, she's his godmother – is traveling with me to Imola and Monaco to watch him for me. But her new job starts the first of June so I have to make arrangements before then."

"Does he like racing?"

"He's three," she deadpanned. "He loves anything with cars or trucks."

"You'll have to bring him to the track—"

"He also loves fart jokes and bugs."

Max blinked at her, snorting on a laugh when she grinned at him. "Fair enough."

"I do have to warn you, though," she said carefully, standing to gather the napkins and throw them into the trash. Closing the pizza box, she used a clean napkin to wipe off the desk. "He likes McLaren."

"It's the orange livery isn't it?" Max sighed. When she nodded, he shrugged. "I'll do my best to not hate him."

She giggled, letting out a snort.

And, for the first time in six months, Max felt lighter.

*-*

"There's my lil doodle bug," Viv cooed as Kevin leapt off the couch and ran towards her. Dropping her purse and work bag, she scooped him into a hug. "Hi sweetheart. How was your day, hm?"

Her son grinned, squeezing her tight. "I fell in poop!"

Viv froze for two seconds and leaned back a little. "What kind of poop?"

"Dog. Yes, it was fresh. Yes, he had a bath. Yes, I washed his clothes," Ellie announced as she came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Your dinner's almost done – How was work?"

Viv kissed her son's cheek and set him down so she could pick up her bags. "I spent the day reading protocols and policies and signing contracts. Oh, and getting my uniform."

Ellie took the knapsack stuffed with team shirts and jackets. "Good thing you love blue huh?"

"No kidding." She glanced over to Kevin, who had climbed back onto the couch and resumed lining his hot wheels along the back. "How was he today?"

"He was fine. You worry too much, mama," Ellie said gently, following y/n to her bedroom. Setting the knapsack down, she took the work bag and reached inside to switch off y/n's work phone. "Ah, ah, you're off now. You don't officially start work until Monday, so they can't expect you to be on call."

"Yes ma'am." Y/n held her hands up in surrender. "I'm gonna change and get him tucked in then I'll eat, promise."

"Perfect. Bridgerton tonight?" Ellie asked on her way out the door.

"You know it!" y/n called after her.

Once she'd changed into sweats and an old t-shirt she went to the living room. "C'mon, doodle bug," she said softly, smiling when Kevin slid off the couch without hesitation. She helped him pack his cars into their cubby, telling him about her boring day at work while she led him to the bathroom so he could brush his teeth. Then to her bedroom, wishing she had been able to afford a larger apartment so he could have his own space. But he didn't seem to mind, and more often than not he ended up crawling into her bed during the night. Something she treasured, because she knew that all too soon he would be "too big" to share a bed with his mama.

Three storybooks and a rambling made up tale about a one-eyed dragon and the princess that saved him from the evil knight later, she pressed a kiss to his cheek and turned off the light. "Good night, sweetheart. Sweet dreams," she whispered before she left the room.

"So I met Max Verstappen today," she told Ellie a few minutes later while fixing her drink.

"Ooo Mr Tu Tu Du Du himself?"

Y/n snorted. "Yeah, that one." The chicken alfredo with a side of broccoli looked so much more appetizing than the greasy pizza she'd had for a late lunch, and she almost felt like she'd cheated on her best friend for ordering takeout.

"What's he like?" Ellie asked, scooping a little more sauce over the noodles.

"He's nice."

"Just nice?"

"I mean, he asked me surface level questions and laughed at my lame jokes? Yeah, nice." Y/n pulled her plate away before Ellie could push more food onto it and sat down to eat. "Everyone's been so nice, Ellie…"

Her friend squeezed her shoulder. "I'm so glad. I have good news, too."

Y/n lifted her eyebrows, unable to speak because her mouth was full.

Ellie sat down, smiling brightly. "I spoke to HR today and Kev will be able to use the daycare."

Gulping down her mouthful of food, y/n gasped. "Oh that's great!" she cried, feeling the weight of worry that had been plaguing her for three weeks lift. "They're sure?"

"Yep, you just have to come in with me before the first and sign a document giving me permission to take him from the premises."

"Excellent, we can go in the morning? I have to go in after lunch to get my kit. Camera, laptop, all that. And Wanda told me to get more shirts so I don't have to worry about laundry while on the road – Oh and I'll be getting our passes."

"Kevin is so excited about Italy. He wants to see the leaning tower of pizza."

"Bless his heart, maybe I can take him one day."

Plans made, she finished her late dinner and did the washing up then changed into her pajamas before settling on the couch to watch Bridgerton. They were rewatching the series so she didn't feel guilty about scrolling her social media, finally biting the bullet and following all of the RedBull people she knew from headquarters.

"You are the bane of my existence… and the object of all my desires."

"Ugh," Y/N and Ellie whined in unison.

"So much nicer than you've had me hard since we met," y/n muttered.

"Let's be real, practically anything is better than that," Ellie agreed.

They finished the episode and y/n headed to bed, keeping as quietly as possible even though she knew her son could sleep through anything. Digging her work phone from her bag, she powered it on to check for any missed messages, smiling slightly when she saw Max had added her on WhatsApp. Adding him back, she was about to turn the phone off again when a new message popped up.

👋🏻

Rolling her eyes, she replied with the same emoji and waited a few seconds before plugging the phone in and turning on do not disturb. She wasn't going to have a late night chat with Max Verstappen of all people. He was probably just being nice, she told herself as she brushed her teeth and did her skincare. Wanda had told her that Max added everyone but rarely messaged anyone aside from Mr. Horner or the engineers.

Besides, she wasn't there to make friends, she reminded herself as she climbed into bed. She could be friendly, but she was there to do a job.

And no flirting with him either, she thought, immediately wondering why the idea had popped into her mind. She would never – okay, she might, if unintentionally. She knew it was a protective thing, knew it was because she had the undesirable need to have everyone like her. But she couldn't do it. Not with him, especially. He'd probably laugh in her face. He was younger than her and probably had a never ending line of gorgeous women waiting to please him.

Before she switched off the lamp she glanced over at her sleeping son. A living, breathing, very real reminder of what she'd gone through just four years ago. And she knew she couldn't go through that again. She wasn't strong enough. She refused to endure that torture and heartache. Kevin needed her, so she had to be strong for him.

Not to mention there was a no hanky-panky clause in her contract?

She had barely closed her eyes when she heard his toddler bed creak. Lying there, she listened to his feet whispering against the rug, smiling in the dark when he slowly slid the covers back.

"Mama," he whispered, and she reached for him. He snuggled close, tucking his head under her chin as she pulled the covers over them.

"Love you, sweetheart," she murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair.

"Love you, Mama."

*-*

"I think it's good, yeah," Max said, eyes scanning the screens of data from the upgrades. "It'll be great for turn seven." Nodding, he listened to the engineers as they went over potential upgrades for Monaco. Once the meeting was finished he grabbed his water bottle and left the room, ignoring the almost immediate phone call from his father. He knew it was his dad without checking, and strode down the hall, intent on leaving and heading straight for the airport to go home. Where he could ignore everything and everyone until Sunday when it was time to fly to Italy.

Rounding the corner, he lurched to a stop as a small child darted in front of him, his giggles echoing down the corridor. The little boy stopped and looked up at Max, blinking slowly.

"Hi!" He waved.

"Hello." Max heard rapid footsteps and glanced up to see y/n iquickly approaching.

"Kevin Scott—"

"I've got him," Max told her with a quick wave, squatting down to the boy's level. "So you're Kevin?"

The boy nodded, light blonde curls bouncing on his head. "I'm Kevin. That's Mama."

"I'm Max. I heard a lot about you."

Kevin's eyes widened. "You know Mama?"

"About this much." Max held his thumb and index finger barely a centimeter apart. He quickly looked to y/n, who was walking up behind Kevin. "I work with her."

"Ohh… She's gonna take me to see cars. D'you like cars Mister Max?" he asked seriously. As though cars were the most important thing in the universe.

"More than I like myself some days," Max quipped, reaching to check the miniature car the boy was holding in his hand. "I drive one like this."

Kevin gasped. "Do you got it here?"

Max chuckled. "We have a lot. Do you want to see them?"

"Please," the boy said, and Max couldn't have said no under any circumstances.

"You have to ask your mum," he said gently. "And maybe say sorry for running away from her?"

Kevin immediately turned to his mother. "Mama I sorry. Can Mister Max take me to cars?"

She sighed, squatting down to fix his shorts. "We've gotta be more careful, sweetheart. And yes, Mister Max can take us to see the cars."

Kevin spun to face Max again. "She said yes!"

Grinning, Max nodded and stood.

"Thank you," y/n said softly. "I'm sor—"

"He's three, yeah?" Max reached to place his hand on the boy's head, gently guiding him closer when he started to wander off. "Don't apologize for him being a child."

She tipped her head at that, then nodded, grabbing hold of Kevin's hand as Max turned to lead them back down the hallway he'd just left. "I only came by to get my kit, and his aunt had paperwork at her new workplace to finish up, so I had to bring him."

"I'm glad you did." Max gave her a gentle smile, using his card to open the door leading to the back of headquarters. "Have you been back here?"

"Only on my tour the other day."

"Just stick with me," he said. They wouldn't be entering the engineer or design areas, only taking the corridor to the garage. Otherwise they'd have to travel all the way to the main entrance and walk around to the back, which would be tedious for her son.

"I'm under contract and signed an NDA, and it's not like I'd know where to go to sell team secrets," she told him. "And I wouldn't even know what I overheard."

"Not a car fan?" he asked, accepting the model car Kevin was shoving at him. Slipping it into his pocket, he guided them along the curving corridor.

"Eh… Kinda? I like racing. I don't understand all the mechanics to it, I just like the adrenaline of watching twenty guys drive really fast. And I can admire good craftsmanship, like a Bugatti or a McLaren, ya know?"

"What do you drive?" Max asked, using his card to open the door to the garage. Met with the faint aroma of rubber and asphalt, he inhaled deeply, catching with it a lighter, more pleasant scent.

"Nothing at the moment. I've been taking an Uber to and from the apartment," she explained. "I'll probably get a used car after my first paycheck."

Max furrowed his brows, stopping on the catwalk. "You haven't gotten paid yet?"

"No? Well, only my signing bonus, and that's gone to household necessities like rent and food. It's fine, Max, I don't need a car right now."

What are you going to do, give her one of yours? he thought, reaching to Kevin and lifting the boy to his hip so he could carry him down the stairs to the main level. Kevin was already oohing and aahing over the neat rows of cars. "It's just me, Brandon," he called, seeing the member of the security team at the other end of the garage. "A quick tour for a new friend, yeah?"

Brandon waved and disappeared around the corner.

At the bottom of the stairs, Max set Kevin down, ushering him to the nearest car. The boy's excitement was contagious, and Max gleefully told him about each one that he'd driven, helping the boy climb into each and press buttons on the steering wheel. Laughing when Kevin made racecar noises, he pulled out his phone to pull up some videos for sound effects. Swiping away the notifications from his dad, he turned up the volume so the engine sounds echoed in the garage, enjoying Kevin's childish glee.

"This one you know," he said, guiding him to the most recent addition. Lifting him into the seat, he squatted down. "This is a car I drove last year, which—" He pulled the model car from his pocket and set it on top of the steering column. "—is just like the one you have."

"Wow." Kevin looked at him with pure awe. "Did you win?"

"I did. And I won the championship too."

"You're a champ-een, Mister Max?" the boy gasped.

"I am."

"Like Lightning McQueen?"

"You could say that," he chuckled, affectionately ruffling the boy's curls. Glancing over at y/n, he paused when he saw she was holding up her phone.

She peered at him over the top. "Is it okay to take pictures?"

"Of course." He had a feeling she'd already taken dozens. He stepped out of the way so she could get photos of Kevin in the car, then lifted him out once she tucked her phone away. "Have you seen the trophies?"

"No. Can we see 'em, Mister Max? Please?"

"You have to ask your mum." Turning, he sent y/n a pleading look as Kevin asked permission.

"As long as Mister Max doesn't mind," she said, rolling her eyes when Kevin squealed yay.

"It's a long walk, do you want me to carry you?"

Kevin squirmed, wriggling so he was piggybacking. "Thank you Mister Max."

His chest tightened, and he reached to adjust the boy's legs around his middle. "You're welcome, Kevin. We do have to make a stop on the way to the trophy case, though."

Next to him, y/n cleared her throat. "I can take him if you've got something to do."

"No, it's fine, a quick stop," Max assured her, motioning for her to go up the stairs first.

"A pit stop?" Kevin asked, giggling as Max jogged up the steps.

"Exactly that. No more than ten seconds," he promised.

Fifteen minutes later, he was squatting down to fix the collar of Kevin's new shirt. "There you go, mate. What do you think?"

Kevin grinned and gave him a thumb's up.

Max looked up at y/n, who rolled her eyes. "He has to be Team Red Bull," he explained with a shrug, adjusting Kevin's new cap with a grin. Thanking the merch manager, he handed over the bag of goodies he'd grabbed and motioned for Kevin to climb onto his back.

"Thank you!" Kevin called, waving enthusiastically as he was carried out.

"Thank you, Max," y/n murmured while they walked towards reception. "But please don't get him anything else."

"I won't," he said softly. "If I overstepped—"

"No, no, it's fine. He'll wear the shirts until they're too small and he'll play with the models until they fall apart. I just don't want him to think he'll get this type of treatment all the time."

"I understand." He nodded. She didn't want her son to be spoiled. Which he found admirable. "…So giving him one of my old cars is out of the question?"

She halted, jaw dropping. "Max!"

"A joke!" he promised, flashing her a grin as he jogged ahead.

"Not funny," she scoffed behind him, and he heard her huff as she ran to catch up. "Those things cost probably a million—"

Max swung around, easily catching Kevin and swinging him back onto his back. "The car for Miami was about sixteen million."

Her eyes widened. "Sixteen—" She pressed her hands together right in front of her mouth. "Million? As in sixteen then six zeroes behind it?"

Nodding, he started walking backwards, amused at her reaction. She was staring at him in shock, and her son was giggling. "It's hard to pinpoint an exact cost, because we reuse some components from race to race. A chassis, or wings, yeah? If you really wanted to know I can pull up the data and get the price for each part—"

"No," she said, shaking her head slowly. "Please don't. I'd probably faint."

"It's an expensive sport, y/n," he reminded her.

"Yeah no shit," she muttered, exhaling harshly. "I've got so much to learn."

"You'll be fine." He'd meant it to come out in an offhand manner. A generic it's okay so feelings wouldn't be hurt. But it came out gently, laced with reassurance and promise. And, before he could stop himself, his mouth opened again. "If you have any questions you can ask me."

"I can Google," she told him.

"I can change my Wikipedia to say I'm eighty-six. Doesn't make it true," he quipped.

To his relief, she laughed. "Fair point. I'll be sure and ask you."

He turned his attention back to Kevin, swinging him from his back to his hip. Reception was empty, and he set the boy down so he could explore the various displays. "He can't hurt anything," he reassured her, knowing she was watching carefully as Kevin ran over to a wing displayed on the wall.

"I just worry," she sighed.

"Why do you sound like you're apologizing?" Folding his arms over his chest, he watched Kevin walk around the large room, drinking it all in. "You're his mother, you're supposed to worry. If you didn't you would have to apologize."

"Thank you."

"He's a good kid, y/n," he said softly.

"I think so too." He could hear the smile in her voice and turned slightly to see it on her face.

Every other time he'd been in this room the weather outside had been cloudy or rainy. He couldn't remember the sun ever shining as he'd stood there to soak in all the history. Until now. It poured through the windows, causing the trophies in the cases to sparkle and the polished floor to gleam. It shone into her eyes, and he could only stare at her as she squinted a little, a tiny dimple appearing in her left cheek.

God, she was lovely.

She glanced at him and his breathing kickstarted. Unconsciously licking his lips, he cleared his throat. "You seem to be doing well, for a single mom."

Her smile faltered and he mentally kicked himself. She looked to Kevin, who was studying the Red Bull logo on the wall, and looked at Max again. "I didn't have a choice."

"I'm sorry," he said automatically.

"Oh he's not dead." She watched her son, her smile gone. "Just dead to us."

"Then I'm sorry for bringing it up." It had ruined the day. Well, alright, not the day but the moment. They'd been having fun, he'd been having fun.

You always fuck up don't you?

His jaw clenched as the angry voice from years ago echoed in his mind.

"It's okay, Max." Her gentle voice cut through the echoes of the past and he forced his jaw to relax.

Nodding, he uncrossed his arms and called to Kevin, taking him by the hand and leading him to the towering trophy case. "Come on, y/n, time to learn some history."

She snorted on a laugh but joined them, and he could tell she was paying attention as he rattled off years and races and drivers to Kevin.

You're going to fuck this up too, the voice sneered.

[youngsadlesbian]

THREADS OF FATE | chapter 01

chapter summary: you move to north carolina at a young age, growing up with healing powers and parents who believe in fate and soulmates. as you graduate high school, you decide to pursue your dreams in new york city.

a/n: hope you like it!

word count: 2,1k

warnings: none.

The first memories you have are painted in golden light.

Sun-drenched afternoons in the rolling fields of Mexico, where the wind carried the scent of wildflowers and the earth was warm beneath your bare feet. You remember chasing butterflies with Daniela, your small hands outstretched, giggling as the tiny creatures danced just out of reach. You remember your mother’s laughter, the sound rich and melodic, as she called you both inside for dinner, her long skirts swaying as she moved. You remember your father humming a song while he carved delicate patterns into a wooden flute, pausing only to tap your nose with sawdust-covered fingers.

Life was simple then. Happy.

Your parents were not like other parents. They saw the world differently—not just in shades of black and white, but in the swirling colors of fate, destiny, and unseen forces guiding every moment. Your mother would sit with you and Daniela under the shade of the big ceiba tree in your grandmother’s backyard, weaving stories with her words as effortlessly as she wove the colorful threads of her embroidery.

"The universe speaks to us," she would say, her fingers dancing over the fabric, pulling threads through with careful precision. "Everything that happens, happens for a reason. We are all connected, you know? Like these threads. Some of us are meant to meet, to change each other’s lives. Some are meant to love, to suffer, to grow."

"Like soulmates?" Daniela would ask, her dark eyes wide with curiosity.

Your mother would smile then, nodding as if she knew some great cosmic secret. "Sí, exactly. Almas gemelas. Some people are tied together long before they ever meet. You will feel it when it happens—like something pulling you toward them, even if you don’t understand why."

You loved those stories. They made the world feel magical, full of possibility. You and Daniela would whisper about them at night, lying under thin cotton sheets, the air still heavy with the heat of the day.

"What if we already met our soulmates and just don’t know it?" you mused once, staring up at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the plaster with your eyes.

Daniela laughed. "That would be funny. Maybe it’s Mamá and Papá. Maybe soulmates aren’t just for love, but for family too."

"Maybe."

It was a comforting thought. That no matter what happened, you and Daniela were meant to be together, bound by something stronger than time.

But fate had other plans.

When you were three years old, your father received an opportunity—one he couldn’t refuse. A new job, a new life, far away from the only home you had ever known. Just like that, the golden fields and the ceiba tree and your grandmother’s house became memories, locked away in the corners of your mind.

North Carolina was different. The air smelled of pine trees instead of sun-warmed earth. The sky stretched wide, but it lacked the endless vibrancy of the Mexican sunsets you had grown up with. And the language—sharp and foreign—felt strange on your tongue.

At first, you didn’t understand why you had to leave. You cried when the plane took off, gripping Daniela’s hand so tightly that your fingers ached. But your parents, ever the dreamers, promised that this was part of the plan.

"The universe is guiding us," your mother said, her voice gentle as she stroked your hair. "We have to trust it, mi amor."

So you tried. You learned English, watching cartoons and mimicking the voices until the words didn’t feel so foreign anymore. You made friends at school, though you still clung to Spanish like a lifeline, whispering secrets to Daniela in the language that felt most like home. You adjusted.

But part of you always wondered if fate had made a mistake.

The summer you turned seven, something happened that changed everything.

It was a hot afternoon, the kind where the air felt heavy, sticking to your skin like a second layer. You and Daniela had spent most of the day outside, running through the grass, daring each other to climb the old oak tree in your backyard. It was the tallest tree you had ever seen, its thick branches stretching toward the sky like something out of a fairytale.

"Bet you can’t climb higher than me," Daniela teased, already scrambling up the rough bark.

"Watch me!" you shot back, gripping the trunk and pulling yourself up after her.

The two of you had always been fearless together, a team. If Daniela could do something, you could too. It was an unspoken rule between you.

But that day, the rule broke.

One moment, Daniela was laughing, perched on a thick branch, the wind rustling her dark hair. The next, she was slipping—her foot catching on a loose bit of bark, her arms flailing as she tumbled downward.

You screamed.

The world slowed.

She hit the ground with a sickening thud, her knee scraping against the dirt, blood welling up instantly. She gasped, eyes wide, as she clutched her leg.

"Ay, mierda, that hurts," she hissed through clenched teeth.

Panic bloomed in your chest. You dropped down beside her, hands hovering over the wound, unsure of what to do. The sight of blood made your stomach twist.

"Daniela—"

She waved you off. "It’s fine. It’s just—"

You reached out before she could finish.

And then, something impossible happened.

Warmth spread from your fingertips, a tingling sensation that sent a shiver down your spine. The cut—deep and jagged just moments before—began to close. The blood disappeared, as if rewinding time itself. Within seconds, the wound was gone.

Daniela stared at you.

You stared at your hands.

"That was so cool!" she exclaimed, her shock morphing into excitement. "Do it again!"

But you couldn’t move. Your heart pounded against your ribs, your breath shallow. What had you just done?

Your parents found out that night.

Daniela, never one to keep secrets, had rushed into the house the moment your mother called for dinner, blurting out everything before you could stop her.

Your father went still. Your mother’s hands trembled as she took yours, turning them over as if searching for some hidden mark.

"El destino," she whispered, awe and fear warring in her expression. "You were meant for something greater than you know."

After that, everything changed.

You learned to hide your powers, to keep them a secret from the world. Your parents made sure of it—explaining, in hushed voices, that people wouldn’t understand. That they would be afraid.

"The world is not always kind to those who are different," your father said one night, his voice heavy with something you couldn’t quite name.

Daniela, of course, had other ideas.

"You could be a superhero!" she whispered excitedly under the covers. "Like in the comic books! Imagine how many people you could help!"

"No one can know," you reminded her. "Papá said—"

"I know, I know." She sighed, rolling onto her back. Then, after a pause, she turned her head to look at you. "But I promise I’ll always protect you. No matter what."

You smiled, linking your pinky with hers.

"We take care of each other," you said, repeating the words that had become your shared mantra. "Always."

And for a long time, that was enough.

Until, years later, it wasn’t.

Because fate had a way of changing everything when you least expected it.

Leaving home was never easy, even when you had been preparing for it your whole life.

Growing up, your parents had always encouraged you and Daniela to dream beyond the horizon, to chase whatever destiny called to you. Education was important to them, not just as a means to a better life, but as a way to truly understand the world.

"Knowledge is the one thing no one can take from you," your father would say, tapping the side of his head with a knowing smile.

So when you got accepted into a university in New York City, it felt like fate was guiding you there.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The truth was, you needed to leave. You needed to know who you were beyond the quiet safety of your childhood home. You needed to learn what your powers meant, what you meant in the grand scheme of things.

But that didn’t make saying goodbye any easier.

The house smelled like cinnamon and burning wax, the way it always did when your mother was nervous. She had spent the entire afternoon lighting candles, muttering quiet prayers under her breath as she moved through the small kitchen, her hands gripping the rosary she had owned since she was a girl.

Daniela was sprawled on the couch, arms crossed, her expression stormy.

"I still don’t get why you have to go so far," she muttered, kicking at the old wooden coffee table between you. "There are colleges here. Good ones."

You sighed. "It’s not just about school, Dani. I need to—" You hesitated, trying to find the right words.

How could you explain the feeling that had been gnawing at you for years? The restlessness, the sense that you were meant for something more?

"I just need to," you finished lamely.

Daniela scoffed. "That’s not an answer."

"I know."

The silence stretched between you, heavy and unspoken.

Then, Daniela shifted, her expression softening just slightly. "Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Don’t forget where you come from." She reached out, squeezing your hand. "And don’t let New York turn you into some stuck-up city girl."

You laughed, nudging her with your elbow. "I’d never."

She rolled her eyes but smiled.

Later that night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, you felt a weight settle in your chest. You had spent your entire life with Daniela always within arm’s reach, your constant, your other half.

Leaving her behind felt like tearing away a part of yourself.

"We take care of each other, always."

The words echoed in your mind, but for the first time, you weren’t sure if you could keep that promise.

New York was nothing like home.

It was loud, overwhelming—a living, breathing thing that pulsed with energy at all hours of the day. The first time you stepped off the bus, dragging your single suitcase behind you, you felt like you had been dropped into a completely different world.

Back home, the stars stretched wide across the night sky, unhindered by the glare of city lights. Here, they were swallowed by towering buildings and neon signs, blinking advertisements for things you couldn’t afford. The streets smelled of exhaust, coffee, and something fried from the food carts on every corner.

It was exhilarating.

And terrifying.

Your apartment was nothing special—just a tiny dorm room shared with a girl named Mia, who greeted you with a lazy wave and a bored, "You snore, I’m kicking you out."

You liked her immediately.

Classes started the following week, and it didn’t take long for you to fall into a rhythm. Mornings were spent buried in textbooks, afternoons balancing a part-time job at a bookstore, and nights walking the city, letting the buzz of life around you settle your nerves.

For the first time in your life, you were completely on your own.

And you weren’t sure if you loved it or hated it.

The first few months passed in a blur of late-night study sessions, cheap takeout, and phone calls home that always ended with your mother telling you to eat more. Daniela texted constantly, sending you updates about home—Papá finally fixed the truck, Mamá started taking painting classes, the neighbor’s cat had kittens, why don’t you ever call me first, are you forgetting about me?

You never answered that last one.

Because no matter how much you missed home, you were changing.

New York had a way of forcing you to grow, to see the world differently. It stripped away the small comforts you had always taken for granted and pushed you into situations you never thought you’d experience.

Like the night everything changed.

It was supposed to be just another night—another shift at the bookstore, another walk back to your dorm. But fate had other plans.

And they came in the form of a god with a scepter and an army of alien soldiers.

comment below if you want to be added to my taglist!

@mythixmagic

[rafeandonlyrafe]

flashing lights

words: 2.4k

warnings: 18+ only, brief smut, p in v sex, model!reader (a bit of influencer too but primarily a model), soft rafe, marriage, pregnancy

“so thats your new girl?” topper asks, eyes on you as you twirl to the music, long legs on show in the simple black dress.

“yeah, shes here for a month on vacation.” rafes also looking at you, unable to let his gaze stray, in case a man comes up and attempts to dance with you. you may not be an official item yet, considering you only met a couple days ago, but rafe is determined to spend the entire month that you’re here with you, and not let any other men pull your focus away.

“she looks so familiar.” the voice rings out before rafe even realizes that there's other people now sat in the circle of chairs and couches, too wrapped up in you.

the girl, who rafe recognizes from high school, begins to tap on her phone. “wait, shes a model.” “yeah, she told me.” rafe shrugs it off. he could have guessed your profession anyways, with how naturally stunning you are, and your height almost rivaling his, only a few inches shorter.

“no, like really famous model.” the girl turns her phone towards rafe, and he hates having to drag his eyes away from you to look at the screen, pulled open to a google search of your name.

“holy shit!” topper says for rafe, taking the phone from the girl as he clicks the first link to open up your instagram. “she has 20 MILLION followers, rafe.”

rafe glances from the phone to you as you turn to smile at him, still dancing to the music, glad to be free of all the attention and camera flashes. its why you chose the outer banks in the first place, somewhere more tucked away to take a month away from the spotlight.

“why are you so surprised, look at her.” rafe states before standing up, tired of letting you dance alone as he joins you on the makeshift dance floor, his hands coming to your waist as you give him a dazzling smile.

-- two years later --

camera lights flash and shouts ring out, but rafe is used to it now.

he smiles and waves, shocked that anyone would care about him, a nobody from north carolina, his only claim to fame is being your boyfriend, for a little over two years now.

rafe walks inside, having enough of the screaming and crowds as he takes in the area, chairs set up along a runway, a large prada sign on the white wall. your prestige has only grown since rafe began to date you, despite coming back to the outer banks several times to take a break and visit him. since rafe began to travel with you, you’ve gone from paris to milan to new york to london, gracing the covers of magazines and walking runways.

he tries to attend every show, taking on a pseudo-management role himself. your favorite part is dressing rafe in the mornings, having received clothing from so many brands, both mens and womens fit. rafe lets you choose, knowing you have the eye for fashion, and he loves to see how happy you get when he wears your outfit.

rafe walks through the seats until he finds the one with his name on it, front row. he sits down, scrolling on his phone as people begin to file in until the room is packed full.

he waits as the show begins, models walking down the runway. they don’t shine to him, not like you do when you step out, your face blank in the typical model expression as you strut down the runway, dressed in all denim with a pair of chunky sunglasses on your nose.

rafe is in awe every time he sees you work, whether its watching your fluid poses during a photoshoot or your long legs stomping down a runway.

he waits with bated breath for your second outfit, changing into a slouchy menswear-esque ensemble, only pulled in at your waist as the fabric swishes around your ankles.

he claps when everyone steps out for the final walk, but he doesn’t cheer for the designer, even if it is prada, as he makes eye contact with you, only ever a brief glance while you're walking the runway, knowing if you look for too long you will become entranced with his handsomeness.

rafe waits for you after the show along with some of the other family members or partners of the models, long after all the celebrities have gone, either to an afterparty or on to a different show.

“hey baby.” rafe smiles when you step out, hair still slicked up in a ponytail, face caked with makeup, but now in a pair of loose jeans and a plain white crop top.

“hi handsome.” you coo, pressing your lips against rafes. “did you like the show?” “i liked you in the show.” rafe says pointedly, making you blush. “are we going to the afterparty?” “nah.” you shake your head. “i have that carolina herrera show in the morning, and i want to spend some time with you.”

“i’ll never argue against spending alone time with you.” rafe says, slotting his arm around your waist as you exit the building, surprised when photographers are still waiting outside. you wave briefly before rushing towards the car, knowing the picture of you and rafe are bound to be spread all over instagram and pinterest before you even make it back to your hotel room.

--

“rafe, i’ve got a question.” you hum, stepping out onto the balcony, eyes looking to the ocean. you’re on a paid for vacation by a makeup brand, simply wanting a couple instagram story posts using their products in a get ready with me. you are supposed to be relaxing the rest of the time, but you crept onto your phone to read the latest email from your agent.

“what is it babe?” rafe asks as he pulls you down onto his lap, scantily dressed in only his swimsuit, not that you have worn much other than a bikini this whole trip.

“what would you think about me doing a lingerie photoshoot?” you haven’t accepted any jobs that would call for you to show off a lot of skin or be paired with a male model since you started dating rafe, lucky to be in a place to reject jobs.

“who is it for?” rafe asks.

“calvin klein. i wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t them.” you admit. you find their style of black and white classic photos far more tasteful than traditional lingerie pictures.

“as long as i can be there during the shoot.” rafe says. he’s taken the role of your advocate and protector during photoshoots, easily able to read your face and speak up for you if needed, considering sometimes the models voice gets drowned out.

“of course.” you nod. 

“then absolutely.” rafe pulls you in closer to his body. “i need a new lockscreen anyways.”

you roll your eyes but can’t help the laugh that bursts out of you as you turn towards the ocean, watching the waves roll onto the sand.

--

you step out behind the curtain, a tight fitting sports bra contrasting the loose jeans, slung open and zipper undone to show off your underwear as well as the calvin klein jeans.

you look over to rafe, who has his bottom lip pulled between his teeth as his eyes skate down your bare torso.

you most over to the white backdrop as the photographer begins to test the lighting, taking occasional snaps as things are adjusted.

the photoshoot is run just like any other and you’re finished faster than expected considering they’re solo shots and no change in location or background.

you keep the underwear and jeans on, simply throwing on a sweatshirt before getting into the taxi home with rafe, this time to your new york city apartment, having collected various homes and apartments around the world, depending on wherever you were doing business at the time. you consider the outer banks home though, returning every extended break with rafe.

“did you like the shoot?” you ask when you get home, rafe laying on bed while you tug the sweatshirt and jeans off, leaving you in just the calvin klein bra and panties.

“get over here.” rafe says, not caring about your question. he’s been desperate for you since you appeared from behind the curtain, not even trying to hide it as he watched the photoshoot, your eyes occasionally moving to him, giving him reassurance you were still good.

rafe makes you keep the underwear on, simply pulling it to the side once he’s got your back against the mattress to slide his cock deep inside of you. you push the sports bra up to let your breasts free, rafes palm instantly coming to cover your tit as he thrusts into you.

“i think you should do more shoots like that.” rafe says with a moan, cock pulsing inside of you.

--

“its nice to be back home.” you sigh, quickly applying some makeup, mostly just mascara and a glowy primer. 

“agreed.” rafe kisses your shoulder, watching over your shoulder as you finish and then adjust your white dress, having decided to take a couple pictures on the beach for you to post as well as just enjoy a walk on the sand.

“alright, i’m ready.” you hum as you slip on your sandals. you lace your fingers with rafes before stepping out the back door. “you look handsome by the way.”

the suns golden light illuminates his skin. his outfit is simple, closer to what he wore before the fame. a simple white button down, loose fitting and you are sure would look delicious unbuttoned, showing off his muscles.

“thank you baby.” rafe presses a kiss to your cheek, leading you down the beach until you come across a picnic set up. you glance around before realizing its for you.

“oh my god, its just like our first date!” you gush, stepping away from rafe to look at the spread.

“before we eat, i have a question to ask you.” you turn around to realize that rafe is on one knee, a velvet jewelry box in his hand.

“oh, rafe.” you press your hand to your mouth, tears already coming to your eyes as he opens the box, revealing a sparkling diamond ring. “will you marry me?”

--

“how am i supposed to look good next to a literal model?” rafe asks as he looks towards the camera, looking almost nervous for once in his life.

“we’ve taken pictures together before rafe.” you roll your eyes, adjusting your wedding dress. it’s actually four weeks after your wedding, but you wanted to get professional photos done with your new husband and asked one of your photographer friends who was more than willing to let you into their studio if they could post some of the photos on their instagram and website.

“mirror selfies and shit, this is more serious.” rafe says as you tug him over to the backdrop.

“you look so handsome, babe. don’t worry.” you smooth your hands over his shoulders. “just think back to our wedding day, we took so many pictures then.”

“i was too distracted by how excited i was to marry you.” rafe says, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, the oscar de larenta dress you ended up deciding on being off the shoulder. it was a simple dress, but the closer you got you realized how intricate the lace detail is. “you look just like you did on our wedding day though, baby. the makeup artists did a great job.”

“just tanner.” you joke, having gone on your honeymoon already.

you look as the photographer begins to set up their lens, before you turn to whisper to rafe. “you can’t tell?” you question, pressing your hand to your stomach. you know there’s no way you’d already begin to show, considering your baby is no bigger than a seed, but that doesn’t stop you from getting worried about your pregnancy being discovered early.

“not at all.” rafe shakes his head, but can’t hide the smirk that comes to his face, knowing your tummy will soon swell with his child, having made sure of it many times on the honeymoon.

--

“i was thinking about how we could announce the baby.” you tell rafe as you pad into the kitchen. he’s still making the decaf coffee you were absolutely craving, more syrup and milk than coffee.

“how?” he hums, glancing over at you as you lean against the counter, rubbing your stomach, bump now obvious as you’re over 6 months along. you have managed to keep it a secret so far, saying you were taking a break from modeling to focus on your new marriage. there is of course a lot of speculation that you are pregnant, but it is to be expected.

“calvin klein shoot. like before, except i’ve got a big ol’ bump.” you laugh as rafe finishes you coffee off with some whip cream before sliding the mug to you. “and you can be in it too.”

rafe rolls his eyes as you giggle. “come on! the girls love you, you’re so handsome.”

“i’m not a model.” rafe argues back, but he already knows he’s going to agree, he’d do anything for you, his pregnant wife.

“yeah, but you’re hot like a model.” you shrug, taking a sip of coffee.

“i think this is just an excuse to get me shirtless and in underwear.” rafe laughs, pressing a kiss to your upper lip, cleaning off the whip cream that sat on your cupids bow.

“yeah, and what about it?”

--

“you know theres some hormone to make women forget the pain of birth?” you hum to rafe, keeping your voice soft. “because if you remembered then no one would never do it again.”

“really?” rafe whispers, his voice also hushed as to not wake the sleeping newborn cuddled up in his arms, wrapped in a soft hospital banket.

“yeah.” you nod. “but i don’t wanna forget a moment of this.”

“im sure you wont baby.” rafe kisses your head as your tiny daughter squirms in his arms, letting out a yawn in her slumber. “i suppose i need to use a different name for you now that we’ve got an actual baby.”

you giggle, resting your head against rafes shoulder as you look down on your perfect little girl, already an adorable mixture of you and rafe.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @rafecamerongirl @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld

[love-quinn]

— THREAD OF GOLD

summary — a thread of moments that defined your relationship with mike.

warnings — uh i don’t think there are? me not caring about the irl timeline of events and making up my own shit cause i can. also i switch between past and present tense like nobody's business so we're all gonna pretend we don't notice that.

pairing — mike faist x fem!famous! reader

pronouns — she/her

word count — 7.8k + social media posts

note — hi sorry i’ve been MIA i’ve been working on this for 5ever truly it came to me one day and i couldn’t write anything else. this isn’t edited because it’s nearly 8k and i’m not about that life.

important note that i tried to make it so yn’s skin tone changed in at least some of the pictures to make it more inclusive but pinterest fought me SO hard i spent maybe four hours just finding images. this is NOT meant to be a depiction of what yn looks like, just a general vibe of the images used in the thread <33

ONE. july 2017

California doesn’t have seasons the same way your hometown did. California has two seasons: wet and dry. You grew up in the suburbs of New York, in Westchester county, about an hour north of Manhattan. You went to the city a few times growing up, but you spent almost all of your upbringing on a quiet street with a cul-de-sac and a park a street away. 

You’d lived in California for a while, you were based there for most of the year, but you’d still say you lived in New York. You were lucky enough to be at a break between projects where you got to spend more than a few weeks at a time at your New York apartment. 

You’d been back maybe two weeks and knowing that you didn’t have to go back to the west coast for at least six months felt like a major weight off your chest. Finally retreating back to your cocoon, the air around you still felt thick, but this one felt more like a wall keeping things out rather than one keeping you in.

So, naturally, the first thing you did with your newfound seclusion was to venture outside with a man you’d been trying to go out with for a few months now. 

You and Mike had known each other for a little over half a year now. You’d met at a new year’s party hosted by a mutual friend of a mutual friend and you had known immediately that he was someone that you wanted to know desperately. You’d been elated that he seemed to reciprocate. Unfortunately, with your work schedules, this was the first time since January that you’d had enough time in the same state. 

He was unlike anyone that you had ever met, and now that you were in the same place, you were revelling in his presence. He’d taken you to a park near his apartment, he’d let you hold his hand on the subway and you were pretty sure that he was going to kiss you later. 

It had been a while since you’d been outside - like, properly outside, and Mike was enjoying how happy you seemed to be. While you’d been trying to organise yourselves, Mike had spent hours on the phone with you, trying to avoid sounding so disgustingly happy that he scared you off. This may have been your first real date, but Mike already knew that you were it for him. 

You were chattering about a story from your childhood, and he was really trying to listen to you, but he was focused more on the way the golden hour was hitting your face, and the way you would subconsciously squeeze his hand when you made yourself laugh.

“Yeah, since then my mom makes sure that she puts the cat treats away whenever he comes over,” you giggled. Mike let the sound fill him from the inside. He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by you dropping his hand. “I’ve needed this,” you let your head fall back to bask in the dying sunlight. “Air that I’m not sharing with Buzzfeed HQ, grass that is made in real dirt.”

“I see,” Mike nodded seriously. “You’re not even here for me, you were just waiting for a guy to take you to see some trees.”

You reach back and grip his hand, eyes sparkling directly into his. “Thank you,” you say sincerely, “for knowing your place.”

He laughed and let you drop your hand again, watching fondly as you speed off in front of him, stopping maybe fifteen feet in front of him. “Will you come with me to the emergency room when I fall out of the tree I’m about to climb.”

Mike was sure you could see exactly how much he wanted to kiss you from the look on his face. He laughed, nodding. “That’s actually the next stop I had planned anyway.”

TWO. october 2017

You couldn’t remember dolling yourself up for a date in so long, but it was clearly paying off the way that Mike hadn’t let you out of arm’s reach the entire cab ride. You hand two hands on his arm and he’d been talking in your ear the whole ride. 

You were taking him to lunch at one of your favourite places in the city, quiet, not visible from the street, with a wonderful goat cheese salad. He’d been ecstatic that you were clearly showing him parts of your life that you kept close to your chest. 

The two of you had only been together properly for about three months now, but you’d known each other for nearly a year. Mike hadn’t really dated anyone in the industry before, definitely not publicly. 

You’d mentioned to him a few of your past dating experiences before, and you had been steadfast on the fact that if you were going to have a relationship that it would be as completely private as possible. 

Mike didn’t think he’d ever hesitated less to reply - he was all in, same page. It felt simultaneously too fast and too slow. You’d been dating for three months, sure, but he’d known you since January, and it had felt like that first seven months had been confirmation that he liked you again and again and again.

Mike had been calling you his girlfriend to everyone, his friends, his family, some of his closer co-stars. But as he sat across from you at the restaurant, he realised he hadn’t actually asked. 

He valued communication, he thought he was pretty good at it. But he’d settled into such a comfortable settlement with you that it had slipped his mind entirely. You didn’t mind. You were on the same page as him. 

You referred to him to those closest to you as your boyfriend. You weren’t sitting around, desperately waiting for him to ask you to be his girlfriend, if that’s how you felt you would have asked him before you got to this point. 

The two of you were doing what you usually did, you ordered a few different things with the intention of sharing, and Mike, as usual, was way more interested in what you had picked than he had. 

You were giggling across the table at him, watching the way the breeze from the window by your table kept blowing his hair into his mouth. .”Here,” you took the scrunchie from your own hair and stood up, coming to a rest behind him. 

He tilted his head back - good for him, he could see your face; bad for you, you couldn’t grab all his hair - while you worked and after a second you’d tied his hair up out of his face. 

You moved to return to your seat, but he half-lifted himself from his chair to make sure he got to kiss you before you left. “Thank you, honey,” he said softly. Your thumb rubbed his cheek with a soft touch.

“‘s okay,” you mused, looking at him. He loved the look you got in your eyes when you were fully concentrated on his face, he wondered if he got the same look when he saw yours. “You look cute.”

“Says you,” he mumbled, looking down at your outfit. He could tell you’d put in extra effort, he wanted you to know it hadn’t been for nothing. “Y’look so pretty today, can’t believe I get to be the one here with you.”

You giggled, preening under his thoughtful gaze. You could feel your cheeks growing warmer, but you made yourself not look away from him. “Yeah?”

He turned his head and kissed the palm of your hand. “Can’t believe I haven’t asked you to be my girlfriend properly,” he sounded so positively disappointed that you couldn’t help but giggle. “Don’t laugh at me, it’s embarrassing.”

You giggled a little bit harder. “Oh, baby,” you let your thumb brush his lips, soaking in the way he kissed the pad of the finger. “Can’t be embarrassed, I didn’t even realise.” Mike hummed in question. “Don’t know,” you shuffle in place. “in my head you’ve been my boyfriend for like six months.”

“Thank god,” Mike laughed, letting his head drop. “Quick, sit down, I need to ask you to be exclusive so I can tell people that I did.”

You pause for a second before nabbing the fork on his plate, scooping up a piece of chicken before sitting back in your chair. “Go on, then, boyfriend.” You take a bite. “Get it over with, I’m hungry.”

THREE. december 2017

You were curled into Mike’s side when you got the text. You didn’t usually look at your phone when the two of you were together, but he was watching a documentary about something that didn’t interest you, while you were reading a book on your phone. 

He had his hand sitting on the back of your neck, knuckles brushing a line from the nape to the top of your shoulder. It was one of your costars from an earlier project, sending you a link.

“LMAOO not people”

It was a People magazine article, one that instantly had you rolling your eyes. Mike sensed your shift in mood and laid his palm flat on the curve of your shoulder. “Okay?”

“People says we’ve been together since…” you scrolled through the article.” “October last year,” you snickered. 

“Cant believe you didn’t tell me.” Mike let his head fall back against the sofa. “I wish,” he said as an afterthought. 

“You didn’t even know me back then,” you pointed out.

Mike leaned forward and kissed your temple. “Still,” he said, concretely no but with supreme amounts of gentleness. “I’m sure I would’ve wanted you with great desperation.”

You and Mike had gone through conversations before about revealing your relationship to the public. You had little to no intentions of doing that, especially not so soon. But you’d wanted to manage expectations.

You’d become famous young, not as young as some, you’d only been twenty when you landed your first major role. You’d done principal photography during your summer break in college, working towards getting your degree, and by the time you graduated you had two feature films and one golden globe nomination under your belt.

You’d had a college boyfriend at the time, it had ended naturally, not without pain, but not as a result of your blossoming career. The magazines had eaten it up, though, with all sorts of speculations. 

You didn’t want that again. You didn’t owe them anything. And you were so grateful that Mike seemed to share the sentiment. You were so grateful to your fans but you knew at the end of the day that they didn’t own you, which is why you were not above lying to them to keep them out of your life. 

Especially when the comments of the post were already filled with dozens of suggestions to who it could be. Not when your friends, your coworkers, or random strangers who hadn’t done anything other than be someone people thought you might like if you met them, we’re getting their personal lives dug into in order to confirm a suspicion that a stranger had about you.

Not when you were curled up in the arms of one of the kindest most charming men you’d ever known, one that you might even want to spend the rest of your life with. He definitely didn’t deserve this, and neither did you.

So, you went into your camera roll and found a selfie you’d sent to one of your friends a few days earlier. You typed up a short sentence and then hit post on your Instagram story without thinking too hard about it. 

When you showed it to Mike he smiled endearingly. “Aw man,” he mumbled, pressing his face to the crook of your neck. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell me we broke up.”

FOUR. march 2018

Days on set were long, they were often exhausting, and they were where you’d thrive.

You’d finally wrapped after thirteen hours, and the first thing you did when you got your phone out of your trailer was to text Mike. 

He was in New York still, but you guys had been speaking as often as you could. With him three hours in front of you, it often ended up in the two of you just missing each other. Mike had texted you four hours earlier while you’d been filming.

You look pretty here. 

It’s a Vanity Fair video that you filmed about a month ago with one of your costars. It was a movie about love, being in love, loving people, loving places, loving time. Your character was the main romantic love interest to the main character, and she was one of your favourite characters that you’d ever played. A young woman who finds love in her career, love in her family, and eventually begins giving it to the main character. You and your costar had become very close, and you were talking candidly to them in the video about your experience with love. 

Mike had sent you a screenshot of the video, where you’re smiling across to your costar. It had been a simple question they’d asked; have you ever been in love. 

Now, you couldn’t say blatantly, “yes, I have a boyfriend.” And you couldn’t say that for two reasons. Number one, you and Mike had been so careful to the point where you didn’t even think your fans knew that the two of you were aware of each other, let alone that his tongue had been in your mouth. 

And number two was that you hadn’t actually told Mike that you loved him. You did, god you did. You probably would have told him months ago if things were more normal. If you both worked 9 to 5s, you lived primarily in the same city, you could go on dates and pull him over to the side of the sidewalk, interrupting him mid-sentence to kiss him.

Unfortunately, you’d spent months apart, and while you spoke multiple times a day, at least through texts, it felt like not the right time.

You try to brush off your smile as you reply to him. Stop ittt you’re giving me an ego <333. In that exact moment, you know what you’d been spewing some media trained answer that avoided mentioning your partner but still felt authentic. “I’m just really glad that I spent most of my early twenties trying to find myself before trying to find someone else, I guess.”

Mike took a moment to reply. Guess you didn’t find me :( 

You giggle as you finish changing back into your own clothes out of the costume you’d just been wearing, ready to head home now that your last scene of the day had concluded. Nope! You sought me out 100% I actually have no idea who you are. 

That time the reply was instant. This is awkward then. What else is instant is the knock on your trailer door, the way you wrap your arms around him once you’d thrown open the door, and the knowledge that you’re going to tell him that you love him.

FIVE. september 2018

Mike knows that most people are more nervous to meet their girlfriend’s parents than he currently is, and ironically that actually does make him nervous. 

It wasn’t really his first time meeting them, he’d spoken to them on the phone before and he’d even texted your mom a couple of times when you’d asked him to. You’ve been his girlfriend officially for almost an entire year, but the two of you both agreed that you felt you’d been together since July of the year earlier. That was over one whole year together. Even if your parents didn’t like him - which, based off the amount that not only he’d spoken to them, but you’d talked about him, seemed almost impossible - it wasn’t going to be the be all or end all. 

But he wanted your mom’s birthday brunch (of which she was very serious about) to go well as his first official family event that he attended as your boyfriend. 

The two of you were getting ready at his place, as you do most days that you’re in New York. You spend maybe two or three months in your home state and as you and Mike are together for longer and longer, you spend as much time together as you can. Mike had not only let you spend every second you could at his apartment, he’d actively encouraged it. 

You’re wearing an outfit he’s seen on you a hundred times, standing in front of his bathroom mirror as he ducks in to grab his phone. He stops behind you, watching you apply mascara, and places both his hands on your shoulders. 

“Love you,” you say absent-mindedly, trying to focus on not stabbing yourself in the eye.

He squeezes your shoulders and kisses the back of your neck, the closest part he can reach. “Love you more. I’m ready to head out whenever you are.”

You lean back so your face is no longer just inches from the mirror. “Reservation’s at 11 so we should probably leave soon,” you say. “Give me five or so minutes.”

You let him hold your hand the entire way to the restaurant, knowing exactly how nervous he is. He’s a grown man, he knows your mom already loves him, but he appreciates that you don’t say any of this as he follows you into the restaurant.

Your mom is already there, with two seats beside her that Mike knows are reserved for you, and she leaps out of her chair at the sight of you. You greet her with a hug and a happy birthday, having let Mike hold the gift so he felt less like he was coming empty handed (you’d bought it together).  The second you’re out of her path, she’s coming for him. “Oh, it’s so lovely to finally get to meet you!” She’s gushing over him and he’s trying not to look embarrassed in front of you. 

He fits right in with your family, sitting on your left hand side while you sit pride of place beside your mom. He gets caught up in one of your mom’s friend’s conversations (“Oh I just adore Broadway, what’s it like?”) and that’s when your mom takes the opportunity to lean over and whisper over her bellini to you. 

You lean in so you can hear her without much strain. 

“I’ve never seen you look this happy.”

You beam back at her. 

SIX. november 2019

You’re thinking of selling your California apartment. 

You know it’s probably a bad idea, and that because you spend so much time in LA, it’s good to have a place to call home. But you also feel like it’s keeping you tied to the west coast. That you’re more likely to spend more time in California if you have a place there, and that’s not something that you want anymore. 

You’ve been in California for the last nine months, it’s been longer than that since you’ve seen your family, your friends, or your boyfriend. You missed your two-year anniversary because you spent the day on set and Mike wasn’t able to fly out due to his work schedule. 

You have your co-stars, people you spent months with every day that you genuinely enjoy being around - one of them you even worked with on a past project, you spend a lot of your free time with them between takes - but it’s not the same.

And now you’re done. You have over seven months until press from this movie begins and then you have to start working again. Normally, you’d stay in California while you looked for another project to latch onto, but that wasn’t what you wanted to do. 

You missed Mike, plain and simple. He was in New Jersey filming a movie, but that’s about as far away as he’d be if he was in New York. You knew of plenty of actors who didn’t live in LA and still made it work just fine, and as far as home states went, you could definitely have done worse than New York. 

“I think if it’s something you want to do you should look into it.” You’d called your boyfriend to have him either talk you into or out of it, but frustratingly all he’s done is point out that it’s your apartment and that he’d be kind of an asshole if he pushed his opinion on your assets onto you. 

“I want your opinion,” you let out a dramatic sob, sitting at your kitchen counter. Your phone is on speaker while you’re on your laptop, answering emails. 

Mike laughs, it’s crackly through the phone but you know the ins and outs, the layers of breath. “My opinion is that you should do what feels right for you, and I’ll back you up no matter what.”

“You’re annoying,” you grumble, changing tabs to instead look through your camera roll. You had a few days left to post one of your monthly photo dumps, something you much preferred to posting consistently. There was one photo that your camera roll had put in the forefront, of you at dinner with Mike and two of your mutual friends to celebrate his 27th birthday. You’d taken the photo almost eleven months earlier, and hadn’t done anything with it, but you did think you looked cute.

“I love you,” he offers instead.

You hum in response, bringing up the photo. “Is it weird if I post a photo from your birthday dinner? You’re not in it, obviously.”

He laughs at your bluntness. “Right, because why would I be in it? It’s only my birthday.”

That brings you out of it. “No, wait,” you giggle.  “Just cause I don’t want them to know that it’s your dinner, idiot.”

Mike groans. “I was gonna ask when you next are coming home but I actually don’t care anymore about it.”

“I’ll forgive you if you tell me what to do about my apartment.”

“Forgive me?”

“Fine, I love you or whatever.”

Mike laughs again, and you don’t even notice the crackles. “Or whatever.”

SEVEN. november 2019

You don’t think you’ve laughed this hard in a while. 

“I’m sorry,” she moans, leaning on your shoulder. 

You’re with one of your closest friends, sitting on your sofa, almost crying with laughter. You’d been staying with her while the sale of your California place was going down, with every intention of moving back home to New York after it was done. She’d commented on your yearly photo set, talking about a photo of you and your mom, and you’d realised exactly where people’s minds would go.

“No,” you giggle, “I was the one who decided to be messy and post the photo.” You’d posted a photo that had been taken of you and Mike when he’d come to visit you on set the year earlier. Everyone knew it was old, you’d thought it was funny, and sure you had probably revealed a little bit too much about your relationship, but Mike had thought it was funny too, so that was enough for you.

Your favourite part, though, was that not a single person had commented, tweeted, messaged you asking who he was, if he was your boyfriend, or what was happening. You hadn’t seen a single person give a fuck. 

The two of you had been sneaking around like teenagers and literally no one had cared, so Mike had allowed you to be a little messy on your Instagram feed. 

“If I’m the reason you and Mike get doxxed you can feel free to post any blackmail you have of me,” she promises. You can tell she feels awful about the possibility of having just exposed your multi-year long relationship, but if you’re honest you think it’s kind of funny. 

You wave her off. “No, I guarantee no one even cares. Worst case scenario someone asks, you just tell them you were talking about the photo of me and my mom, it’s so fine.”

The reason that you’d posted that photo now was because when it had been taken, things were definitely too new to be making hints towards it, and you would have posted a more recent picture but that was literally the only one of the two of you you could fine. 

And the best part was while all this was happening, so blatantly obvious to everyone who knew, you still got so many comments, dms - fucking interview questions - asking if you had a boyfriend, and every single time you’d either dodge it or outright say no. 

Your phone vibrated; a text from Mike. 

Rachel told me she hasn’t seen a single tweet about it and if anyone would have seen it it would be her.

yeah i run a stan account of you and haven’t put my phone down in 8 years - rachel :))))) She sends an entire row of kisses with hers. 

You’d met his costar a few times, only over the phone, and he sent you pictures of the two of them together on set often. You heart her message, giving his a thumbs up and knowing that she’d appreciate that. 

“See, it’s fine.” You show your friend. 

She breathes an audible sigh of relief. “In my defence you did post the photo.”

EIGHT. june 2020

The plan had been in the works for six months before it got derailed. Your California apartment had officially been sold, and you were set to move in to Mike’s place until you settled back in. Once things had calmed down with work for the two of you, you were going to start looking for your own place together. 

You’d ended your lease in your New York place, you had all of your stuff - not that you carted much around with you anyway - most of the furniture you had came with the place, and you’d donated or sold most of it. You had been living off of display furniture and minimal decorating, knowing that wherever it was would sit vacant most of the time anyway. This was going to be it, where you finally started building a life, and you’d be doing it with Mike. 

And then the country had gone into lockdown and, after a very lengthy conversation, the two of you had decided to relocate back to Columbus, Ohio, where he had a place for when he went to visit family.

It had been a fast move, but you’d planned for every thing that you possibly could have. Your family was safe, in New York, and you knew that was the best place for them to be. Your dad had an autoimmune disorder, so you knew that even if you were living in the city you wouldn’t be able to visit them much anyway. After three years with Mike, spending most of your relationship states away, you couldn’t let him leave without coming with him. 

So, there the two of you were. In Mike’s house in Ohio, one that was entirely familiar to him and somehow, it felt that way to you as well. Like you knew him so well that anything he knew was something you instinctively understood. 

Despite how long you’ve known Mike, how long you’ve loved him, you feel a bit like you’re taking over his space. Like when he moves something to make room for one of your trinkets that you’re minimising him in his own home.

He doesn’t let you think that for long. Sometimes you’ll come into your shared bedroom and find him rearranging his bookshelf so your books fit too, moving his Grammy to a shelf where there’s enough room for it to sit beside your awards, changing the sheets to a set that you’d picked out. 

You’ve been a successful working actor for the last eight years now, for almost five of them you’ve forgotten what it’s like to go outside and not worry that you’re going to be spotted. 

Sure, when you go outside now, you’re masked and there’s less people outside to recognise you. But to the people you do run into, you’re not an actor to them, not a celebrity, not anything. You’re Mike’s girlfriend. 

You can understand how that’s frustrating, you are your own person, but after three years of being together but constantly apart, you’re okay with your neighbours knowing you simply as Mike’s girlfriend. 

Now that you’re always in the house your screentime goes way down, you don’t need to text him anymore. All of the things that had you stressed and anxious to leave the house for have changed. And of course the state of the world is by no means good, but if everything is going to be happening anyway, you’re glad that you’re able to be with him during it. 

NINE. october 2020

You had become a bit of a homebody in the 9 months that you’d been living in Ohio. You only ever left the house when Mike did, and you didn’t go with him every time. Mike can tell it’s starting to wear on you a little bit. 

So, in an effort to pick yourself up a bit more, you’ve started doing all the grocery shopping. You and Mike make a list together so as to not give you all the mental load with it, but you walk down the few blocks to the small general store.

It’s convenient, a nice place, with a pharmacy attached to one side and a bakery on the other. Sometimes you take Austin and the girl who works at the bakery puts a bowl down for him while you go in and get your medication.

Sometimes you drive, when you have the aching exhaustion that only comes with being sad for hours on end, or when it’s raining, but the fresh air and just the act of being outside was usually enough to make you feel better.

It was late, and the pharmacy was closing soon when you realise you’d forgotten to pick up your medication, so it’s a no brainer that you’ll zip down and grab it while Mike makes dinner. 

You’ve slowly started setting down roots here, the shop assistants know your name and your prescription, they know you and Mike have officially moved into the mostly vacant house a few streets away, and they know that you seem like you’re maybe not always doing the best, because they’re always extra kind to you when you need it.

You like the domesticity. Sitting on the kitchen counter while goes through the fridge, telling you what to write down. Walking his dog - Austin absolutely loves you, which Mike did tell you is normal for most people - or holding his hand with his spare one on the leash. 

You’ve been really tired lately, and despite the fact that it’s meant to be your time to be by yourself and get fresh air, you find yourself in the kitchen, arms around your boyfriend’s waist. “Please?” You ask. 

Mike’s stirring something cheesy on the stove. You can smell it behind the wall of his cologne, the smell of wood and cinnamon. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he laughs and you feel the vibrations where your cheek is pressed to his back. “It’ll be cold by the time we get back.”

Your voice is small, and he knows he has zero intention of actually saying no to you, but he’s wondering if you’ll change your mind given a little bit of coaxing. 

“We have a microwave.” He wouldn’t be able to hear you if you weren’t so close to him. 

He loves you, and he’s also not blind. He can see you’re struggling. He likes to think he knows exactly when to give you space, and when you need him there. He puts the spoon down on the cutting board he has beside the stove and turns off the gas. “Okay,” he says comfortingly. 

You brighten, and he feels you stand up straighter. “You’ll come with me.”

Mike doesn’t even pretend to think about it this time. “Of course I will.”

TEN. february 2021

Press was finally happening for your project that you had filmed all the way back towards the end of 2019, and with that came your first ever zoom interview. It was a bit awkward, you’d never really liked doing press much face to face but now online it was worse. 

You and Mike had both found it a bit weird. He’d done a bit more of it in 2020 than you had, so you’d asked if he’d be in the room where possible to help ease your nerves. 

You were in your bedroom, set up at the designated Work Spot. You and Mike had made an agreement, no work was to be done outside of the Work Spot. It was the only thing that stopped it bleeding into your everyday life, especially now that you were working from home. 

Mike was out of frame so you could still see him, sitting in the corner reading a book. He’d glance up at you every single time you looked at him, like he could feel that you needed him. 

Things were going well, it wasn’t a standard interview with an interviewer, but rather you’d been given a list of questions that the group of you took turns asking the others and then answering yourself. 

There was a bit there where you knew you had a note written down about something important, but you’d written it on Mike’s phone. It was the only one near you at the time, and you were actively regretting it now.

You muted yourself on your computer and tried to subtly gesture for him. He notices you immediately and comes to stand right beside him. 

“Can I grab your phone really quick?” He hands it over.

“You okay?” He asks, wary of the camera he’s standing just outside of frame of. 

You unlock his phone and open up his notes app, trying to find what you’re doing. Mike didn’t have a phone case until you met him, but you’d cajoled him into a clear on“Did you…” you hum. “Did you move my note?”

You handed Mike back his phone and told him what he’s looking for and he scrolled for a second. “No?” He frowned. “Uh…” he bites his lip. “Oh wait, I cleared out a bunch of stuff hang on.”

You can hear everyone else, so you know no one has clocked your absence yet. “Found it,” he hands you back his phone and pulls up the one. “This one?”

“Love you,” you say in lieu of an answer. He gives you a look that makes a smile worm its way onto your face. 

Mike goes to sit back down as you skim through your note, ready to have your talking points ready. “Love you,” he calls back. 

When it’s eventually your turn to answer, you turn your microphone back on like nothing ever happened. And your costars, who all knew everything were was to know about exactly who you’d been talking to, all kept their mouths shut too. 

ELEVEN. august 2021

The material of your dress was scratching his skin, but Mike couldn’t seem to mind when you were so deliriously happy. In one hand you had a glass of champagne and in the other a beautiful bouquet of flowers that you’d snatched from the air after it had left the hands of your childhood best friend. 

People had been giving him knowing looks about it since then, upturned smirks and elbows to his ribcage. Mike laughed it off. The two of you were good, and he knew that you weren’t the type of girl to expect a proposal just because she caught the bouquet. 

Over the course of the night he had stood by, chatting idly with another group of plus ones. He’d met your best friend countless times, but there was no denying that he would not have been invited if he hadn’t been with you for the last four years. He was just happy that you seemed to be having a good time. 

Eventually, you staggered over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You weren’t drunk, didn’t need to be, you were simply so elated to not only be able to leave the house without feeling anxious but also to be able to celebrate your best friend getting married. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” He chuckled, your nose pressed to his adam’s apple. 

You hummed. “Yeah. Tired. Happy. Miss you,”

He ran his hand along the back of your dress, cringing at the material. “‘M right here.” 

The night was winding down, it was out in a big greenspace that they’d rented, the sun had well and truly set. You were basking in the glow of the massive outdoor lamps they’d set up, and they bathed you in a golden hue. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” you said genuinely. “I’m really happy.”

You were swaying on the spot slightly to the faded jazz playing in the background, and he let his arms envelope you, pulling you impossibly close to him. “Of course, baby,” he’s beaming wide, his voice low and soft. You can hear how happy he is.

It’s your first time being back in New York since you left, your longest stretch away from your home state in your whole life. The two of you have started looking for work again now that things are starting to open up. Mike’s riding the high of his West Side Story performance, he’s been getting offers since it came out. He hasn’t taken any of them, though, instead focusing on smaller things that he likes more. The TV show he’d spent a while filming in Texas had been cancelled, which was a shame because you really enjoyed watching TikTok edits of him in that. 

Instead, he’d been waving off scripts his agents sent him. He’d been asked to do a screen test in a movie in the UK, but he didn’t seem to interested in it. The most interesting thing about it was that his screen test was apparently with Zendaya, so you’d encouraged him to go just to meet her. 

Things are picking up again. Your agent’s sending you offers and auditions and after two years of not being on set you’re itching to get back.

But, getting back meant going back. 

You’d settled in Columbus. You didn’t want to leave, but you and Mike both knew that you’d have to go back to New York. 

It was something that you’d been talking about for a while, getting another place in New York. You’re fortunate enough that it’s something you’re able to afford, and it seems like a good idea. It doesn’t need to be discussed tonight, though. 

Instead, you ask him quietly, “Are we ever gonna get married?”

Mike mused, “Do you want to?”

You’re playing with the longer strands of hair on the back of his neck. “I think I might. With you.”

“Yeah?” He asks. He feels so warm inside there’s glee practically pouring from him. 

“Not right now, though,” you admit. “I think I want more of a career before I’m willing to become known as someone’s wife.” Mike knows exactly what you mean, and that even though you eventually want to be his wife, that regardless of what you’ve accomplished, from that moment on there will be people who know you exclusively as ‘Mike Faist’s wife.’ At this point in time, you’re not even known as his girlfriend, a fact that the two of you enjoy. 

“You just let me know,” he hums. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

You’ve been together almost four and a half years now and still no one knows. You don’t really need people to. 

You kiss his jaw and reach down to take off your heels, complaining about your feet. He takes them from you and watches as you make your way back towards your friends. He knows he’s going to ask you one day, and he knows you’ll say yes. The two of you know just how much you love each other. You don’t need anyone else to just yet. 

TWELVE. november 2021

So, a new arrangement has been reached. You n’t living in New York permanently but you have a lease on a place together. You’re back to doing live press, with the movie finally being shown in theatres. To be completely honest, you’re pretty much done with press on this movie. When you were cast in it three years ago, you didn’t expect that you would still be doing it. 

Mike is sympathetic but amused. They haven’t organised the screen test for that one movie yet but that’s because the director was working on another project and the one Mike had been scouted for had been pushed back for a short period. 

Sometimes companies will send you a car to come to your interview, but you take the subway home. Mike comes with you most times, more than happy to come tag along and sit in a room with your stuff and bring you your water bottle between shoots. 

“Thank you, baby,” you tell him genuinely the fourth time he does it. He kisses your forehead. “You didn’t have to come with me, I appreciate you.”

He hums as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. “I need to earn my keep somehow, I’ve been your stay at home boyfriend for like two years.”

You giggle around the straw of your water bottle, softening at the way he reaches to take it from you. “And your services have been appreciated and they will be missed when you inevitably book again.”

It’s not something that you expect to be so comforted by. The knowledge that wherever you’re living - Ohio, New York, California, wherever, even if you’re in different states - that you just love being around him. No matter how much time he spends with you, he doesn’t get sick of you, you don’t get sick of him. 

You’re infinitely happier when he’s within arms reach than when he’s not. 

“Only book I care about is the one I’m reading over there,” he leans in to kiss you briefly. The director of the shoot gives out the five minute warning to roll into the next section, Mike takes your phone and water bottle and heads back to his corner. 

It’s almost comedic, the way that the producer immediately starts the next section with asking you “Do you have a celebrity crush?”

You have to make a conscious effort to not look over at Mike, even though you know he’s watching you. 

“Uh,” you laugh awkwardly, “I don’t really have one.”

Your coworkers’ faces are stone, and you don’t know if that make you want to laugh more or not. You keep your eyes directed straight at the barrel of the camera and you know everyone’s going to see how uncomfortable you are. 

“I guess having one when…” you struggle to find the right words, “when you are where I am in life, is just kind of weird,” you laugh again. “It feels wrong, I don’t know.”

You finally let your gaze land on your boyfriend. He’s smiling at you, and you calm immediately knowing that even once you’re out of this building, back on the train to your one bedroom, your hand in his, sharing earbuds, he’ll be there. 

THIRTEEN. april 2022

“Tell me again, what she said,” your feet are in Mike’s lap. You have people over, and you can’t imagine being happier. Your apartment is bustling, a charcuterie board that you are very proud of on the kitchen counter. You still have New Years decorations up, and there’s music playing. Mike got back from his screen test a week ago, and you’re revelling in his presence again. 

Mike takes a sip of his drink and moves so he’s resting his arm on your calf. You have a few of your friends sitting on the sofas around you, hanging on to every word. “She told me to tell you-”

You interrupt him, too excited “She brought me up!” You giggle over your champagne. 

Mike giggles, the side of his mouth pinching up with his smile. “Zendaya wanted me to tell you that she had just seen your most recent movie, and that she thought you were really good in it.”

You flail back so you’re resting on the arm of a friend. “Zendaya knows my name.”

One of your friends puts his drink down on the coffee table. “Don’t you guys have a Grammy in your bedroom, why are you surprised by this?”

“It’s not mine,” you roll your eyes, tipsy off the champagne and drunk on the party. “I would never take credit for my wonderful boyfriend’s accomplishment.”

“She’s taken so many selfies with it,” the friend you’re leaning on chimes in. 

Mike laughs and almost as if by magnet you’re trying to get closer to him. Your head comes up beside his, resting on the wall behind the couch, his hand on the back of your neck. 

You don’t even know what you’re celebrating. Just being able to have people over, having a space to have them in. Having someone you’d want to host a party with. 

“Okay, and?” you shoot back. “You’ve taken selfies with me.”

He’s kissed the hollow of your collarbone, his hair, getting longer now, tickling your neck. You love him so much, you’re surprised there’s enough room in the apartment for all your guests with how much space it’s taking up. 

The apartment itself is obviously a new development in your life, but the area isn’t. Just two streets over is the apartment you were living in when you met Mike. Barely furnished, not decorated, not lived in. 

A place so physically close to the room you’re sitting in with a group of people you love more than life, but that couldn’t have possibly been further away. Now you have family pictures on the wall, you have his toothbrush right beside yours. You have a ticket to the show of Dear Evan Hansen you went and saw right when you two got together, sitting front row in the audience and marveling in the fact that the man onstage liked you, pride of place in your clear phone case. He has a ticket stub from that time a theatre in Columbus was playing a rerun of your feature film debut and he’d dragged you with him to go see it wedged in his. You have a delicate chain around your neck with an M on it so well hidden it might as well be lost to legend, he has your first initial hanging on his keychain.

It’s been five years, three lived-in states, several hundred shared meals, and an apartment just two streets away, but as you laugh at a story someone is telling, your cheek pressed against Mike’s, you’ve never felt closer to home.

[careyakane]

A fragment from my journal entry recounting December 31st 2024

That was the most wondrous of trips. Leaving Los Angeles at 10:30 AM, atop a cliff wrapped by the rising Big Sur tide for the final sunset of the year by 4:30 PM. Then to the dimly lit Big Sur Inn, with its worn fabric hanging from oak beams and vases of dried flowers cluttering old vanities and desks. Stained glass lamps hummed as we ate brown bread and chickpea soup off white tablecloths, exchanging words with a kind waitress with bright, wiry eyes.

It was well past 8 PM when we were denied entry to the Fernwood New Year’s Eve party, the only event within 50 miles. We settled down, unbothered, on a nice bench and watched the townies walk easily past the smiling face that had just scowled at us moments earlier when we informed her we did not, in fact, have tickets. A hot tea spewing up steam filled my hand as my eyes glowed, reflecting a 50-foot cedar tree dressed with warm string lights and colorful bulbs undisturbed since Christmas.

Encounter after encounter with the strangest of folks ensued: “Joe Mann,” with his paint-stained Carhartt and some rather funny joke I’ve forgotten, and then there was Nico the chef—pupils wide and red, his hands flying about him in slow motion as he threw a plastic bag containing a single mushroom at us and angrily insisted we take it and “GO DOWN TO THE CREEK AND GET OUT OF HERE.” Everyone knew him, but they always sped up while passing, careful not to get trapped as Kii and I were now in his drunken rambling.

Just as the California clock struck 10 PM, a family 15 members long with cowbells came announcing the New Year as the ball dropped three thousand miles east in New York City. The strange thing was that they were an hour late in their celebrations, but I held my tongue and smiled. An hour passed, and many things happened. The party ended, and it felt time to leave the bench. We drove north toward Monterey and turned right up Palo Colorado Road. We slept at its crown, a place called The Hoist, where the road only continues past locked iron gates. I’d been up there once when I stayed with Charlie the goat farmer—his old truck winding up snake-like dirt roads with holes four feet deep and thousand-year-old redwoods, straight and mighty, blocking out the moon and sun alike.

Kii and I, too tired to undress, covered up in a quilt, reclined our seats, and quickly found sleep. But the sleep was thin and short-lived. I awoke in a pale, milky darkness from the stars that seemed so close at this elevation that one might reach out and pocket a few for further inspection. A new year was upon us, but I felt unsettled and watched. I realized just a moment later how quiet it was—my window was open a crack, and not a wisp of wind; the stream far below sat mute, the trees creaked no more—and still I felt seen. My mind went to terrible places as I pictured mutilated mountain people cutting my brake lines and pulling us with three-fingered hands from the car to God knows where.

I whispered to Kii, and he answered immediately in an alert and fearful voice, echoing similar concerns. I didn’t waste a minute starting that car, and only once I had descended the four miles of redwood and broke through the cypress grove that reveals the ocean and Highway 1 did I take a breath and laugh a little at the whole situation.

We began north again and stopped a moment to turn our heads up in awe. The breaking sea filled my ears and comforted me as we pulled over to a regular spot of mine just past the Carmel border. Two other cars sat dark with sleeping silhouettes in the pullout, and I killed my headlights to join them.

Coming from the great quiet of Palo Colorado to this concoction of waves and passing cars, I found relief in the commotion and movement of the world. I woke often but never fearful. I was just as I had done so often as a boy… waiting for the first signs of light to break through the treeline, which back then was my agreed-upon permission with my father to leave my room and begin my adventures.

Now it would mean waking Kii and setting off for Santa Cruz, and past that, to San Francisco.

I waited in eternity—every minute stretched and melting together—but finally the show began, and from black to grey to blue the sky flashed, and an instant later the sun broke the unseen horizon and her gold rays showered over us and over our new year.

[perotovar]

before a mirror — drabble

moodboard by @yopossum

pairing: jack daniels/marcus pike rating: PG content: fluff, jack and his never ending list of petnames, flirting, general cuteness word count: 626 dividers: @saradika-graphics beta: @qveerthe0ry (ily)

a/n: written for @yopossum 's mootboard and minifics celebration!! thank you for letting me be a part of it and congrats, honey ♥

masterlist | follow @oakslibrary and turn on notifs ♥

New York was like a second home to Jack.

The first would always be Kentucky, where his mama made the best pecan pie, and where he first learned to ride a horse. It’s also where Statesman headquarters is, but Jack wasn’t so lucky to be there. He’d been stationed at the New York office for years now and had gotten used to the unsavory sounds and people.

But New York had a lot of good things as well.

For one, not that Jack would ever admit it out loud, New York had a lot of amazing museums. He had a soft spot for the paintings, and when he had quiet moment, he’d pop over to a museum nearby to take a walk.

Jack’s favorite painting was of a nude woman, standing in front of a mirror. He didn’t know the meaning behind it or what it was meant to depict, but it spoke to him. The colors were both rich and warm as well as cool and standoffish.

“Woman before a Mirror by Toulouse-Lautrec, 1897,” a smooth voice hummed next to him. Jack turned toward the man, an easy smirk creeping onto his face as he recognized who it was. “Post-Impressionism.”

“Swear, y’must be an encyclopedia of art, Pike,” Jack chuckled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the tight denim he wore.

Marcus rolled his eyes and snorted. “It’s literally my job,” he shrugged.

“Details.”

The two had met a few times. Marcus’ job often led him up north to take care of a few cases and Jack didn’t get a chance to go out into the field much anymore. Not unless something big happened or came up.

“Which street food catch yer fancy this time?”

“There’s a really good hot dog stand down the street, might go there after this.”

“And what’s this today, sugar sweet?” Jack smiled. He hadn’t looked away from the painting yet, not until it took Marcus a second to answer. That was something he really appreciate about Marcus Pike. He always made sure he said exactly what he was thinking. He was very focused, to the point. Jack wished he could be a little more like that sometimes.

When he turned his head toward Marcus, his breath caught in his throat a little. It always shocked him to see Marcus up close like this; he had such a striking profile and intense, but sweet eyes.

“Just taking a walk, actually. I’m on my lunch,” Marcus grinned.

“No kiddin’? So am I.”

“I know. You always come here around this time.”

“You keepin’ tabs on me, Pike?” Jack smirked.

Marcus shrugged, smiled, and didn’t answer, looking back at the painting. “And if I am?”

Normally, this would raise suspicion for Jack, but given Marcus’ line of work he knew he didn’t have anything to worry about. Statesman had every law enforcement officer’s information, including their undercover identities, so he knew Marcus Pike was cleaner than clean.

“Well, angel eyes, I think I’d ask ya what ya had planned, then.”

“Come with me. I’ll get you one of those hot dogs,” Marcus winked, turning toward Jack and looking him over. Jack felt a chill run down his spine.

He looked back at the painting and took it in one more time. The colors and the mood washed over him, briefly taking him to a time period he’d never known. He wondered what Marcus saw when he looked at this painting. He’ll have to ask him sometime.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirtin’ with me, Pike,” Jack hummed. He watched as Marcus walked toward the entrance of the exhibit and back out into the main hall.

Marcus looked at the cowboy over his shoulder and grinned. “And if I am?”

[flixpii]

Chapter 1

link to ao3 !

word count : 4.7k

tags : @endofradio

--

August, 1909

The porch had grown old with them.

The paint was peeling in long, curled strips like sunburnt skin, and the wood beneath had turned silver-gray with age and summer storms. But the cane rockers still creaked the same. The breeze still carried the smell of salt from the marsh, of sweet honeysuckle and crushed pine needles. And the crows still nested in the cypress trees, just past the fields, squawking like old gossips whenever the wind changed.

Ella-Mae sat on the swing her daddy built the year before he died, one leg tucked up under her skirt, the other pushing against the floorboards in a lazy rhythm. A book rested open in her lap, thumb holding her place, though her eyes hadn’t left the same page in near ten minutes. She was singin’ soft under her breath—an old hymn twisted into something slower, almost mournful, the kind of song you hummed while plaitin’ your hair or scrubbin’ the washboard with your hands deep in lye water.

It was near dusk now. The heat of the day had broken, though the air still hung heavy, full of ghosts and dust and the sound of the river far off. Crickets had begun to chirp, their tune blendin’ into her voice. She didn’t notice. Or rather—she didn’t care. It was a ritual, and rituals had power in Louisiana.

“Though I walk through the valley… o’ the shadow o’ death…” she sang, real low. “I shall not fear… no evil…”

The screen door behind her slammed open.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t stop singin’. Just turned the page slow, eyes flickin’ over the same line for the fifth time.

Paul.

She knew the sound of his boots before he appeared, the sharp clap of heel on wood, the anxious staccato of it, back and forth, back and forth. She glanced up, just briefly. He was barefoot, as always, but still moved like he was wearin’ a preacher’s shoes—fast, hard, full of intent. The Bible in his hands was one of their daddy’s, bound in cracked black leather and so worn it looked like it had bled its words onto his palms.

He was mutterin’ to himself. Psalms, maybe. Or Revelations. It was always one of the two.

Mae didn’t pay him no mind. She just swayed, hummed, and read.

This was normal.

Paul paced when the light started changin’. When the shadows got long and the trees whispered. When the wind picked up just so, and the birds flew in crooked patterns. He was twenty-five now, tall and hollow-looking, all limbs and eyes. Mama still made him wear a jacket to Sunday service, but out here, on the porch, he looked like somethin’ the Lord forgot to finish—shirt half-untucked, sleeves rolled, collar open, hair frizzy.

“Mmm,” he muttered, flippin’ through the Bible like it was speakin’ straight to him. “They see not, nor know… that they may be ashamed… He feedeth on ashes… a deceived heart hath turned him aside…”

Mae turned another page, thumb draggin’ across the paper.

“Paul,” she said lightly, “you gon’ wear a hole in that porch.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. Just walked back the other way, brows drawn so tight it looked like his whole face was clenched.

The swing creaked as she pushed off again. Her song shifted—turned to a melody her mama used to hum while shellin’ peas. Gentle. Round. Unfinished.

The world felt on edge lately. Like it was holdin’ its breath.

Louis had been gone more and more—disappearin’ into the Quarter with his polished boots and tired eyes. Grace was talkin’ about movin’ north, about New York, about teachin’ or marryin’ Levi or both. And Paul… well, Paul was pacin’ the porch like he knew somethin’ the rest of them didn’t. Like Judgment Day was comin’ and he’d already read the final verse.

Mae tried not to think on it too much.

She turned the page again, though her eyes hadn’t followed the words for near a half hour.

“I seen the angel,” Paul said suddenly, voice sharp enough to cut through the air. His bare feet stopped with a slam on the floorboards.

Mae looked up slow.

He was standin’ right at the edge of the porch, starin’ into the treeline.

“What angel, Paul?”

He pointed with a shaky hand. “Over there.”

Mae’s eyes followed. Nothin’ but trees, thick and dark, a curtain of green and gold in the last bit of light.

“You see somethin’?” she asked, not mockin’, not really. Just… cautious.

Paul turned to her then, eyes wide and wild with somethin’ that lived beneath the skin.

“It was made of light,” he said, voice low. “Big wings. Not like pictures. And its face…” He trailed off. Swallowed hard. “It didn’t have no face.”

Mae held his gaze for a moment, then looked back at her book.

“You didn’t eat nothin’ today, did you?”

He didn’t answer.

She sighed and swung again, slow. “Well, you ain’t gon’ see nothin’ real with a belly full o’ air.”

“I know what I saw,” he muttered.

“I know you think you know what you saw.”

They sat in silence after that, if you could call it silence. The wind whispered in the sugarcane. Crickets called. The crows let out their low, scratchy caws. Paul kept mutterin’ under his breath, clingin’ to his Bible like it could save him from somethin’ the rest of them hadn’t seen comin’.

Mae just rocked.

Paul’s pacing didn’t stop. If anything, it grew sharper. More ragged. Each step thudded against the wood like a heartbeat that couldn’t find its rhythm.

“Their idols are silver and gold,” he murmured, eyes darting to the treetops, “the work of men’s hands. They have mouths, but they speak not: eyes have they, but they see not…”

Mae didn’t look up from her book. She didn’t need to. She could feel his movements like vibrations through the porch boards—back and forth, back and forth, like the tide comin’ in and forgettin’ how to leave.

She watched a dragonfly flit lazily past her face. Listened to the creak of the porch swing. Took in the rising scent of rain on dirt, though the sky was still blue and wide above them.

And then, with a breath that sounded like a memory, she began to hum.

It was soft. Barely there.

An old melody. No words. Just tune.

The kind of tune Mama used to sing when the boys got too rowdy, when Paul’s eyes got too wild. When the world felt too loud for its own good.

She remembered sittin’ by the washbin, watchin’ her mama’s hands scrub a shirt that once belonged to their daddy, and that hum had drifted over the yard like incense, like comfort. Like honey syrup on a burn.

Now, she brought it back.

The notes hung in the air between them, warm and low, smooth like molasses on the tongue. Paul’s pacing didn’t stop at first—but it slowed. Gradually. One foot draggin’ behind the other. He glanced down at his Bible, then back to the trees, and back again, like maybe he was tryin’ to hold onto what he saw there. But the sound… it worked on him.

Mae didn’t look at him. Didn’t smile. Just kept hummin’, eyes on the pages of her book, her fingers holdin’ the spine loose now.

Paul’s feet moved one more time. Then again. This time toward her.

He sat slow—like someone sittin’ in a pew too early, not sure if he should stay. His shoulders still twitched like a thing not yet settled, but he didn’t speak. Just leaned back against the bench beside her and stared out toward the woods.

Mae kept hummin’. A little quieter now.

Paul’s breathing eased, and for a moment, the world held still.

“She got a good voice,” he said, all of a sudden, his tone caught between a memory and a warning.

Mae’s lips paused, the tune hangin’ in the air unfinished.

She didn’t look at him, but her body stilled in that way people do when they know what’s comin’.

“Daddy said that,” Paul continued. “Said you had a God-given voice, Mae. That you was meant to use it.”

Mae exhaled quiet through her nose. Closed her book with a gentle thump.

“I remember,” she said.

“He said—he said it was like hearin’ the Lord whisper in the wind when you sang.”

Mae sat up straighter, eyes on the horizon now. The sun had dipped low enough to cast everything in amber. Paul’s shadow stretched long beside hers.

“You should sing at church,” he said, voice firmer now, like it was more command than suggestion. “Sunday comin’. Brother Henry always sayin’ they need strong voices. Righteous ones. Women who ain’t afraid to raise their song to Heaven.”

Mae turned her head and gave him a look, soft but tired.

“Paul…”

“You could do it,” he went on, clutchin’ his Bible tighter. “Bring folks to tears. Make ’em feel the Spirit. Daddy—Daddy said—”

“I know what he said,” she interrupted gently. “I ain’t forgotten.”

Paul’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but Mae was already rising to her feet, book in hand. She brushed the folds of her skirt and reached for the small satchel she kept near the door.

“I’m goin’ into town.”

Paul blinked. “Now?”

Mae nodded, tightening the bag strap over her shoulder. “Miss Evangeline promised to set aside some of that indigo thread I need, and I aim to get it before the store closes.”

“You always runnin’ off,” he muttered.

“’Cause you always tryin’ to rope me into somethin’,” she said, not unkindly. “And I don’t need the whole church watchin’ me like I’m the second comin’. I ain’t got the stomach for all that attention.”

“You got the voice for it.”

Mae paused, turned to look at him once more.

“Maybe. But that don’t mean I want to use it like you think I should.”

Paul looked away, brows knit. He didn’t argue this time. Just stared at the porch floor like it had sinned somehow.

Mae stepped down the steps slow, her boots thuddin’ soft against the earth.

“Save me a seat at supper,” she called over her shoulder. “Tell Momma I’ll be back ‘fore dark.”

Paul didn’t respond.

The road into town was well-worn, trodden daily by feet, hooves, and the steady roll of wooden cart wheels. Mae walked it often—though never in a rush, never like her sister Grace, who clutched her skirt and held her chin high like the whole town might turn to cinder if she didn’t get where she was goin’. Mae took her time.

The sky above had shifted into its late-evenin’ colors, all rose-tinted clouds and slippin’ sunlight. The locusts sang loud now, drownin’ out the softer sounds of town as it came into view. Houses gave way to shops and lamp posts, and wooden porches were dotted with folks leanin’ back in chairs, fans wavin’ slow over sun-warmed cheeks.

“Evenin’, Miss de Pointe du Lac,” called old Mr. Henri, from behind his newspaper at the barber shop window.

Mae tipped her chin with a soft smile. “Evenin’, Mr. Henri.”

“Tell your mama that peach pie she sent last week didn’t last but ten minutes in my house.”

“I’ll tell her,” she said with a laugh. “Though she’ll act like she’s surprised.”

She passed by Miss Odette’s sewing shop—still open, windows wide and perfumed with lavender sachets and new cotton. A few children skipped past her with a stick and hoop, gigglin’ like joy had no cost.

Mae slowed when she reached the front of the clothing store, the bell above the door janglin’ as she stepped inside.

It was quiet and cool in there. The smell of starch and pine soap clung to the air. Bolts of fabric stood tall against the walls, bright as a garden in bloom—sunflower yellow, deep cranberry, faded lilac. But Mae walked straight to the counter, where Miss Evangeline stood with her silver hair in its usual braided crown, adjusting spectacles as she squinted over her mending.

“You’re right on time, darlin’,” Miss Evangeline said without lookin’ up. “Got your indigo thread wrapped and waitin’ for you in the back.”

“I do appreciate it,” Mae said softly, resting her hands on the worn wood counter.

Miss Evangeline disappeared into the back for a moment and returned with a small bundle tied in twine. “Same shade you liked last time. Hard to come by, these days.”

Mae untied her coin purse from her belt and placed two small coins on the counter. “That should be more than enough.”

“It is,” the older woman said with a slight grin, “but you’ll take the rest home for your mama’s next quilt.”

Mae smiled. “She’ll be pleased to hear that.”

She tucked the bundle into her bag, thanked Miss Evangeline, and stepped back into the sun-drenched street, which was now startin’ to wear its shadows like a shawl.

Her next stop was down past the apothecary—just beyond the church bells that chimed on the half-hour—a little grocery shop with baskets of peppers out front, and a large hand-painted sign that read “M. Toussaint’s General.”

She was almost there, boots clickin’ steady against the stones, when an arm swung low and easy over her shoulder.

She didn’t flinch—just slowed and turned her head to the side, already knowin’ by the smell of cedar smoke and bay leaf who it was.

“Well, look who’s drifted back into town,” came the voice, smooth as molasses and just as warm. “You finally get tired of hidin’ out on that porch?”

Mae turned to face him, brows liftin’ just enough to show her amusement. “Ain’t nobody hidin’. I came for thread.”

The boy beside her—though he wasn’t quite a boy anymore—grinned like he’d won somethin’. Tall, lean, with hands too big for his pockets and a curl of hair that never did behave. He wore his suspenders slung loose and had a small scar above his lip from where he’d fallen off his uncle’s cart two summers back.

“Thread?” he repeated, teasing. “That the truth or just what you tellin’ folks to cover up your wanderin’?”

“I got no need to cover nothin’,” she said lightly, shrugging his arm off but not stepping away. “I go where I please.”

“And yet, somehow, where you please always seems to cross right into my path,” he said, mock thoughtful. “Funny how that works.”

“Funny,” she said dryly, though her mouth tugged into a small, secret smile.

They’d been flirtin’ like this for two years now—never noticin’ at first, and then not knowin’ how to stop. Isaiah wasn’t the loudest boy in town, but he had a way of leanin’ close when he talked that made it hard to focus on anythin’ else. And Mae, for all her quiet ways, wasn’t immune to bein’ noticed.

“What’re you doin’ out this late?” she asked, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “Ain’t you s’posed to be helpin’ your uncle at the smokehouse?”

He shrugged, grinning. “Closed early. Too hot to stand over coals all day.”

“You look like you’ve been standin’ over ’em anyway,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the smell of smoke in his shirt.

“Mm-hmm. And yet, you ain’t runnin’ from me.”

Mae rolled her eyes, but her pace slowed again, allowin’ him to fall into step beside her. He didn’t ask where she was goin’. He just walked like he had every right to.

“I’m gettin’ peppers for supper,” she offered.

Isaiah smiled. “Well, now I just might have to walk you there. Make sure you don’t go disappearin’ on me.”

Mae glanced sideways at him, her expression unreadable for a moment.

“You always talk this much?”

He looked thoughtful. “Only when I’m nervous.”

Mae raised a brow.

He laughed. “And only around girls with voices like songs that don’t end.”

Mae’s face flushed before she could stop it, and she quickly looked ahead toward the market.

“Keep talkin’ like that and I’ll have to throw this thread at you.”

“I’d catch it. And wrap it up in a letter to read every night.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“But charming.”

Mae didn’t answer that. She didn’t need to. The small smile on her face said enough.

The evening deepened as they reached the grocery steps, the golden sun slippin’ low behind the buildings. Mae felt it on her skin—the weight of change, of rhythm, of things shiftin’ like the tide. But in that moment, under the quiet heat of August and the sound of his soft laughter, it felt like nothin’ could reach her just yet.

--------

The sky had slipped fully into dusk by the time Mae rounded the bend and saw the warm flicker of lanterns glowing through the trees. The house stood like it always had—sturdy, proud, familiar. The windows caught the last amber light of the day and held it like a breath.

Isaiah walked beside her, hands tucked in his pockets, one shoulder brushing hers now and again when their steps didn’t quite match up. He didn’t speak much after the grocery stop—just listened when Mae talked about her mama’s stew and whether the rain that’d been threatenin’ all week would finally fall.

He didn’t offer his arm when they reached the gate, just stepped aside to open it, always that soft kind of polite, the kind that didn’t announce itself. The gravel crunched under their boots as they walked up the path.

Louis was already on the porch, leanin’ back in his chair like he’d been born there, a cigarette pinched between two fingers and a book balanced on his knee. Paul sat opposite him, hunched over with his Bible open and a pen in hand, scribblin’ in the margins like he was tryin’ to outrun the scripture.

Mae didn’t pause when she saw them—she never did. But Isaiah did.

“Evenin’, Louis. Paul,” he said, tippin’ his hat with that same slow smile he always wore, the kind that got him out of more trouble than he’d ever admit.

Louis looked up and smiled, his face lightin’ just enough to show the boyish dimple that’d hung around since he was sixteen.

“Well, if it ain’t Mae-bird and her shadow,” he drawled, eyes flickin’ between the two of them. “Ain’t you supposed to be flyin’ solo these days?”

Mae grinned, quick and quiet. “I wasn’t the one who invited company.”

Isaiah chuckled under his breath and gave a parting nod. “Y’all have a good evenin’.”

With that, he turned and disappeared down the street, long strides carryin’ him back into town like he hadn’t just spent the last hour tryna charm the breath outta her.

Mae climbed the steps, still smilin’ faintly, until Paul’s voice cut across the porch.

“You shouldn’t be walkin’ with men like that, Mae,” he said, not even lookin’ up from his page.

Mae sighed, already bracin’ herself.

“Men who ain’t asked your hand yet got no business trailin’ beside you like a dog with a ribbon,” Paul went on, his voice tight with conviction. “Folks talk. You know that.”

She rolled her eyes as she reached the screen door. “Let ’em talk. Ain’t none of their business.”

“It’s the Lord’s business,” Paul muttered.

Mae didn’t answer him. Just let the door creak open and slipped inside.

The scent of supper hit her first—roasted onions, garlic, a hint of smoked ham hock and fresh green herbs. Her stomach grumbled before her boots left the entryway. She followed the sound of the kettle boilin’ to the kitchen, where warmth and steam mingled with the flicker of gaslight.

Her mama stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, her hair tied back with a scarf that matched her apron. She moved with the same grace she always had—calm, sure, no wasted motion. Her hands were stained from years of garden soil and bay leaves, but they still looked delicate when she stirred the pot.

Grace was at the counter, sleeves rolled, slicin’ bell peppers with care. The red and green pieces were lined in neat rows already, a little too neat—Grace never did anything without makin’ it pretty first.

“You’re late,” Florence said, without lookin’ up.

Mae knew that tone—it wasn’t sharp, but it carried weight.

“Stopped by for thread,” she said, movin’ to set the bundle on the shelf beside the flour tin. “Miss Evangeline saved it like she promised.”

Florence turned her head slightly, enough to catch her daughter in the corner of her eye.

“And what else kept you out?”

Mae hesitated. “Grocery store. Walked home.”

“With who?” Grace asked, though her voice was casual.

Mae didn’t answer.

Florence’s lips pressed together as she stirred. “Ella-Mae.”

Only her mama said her name like that. Not a scold. Not a question. Just a drawl wrapped in memory and patience and a whole lotta knowin’.

Mae sighed, pulling her braid over her shoulder. “Isaiah walked with me. Just talkin’, Mama.”

Florence didn’t speak for a long moment. The sound of the spoon stirrin’ filled the kitchen, thick and slow.

Then, quietly: “He’s a polite boy.”

Mae looked up.

“But polite don’t make a husband.”

Grace snorted softly and kept slicin’. “She don’t need a husband, Mama. She just need air.”

“Air’s free,” Florence said. “But hearts ain’t. And people round here trade in both.”

Mae leaned back against the counter, crossin’ her arms over her chest. “I ain’t marryin’ anybody just ’cause they walk beside me.”

“You better not,” Grace murmured, smirkin’.

“Don’t go encouragin’ her,” Florence said, though her tone had softened. “Help with the biscuits, Ella-Mae. Your brother’s been sulkin’ about bein’ hungry since noon.”

Mae moved toward the flour tin with a nod and started rollin’ up her sleeves.

The kitchen wrapped around them like a memory—of Sundays past and voices raised in laughter and steam foggin’ the windows. She could still hear Paul mumblin’ scripture on the porch, and Louis laughin’ low as the swing rocked beneath him. But in here, it was all rhythm: the knife on the cutting board, the kettle hissin’, her mama’s footsteps between the stove and the table.

And Mae, sinkin’ back into the only place that ever felt like hers.

The dining room still carried the scent of lemon oil and dust from the morning’s cleanin’. Light from the chandelier flickered soft against the polished wood of the long table, and the linen napkins—pressed and folded by Grace earlier in the week—sat prim and untouched beside each plate. The air was thick with supper steam and something else—expectation, maybe. The kind that lingered right before a storm.

Ella-Mae sat nearest to the window, her chair creakin’ under her as she adjusted her napkin in her lap. She could still smell the flour on her hands from helpin’ with the biscuits, could feel the way her mama’s elbow had gently nudged hers as they moved around the kitchen like clock hands—close, rhythmic, and always turning.

Grace set the bowl of stewed okra at the center of the table, and Paul finally came in from the porch, tucking his Bible beneath one arm like it might still keep him clean in a room he thought might soil him. He sat stiffly across from Mae, his mouth already tight.

Louis was the last to come in, as usual. Always the last, always the calmest, movin’ with that slow confidence that made folks stop and watch when he walked down a street. He kissed their mama’s cheek as he passed her, then slid into his seat at the head of the table like he was already holdin’ a crown none of them could see yet.

Florence bowed her head and led the blessing, her voice low and even.

“Lord, we thank You for this meal, for this roof, for the breath in our chests. Watch over us, keep us whole. Amen.”

“Amen,” the rest echoed, though Paul’s came out a beat louder, like he wanted God to know he meant it more.

Dishes were passed, spoons scraped, and the sound of food settlin’ into plates filled the room.

For a little while, it was like any other night. Grace asked if the cornmeal was from Miss Pearl’s like usual. Paul picked the onions out of his stew. Florence reminded Mae to slow down and chew proper, while Mae just rolled her eyes and stuffed another piece of cornbread into her mouth.

Then Louis cleared his throat.

The room quieted with the soft clatter of silverware on china.

“I been meanin’ to say,” he started, leanin’ back in his chair, arms spread wide over the backrest like he was settin’ the stage. “Things are about to change.”

Florence looked up from her plate, brows liftin’.

“Change?” Grace asked, squintin’ at him. “What you mean?”

Louis grinned, that slow, easy grin that meant he was holdin’ somethin’ close he was about to let slip.

“I made a move last week. Something real. Somethin’ that’s gonna put us in a better place.”

Paul stiffened.

“What kinda move?” Florence asked, voice wary but not sharp. Not yet.

Louis wiped his mouth with his napkin before answerin’, always composed. Always in control.

“I’m talkin’ about gettin’ us outta here. Outta this side o’ town. Into one o’ them big homes over near Saint Charles. Wraparound porches, yards like blankets, neighbors who know how to mind their own business.”

Mae blinked. She glanced at Grace, whose fork paused halfway to her mouth.

Florence’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And where’s this money comin’ from?”

Louis smiled again, a bit tighter this time.

“Don’t worry about that.”

Florence sat back in her chair, hands folded in her lap now, a look passin’ over her face that was unreadable to anyone but her children.

“You know I don’t ask questions I don’t already know the answer to,” she said quietly.

Paul scoffed. Loudly.

“Lord have mercy,” he muttered, pushin’ his plate away. “Here we go.”

Louis glanced his way but didn’t flinch. “You got somethin’ to say, Paul?”

“You already know I do,” Paul said, lookin’ straight at him now. “You walk in here talkin’ about big houses and yards and not to ask where it’s all comin’ from? Mama taught us better than that. Daddy raised us on honest money.”

Louis leaned forward slowly, elbows on the table.

“And I been makin’ money. Real money. Legal enough to cash in daylight.”

Paul snorted. “You ain’t sellin’ land, and you ain’t workin’ in no bank. So that leave two other options. And I know you ain’t peddlin’ liquor.”

“Careful,” Louis warned, voice low.

Mae looked between them, the tension coilin’ tight now, like rope bein’ pulled across the room.

Paul didn’t stop.

“I seen the way folks look at you, Louis. Heard what they say in town. Heard what kind o’ women walk in and outta that parlor you got off Basin Street.”

Grace dropped her spoon.

“You accusin’ me of somethin’?” Louis said, sittin’ up straight now.

“I ain’t accusin’,” Paul said, his voice hard and cold. “I’m stating. You a pimp. Dress it up however you want, you still sellin’ the bodies of women for your own gain. And you sit at this table, actin’ like you got a crown on your head.”

Louis’s jaw clenched. “I protect those girls.”

“You use ‘em.”

“That’s enough,” Florence said, her voice sharp and quiet.

Paul looked at her, breathing hard. “He shames this family, Mama.”

“And he feeds this family,” she replied, staring at him.

The room dropped into silence, deep and bottomless.

Louis sat back in his chair, eyes never leavin’ Paul’s. Paul’s chest rose and fell like he was tryin’ to breathe through the fire in his throat.

Mae finally spoke, her voice soft and measured.

“This supper’s gettin’ cold.”

Nobody moved for a beat. Then Grace reached for the cornbread and passed it to Mae, her hand slightly trembling.

Dinner resumed. Barely. Silverware clinked with less ease. Words were fewer. And beneath it all, the house that once held so many familiar things now echoed with something new—

The beginning of a change.

[ardentprose]

Candlelight Candor

A/N: This is the first public one shot I've written in a very long time so bear with me as I find my footing again.

Type: just sweet and simple fluff; Foggy Nelson x reader

Length: 4.8k~ | 20 min

Warnings: cursing; minor suggestive thoughts; fem!reader

Feel free to message me if a necessary warning isn't mentioned.

Summary: the worst storm of the decade, an unreliable old building, and being alone with your crush, Foggy Nelson

Hell hath no fury like a New York Nor’easter. It didn’t matter whether you had grown accustomed to the brutal winters in the city that never sleeps, because each summer lulled you into a false sense of serenity before winter struck again, the sky darkened, and ten inches of snow were threatening to bury the streets.

Any sane person would be hunkered down in their home, buried under an appropriate amount of blankets, and soundly sleeping away the precious hours gifted by the closing of the workplace.

Any sane person not in love, that is.

When you got the call that Karen was trapped north of the city, as the town she was investigating was hit with the storm first, you were tempted to hang up and go back to sleep. But how could you say no to:

“Good morning, sunshine!”

It took an embarrassingly small amount of convincing for Foggy Nelson to coax you from your haven and come to his law firm to lend an extra hand in the last day leading up to a case. The enigmatic lawyer had you wrapped around his finger and he didn’t even know it.

As you tugged on your heavy duty winter coat and forced your triple socked feet into your boots, you dearly wanted to curse the man for taking advantage of your infatuation. Of course, in his mind, he thought you were just a dedicated friend, and while that may be true, it would be more honest to say you were at his beck and call because you were in love with him.

Consequently, you find yourself hunched over a small desk in a small law firm with poor heating, hoping the feeling in your fingers returns.

And that was before the lights went out.

Precarious flames flicker among documents scattered across whatever surface area could be spared. Careful of the two candles flanking your papers - one cinnamon spice and another the supposed ‘scent of rain’ - you hunch lower and squint, trying to make connections between the paragraphs of legal precedents and other such jargon in the wavering light.

You don’t know how much longer you can strain your neck, scrounging every line of text for a loophole or mistype that will get this case thrown out. The ache in your neck grows insistent until you are forced to lift your head and roll your shoulders to appease the pain for a moment. Your eyes, sore from reading in dim light, fall on the lawyer across from you, taking in the welcome sight of him compared to dull printed texts.

Albeit, Foggy sits across from you in a similar position, muttering from down-turned lips as frustration pinches his expression. Occasionally, he heaves a sigh or grunt through clenched teeth as he hits another dead end. Even still, you allow yourself a small smile at how the orange flames cast warmth on his blond locks, causing them to shimmer like spun gold between the shadows.

A prick of alertness wakes you from your dreamy gaze and casting your eyes around you for the sixth sense of being watched, you find the other partner of the firm, Matt Murdock, smiling in your direction as if he could see you.

Your smile falls immediately, though the endeavor is fruitless as your remaining blush gives you away. Despite not having vision, you knew Matt caught you making heart eyes again at your ‘strictly professional legal friend’. It wasn’t the first time Matt sent you an impish smirk or raised his brows in question at your obvious pining. Especially when you laughed too loudly at Foggy’s quips. But what about it? You liked a sense of humor in a man and Foggy Nelson was a comedian in your enamored eyes.

The maddening thing was Matt doesn’t even pause his reading, skirting over lines of Braille with the same urgency as Foggy muttering out paragraphs of legalities.

You roll your eyes and Matt’s grin widens, but you choose to ignore him, checking your wrist watch for the time.

Your glance never makes it to your wrist, but diverges instead to the window when a sudden bang knocks the glass within it’s frame. The forceful wind rattles the glass with vengeance until it settles into an ominous vibrato. It wasn’t the first time that hour, but the three of you jump in your seats all the same.

“For Pete’s sake, this case better be able to fix that goddamn window.” Foggy curses, rubbing a palm over his heart from the abrupt break in silence.

“We have to win the case in the first place.” You lament, heaving a sigh to regain a normal heart rate.   

“We have less than an hour to find a reasonable cause to dismiss this case. But I’m pretty sure I’m reading algebra right now for all the good these candles are doing.”    Foggy groans, tussling his hair into a visible display of his perturbation. Your eyes follow the motion, happy to see something other than poorly lit paper stimulate your vision, though you sympathize with his annoyance.

“Justice never sleeps.” You quip and Foggy matches your wry smile.

“Of course the courthouse is open.” Foggy continues, flipping over another page. “Hell has frozen over but did the courthouse care? Did they reschedule? Of course not! Why indulge the safety of their tax-paying citizens when they could freeze them to death instead?”

“Whoa there, Foggy, is that the hangover talking or just you?” Matt teases, his fingers hesitating over some lines as conversation picks up.

“If anyone is hungover it’s you and your stupid smile that somehow thinks it’s appropriate to make an appearance right now.”

“I’m not the one who suggested shots last night.”

“I’m not the one who drank them all.”

“Hey, I’ve been quiet and well-behaved this entire time.”

“Guys…twenty minutes…” You interrupt, your own sense of justice dwindling by the hour.

You were more than accustomed to the bickering between the two law firm partners. Despite not being a lawyer yourself, your paralegal abilities were usually called into action since being acquainted with Nelson and Murdock over a previous case. You didn’t even work for them, yet you found yourself here more often than your own office. You also found yourself playing referee alongside legal assistance. At this point, you had helped Foggy and Matt win so many cases and stay friends while doing so, that you were an honorary member of the firm.

Foggy flips a page before him, chin resting on his fist. “I say we call the courthouse and tell them we were trapped inside. Couldn’t open the front door cause of all the…”

He squints.

His eyes go wide.

“Fuck! I found the damned thing!”

A groan of relief resounds from Matt and he throws himself back into his swivel chair, spinning to the side slightly. You break into a smile, watching the candlelight twinkle in Foggy’s eyes with his newfound ecstasy.

“Will it help win the case?” You ask, voice soft if only because of your overwhelming affection.

“This piece of evidence - or should I say lack thereof, will get this case thrown out into the nearest dumpster!” Foggy exclaims, meeting your eyes with his own mirth. Your smile grows larger at this revelation.

Matt tilts his head and once more you feel that devil grin, but you refuse to meet his invisible gaze. However, your up-tick in heart rate betrays your fear of a much bigger revelation being exposed by the brunet lawyer.

Matt seems to spare you from your fears, speaking instead of the case at hand.

“Foggy, I don’t know what we’d do without you. I don’t know how I missed such an obvious detail right in front of me.”

As he stands up, Matt compiles his own version of documents into his briefcase.

“What an oversight on my part.”

He grins expectantly.

You throw your head back and groan, then lift your head in order to glare at Matt.

“That’s the last one, Murdock! You’ve hit your ‘blind’ joke quota for today.”

Matt pouts, jerking on his winter pea coat.

“It’s my law firm, I can make as many jokes as I want. Who am I offending?”

“It’s our law firm, buddy.” Foggy comes to your defense. “And your jokes are in poor taste only because they’re not funny.”

“Hey,” Matt lifts the strap over his shoulder and slides out from behind his desk. “I’m funny.”

“Funny-looking.” You tease. Foggy snorts and points the tip of his pen at you in approval. You bite your lip to keep your grin from spreading into ‘infatuated’ lengths.

“Now, I can’t help that,” Matt gestures to the glasses in his hand before slipping them onto his nose, “given, you know, that I’m-“

“No more!” You point your finger at Matt in warning.

“Alright, jeez. Tough crowd.” Matt grins, still clearly proud of his sense of corny humor.

Before he makes his way to the door, he turns partway to explain his departure.

“I’ll head out first to meet the client early. It’s gonna be hell catching a cab in this storm. Plus the traffic will be worse…you get it.” Matt sighs and snatches his cane from where it rests beside the entryway. He lifts it as a form of dismissal.

“Good idea. I’ll revise our argument first then head over. It shouldn’t take more than a few quick amendments.” Foggy says.

Matt nods and turns to leave.

You turn back to clean up your work, but your head snaps up when you hear Matt fall against the door.

“Are you okay?” You blurt as Matt pushes himself upright on the door.

“I misjudged the space between myself and the door.” He chuckles. “Can’t see anything with the lights out.”

“Leave.”

You turn your back on Matt and his snickering.

“I don’t know how you put up with him.” You say once he’s gone and Foggy rolls his eyes in similar exasperation.

“I’ve learned to stop questioning my life choices when it comes to Matt.”

You laugh, humming in agreement. You lift your gaze to hand Foggy the collected papers across the desk and find his eyes already on you.

Before you can contemplate why his eyes take their time traveling down your face to your outstretched hand, the his easy smile lowers into contemplation once he accepts the papers. He licks his lips and begins scribbling down notes with fervor. Now that the essential information has been found, you’re left with nothing else to do but leave it in the capable hands of the brilliant lawyer before you.

Before you realize it, you’re in a candlelight-induced trance, watching Foggy’s eagle sharp gaze flit back and forth. A small, petty part of you wishes his eyes held the same concentration on you instead of the paperwork. You knew from experience how nice it was to have Foggy’s attention on you.

Meeting Foggy Nelson was like the sun breaking through the clouds after a rainstorm. He had come into your life with undeniable presence and charm, which mostly stemmed from how Foggy was unapologetically himself in all contexts. He didn’t put on the airs of the egotistical disposition that many lawyers were known to have.

That’s not to say he didn’t speak up whenever he found himself in an immoral situation,  but more often than not, Foggy reserved his speeches for retelling the repertoire of stories he loved to share with those who spared him an ear. You, always a listener at heart, and therefore his dedicated audience, were usually in hysterics by the end of his theatrics.

Foggy never just told a story. No, he incorporated gestures, voices and facial expressions that brought the characters - real or not - to life. Karen and Matt had heard every story ten times over, but being the newest addition to the friend group, you took in every detail as if there was going to be an exam.

It was his larger-than-life personality that drew you in, but it was his quiet observations that captivated you. Foggy never used his social prowess to embarrass others - Karen and Matt excluded - only ever making himself the butt of jokes. If he teased you, it was only to tease you out of your shell. His questions were genuine and his gaze, reading your body language and expressions, hung on to every answer you offered him.

The first real conversation you had with him, he asked you about your background.

“So what gods - sorry, Matt, God - above orchestrated for you to be doomed with us as friends?” He asked, curiosity making his sincerity clear.

You told him your abridged life story - including the small role you felt you played, despite it being your own life. Foggy’s smile had waned into a wrinkled line and when you finished he looked at you as if you had just admitted to being from another planet.

“You are the sweetest person I know, with a beautiful heart, and I don’t think you know it. But the rest of us sure do.” His eyes sought yours long enough to ensure you believed his sincerity, then he quickly moved on to throw a jibe at Matt,, and the conversation returned it’s levity. You, however, were left reeling from his compliment.

And absolutely in love.

Doomed, more like. You muse, halting the trip down memory lane before you fell down the well-trodden path of self-doubt and hatred. You have been around long enough to hear stories of the women Foggy had dated, slept with, or fantasized about being with. You didn’t think you made the cut. You had no reason to. Foggy was an extraordinary friend but that didn’t qualify you to wish he did more than friendly things to you.

You focus back in where your eyes had taken the opportunity to stare at Foggy fingering the edges of documents while twirling a pen in his other hand. He settles the pen between his soft, pink lips, tapping it before he bites the cap, completed focused on the phrasing of his task.

A hair falls between his eyes, causing him to wrinkle his nose into an unbearably cute expression.

You send the chair stumbling backwards when you stand, and that focused gaze flies to you.

“I…um..I am…What time is it? I think we should start to head over.” You attempt to clarify.

Foggy removes the writing utensil from his teeth as his eyes analyze your abrupt movement. You feel exposed the longer he stares and start to grow nervous he somehow could hear your wayward thoughts about the dexterity of his fingers.

“Yeah…good call.” Foggy clears his throat. He stands up to gather his things and you step forward to help him.

Handing him a file, his fingers brush the back of your knuckles and your eyes flutter in response.

Cheeks warm despite the cold, you turn from Foggy and set about blowing out all the candles until you’re both left in the dark.

You walk to the door and rest your hand on the doorknob. Turning your wrist, you pull the doorknob out the socket.

Wait.

What?

You glance down at your hand.

“What the hell?” A sense of dread fills you.

“What’s wrong?” Foggy asks, immediately reacting to your alarmed tone.

When you don’t respond, he navigates his way around the desk and chairs in the dark to come to your aid.

You turn back to the door and stare at the vacant hole with consternation until you feel Foggy’s chest brush your left shoulder.

“What happened?”

The weight of the doorknob feels condemning in your palm. Foggy leans down, squinting through the dark. His cheek is inches from yours, his height enshrouding you as he peers at your hands, and any other time your heart would be beating out of your chest.

Well, it was, but for the wrong reason.

“Oh.” He says. “Shit.”

“I have no idea!” You insist before he can even turn his grave expression on you and ask. “I guess the other side of it came loose and just fell off.”

“Well. That’s just fantastic.” Foggy hooks his index in the hole and tugs hard. The door jiggles with his attempts but holds fast.

“So we’re locked in our own office?” you conclude.

Foggy growls in frustration. He stalks back over to the desk, muttering curses to himself.

“Perfect. Just perfect. Of course…worst day of my life…”

Foggy pats his waist down, pulls out his phone, and then hits the first speed dial button.

“Hey, Matt.” He says sharply. “…Yeah, the fucking handle fell off the door.”   

Morose, you glance down at the knob still in your palm.

“No, I don’t- Y/N turned the knob and it just fell off!….Yeah, I already did that.”

Foggy sighs, hums in affirmation before his shoulders drop.

“You sure? Yeah…ugh…fine yeah, okay.”

Matt must have asked for the new evidence Foggy was supposed to bring, you assume, as Foggy proceeds to explain the needed information and confirm Matt understood it all.

“Good luck, buddy. Don’t lose.”

Foggy hangs up, ceasing his pacing. His hand runs through his now tangled locks then drops to his waist. He looks at you with resignation.

“Matt says he can handle the case by himself. It’s not a full blown hearing so…he’ll come back as soon as he can. The case has already started so he doesn’t have time to run back here.”

“Oh.” The prickling sensation of tears burns behind your eyes. The last thing you want is to ever be the cause of Foggy’s stress. Hell, you spend most of your time trying to be as valuable to him as possible.

Foggy searches around him until he finds matches. He lights the nearest candle and then sits down behind his desk.

He frowns once he sees you haven’t moved from your tense stance near the entrance.

“Hey.”

Your eyes flit to his face and find Foggy smiling at you with his recognizable optimism. The kind of smile that feels like he’s sharing a secret joke with you. He drags your previous chair around the desk, beside his.

“C’mere and sit back down. We have at least three hours before Matt returns.”

You hum in assent, still clutching the doorknob as you make your way over.

Coming around the desk, Foggy’s hand darts out, shielding your hip from the sharp corner when you almost don’t clear it.

You jump at his fingers against your waist. Foggy jerks back just as quickly, his grimace apparent.

“Sorry! I didn’t want you to run into it. That corner in particular bruises like a bitch.”

You laugh, hoping the airy chuckle doesn’t betray how his fingertips ignited a reaction far from displeased within you.

“I appreciate it. And I assume you’re speaking from experience?” You sit down. Your knee brushes his, tingling with proximity. You’ve never had a reason to sit so close to Foggy before, even in the booths at bars, and without the light, you sense more than see his presence within your personal space.

Foggy snorts. “Yeah, of course. Matt does it all the time.”

“Oh, so you have practice holding his waist too?” You don’t know where this brazen energy arises from, but you blame it on the intimacy of being secluded in the office with Foggy and your only light source being a small flame that smells of cinnamon.

Foggy’s lips split before curving into a smirk. He narrows his eyes.

“Are you accusing me of making a grab at you?”

You shake your head frantically.    “No! Sorry, that was stupid. I-“

Foggy laughs, waving your apology away.

“I would hope you think more highly of me to at least buy you dinner first.” He reasons, pursing his mouth into an easy smile.

You bite your lip, eyes widening at the suggestion. Was he serious? Or were you letting your feelings cloud an obvious joke?

“Of course I think highly of you, Foggy.” You say, settling into the chair. You set the doorknob on the desk. Your brow furrows as it reminds you of how Foggy was trapped here with you instead of at the courthouse winning the case he’s worked so hard on.

“Y/n?”

“Hm?”

“Seriously, don’t feel bad about the door. This whole shitty place is falling apart.” Foggy gestures vaguely around him. Foggy must have mistaken your silence as guilt. He’s correct in assuming so, but why did he have to read you so damn well?

“No, I know…I just feel bad for you because you deserve to be in that courtroom.”

“Ah, don’t sweat it. Matt’s got it handled. I’m sure they prefer the handsome lawyer down there anyways. Case will go in our favor that way.” He chuckles.

“Handsome?” You frown, not getting the punchline.

His eyes flicker over your face as if to gage how serious you are being.

Foggy shrugs. “Out of the two of us, Matt’s the better lawyer, both in the legal department and looks department.” His half-hearted laugh fails to win you over.

“That isn’t- that’s not true.” You stumble over your words, because it would be foolish to deny the attention the brunet lawyer garners on a consistent basis. However, you weren’t about to accept Matt’s good looks at the cost of denying Foggy’s attractive features either.

Foggy snorts. He shakes his head, hair brushing his shoulders as he does so and you’re overcome with an intense need to make him realize just how important he is to everyone. To you.

“Foggy, you’re incredible to watch in action.”

Foggy’s frown is near comical with his exaggerated pout. You lean in, determined to convince him.

“Foggy, you’re a hell of a good lawyer, too. If Matt is so talented then he wouldn’t partner with someone who wasn’t on his level. The two of you have your own firm. Matt’s not your boss. He’s your equal. That goes for the ‘looks’ department as well. You’re an attractive, generous, compassionate lawyer and it’s a privilege to work with you.”

Foggy’s expression is unreadable as he listens to you rant. His eyes search your face, flitting back and forth with thoughts known only to him. His brow falters slightly and you fear he’s uncomfortable with your impromptu speech.

But eventually, that full mouth of his turns upwards.

Unfortunately, the smile he wears accompanies a glimmer in his eye that makes you lean back into your own chair.

Foggy follows you, invading your breathing space with the heady scent of his aftershave and a hint of shampoo akin to vanilla.   

“What other traits do I possess?”

All at once you realize how revealing your compliments are. Blooming crimson, you attempt a verbal retreat that Foggy has no intention of allowing.

“Oh, um…I didn’t-I just mean…”

“C’mon, tell me! Attorney client privilege.” Foggy winks, his grin upheld and only growing bolder as he rests his cheek on his fist, full attention on you now.

Well, you did wish for that.

“Technically, to be your client I would need to pay you first.” You throw out, if only to prolong the inevitable corner of confession he was backing you into.

“Aha! So you do learn a thing or two around this office. I’ll only charge you five bucks.” Foggy retorts easily enough.

“I don’t have money on me, but since you’ve been known to accept fruit baskets, would you accept other forms of payment?”

“What do you have in mind?” Foggy’s grin is downright devious.

Your eyes widen as you effectively have backed yourself into the corner you were trying to avoid.

A nervous laugh bubbles from your racing heart as you shake your head, waving your hand too for good measure.

“Nothing! I’m kidding, Foggy.”

“Blood money? Was it blood money?”

“No?…No, it was a stupid joke.”

“Tell me.” Foggy sits up, his demeanor becoming serious.

“Please?” He whispers.

You chew on your lower lip, trying to swallow down the thundering of your heart as silence permeates the dimly lit atmosphere between you two.

Maybe it’s the influence of the warm fire painting Foggy’s gaze in such a soft, accepting light, as if he already knows what you’re thinking - or is even feeling it too. Maybe it’s the months of holding back the truth from someone you would tell anything to in a heartbeat. Maybe it’s the hope that ultimately outweighs the anxiety that causes you to admit it.

No longer do the candles, blizzard, or darkness feel like a hindrance. Now they feel intimate, cozy, and warm.

Romantic.

“I was gonna say…something super corny like, “just my undying affection.” You feel like an idiot, grimacing with the confession.

Your eyes dare to check Foggy’s expression, knowing he’s probably gonna reel back in aversion.

Instead, Foggy scoffs, shaking his head slightly. “You’re affection? Jeez, now that’s nowhere near corny.” He purses his lips and his hair brushes his cheek as he shakes his head.

“Earning your attention, let alone your affection - damn, I would win a hundred cases for you, guaranteed!”

You want to blame the playful words as an excuse to ignore the sincerity in his tone, but your body reacts before you can, heart leaping with a thrill of joy and your lips begging for more.

“Guaranteed?”

“Nothing drives a man like his unwavering passion for the woman he adores.”

You must look crazed, in the throes of shock as your brain tries to process the meaning behind his words. Foggy adores you? Really?

Your mouth continues to take the lead.

“You mean that?”

Foggy lifts his hand in the distance between you, which is scarce, and hesitates a second before placing his warm hand atop both your hands picking at each other’s fingertips. The weight of his palm and the comfort of his grip squeezes your fretting hands still. You release a soft exhale.

“Y/n, I’ve never been more serious.    I’ve adored every detail of yours since you graced my office.”

You don’t know what to say, so you nod.

You keep nodding until it dawns that your feelings are reciprocated, perhaps more than you dared hope for.

And then you’re smiling, beaming, and still nodding, as Foggy brings the hand up from your grasp and cups your cheek, smoothing his thumb over in a silent hello before he presses his lips to your mouth.

You press in, feeling him wholly as mint overwhelms your senses. Your lips move with his, chin lifting as you chase his mouth and he meets you once more, applying pressure before he withdraws, and releases your bottom lip from his teeth.

You can’t see much in the dark anyways, but right now you can’t see a thing. Only spots that accompany the ringing in your ears. You might be light-headed too.

Your dazed silence breaks when Foggy’s whisper begins to escalate.

“Before I have a heart attack…tell me I didn’t screw this up. If I read it wrong and you were just joking-“

“No, no! It’s just…I can’t believe you like me back.” Your laugh is a soft exhale before a sharp intake of breath.

“This isn’t some ‘lights go out and we’re vulnerable in the dark confession.” Foggy says as he cups your face once more.

“I mean every word I say in the dark.” He kisses you again and you welcome his eager affection before he pulls back. You open your eyes just in time for the lights flicker on with a stumbling hum as the building regains power.

“And the light.” Foggy tacks on to his previous statement.

You snort, biting your lip in vain to stop your giddy smile.

“That was pretty fucking cool timing if you ask me.” He says, the same elated grin on his flushed visage.

“That was, I’ll admit.” You laugh. You run your tongue across your lips, savoring the taste of his kiss.

“I wish someone could have witnessed it.” Foggy continues to rave, basking in your growing smile of amusement.

“I did.”

Matt stands in the doorway with a wicked grin.

“Missing something?” He asks. Your eyes flit down to his hand.

The other side of the doorknob.

Matt waltzes over to the desk, grabs the doorknob, then returns to the entry and slides it back into place.

Your frown deepens when he unpockets a screw. Within ten seconds the door is fixed with a good rattle to test it out.

“Lucky thing the case got canceled. You guys would have been stuck in this room all night.” Matt says, passing you both on his way to his office. Presumably to start the next caseload.

Foggy breaks first, swiveling in his chair to jab a finger at Matt’s retreating back.

“You bastard!”

Matt spins around once he’s behind the door of his office. He gives ample time to leave his smirk on display as he closes the door in a slow, dramatic fashion until it clicks with finality.

And with it, a realization of his strange behavior today.

You gasp.

Matt never left the building.

[joelalorian]

Under False Pretenses - Chapter Fifteen

Stepdad!Dave York x f!reader | wc: 6815 | masterlist

Summary: A challenging mission, whirlwind marriage, and an unexpected yet captivating stepdaughter push Dave York to the brink as secrets, feelings, and loyalties collide.

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ mdni. Stepdad trope. Unspecified (small) age gap. Soft, sexy, and intense Dave. Nicknames and terms of endearment. Cursing. A teensy bit of angst. Lots of love. Unprotected p in v. We finally go to the adult store. Blow job while driving. Massage oil. Dave isn't your (fake) stepdad anymore and your forever starts today.

A/N: This is the final chapter, my friends! Only the epilogue left to go.

Series Masterlist

Winter gave way to spring as you settled into this new life with Dave and the girls. Sharp, echoing cries of laughing gulls woke you in the mornings, the sea breeze carrying the sound through the open windows along with the salty air. Evenings were spent at the dining table as a family, the girls working on assessments before they’d settled into their new school, and Dave reviewing some paperwork for the business he wanted to launch. Ranger lay sprawled at your feet, watching over his family contentedly.

Unsurprisingly, the boys followed Dave to North Carolina, equally eager to go mainstream and leave the mercenary business behind. You couldn’t blame them. Dave possessed a sound business mind and had already become a great leader to them. The business would boom once the doors opened in another month or so.

You were so happy in this new, quiet life. Resnik told you just the other day that you practically glowed with happiness. Dave beamed with pride at the comment, knowing he had no small part in making you happy.

The night before the girls were due to start at their new school, a storm rolled in, sending frothy waves crashing ashore and the sky echoing with the rumbles of thunder. Despite the tempest, the sound of rain pattering the metal roof soothed you and Dave while you snuggled in bed.

The girls had long since fallen asleep. Ranger lay sprawled across the hallway in front of their closed bedroom doors, his tail occasionally thumping the floor as he dreamt. Now and again, a low rumbling growl would escape his snout when lightning flashed across the sky.

The bed faced east, and the French doors leading to the balcony were closed for once, keeping the rain out. Beneath the covers, you snuggled into Dave’s warm body, his arm around your shoulders. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek grounded you in a way that made you feel safe in the deepest parts of yourself.

Had you ever known such peace? You were almost certain Dave hadn’t.

“I love this,” you murmured, your fingers tracing illegible patterns over his bare stomach, the muscles quivering beneath your touch.

Dave hummed low in his throat, and his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “The storm?” he questioned lazily.

You smiled against his skin. “No. All of this. Us.”

He was quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the sea beyond the glass, the rage of which he could only see in the bright flashes of lightning. The muscles of his abdomen shifted beneath your palm. “Yeah. Me too,” he replied quietly.

The wind howled louder, a sudden gust rattling the windows. Neither of you flinched, though it reminded you both of that day in the dockyard, where things could have turned out very differently.

“Feels like we’re inside the eye of a storm,” you said softly. “Everything outside is chaos, but here…”

Dave turned his head toward you, brushing his lips against your temple. “Here, it’s calm. Peaceful. Yeah, I feel it, too.”

You nodded, fingers drifting to his ribs, the rise and fall of them as he breathed, grounding you. A moment passed, then he asked, “What do you need, Firecracker?”

The question was unexpected, not in the words themselves but in how softly, how sincerely Dave asked them.

You lifted your head, eyes meeting his, the dark brown swirled with care, love. “Right now?”

“No,” he said gently, gaze never leaving yours. “In life. In this. Us.”

It was more than a question. It was a door he was cracking open, giving you permission to be brutally honest, to want.

You blinked slowly, your heart suddenly louder in your chest than the thunder outside. “I need laughter,” you whispered, surprising even yourself. You didn’t think that would be the first thing out of your mouth. “Stupid, contagious laughter. And quiet mornings. And love. Lots of love. Endless, incandescent love.”

Dave’s thumb stroked slow lines across your back. “What else?” He knew there was more. He could read you like the pages of his favorite book.

“I need to be a partner,” you added hesitantly. “Not just someone who fits into your life, but someone who builds that life with you.”

Dave didn’t hesitate. “You already are – you do.”

Your throat tightened, the vulnerability creeping up inside like heartburn.

“Tell me, my sweet Firecracker,” he encouraged. “What else do you need?”

The sudden edge of tears clouded your vision. How could you tell him that there really was something missing from this seemingly perfect life?

“Don’t hide from me.” Dave’s voice hinted at demanding, and you could tell he was becoming concerned at your hesitation.

“I need to feel like I contribute, Dave,” you finally admitted. “I haven’t had a job since I met you.”

“You don’t need a job to contribute, baby. You already do so much for us, and we have plenty of money. You don’t need to work.”

He didn’t get it. You needed a purpose. You were the only one without something to do, focus on. For some women, maybe the stay-at-home mom role would be enough, and you loved that for them. But not for you.

With a sigh, you pushed the thought away, not wanting to ruin the relaxing mood. You were too sleepy for an argument anyway.

“What about you? What do you need?”

He didn’t answer right away, brow furrowed as his eyes searched your face. When you merely smiled back at him, he rolled you gently onto your back and propped himself on his elbow to look at you. His face was soft in the dim light, eyes dark and steady, like he was trying to memorize every atom of your being.

“I need this,” Dave replied simply. “You. The girls. Ranger. This house. Waking up knowing you’re next to me.”

You smiled, eyes glistening, quickly forgetting about that one pesky need of yours not being fulfilled when he looked at you that way. “Oh, is that all?”

He dipped his head to brush a kiss on your shoulder. “I’m a simple man.” You laughed, and he grinned back at you like you were the only thing keeping him breathing.

“I’ve been thinking…” he started, voice low and thoughtful. “If I were to get you something. Something small. Important…”

You arched a brow. “Like?” you prompted.

Dave looked smugly casual. Too casual. “Something shiny. You might wear it on a certain finger.”

Your heart flipped, stealing your breath momentarily.

Dave leaned down and kissed you, long and slow, drawing a low mewl from you before he pulled back enough to murmur, “Purely hypothetical, of course.”

“Of course,” you chuckled, brushing your knuckles along his jaw. “Purely hypothetically speaking, I like simple. Not flashy. Something classic. Thoughtful.”

Dave’s gaze darkened, the corner of his mouth twitching into a lopsided smile. “Duly noted.”

The rain lashed harder against the windows, thunder cracking again, but all you could hear was the sound of his heartbeat when you settled back with your head on his chest once again. All you could feel was the promise hanging in the air between you, soft and certain.

The morning sun hung low over the dunes, casting a soft golden light across the beach grass as you and Dave pulled into the school parking lot. The girls were a mix of nerves and excitement in the backseat, chattering over new backpacks, lunchboxes, and the matching bracelets they insisted you help them make the night before.

“Alice, remember to smile,” you encouraged, brushing a stray curl from her forehead as she fidgeted in her seat. “And Molly, don’t forget your homework folder.”

You were slipping right into this mom role, weren’t you?

“I won’t,” Molly said with an exaggerated sigh, clutching her folder like it was a lifeline.

Dave leaned across you to open the passenger door, reaching back to tousle their dark, fine hair. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead, fireflies.”

He slipped from the car after you did and joined you to walk them to the entrance, the breeze carrying a hint of salty warmth as it tugged at your light jacket. The girls hugged your waist tightly, then wrapped their arms around Dave, who crouched down and murmured something in their ears that made them giggle. You watched the easy way he kissed their foreheads, the way they glowed under his attention, and felt the sharp sting of emotion in your throat.

You leaned against Dave, his arm wrapping around your body to pull you close as you watched the girls disappear into the building. He let out a breath, shoving his free hand into his jacket pocket. “I swear, I’m more nervous than they are.”

Head dropping against his broad shoulder, you huffed. “You’re not alone in that. They’ll be fine, though. They are the sweetest kids.”

Dave’s lips curved into a soft smile, and he dropped a kiss on your head before leading you back to the car. He held your hand during the ride back to the house, but his eyes were distant, his mind busy calculating, planning.

Once home, you poured coffee while Dave leaned against the kitchen counter, scanning the notes and sketches he’d spread across the breakfast bar the night before.

“You sure you want to do this so fast?” you asked quietly, handing him a mug full of coffee just the way he liked it. “Like you said last night, we have money. You could ease into this.”

“I need to,” Dave replied, his fingers tightening around the ceramic. “I’ve got Kovac, Resnik, and Ari coming in at noon. They’re in on this and relying on me to get it up and running as soon as possible. We’re setting up shop here, or nearby enough. It’s… time.”

You watched him from across the kitchen, eyes drinking in how sexy he looked when focused, jaw set, and brow furrowed in concentration. There was no hesitation in him. No second-guessing. Dave York knew exactly what he wanted, and he went right for it.

You admired that, loved that about him.

Even when it left you feeling like you were standing at the edge of something you couldn’t quite name.

“I really think I should start looking for a job,” you blurted, drawing Dave’s attention back to you with a frown.

He moved toward you, the frown deepening. His large hands grasped yours, warm chocolate eyes meeting yours with concern. “Why won’t you just let me take care of you?”

“Dave…”

“I’m serious, Firecracker,” he replied adamantly. “We don’t need the money. I don’t want you stuck doing something you hate just to bring home a paycheck we don’t need. You already contribute so much in the ways that matter.”

He still didn’t get it, and you didn’t feel like arguing.

“Yeah, you’re right.” You sighed. “I just—”

The doorbell cut you off.

“That’ll be the guys. We’ll talk later, okay?” Dave kissed you, lingering at the taste of your lips, before going to let the guys in.

You slipped through the back door, Ranger’s leash in hand, before the guys made it fully inside. A walk on the beach with Ranger would clear your head, and you’d be out of the way so Dave could focus.

Dave couldn’t focus, though. Not when you were concerned.

The coastal wind whipped sand across the pavement as Dave closed the front door and turned to greet his team. Ari clapped him on the back as he passed. Kovac dropped a small gear bag near the couch. And Resnik, ever the observer, took a slow scan of the room like he was reading its emotional temperature, before his keen eyes met Dave’s with a knowing look.

“Place looks good,” Ari said, breaking the silence while he peeked into the open kitchen.

“Yeah,” Kovac added, already pulling a folded blueprint from his pack. He was ready to get down to brass tacks. “Let’s talk layout for office space. I got two rental options with enough square footage for the server setup, but only one’s near fiber. You want speed or stealth?”

Dave scrubbed a hand over his jaw, dragging his mind from you back to the task at hand. “We’ll prioritize location. People have to find us before we can make money.”

“Good man,” Ari said with a short, sharp laugh. “See? Look at us. Upstanding, tax-paying citizens making smart business decisions.”

Dave sat down at the table with the boys but found himself staring past the documents, out the window, where the curve of the beach was visible past the dunes. He pictured you there with Ranger, wind in your hair, your thoughts miles away.

Resnik caught the drift in his attention before anyone else did. “You good?” he asked, no judgment in his voice, just quiet curiosity.

“Yeah,” Dave replied, but his tone lacked conviction.

Preoccupied with squabbling over measurements, Kovac and Ari didn’t notice the hushed exchange. Resnik leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, gaze fixed on Dave.

“I’m gonna throw something out there,” he said. “You can deck me later if I’m wrong.”

Dave finally looked up, the crease between his eyes deepening. “That’s comforting.”

The other man smirked in response. “You’re distracted, boss. Been watching you for ten minutes, and you haven’t engaged with half the numbers we laid out. You keep glancing at the beach like someone left the stove on out there.”

Dave didn’t respond. The only sign he even heard Resnik was the slow, deliberate tap of his fingertips against the edge of the table.

Resnik softened his tone, wanting to make his point stick with his hard-headed boss. “She just wants something of her own. You know that, right?”

Dave blinked, dark eyes narrowing. “She talked to you about this?” Resnik merely shook his head, and Dave let out a frustrated huff. “I told her she doesn’t need to work. I’ve got her and the girls well taken care of.”

“That’s not the point,” Resnik said evenly, ignoring the petulant tone of the other man. “She’s not looking for someone to carry her. She’s looking for a sense of purpose. How do you not see that?”

Resnik continued when no response came from Dave, gesturing at the plans spread across the table. “You get to have this, and she’s standing on the sidelines, waiting for you to notice that she’s not okay with being left behind.”

Dave’s heart sank. Clenching his jaw, he sighed. “She said she was.”

Resnik shrugged. “Did she really say that? Or did she say ‘okay’ because you missed the point, and she didn’t have the energy to make you see sense?”

Ari finally looked up, arching a brow in interest as he caught the tail end of the conversation. “Wait, what are we talking about?”

“Nothing,” Dave muttered, feeling like an idiot.

Kovac laughed, turning to Ari. “Oh, it’s definitely something.”

Resnik leaned forward, voice low and sincere as he ignored the other men. “She’s not Carol – she’s not the kind of woman who wants to be kept, York. I think you’ve always known that – it’s why you call her Firecracker, right?”

How could he be so stupid?

He reverted to the kind of life he was used to with Carol instead of stopping to think about what you would want out of a life together. He should have known better – you were two entirely different women. You wanted to be fulfilled, not just needed, and he was robbing you of that.

Dave had to fix this. He would fix it.

“Tell you what, boss,” Ari chimed in after a while. “We’ve got things under control here. Go find your girl.”

He stared at the three men for several long moments, hesitating.

“I’ll pick the girls up from school,” Resnik said. “We’ll watch them here. Spend the afternoon with her, make things right.”

Dave considered the offer. “I think I prefer Ari to get the girls from school,” he finally replied with a smirk.

“Whatever,” Resnik huffed. “Don’t make us retract the offer, asshole.”

The sea was calmer than it had been all week. The storm from the night before was long gone. Signs of its passing were left in the form of shells and ribbons of seaweed tangled around driftwood scattered across the beach. You walked barefoot in the cool sand, the wind tugging at your sweater, the rhythmic hush of the waves offering a kind of clarity you couldn’t find anywhere else.

Still, each step you took away from the house felt heavier than the last.

You weren’t angry. Just… unsettled.

Life changed so fast. A whirlwind of feeling lost, finding love in the unlikeliest place, violence, rescue, healing, rebuilding. And now that everything was calm again, a question kept whispering inside your head. What now?

Dave had a purpose. The girls had school and the bright rhythms of childhood to ground them. Even Ranger was starting to find his place in the new world you’d built.

But you… You felt like a puzzle piece someone had set down and forgotten to fit back into the mosaic.

Even then, you couldn’t help but wonder: were you being selfish?

Isn’t this what you always wanted? Peace. Safety. Family. Love.

Dave was all of those things.

Still, something gnawed at you. The need to do, to contribute, to make or have something of your own. Not because you had to, but because you needed to.

You kicked at a broken shell with your toe, the sharp edge biting at the bare skin, and sighed.

Behind you, faint footsteps crunched the broken shells, slow and sure. You didn’t turn right away. You knew the cadence of Dave York’s gait like you knew your own mind. Ranger’s excited bark confirmed what you already knew, then he spoke.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel unfulfilled.”

Your throat tightened at the soft sorrow in his voice, yet you remained with your back to him.

“I know I did, even if I didn’t realize it at the time,” he added with a sigh. “You’ve stood by me through things most people would run from. And you’ve been through so much in the past year because of me. I thought… if I could just protect you from everything, even the pressure of having to figure out what comes next… maybe I could finally give you peace.”

You turned to him then, eyes burning with unshed tears.

“But that’s not what I want,” you said softly, earnestly. “I want peace with you, not because I gave up everything else.”

“I see that now,” Dave nodded, the wind teasing his dark hair. “Resnik reminded me that being needed and being loved aren’t the same thing. And you’ve never needed anyone to take care of you.”

He paused, feet shuffling against the cool sand.

“But I hope you choose me anyway. Not because I make your life easier, but because I make it better. Just as you do mine.”

His words broke something open inside you, something taut and aching and too long unspoken.

“I do choose you, Dave,” you whispered, stepping closer as your hands found his. “Every day in every way. But I still need to have my own identity in this life, too. I just… I don’t know what that is yet.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you like he’d finally figured out that you were the answer to all the unasked questions that haunted him.

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” he murmured against your hair. “Whatever you want to do, whatever lights you up inside, I’m behind you. Every damn step. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

The tears that fell next weren’t sad. They were quiet and hopeful, carved from love and the fierce ache of being seen. You didn’t know what you wanted outside of your relationship with Dave and the girls, but you knew he would help you figure it out, and that’s all that really mattered.

You crossed a hurdle, and a sense of relief washed over you.

Grasping your hand, Dave led the way back toward the house. “The guys are picking up the girls from school. We have the afternoon to ourselves.”

“Oh?” you questioned, surprised and a little amused at the thought of three tough men showing up at the school. “Whatever are we going to do with ourselves?”

Struck by sudden inspiration, Dave grinned. “I’m going to take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

Dave shook his head. “You’ll see.”

You weren’t expecting the place he’d take you to be your shared bed in the empty house, but there was nowhere else you’d rather be. You made love and talked the afternoon away until the guys brought Alice and Molly home from school with bellies full of pizza and ice cream.

Two days after the beach conversation, the weather turned warmer, the sun casting golden light across the cottage. The girls made fast friends during their first few days of school and were off to a sleepover birthday party. Ranger was passed out on his bed after a long walk along the dunes. It was just you and Dave with no interruptions. No tension. No secrets.

You leaned on the kitchen island, sipping coffee and watching Dave load the dishwasher, his black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders in all the right ways.

Why was it so fucking sexy when he was simply being domestic?

“You know,” he said casually, not even turning around, yet you jumped like you were caught doing something naughty. “I’ve been thinking about something.”

You cleared your throat, raising a brow in question. “Well, that sounds dangerous.”

He shot you a look over his shoulder, smirking. “Remember months ago, back when we played one of your silly drinking games in the basement?” When you nodded, he continued. “You mentioned something that night that I haven’t forgotten.”

You blinked, replaying the game in your head. There were a lot of confessions shared that night. Some innocent. Some… less so.

And then it clicked.

“Oh no,” you said, setting your mug down. “Don’t even think about it.”

He grinned madly, like a man who’d just been handed the most fun challenge. “Come on, Firecracker. You said you’d never been to an adult store. I’d say it’s high time we fix that.”

“You’re serious,” you said, eyes narrowing before your shoulders slumped in resignation.

“As a heart attack,” he said, tossing the dishrag over his shoulder and coming to stand in front of you, still grinning. “You scared?”

“Of sex toys?” you scoffed, trying to ignore the flush of heat rising up your neck. “Hardly.”

“Then let’s go.”

“You’re insane.”

“Possibly,” he said, kissing the tip of your nose. “But admit it, you’re curious.”

You bit your bottom lip, fighting the grin threatening to give you away. “Maybe a little.”

“Then let’s have some fun, kitten.” He stepped back, holding out his hand. “No pressure. No buying required. Just exploring, together.”

Good god, how you loved this man. “Fine,” you said with a dramatic sigh, but you couldn’t maintain the farce for long, a playful grin stretching across your lips before you kissed him soundly.

He grabbed his keys with a booming laugh.

An hour later, Dave pulled into the parking lot of a discreet storefront. He led you through the tinted doorway without a word, letting you absorb it all.

The store was tastefully lit and surprisingly tidy. You hesitated just inside the entrance, blinking at the wall opposite, full of colorful… well, toys, arranged like an abstract art exhibit. It was sexy and beautiful and way less raunchy than you’d thought it’d be.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, gripping Dave’s hand tighter. “This is not what I expected.”

He leaned closer, curious. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” you replied with a bashful laugh. “Fluorescent lights and sketchy vibes. Rooms in the back for dudes to jerk off. Not this.” You gestured to a row of elegantly packaged products that wouldn’t look out of place on a spa shelf.

Dave chuckled, clearly enjoying your wide-eyed awe. It was awfully adorable and innocently sexy. “Modern times, baby. Plus, I wouldn’t take you to a trashy place for your first sex shop experience.”

You wandered the aisles together, giggling at the more outrageous items, sharing quiet glances over suggestive product names, and lingering for a long while in front of the massage oils. Dave noted the ones you lingered over, stealing one to place on the counter for purchase.

“Okay,” you whispered, eyeing a display of sleek toys. Your gaze was drawn to the vibrator wands and a few models meant to mount and grind on. The Grinder, in particular, piqued your interest. “Some of this is actually kind of… intriguing.”

Dave raised a brow, inching closer as his hands roamed the curves of your backside. “Want to try something?”

You turned to him, feeling warm from the inside out. “Maybe…” He smiled back at you, soft and certain, sliding his arm around your waist. He tracked your interest, discreetly grabbing items to purchase, placing them on the counter without you noticing.

By the time you walked out of the store, you were laughing again, cheeks flushed from the sheer audacity of the whole outing. Dave held the small, discrete bag of goodies he’d insisted on buying for research purposes, and you teased him on the way to the car.

Beneath the playfulness was something else – a spark of need after this simple, shared adventure. You wanted to make another memory – or two – for just you and him.

Dave barely pulled out of the parking lot before your hand, resting gently on his thigh a moment ago, wandered upwards to trace along the zipper of his jeans. His hips bucked involuntarily, and dark eyes shot to yours in pleased surprise.

“What are you up to, kitten?”

Feeling spontaneous and a little wild after that fun adventure – another first for you and Dave – you undid his fly, freeing his cock and watched as it hardened in your delicate grip.

“Don’t mind me,” you hummed before you leaned across the center console and your lips wrapped around the head, cheeks hollowing as you sucked on the velvet flesh.

“Fuck,” Dave groaned at the feel of your hot, wet mouth on him. “You’re gonna make me crash, kitten.”

Letting his cock go with an audible squelching pop, you grinned up at him. “Eyes on the road, soldier. I’m trying to concentrate here.” Your tongue licked the full length of him then, eliciting a guttural moan from deep in his chest as the SUV swerved slightly.

Dave glanced at the rear and side view mirrors frantically, making sure no cops were around to witness his erratic driving. You continued working him over, taking him as deep as you could, as he pulled onto the highway and set the cruise control. Eyes still on the road, he dropped one hand to tangle his fingers in your hair, directing the bobbing of your head with a strong grip.

You were purposefully messy, salivating over the taste of Dave’s cock in your mouth, and spittle dribbled down your chin and over his balls in the most enthralling way. Just like your pussy, your mouth was made for him, and you had him coming hard in a matter of minutes. He had to grip the steering wheel with both hands as he pulsed in your mouth, the strength of his orgasm nearly enough to send the SUV careening off the road.

Once every last drop was swallowed and his cock was thoroughly cleaned by your tongue, you tucked him away and sat up, grinning proudly as you swiped the back of your hand across your mouth.

Dave’s chest heaved, his hairline damp with sweat, and he glanced over at you in wonder. “You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?” You shrugged innocently. “You were made to suck my cock, Firecracker. I love that fucking sexy mouth of yours.”

You preened under his praise. “Just call me cock goblin with how much I love giving you blow jobs.” The words fell from your lips so effortlessly, you didn’t realize what you said until Dave called you out on it.

“Cock goblin?”

Shit! That is not at all what you meant to say.

Mortified, you slapped a hand against the dashboard. “I meant cock gobbler! I swear!”

“Yeah, okay, my little cock goblin.”

You both descended into raucous laughter for the remainder of the ride home.

When you got back, the house was quiet. Ranger greeted you at the door with his tongue lolling out of his mouth and tail wagging. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in lavender and gold, the last light spilling through the cottage windows to create soft mood lighting.

You kicked off your shoes by the door, pulse still buzzing from the laughter you hadn’t quite come down from. Dave followed behind you, that damn bag still in his hand and a smirk tugging at his enchanting lips.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, setting the bag on the counter. “I could make us something to eat.”

You shook your head slowly. “No, I’m good. Thank you… for today.”

“It was fun, wasn’t it?” he questioned, moving closer. “And now we have some new stuff to try out.”

“That we do.” Your tongue danced along your bottom lip, and Dave’s eye darkened. His hand slid up your back, fingers threading through your hair as he kissed your temple.

“Come on, then,” he whispered huskily, grasping the little bag once again. “Let’s take this upstairs if you aren’t interested in eating first.”

The bedroom was dim, the only light the low amber glow of the bedside lamp, a dash of moonlight, and the single candle Dave lit on the nightstand. You sat cross-legged on the bed in nothing but one of his button-down shirts you stole from the closet, and Dave gazed at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world while he slipped the last of his clothes off his body.

He crawled into bed beside you, his bare thigh brushing yours, and for a moment, neither of you moved. He just looked at you, like he was drinking in the view.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he said quietly, almost like he didn’t mean for the words to escape.

You leaned in and kissed him. It wasn’t rushed or hungry like earlier, but slow and deep and aching. He kissed you back with the same reverence, one hand cupping your jaw, the other resting on your thick thigh, his fingers digging into the flesh as your tongues danced. There was no urgency. Just warmth. Just presence. Intimacy. Love.

“You make me feel so safe,” you whispered against his lips, “and loved.”

Dave’s eyes flickered, full of something heavy and unspoken. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

You kissed again, and again, each one longer, deeper, until the kiss segued into touch, your fingers exploring, discovering, remembering, memorizing. His hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt, searing your body in slow, heated movements like it was the first time he was touching you.

His lips roamed the side of your neck to the round of your shoulder and down the bend of your elbow. No one had ever kissed along your arm like that – it was a place so easily overlooked but so deeply intimate, and you knew he’d memorize your reaction to such deliberate affection like scripture.

With the same reverence, Dave explored the rest of your body with his lips and tongue, lingering in those spots that made you moan and sigh. The air warmed when he slithered down the bed and maneuvered your legs over his shoulders, fingers pressing into the thick flesh of your thighs as he dove in to taste the very essence of you.

Pleasure built and built as his tongue laved at your core, your fingers threading into his hair and tugging as your back arched against the bed. Just when you thought the bubble might burst, Dave pulled back and reached for the little bag of goodies on the nightstand.

You whined, distraught.

“Patience, kitten,” he tsked, large hands prying open a small bottle and drizzling the liquid along the skin of your abdomen and chest. Dave dipped his head back down to taste you as his hands massaged your belly. The oil heated under his touch, warming your skin to a delightful burn.

Dave worked you into a frenzy, hands reaching further to massage your breasts and tweak your hardened nipples. When he sucked on your clit with a little nip, pinching hard at your nipples, you came with a stifled scream.

You were still riding the wave of ecstasy when he shifted, his hard cock slipping between your folds, further heightening the burning pleasure. Dave made love to you with a slow build, the rocking of his hips started slowly, picking up pace and intensity with each stroke until you were moaning into each other’s mouths and gasping for breath in equal measure.

“I love you,” Dave whispered after making you come again and again, his thrusts turning sloppy, staggering, as he neared his own explosive orgasm. He flooded you with his spend, warming you from the inside out.

“I love you,” you replied breathlessly when he collapsed against you, his weight a pleasant pressure along the length of your body.

“I’m gonna marry you,” Dave declared a while later, after you both came down from the euphoria.

“So you keep saying,” you teased sleepily. “You know you need to actually ask me sometime.”

“I’m planning on it.”

In the following weeks, you took to searching for jobs in your copious amounts of downtime – something that would offer you a sense of purpose more than a paycheck – but kept coming up empty.

The problem was that you just didn’t know what you wanted. Your degree and subsequent jump into the corporate world left you burnt out and jaded after eight years, and all you knew was that you wanted to avoid that feeling again.

You also didn’t want to commute to one of the bigger cities, which left you with limited options. Still, you searched and searched.

One late afternoon, the sun filtered through the windows, casting warm, honeyed light across the kitchen where you stood rinsing out the coffee pot. The girls were working on a puzzle in the living room, the television playing a movie in the background, and Ranger was snoozing on the couch, occasionally cracking an eye open to keep watch over them.

Dave was at the breakfast bar, laptop open, brows furrowed as he reviewed vendor estimates and security system specs. The sound of keys clicking was rhythmic, soothing, and familiar.

You leaned on the counter across from him, arms folded, eyes drinking in the sight of him being so focused. “Need anything?”

He glanced up, the look in his eyes shifting instantly from focused to warm, loving. “Yeah. Actually.”

You raised a brow. “Yeah?”

Dave stood, closing the laptop gently. He rounded the island and leaned back against it beside you, crossing his arms with a thoughtful look. “I’ve been thinking about something. You’ve been helping to get this business started more than you probably realize. You’ve been a sounding board, giving design suggestions, and helping with logistics. Hell, the business cards came out much better because of your input.”

You tilted your head, unsure where he was going with this. “I’m always happy to help, you know that.”

“I don’t just want your help, Firecracker. I want you in on this,” he insisted. “Officially.”

Your brows lifted in surprise. “You mean…?”

“I want you to be my partner,” he said, holding your gaze. “Co-owner. I want you at the table for every decision we make. I want this business to be something we build together. I know how hard you’ve been searching for something to devote your time and energy to and how frustrated you’re getting with not finding something meaningful.”

Your heart stuttered. Partners in all things. Could that work? Did you want that?

“Dave…”

“I’m not asking you to give up your dreams. If you decide down the road you want to do something completely different, I’ll back you every step. But if part of you is still figuring out what comes next, and you want a place to start, I’d be a fool not to offer you a real role here.”

You were silent for a moment, blinking hard as emotion welled in your chest.

“I thought you didn’t want me to have to work,” you said softly, your voice cracking just a little.

“I didn’t want you to feel pressured to work,” he clarified. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you with me. This isn’t about money. It’s about building something real, something solid. Something that’s ours.”

You stared at him, stunned by how deeply he now got it. That he didn’t just love you. He saw you. He appreciated you.

“And,” he added with a crooked grin, “I kind of want to show you off as the brains of the operation. You’re really good at this shit, whether you realize it or not.”

You laughed through the tears. “You just want me to make you look good.”

“I want you where you belong.” His tone softened, though the broad grin remained. “Beside me, always.”

You stepped forward, sliding your arms around his waist. “You sure about this?”

Dave kissed your forehead, then looked you dead in the eye. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.” After a moment, he winked and added, “Well… maybe one thing.”

Your smile spread slowly, like sunlight cresting the horizon. “In that case,” you said, “you’ve got yourself a partner.”

He kissed you, long and hard, to seal the deal. When you broke apart to catch your breath, he held you for a moment longer, your cheek pressed against his chest, broad hand steady on the back of your head. The scent of him surrounded you, clean, crisp, uniquely his.

You stood there together, smiling softly at each other, when you suddenly recalled what he said. “Wait, what’s that one thing you might have been more sure of than wanting to bring me into the business?”

Dave’s smile split his face. “I thought you’d never ask,” he teased before calling the girls over. The Yorks and Ranger surrounded you, all wide, dark eyes and joyous faces. He watched as the girls flung their arms around your waist, breathless and excited for what was about to happen. His heart swelled.

“What is going on?” you asked, completely confused.

He’d been thinking about it nonstop, wondering how and when to pop the question. He and the girls picked the ring out a month ago, and it has been burning a hole in his pocket ever since. Somehow, he just knew that this was the moment, the way to ask you. At home, surrounded by those you loved most.

Dave had a whole speech planned about how you changed his life the moment you set foot inside that house and blah, blah, blah. But none of it mattered when you looked up at him, arms still around his girls, your smile warm and questioning.

“Marry me?” he questioned simply, succinctly, as he slowly dropped to one knee on the hard floor. His voice, rough with emotion, and his eyes, full of nothing but you.

You blinked, caught completely off guard as he held up a classic white gold ring with a simple princess cut diamond. “What?”

Dave grinned, reaching up to brush his fingers against your cheek. “You heard me.”

Molly squealed, and Alice squeezed you harder. “It’s about time, Dad,” she declared haughtily.

You stared back at Dave, tears springing to your eyes, falling down your cheeks before you could even think of blinking them away.

“Say yes! Say yes!” The girls let go of you and started dancing around the kitchen with a chant. Ranger pranced behind them, nails clicking on the hard flooring.

You laughed through the tears, that feeling of being home overwhelming you. It was so much more than a place. It was this. It was them. It was him.

It was a state of being you never knew you always wanted.

“Yes. Yes, Dave York. I’ll marry you.”

“Oh, thank god,” Dave sighed, and you barely heard it as the girls screamed. They gave you long enough for him to slip the ring onto your finger and share a brief kiss before throwing themselves at both of you. Ranger barked, jumping up excitedly, his paws landing on Dave’s back.

And that is how your forever began.

Epilogue

tag list: @imdrinkingpedro @lillaydee @ppascalrain @yorksgirl @missladym1981 @baronessvonglitter @slimybeth69 @mellymbee @untamedheart81 @inept-the-magnificent @wannab-urs @thundermartini @peelieblue @harriedandharassed @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @sunnytuliptime @vie-is-punk @lovely-vamp-princess

[oldguardleatherdog]

The Night Before the Tribute In Light

September 10, 2003

I.

One month ago today, this long-forgotten photo suddenly popped up in the photo app on my laptop. I took this photo with my Sanyo clamshell phone on September 10, 2003, 21 years ago tonight, from Hudson River Park in Manhattan.

Don't ask me how it survived all these years or where it's been stored all this time or how in the world it could have found its way to me from the long-dead storage servers of a long-defunct cell phone carrier. We're in the penumbra of The Anniversary, and time is out of joint.

I had been back in New York for about a month (after getting violently run out of the place I was staying by a fellow who is now one of my closest friends), homeless and living in that roach-infested HIV crack-house shelter at 96th and Broadway that I describe in "The One Decent Thing I Ever Did" (it’s archived on this blog), and you can imagine my state of head and spirit at this moment, the night before the 2nd anniversary of the terror attacks on the World Trade Center that drove me from my home in Lower Manhattan, four blocks east of the site.

I was sitting on a bench in Hudson River Park on the West Side of Manhattan, somewhere near Houston Street, maybe ten or fifteen blocks north of World Trade. I hadn't noticed these beams of light as I walked, and I think they might have just been activated while I was sitting there. As I recall, it was a full moon in Virgo, and I was positioned just right to snap this shot. I had *no* idea what this was all about, as I recall, but I thought the image was so striking and affecting that I wanted to capture it.

As it turns out, this was the tech run-through for the first September 11th installation of the “Tribute In Light”. Here’s Google’s AI summary of this remarkable memorial:

So there I was, just two years after the blast, stunned by this sudden, mysterious apparition rising from just south of what was still a giant, messy hole in the ground. I was still not fully myself at that time and would not regain my full memory or sense of who I was until the following January (therein lies a tale!), and as I recall I was just numbly stunned, not knowing what to make of it.

As I write, I’m getting the physical sense memory of that moment: the dog in me (my medulla oblongata speaking) feels his hackles rise, it’s not what I expect to see filling the hole in the sky, is it another attack? Do I bark at it, sound an alarm, run towards it, away from it, why is there light there, is this some unholy ruse, another trick being played on me from that big smoky hole where nothing but poison has spilled out for the longest time?

My phone rang. It was a fellow that I had met and hung out with in San Francisco while I was stranded there, and I was stunned to hear from him, especially at that moment. “Hi Dave… well, right now I’m on the riverfront looking at the damnedest thing… [I just wanted to make sure you were ok] hey, thanks for checking in… yeah, take care bud.” I closed the phone and started walking south along the riverfront, toward the light beams.

When I got there, I saw the massive banks of klieg lights assembled in their arrays, a strange and unfamiliar (unwelcome) echo of the shapes and the placement and the footprints of the place I loved so well.

The faces of the artists who surrounded the lights were intense, focused, sober. I still didn’t quite know what was going on, but there was profound reverence in the air, on those faces, at that place, as the beams of pure white light soared upwards, past the point of naked-eye discernment, unending, likely petering out tens of thousands of feet off that spoiled piece of ground, perhaps piercing the ionosphere, did they get clearance from the Federal Aviation Administration for this? Are pilots being disoriented by these columns at 45,000 feet? Do they touch the feet of God?

II.

And I kept walking south, my back to the light,

Down to the oldest part of the civilized island,

Past the Battery, the bronze bull, the buttonwood tree,

The Port of New York dead ahead,

The Staten Island Ferry terminal, ramshackle, ancient,

Entry restricted by terror tape and armed sentinels

No two uniforms alike, a panoply of enforcement,

Heavy weapons at the ready, so jarring in my neighborhood,

And the working dogs with the keen snouts, the trained muzzles,

Jumping up to paw at the brown bag in the soldier’s hand

Is that peanut butter? Apple? Hunk of cheese?

Let’s play! You’ve been so serious, so worried,

You smell sad and scared, are you lost? Let’s play!

Even Cerberus needs break time, belly rubs, treats!

For the first time in weeks, I smile to myself

As I round past the ferry, those strange lights at my back.

Hope I can sneak past the turnstile downstairs,

I won’t have to hike back up three hundred blocks

To that awful low place. Did you know roaches bite?

They shit on you too. Try to sleep, fully dressed,

Watch cap pulled low on my head, long sleeved shirt

Buttoned up to the collar, heavy pants tucked in boots,

Gloves on my hands, one more night without food

Half-bag of speed takes my mind off the pain

Sleep comes in fits if at all. – On the train

Dreading the stop: ninety-sixth street and Broadway.

Tomorrow, this city will jack itself off

In performative weeping and gnashing and cursing

Oh, how we loved them! I snort in derision,

You didn’t lose nothin', you pieces of shit!

Let the dead bury the dead. Beams of light

Don’t feed this refugee reeking of ashes -

What, do I smell bad? So sorry to stink up

The place where you’ve laid out the feast for your friends

Who still have their jobs, their high homes in the towers

Behind the glass doors where your larders are stocked

With the food that you bought with your government money

That flooded your midtown Manhattan apartment

With all the new clothes, electronics, the sausages

Fresh from Enrico’s, Zabar’s, D’agostino’s,

Bought with the Victim’s Fund money you stole

When you filed your claim. “OMG, it was awful!

“I couldn’t get up to the fifty-fourth floor,

“I had to find shelter on Upper Park Avenue.

“Power was out. I was homeless that night!

“So glad that my friend who was shopping in Gramercy

“Gave me the number to call for my claim

“September 11th was horrid! I told them

“I couldn’t go home for two nights! Oh, thank God

“The claim got approved with a wink and a nod

“And no one’s the wiser – I’ve never been south

“Of the Plaza Hotel! That all happened on Wall Street,

“Who goes down there? Jesus Christ, are you kidding?

“That’s four miles away! Christopher, are you coming

“Or what? Reservations at Nobu won’t wait

“For you or for me, so quit primping!”

The pain

In my stomach, relentless. My gorge won’t stop heaving.

Am I gonna make it? Damn, *ouch!* What the fuck…

The tooth that I hoped would hold out just gave way,

Fuck me. Another huge hole in my grille.

When I made six figures and lived in a high-rise,

Fuck buddies laughing on Saturday night,

Nobody told me that one hundred minutes

And two hijacked jet planes would make such a difference.

No one will laugh with me now – my best friends

Are yelling and angry, how dare I show up

Sweaty and toothless, a walking reminder

Of September tenth. No, I’m not gonna feed you.

III.

Now, twenty years later, they’ve retooled their memory:

“Animal! Damn, dog! We’ve missed you, you know,

“Wow, you’re alive! You look fabulous! Listen,

“I never gave up on you. Give a call

“When you come to the City. I want you to meet

“My beautiful husband – he remembers you too!”

IV.

Twin beams of light where the Towers were anchored,

Okay, not exactly precisely those spots,

But who’s gonna criticize? Look and recall

How majestic they were. Yeah, the new One World Trade

Is cool, I suppose – no one mentions the absence

Of Two World Trade Center. Insurance, you know.

Not enough money or civic ambition,

And Bloomberg discouraged it. Why add a target?

“Don’t you think sixty or seventy stories

“Are more than enough? Hell, let’s just get it done.

“The sooner we finish construction, the better.”

V.

*There will never be lumens of adequate volume

Sufficient to seal that hole in the sky,

But the hole in my heart I will finish, I tell you.

Walk with me as I go forward. Tomorrow

I’m back in the studio. Tonight, we can play!

You smell like apples and – damn, is that chocolate?

(our light beams shine upward forever)

"Good boy!"

Animal J. Smith

San Francisco, California

September 10, 2024

[oddlykilledghosts]

Breakfast At Tiffany’s - Rafe Cameron x reader

Summary: Rafe surprises you with a trip to New York during Christmas, and a stop at a shop you could never afford

Word Count: 3.2k

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x pogue!reader

Nothing felt real. 

Well, maybe it actually felt a little bit too real. Too good to be true. Maybe falsified by some ancient god for some universal prank. But you didn’t care. You were sitting in the backseat of a taxi with your boyfriend, Rafe Cameron, and life was perfect. Life couldn’t have been more perfect. It was snowing outside, a blaze of white flickering past the window and landing on the cars passing by. A sight you had never seen before, and your eyes glazed over watching the snowfall from outside the car.

You were leaning on Rafe’s shoulder, having been a little sleep deprived lately because of work and trying to find time to spend with friends when you weren’t working, which were both equally stressful. Rafe’s arm was protectively around you, and also radiating heat from inside his jacket. And it felt a little alright to take a break from thinking about those small amounts of stress when you were bundled up next to the Kook.

The other day, when this all began, had started out just right. Perfect sun, no clouds in the Outer Banks, and temperature of low 50s; the coldest you liked in your hometown. You had stayed over at Rafe’s the previous night, and he had pretty much insisted you do so. Unfortunately, you could never really say no to your boyfriend. But Tannyhill was also big and glorious and you never minded staying there instead of The Cut. 

After you had begun dating, it was typical of you to stay there most nights, with Rafe’s room becoming a second hideaway from the world. His room had its own bathroom, where you had showered and cleaned up before the day had started. And you kept your own things there; strawberry scented shampoo, face wash, a toothbrush, and a few other necessities. Rafe had made his space your own. The only problem was trying not to let Ward in on your little secret. You were Ward’s favorite of the pogues, only when you weren’t a group of meddling kids, but you doubted he would approve of your sleepover situation. And if he did know of it, he didn’t say anything. 

When you came out of the shower, Rafe was sitting on the bed looking at his phone, not letting you in on any simplicity of his plan. You were drying your hair with one of his white towels when he spoke up, all nonchalant-like, “You like New York, right?” His voice hid a certain nuance to it, but you couldn’t tell what it entailed.

An eyebrow shot up on your face as a laugh exited your mouth, a jingle Rafe could never get out of his head, “Like, geographically?” 

Rafe shook his head, his eyes looking up from his phone. His gaze softened when it landed on you, a gentle expression on his features. “No, like, visiting.” He shrugged where he was laying down, and pulled himself up to a sitting position to get a better look at you. His eyes were sparkling, keeping a secret to themselves.

You laughed again, not sure where he was going with this, “You very well know I’ve never been outside of North Carolina before.” You shrugged, "Can't afford it.” The truth was, you couldn’t remember if you had told Rafe about wanting to visit New York. Especially when you were younger, you would dream about living in the city. It didn’t always sound like you, as you were now an avid surfer and got tans upon tans on the beach at every opportunity. Plus, saving turtles with Kiara was always on your mind. You couldn’t very well do that in the confines of a concrete jungle. But the dream was still there, just not tangible.

“Y/N, would you like to go to New York?” Rafe’s smile peeked out from an unfortunately unsuccessful attempt to hide. You stopped trying to dry your hair. Normally, you didn’t love when Rafe showered you with gifts. But Rafe loved it, and did so at every opportunity. It was like if Rafe had all this love to give, if he could land it anywhere, it would solely be on you.

You shook your head, “No- I mean yes. But you can’t. I mean, Rafe, it’s like-”

“Y/N, it’s Christmas, please just say yes.” Rafe's eyes were so soft, melting into you. His voice was so sweet when he talked, as if he really believed you would turn down the gift and was hoping with all of his might that you would really take him up on it. You had turned down his gifts and generosity before, but that was so early into your relationship that it felt like ages away now. The real problem was, Christmas was the one exception. You loved everything about the holiday. The lights. The gifts. The tree. The music. Everything. And you had never really seen snow before. Had it snowed in New York recently…you were somewhat tempted to get out your phone and check even before answering your boyfriend. Snow. Did you enjoy the cold? Not always. But it could be something new. Something inspiring.

You looked at Rafe, trying to decipher whatever plans he had for the two of you by marking the constellations of his face. A line here, a dimple there. One faded freckle. And inside it all was a loving boyfriend. One you knew wanted the best for you. Only if that’s what you wanted too.

So you said yes. And now you could never believe you did. The Rockefeller tree. The shop windows on 5th avenue. Even your hotel was in the Christmas spirit. Wreaths were up. Halls were decked. It really felt like Christmas. And it was more than you could have ever asked for.

You would never complain about your life back home, not at all. But to really experience it all like this was magical. It was something out of a dream. Like one of those children’s books about a snow day.

Finally, you and Rafe stepped out of the cab, Rafe stopping just for a second to pay the man behind the wheel. You were stopped at Fifth Avenue, a very “Rafe” place to be (as you had decided in your mind). There was nothing spared here, and the bustling of bodies was new to you. Stuck in your mind was the thought of a tourist like you getting trampled so you hung onto Rafe’s arm for support as you walked. 

Snow fell on your nose and your eyelashes causing a blurry sight. You’d never experienced snow before. Well, New York City wasn’t the best place to make snowmen and have a snowball fight, but experiencing it this way the first time was alright to you and just as special. 

Rafe pulled you into a coffee shop, allowing you to be in awe of the city for a moment. You wondered if he had been before, surely Ward had taken him either on business ventures or family vacations. He knew his way around well enough, he didn’t seem like just some OBX boy making it up as he goes for the first time in this type of city.

“Coffee first?” You asked, not sure where this particular stop of the day was leading you. 

The first stop of the day had actually been waking up at your hotel, which wasn’t that far from where you were now. Rafe had scheduled ahead of time, gotten you both a flight with great seats, and started the trip off particularly great. When you found this all out though, you initially pouted unconvinced by Rafe’s confidence that you were going to say yes. Just another way he gets ahead of himself because of you.

When you walked into the shop - a fun place called Ralph’s, you pushed some hair behind your ear. You were wearing a hat and a big coat to fend off the cold and your hair kept getting in your face. The hat was also a little itchy, but you didn’t tell that to Rafe who had thought you looked so cute bundled up.

“World’s best cup of coffee,” Rafe joked, giving you a squeeze of your hand as the two of you stood in line. He was referencing a quote from a movie the two of you had watched together to get in the Christmas spirit; Elf.

You rolled your eyes as you remembered that you wanted a cup of New York coffee. That scene had sparked an inspiration. World’s best or not, coffee kept New York upright. It was just a small thing that he had noticed and remembered. How much of what you said now lived permanently in Rafe’s brain?

When you got to the front of the line, Rafe ordered you your signature caffeinated drink and a croissant, although you weren’t hungry. 

“Next stop?” Rafe asked into your ear as you were leaving, his lips forming a smile. It was nice to see him in such a good mood it almost surprised you to see him act so carefree.

Once you were out, back into the cold, your grip on your boyfriend hardened. “And what would that be?”

“It’s a surprise.” He replied.

“No really tell me.” You pulled at his coat sleeve but he kept walking, dragging you along with him.

“We’re almost there, Y/N. Trust me.”

You leaned into Rafe, taking his word for it and sipped your drink as you went along, people watching everyone on the crowded street.

_________________

You had closed your eyes against Rafe’s sleeve for a bit before you stopped, that exhaustion from work and hanging out one to many late nights with the pogues taking over. You were glad your boss had been forgiving enough about the trip, as you had saved up sick days in advance for emergencies like this (this was a Christmas emergency) and were glad for the time off but you still needed a nap. Maybe on the next taxi drive.

Rafe had to shake you from your almost-sleepwalking-endeavor, “Y/N, you might want that croissant now.”

“Mhnm?” You hummed, content with the smell from Rafe’s coat (polo cologne and fresh laundry as well as that distinct ocean-y smell that came from living so close to the beach).

Shaking your head from any notion of sleep, you opened your eyes, and you gave Rafe a look. This is not what you had envisioned. It wasn’t some New York tradition or small town deal. Well, what it was was Tiffany and CO’s flagship store, huge and towering over the two of you as snow passed by the well-lit windows. 

You couldn’t help but smile at the store. So beautifully big and gleaming with lights and decorations of the jewelry inside. You would’ve never taken yourself here, and you knew that was most of the reason why Rafe had. You had watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s not that long ago and told Rafe how much you loved it. The characters. The glitz and glam. What the story really meant. 

Rafe handed you the croissant, “Ready to remake a scene?”

You now understood what Rafe was doing. You were going to be his Audrey Hepburn. His “Holly Golightly”. The classic croissant and coffee combo, her breakfast that she ate in the first scene of the movie.

Going up to the window, you let him take your picture as you sipped your drink and took a bite, laughing as you did so. “You know, we’re far from those characters.” You mention, trying to get back to reality.

“We’re obviously not sex-workers, Y/N.” Rafe says with a deadpan, and you’re surprised he’s seen the movie as you surely didn’t make him watch it. Maybe Wheezie did when she was going through her past decades phase a few months ago. As he talked, snow got stuck in his hair, you think it makes him look cute and you bite back a soft laugh.

“I know,” you smile, taking another bite of the treat. There was some chocolate inside, sweet and just right. “If I had a cat, I’d definitely name it.”

“But?” Rafe knew you too well to drop the conversation.

“I did fall in love with it. That nothing bad could ever happen in a place like Tiffany’s.” You took a step towards your boyfriend and used his color to pull him into a light kiss. “You’re like that for me.”

Rafe smiled against your mouth, “Because I’m rich?”

You shrugged, a playful smirk on your lips, “Want to go in?” You asked, having too much fun with this. “Just to look.” You clarified.

Rafe nodded his head, a mastermind at work behind those eyes, “Ladies first.”

_____________________

The thing was, you weren’t much for luxury stores, so this was a very new experience for you. A doorman stood by one of the doors and ushered you in, and you blushed as he opened the door for you as it’s action usually only Rafe does for you. You smiled at him as he both of you passed, and grabbed Rafe’s hand (one of your many ways to comfort yourself) as you entered the store.

The store itself was huge, ceilings going up and around, four floors all open to retail. The first floor featured cases of the most blindingly pretty diamonds and jewelry you had ever seen. Sparkles washed over your eyes as you pulled Rafe to either side of the store, looking with delight at everything offered. Every now and again, a worker would ask if you needed help, but you assured them you were only looking before Rafe could interject.

All of it was decorated with Tiffany's version of Christmas. Christmas cards and art and wreaths. The color red. Tiffany Blue. A tree here and there.

There was a time here and there where you could feel Rafe’s eyes on you, his smile widening at your awe. So in love with you that even watching you enjoy something was enough of a show for him.

By the time you had traveled to each floor, you felt very pleased with your visit. You and the pogues would’ve never come here on your own, let alone able to afford anything in its walls. But Rafe still had a surprise up his sleeve, just for you. 

When you came back to the first floor, Rafe stopped you from going out the door. His hair was now damp from the melted snow but his nose was still a little reddened by the cold. You weren’t sure it was that appropriate to kiss him in a store like this, but you wanted to because he looked so much like the person you loved more than anything, just fresh and new from the cold. He held out his hand to you again, and pulled you close before exiting the store. “I want you to pick one.” He whispered in your ear, not quite letting you pass the threshold and leave.

“What?” A shiver went up your back, causing goosebumps to appear on your arm under your coat. You were sure Rafe was kidding, and also not sure at the same time. He went a little extreme when it came to you, so this was no mistake. He had planned this. 

“Y/N, please just pick one.”

You turned to face him, heat steaming in your cheeks, “Rafe I can’t do that.”

He smiled, “Yes you can.” Then at your pout of pure utter ‘I’m a pogue and I can’t take expensive gifts’, he added, “Let’s just look again. Try something on. For me.” 

As you persisted, Rafe just got more and more convincing. It was easy to fall into his traps. He was tall and charming and knew all of your tricks as well as his own.

When you perused the glass cases again, Rafe flagged down a sales associate to help you. Anxiety coursed through you, you had never done this before… let alone spent this much money on something other than bills. But there was something so calm and casual about Rafe here, like he knew how it worked. 

But you also did want to be pampered a little, give into Rafe’s love for you, even for just a moment.

Rafe picked a few items out, but only after you had shown interest. He was letting you take the reins. Of course, you cringed when they said each of the prices, but Rafe covered it casually and had no worries about how much the cost would be. You tried on a few necklaces and bracelets, weighing the options. You felt so glamorous looking in the mirrors and seeing the jewelry on. But there was one that you loved. That you couldn’t take your eyes off of. But it felt like too much to ask. Of course, the only problem was how Rafe already noticed you eyeing it. It was helpless to think you were going to leave the store, with Rafe as your boyfriend, empty handed.

Rafe side-eyed you as the sales associate walked away for a moment to fetch something Rafe had asked to see, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking it’s Christmas and you don’t have to do this,” You put your hand on top of his, his skin was warm and cozy and his gold signet ring glinted under the lights.

“Hmm, I’m thinking it’s Christmas and you deserve this. Y/N you work so hard, let me do this-” The sales associate returned and opened up the box to reveal what you had wanted, but not said. 

“How much is-” You began to ask, already regretting your decision to let this happen.

“Don’t tell her, it’s a gift.” Rafe interrupted, his smile so charming you were sure even the sales associate was falling into his trap.

You glared at him, but tried it on. And you felt good wearing it. It glinted just like Rafe’s ring in the light, and it looked so good in the mirror. You wanted to scold Rafe, but this was one of the first things you’ll probably have forever and you didn’t want to rob yourself of that. Especially not when it’s connected to someone you loved so much.

“What do you think?” You asked, showing it off to Rafe.

Rafe gave you a look, and you sighed with a smile and turned to the sales associate, “We’ll take it.”

________________________

When you were walking out of the store, you grabbed Rafe’s hand again and pulled him out, almost nervous that he would be tempted to buy you more. You had already gotten one blue box that day, you didn’t need Rafe going especially crazy. But between you, it felt like Christmas. You had gotten an out of this world gift, you were in New York with the love of your life, and you still had more to do.

You turned your head to look at Rafe while you walked, not really in the mood for a taxi, “What’s next?” You asked, eyes ablaze with that look you always got on Christmas morning.

“So now you like my surprises?” Rafe asked, squeezing your hand. 

“It’s Christmas, I can give in a little.” You squeezed Rafe’s hand back, and went off into the wintery New York city.

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

You Come Home Drunk (Fluff)

Bayverse!Leonardo x reader

Just got home from a casual night out, but instead of sleep I needed some Leo love. Mainly just fluff. I might be slightly tipsy, but that is the North European way💙

Aged up to at least 18 if you're none American, 21 if you’re American.

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, description of drunken state, spelling.

—------------------------------------------

The cityscape of New York was a breathtaking sea of lights. Almost as breathtaking as the light in the club you had just left, you thought to yourself as you stumbled your way back home after a night out with your friends. The laughter and chatter of the evening still echoed in your ears, but the alcohol coursing through your veins made the world spin a little too much.

As you fumbled with the keys to your apartment, the door swung open, revealing your boyfriend Leonardo. It wasn’t uncommon for Leo to stay in your apartment, even when you weren’t home. It was a place Leo could find peace, when his own home and brothers became too much for him to handle. Sometimes he would also come over, just to spend some time with you, or just to feel comfortable in a room that smelled of you.

Leo’s blue eyes widened in surprise as he took in your disheveled appearance. Your laughter bubbled out uncontrollably as you tried to maintain your balance. Leo knew your plans for tonight, and he had expected you to come home drunk. But he had not expected you to be THAT drunk.

"Whoa there", Leo said, catching you before you could faceplant into your own doormat. "What happened to you?", he asked, as he guided you into your kitchen so he could get you some water.

You grinned, the alcohol dulling any sense of embarrassment. "Had an amazing time, Leo. You should've come!"

"I'm not much of a party person," he chuckled, placing you on the kitchen island, before going for a glass in the cupboard. "As a turtle, the party scene is not really a thing for me. But I can see that you enjoyed yourself".

“That’s a lie!”, you smiled, limbs lashing out in a childlike manner that made Leo chuckle. “Mikey loves parties!”

“Yeah, but Mikey is a special case”, Leo told you, handing you a glass filled with water. “Now drink”.

You did as your boyfriend told you, and drank the water he had gotten you. When you finally had emptied the glass, Leo helped you down from sitting on the kitchen island to standing on the floor boards. You felt a tingle in your stomach when he did so, causing you to laugh. Your laughter turned into a melodious hum as you swayed a little too much.

Leo sighed. "Let's get you to bed."

With a gentle touch, Leo guided you to your room. He told you to get ready for bed, before going to fill another glass of water for your nightstand. But when he came back, you were still standing in your clothes, making a face that Leo couldn’t help but chuckle at.

“Didn’t I tell you to get ready?”, he asked, placing the glass on your nightstand. You didn’t answer but instead sloppily lifted your arms, signaling for him to take it off. Leo sighed before taking your cute face in his hands, looking into your eyes. “Baby, you’re drunk. You know I can’t take your clothes off”. You answered him with a scuff, before waving your arms, signaling him to do it anyway. Leo breathed a long sigh. “Fine, but your underwear stays on. We ain’t doing any of that while you’re drunk”.

Leo helped you out your clothes and into bed. The coolness of the sheets felt heavenly against your flushed skin as you lay down, your head spinning. Leo tucked you in, a soft smile on his face as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face. The moment you laid down, you were fighting to stay awake.

"Thanks for taking care of me," you slurred, reaching out to grasp his hand.

"It's what I'm here for," Leo replied, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. "Now get some rest. I'll be around if you need anything."

As you drifted into a contented slumber, Leo couldn't help but watch over you for a while. He admired your carefree spirit, even if it meant dealing with a slightly drunken version of you. It was just a part of being with you, and he loved every minute of it.

The next morning, you awoke to the gentle aroma of coffee and the clinking of plates from your kitchen. With an aching head and shaking limbs, you rose from your bed and walked into the kitchen to see what was happening. Leo stood in the kitchen, preparing breakfast with a focused expression. In fear of what would happen if he used the stove, he had opted to make you toast and a salad. It was not a lot, but with Leo’s lacking skills in the kitchen, it felt like everything.

"Morning," Leo greeted, a fond smile on his face as he set a plate in front of you on the table.

You winced as you sat down, the sunlight streaming into the room making your head throb. "Morning - ow. And... sorry about last night."

Leo chuckled, taking a seat beside you. "No need to apologize. It was entertaining. Plus, I got to take care of you. That is always fun".

You couldn't help but smile back, grateful for the caring turtle you called your boyfriend. As you shared your easy breakfast, you realized that sometimes, the most unexpected moments could bring you closer. And so, inside your quiet apartment in the middle of the city, the bond between you and Leo strengthened, creating a story to remember.

[ren14554]

So I started writing something for the people (and myself) because there’s just not enough. Trust me it is Rafe x Sofia even if this doesn’t feel like it. I gotta set up the plot my people.

Without further ado, the first chapter (and I will most likely post this to my ao3 account going forward…).

Eternal

Chapter 1: The Start

The early afternoon wind cools his skin, but the summer heat still manages to creep through. The sun, already climbing higher into the sky, sends beads of sweat rolling down his back. It’s ungodly hot here. He can’t wait to be back in Kildare, where his climate-controlled pool and cold showers await him—along with an empty house.

Fucking shit.

He tries his best to get his thoughts away from the short, smiley brunette who has haunted his dreams the past week or two. He’s not always successful, but by god, he’s gonna try.

They had followed Groff to the outskirts of Lisbon, Portugal. After days of watching him, they finally witnessed the sale of the crown. Groff walked away with a briefcase full of cash and a piece of paper, his expression smug. Rafe had half a mind to charge in and snatch the case, but the mercenaries flanking Groff—all armed—made him think better of it. He wouldn’t make it back to North Carolina alive if he tried.

The group tailed Groff to a home in the city. With nowhere else to go, they found a cheap hostel to rest in while taking turns keeping watch. Rafe ended up paired with Kiara during one of the shifts—a less-than-ideal arrangement for either of them. Kiara mostly ignored him unless it was to bark directions or berate him, and Rafe, not one to let an insult slide, gave as good as he got. Irritating her is becoming his favorite pastime.

The next evening, as the group sat at a hole-in-the-wall diner eating a meager dinner, Cleo and Pope burst in, looking harried and out of breath.

John B nearly chokes on his food. “What the hell are you two doing here? You’re supposed to be watching Groff!”

Sarah pounds her boyfriend’s back, handing him a glass of water while glaring at the newcomers.

Pope slides into the seat next to Rafe, pushing him closer to Kiara, while Cleo claims the spot beside John B. “We did something kinda stupid,” Pope admitted, his voice tense.

Kiara narrows her eyes. “Pope, what did you do?”

Cleo immediately jumps to his defense. “We did what we had to.”

Ignoring the exchange, Pope reaches into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He slams it down onto the center of the rickety wooden table.

John B, still coughing slightly, snatches it up, Sarah leaning over his shoulder to read, her brow furrowing as she scans the contents.

Rafe cranes his neck just so, catching sight of addresses scribbled on the back—places scattered across the globe.

“Security deposit boxes,” Pope says, answering the unspoken question, “Owned by Hollis Robinson.”

Sarah shoots a sharp look around the table before turning back to the paper. “What does Groff want with safety deposit boxes? Why does he even care? He just got a huge payday—at JJ’s expense, no less.”

Kiara’s voice trembles with anger. “Probably another wild goose chase he thinks will make him rich. The man is disgusting.”

Rafe can feel the heat of her fury. Their reasons might differ, but her anger mirrors his.

John B begins to read aloud, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Manteo, North Carolina. Tokyo, Japan. London, England. Buenos Aires, Argentina. New York City, New York. Cairo, Egypt.”

“Six locations,” Sarah murmurs.

“Security box number 15845,” Cleo adds.

“The bank addresses are on the back,” Pope finishes, and John B flips the paper over to confirm.

“What is he after?” John B asks, almost to himself.

Cleo’s voice breaks the silence. “So, he’s heading back to the States, yeah? He’s already sold the crown. Now he’s after these boxes. What’s our play?”

John B looks from the paper to the group, his expression resolute. “Well, thanks to you two, we’ve got what he’s got—the locations to those safety deposit boxes. We go after them too.”

Sarah’s lips thin, exhaustion showing in her eyes. “What are we even chasing? Is this really worth it? We’ve been beaten, battered… we lost JJ. Maybe it’s time to stop—”

“No.” Kiara’s voice is sharp and unyielding. “He murdered JJ. Groff is getting exactly what he wants. He deserves so much worse.”

Sarah’s expression softens with sympathy, but her voice remains firm. “So, what? We’re just going to stoop to his level? Is that who we are now?”

Rafe, who had remained silent up until this point, finally speaks, his tone cold and resolute. “Groff deserves everything coming to him. And we’re going to deliver it.”

__________________

Next Part: Chapter 2

[jgroffdaily]

The New Yorker Interview

Jonathan Groff Rolls Merrily Back

The actor reflects on his journey in reverse: from his latest Tony nomination to his arrival in New York, waiting tables and dreaming of Broadway.

By Michael Schulman, Photograph by Thea Traff

June 2, 2024

Excerpts:

One of the problems with “Merrily” is its protagonist, Franklin Shepard, whom we first meet as a slick, philandering forty-year-old Hollywood producer. It takes two acts to arrive at the charismatic musician he once was, with a lot of mistakes in between. Putting effect before cause gives each scene a painful irony—but how do you get an audience to care about a guy who’s off-putting for so long? “Merrily” is back on Broadway, in a production directed by Maria Friedman, and it’s finally a hit. One big reason is its Frank, played by Jonathan Groff, whose natural warmth shines through even in the character’s older, sleazier incarnation. When this revival opened Off Broadway, in 2022, The New Yorker’s Helen Shaw wrote, “Groff’s silky tenor and angelic face elevate a part that can sometimes be contemptible—for the first time, I could see Frank as both the dreamer who believes in greatness and the glib charmer who believes every lie he tells.”

Groff, thirty-nine, is now nominated for a Tony Award, alongside Friedman and his co-stars Daniel Radcliffe and Lindsay Mendez. He was previously nominated in 2016, for “Hamilton,” in the scene-stealing part of King George III, and in 2007, for the indie-rock musical “Spring Awakening,” as the rebellious schoolboy Melchior Gabor—his breakout role, opposite Lea Michele. Groff had come to New York three years earlier, as a stagestruck, closeted nineteen-year-old from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where he grew up among Mennonites and was obsessed with the original cast recording of “Annie Get Your Gun.” “Merrily,” with its themes of aging, idealism, and the vicissitudes of show business, has had Groff thinking about his own path toward stardom. “Doing this show on Broadway at this time, moving to New York twenty years ago, I’ve now lived the time frame of the show,” he told me recently.

We were talking at a bakery north of Washington Square Park. Groff had glided in on a bicycle. As we spoke, he frequently welled up with tears—he’s a crier—but regained his composure by focussing on a pair of googly eyes affixed to the wall behind me. For our conversation, which has been edited and condensed, I had an experiment in mind.

Let’s start with the extremely recent past. Three days ago, you went to the Met Gala. How was your night?

The big headline for me was Lea Michele was pregnant, and I sat next to her at the table, holding her giant train thing while she peed. She took it off, and I was holding that and her purse. I saw Zac Posen, who was at our table, help Kim Kardashian up the little tiny stairs, and I said to him, “Wow, that was such a sweet moment of the gay helping the diva.” I was relating to him, like with me and Lea. It’s a zoo of famous people. I was going to go to the after-parties, but my body was just, like, “No.” I hit a wall from the shows and the epicness of the week, with the Tony nominations. So I was home by eleven-forty-five, and in bed by midnight.

The Broadway production of “Merrily” opened last fall. You told Jimmy Fallon that Meryl Streep came to your dressing room, where you have a bar named BARbra, and she took a video of you and sent it to Barbra Streisand. Who else has been there?

The first thing that comes to me is sitting in BARbra in October or November, drinking whiskey with Sutton Foster. I came to New York as a teen-ager and saw her six times in “Thoroughly Modern Millie”—now she’s in BARbra, dropping in for, like, an hour and a half after the show, and it’s so full circle. Who else? Patti LuPone was there—another big one for me. Phoebe Waller-Bridge and Martin McDonagh. Glenn Close sent back a bottle of champagne to be chilled in BARbra, which we drank together.

This show, like every Sondheim show, is very dense. Over the course of three hundred-plus performances, are there certain moments that have suddenly hit you a different way, or that you realize have a double meaning?

Double, triple, quadruple, infinity. I’m still having revelations, which really makes me believe that it’s a true work of art. Maria [Friedman] talks about how, with Sondheim’s writing, he “leaves space,” which is why it’s always new. He always needed to work with a collaborator, and she talked about the actor being an essential collaborator. She said the lyric he wrote in “Sunday in the Park with George”—“Anything you do, / let it come from you, / then it will be new”—is Sondheim’s directive to the actor.

The Tuesday after the Tony nominations, I got to the theatre, screamed with Lindsay [Mendez], screamed with Dan [Radcliffe]. [He chokes up.] Then I was singing “Growing Up”—“So old friends, don’t you see we can have it all?”—which has meant so many different things to me in the run of the show. At yesterday’s matinée, Dan and I were sitting on the roof singing “Our Time”: “Up to us, pal, to show ’em.” We’ve done it a million times. We look at each other, and Dan just fucking loses it crying. He had to look away from me. We talked about it afterward, like, “What the fuck was that?” I don’t know. Something just happened.

When you started the show, in 2022, at New York Theatre Workshop, were there kinks in your performance that you’ve since figured out?

I remember feeling shocked at being disliked for so long in the first half of the first act. It was very clear from the energy of the audience that they loved Mary in the opening scene—immediately, they’re on her side. I’m out here as a gay guy, playing this straight, two-timing Hollywood producer who’s cheating on his wife. I’m already having to feel confident in a way that I don’t in my everyday life, this sort of swagger. And the audience hates me. I remember feeling scared and self-conscious. Maria, in that preview process, really helped with that, because she talked about the value of when it’s real, and you’re not playing ugly just to be ugly. The one line that I really struggled with was “I’m just acting like it all matters so people can’t see how much I hate my life and how much I wish the whole goddam thing was over.” That is a really confronting thing to say.

People might say that this is one of the fundamental flaws of “Merrily We Roll Along”—that you’re confronted with this cynical, smarmy Frank in the first act, and you don’t really understand him until the show’s over. I can imagine going into this not knowing if that’s a solvable problem, because it hadn’t been for decades.

Well, Maria wanted us to find the truth. She really believed that these characters weren’t archetypes, that there’s humanity in the writing from beginning to end. I found it after that first week or two of previews, not being so afraid. The line that made me want to do the show was “I’ve made only one mistake in my life, but I’ve made it over and over and over. That was saying yes when I meant no.” I’ve done that a lot in my life, and there was something that felt like the closeted version of myself. George Furth and Stephen Sondheim—I can only imagine being gay at the time that they were gay. Even though Frank is straight, there’s so much repression that feels very familiar to me.

Except that you felt it at the beginning of your life and not the middle, as Frank does.

Yes and no. I still feel it. I’m still trying every day not to go back. I’m obviously out of the closet, so that’s a huge relief, but I’m always going to be reckoning with the Republican upbringing that I had. I’m always negotiating whatever homophobia I’ve got. It’s all in there, still. What we see as ugliness in the top of the show, to stand and say, “I want to fucking kill myself, I hate my life,” and not overdramatize it but try to find it in the most pure, truthful place—it’s still, every night, a meditation to go there.

Let’s wind back. In 2021, you played Agent Smith in “The Matrix Resurrections.” Any good stories about Keanu Reeves?

Getting to play Agent Smith really unlocked rage inside of me that I didn’t know was there. That’s helped me so much with “Merrily,” particularly in the first act. Learning the kung fu was, like, months of fight training. They called me the Savage, because I was so into it. We were shooting a big fight sequence with Keanu, and, after the first few takes, I remember Lana [Wachowski] at the monitor, like, “Jonathan, come over here. Who is that?” I was, like, “I don’t know.” And she was, like, “And what is that?” I said, “Gay rage?”

I’d never shot a gun before. I shot Keanu and thought I had peed my pants, because I had this hot feeling. You know when you pee yourself and it’s warm? It lasted about ten minutes and then it went away. I sat next to Keanu and said, “Keanu, I just had extreme heat from my groin for, like, ten minutes.” And he was, like, “You opened up your root chakra.”

You turned thirty that year [Hamilton]? How was that?

I remember it vividly. We were at the Public Theatre. There was a fire in the East Village, and the show was cancelled that night. I got a cupcake at the deli around the corner from my apartment, on Sixteenth Street, and ate it by myself. I can be a bit of a loner, so that was a happy birthday for me.

(On Looking being cancelled)

But, in 2015, Michael Lombardo was our executive at HBO, and I was crying into my salad at some restaurant in West Hollywood, trying to convince him to keep the show going, right before getting on the plane to come do “Hamilton” Off Broadway.

I loved Raúl Castillo, who played your love interest Richie on the show. I interviewed him around then, and he told me that, since he’s straight, you all had to teach him some of the mechanics of what gay people do.

Oh, yeah! God, I love him so much. I officiated his wedding in July.

Let’s go back to 2013, when “Frozen” came out. You voiced the iceman Kristoff and the reindeer Sven. How did that film change your life?

It’s funny—I remember recording some of “Frozen” in San Francisco. I would be teaching Raúl, like, how to lick my asshole while jerking me off—not teaching him, but sharing the ins and outs of gay intimacy—and then going into the recording studio on a Saturday and being Kristoff and Sven in a Disney movie.

When they showed me “Let It Go” for the first time, I was, like, Oh, my God, this will help millions of people come out of the closet. This is the gayest thing I’ve seen in my life! That was the thing about “Frozen”: I don’t think anyone who worked on it thought it was going to be a juggernaut. It’s so weird to think of this now, but when it came out it felt quite alternative, because there was no villain, really, and the love was between two women. Now there are, like, tissues with Elsa on it.

Now we’re moving backward to “Spring Awakening.” By the time it moved to Broadway, in 2006, you were the twenty-one-year-old lead of the coolest musical in town. What was your actual life like?

I was so not cool. The show was cool, and the music was cool. I had people dropping me off joints at the theatre. And I remember fully understanding the stark difference between who I was playing onstage and who I was in real life, which was an extreme theatre nerd who wanted to be in the ensemble of “Thoroughly Modern Millie” and never would have imagined playing Melchior. It’s his gravitas. And trying to tap into that side of myself, which was a side I’d never experienced before.

Tell me about your audition.

I went to the open call and knew who Michael Mayer was, because he had directed “Thoroughly Modern Millie.” But it was “Spring Awakening” and I was, like, There’s a beating scene? This is so intense! They called me in for Melchior, then had me sing “Hey Jude” in a falsetto, and Michael was, like, “That was your falsetto?” And I laughed at him sort of making fun of me. Tom Hulce, who was our producer, told me years later that he moved my head shot from the “No” pile into the “Yes” pile because I had laughed at Michael in the audition, and he thought, This kid has the ability to let Michael roll off his back. We should bring him back in the next month or two.

It was, like, ten people up for Melchior. They brought me in first, because they thought they would just see me and cut me. But I had worked so hard on the audition material. I remember calling my dad the night before the final callback and saying to him, “I know I can’t be this character all the way yet, but I—”[He tears up again.] I really got to get my shit together! Why does this keep happening to me?

Because we’ve gone on an emotional journey.

I guess so, in reverse! Fuck me. [Pauses.] I knew that I had it inside, if they would just give me the chance. That’s all I was trying to say, but I guess I can’t stop crying while I’m saying it.

In 2005, you made your Broadway début, as an understudy in “In My Life.” Now, this was the weirdest musical I’ve ever seen. As I recall, there were dancing skeletons in a song about how everyone has a skeleton in their closet, a giant lemon that came from the sky at the end, and a girl on a scooter who turns out to be a ghost. And it was written by the guy who wrote “You Light Up My Life,” who then came to a dark end.

And his son!

Yes, his son killed his girlfriend. What the hell was going on with that show? Did you ever go on?

I went on for the ensemble members. I was so excited! I was in my first Broadway show, at the Music Box Theatre, walking in where it says “Stage Door.” And you couldn’t give away tickets to see the show. People were coming to laugh at the show from the audience.

Like “Springtime for Hitler”?

Exactly. And the cast had to do the show, even though people were laughing at them, which is devastating for the actors. But we formed a little family. It’s the plight of the actor. You’re just out there, like Sally Bowles in “Cabaret.” I was twenty years old, so I was lit.

Had you been waiting tables?

Yeah. The whole year before that, I was at the Chelsea Grill, in Hell’s Kitchen. The day I got to New York—October 21, 2004—I moved to Fifty-first Street and Ninth Avenue, before it was super gay, and I walked down Ninth and got a job waiting tables. A week later, I waited on Tom Viola, who runs the charity Broadway Cares, and became a bucket collector. I’d watch the second act of shows and then collect the money at the end. I went to hundreds of auditions, trying to get my Equity card. That, to me, was “Opening Doors,” from “Merrily”—that moment of sheer will and ambition and ignorance.

We’ve now reached our finale, which is 2004. Can you tell me about the decision to move to New York?

My mom was a gym teacher and my dad is a horse trainer, and they didn’t really understand anything about the performing world. But my dad grew up on a dairy farm, and he was supposed to take over and become a Mennonite preacher, which is what my grandfather was. My dad didn’t like cows—he liked horse racing, so he sort of rebelled and did his own thing. My mom always says that nurse, secretary, or teacher were the options for women in a small town at that time, but her passion was sports, so she ended up being a coach.

So they understood the power of fanning the flame of passion. When I was a kid and into acting, they drove me to play practice. They drove me to community theatre. My senior year of high school, my mom drove me to New York to audition for this bus-and-truck tour of “The Sound of Music.” I got that tour, and deferred my admission to Carnegie Mellon. I made ten thousand dollars after a year on the road, and I learned so much from getting to act every day. I wanted to take my ten thousand and move to New York, and my parents were super supportive: “If you feel like you need to go to college, you can always go to college. But take a gamble and move to the city.” I’d worked at this theatre in Lancaster called the Fulton Opera House, where I’d met this girl who wanted to move to New York, so she became my roommate.

To me, “Merrily We Roll Along” is about how difficult it is to stay in touch with the person you were as adulthood knocks you sideways and forward. When you think about nineteen-year-old Jonathan coming to New York, do you feel like you’re the same person? What’s changed?

[He bursts into tears.] I can’t tell why I cry! When we were about to start rehearsal for “Merrily,” I would listen to “Our Time,” and I couldn’t sing it without crying. And, when I think about that version of myself—I think it’s because that person who brings you here does diminish. Maybe it’s the grief for that person. The whole reason that I’m here now is because of that person, but that person no longer exists.

But that person is still in there, somewhere. That voice is so quiet now, but it’s still driving my choices. You have to make choices. You get older, that pure inspiration dies, but it doesn’t have to go all the way away. I think that’s the whole point of the show, why it goes backward. Maria says that Sondheim put all of his regret into it, so that we could have less regret for ourselves. And perhaps the reason it ends with these people, with these versions of ourselves that we remember when we see it, is that it’s an invitation to remember and honor that person.

Why does that make me cry? Is it grief? Is it joy? I don’t know, but I’m so grateful for that purity and that optimism. The first month that I was here, feeling so lost and confused, I pulled the Bible that my Mennonite grandmother gave me off the bookshelf. She gave me that Bible before I left town. I was alone in the apartment thinking, What the fuck am I doing in New York? Or not even “what the fuck”—I didn’t swear until “Spring Awakening,” and when I would sing “Totally Fucked” I would get beet red. And I remember putting the Bible down and thinking, This is not the answer. This is not making me feel good. And then running to Central Park and standing in front of the Bethesda Fountain. I was nineteen, and I was, like, This feels better—but, like, What? Who am I? What am I doing here? I know I want to act, but I’m so scared. And gay. But it was something—some voice, some passion, some inspiration. Some something brought me here.

[sayit3x]

Mrs. Juice's Journal #35

In 1995, Betel secretly watched Lydia graduate from college, ready to pursue a career in photography. Although she still loved fashion design and returned to it occasionally for fun, her camera had always been closer to her heart. Delia agreed with her decision, knowing Lydia could start getting freelance work right away, rather than face the uphill battle of breaking into the competitive world of fashion. It didn't hurt that Delia wanted to be Lydia's first client, and paid her handsomely to photograph her art. Photography was the right call for the person Lydia had become without Betelgeuse. This "new" Lydia struggled with anxiety, and the high pressure environment of fashion would have only aggravated it. After The Worsener took her memories of their friendship, Lydia didn't know that as a teen she'd already opened a clothing store with Betel that ultimately found roaring success in the Neitherworld. The old Lydia could have thrived as a fashion designer, whereas this new Lydia would have drowned.

Thankfully, the economy was booming by the time Lydia graduated, and freelance photography opportunities were plentiful. The variety of the work helped sharpen her eye further and demand for her skill grew. A steady flow of clients allowed her to live in New York, rather than move back in with her parents in Winter River. Success also let her be more selective about the clients she took on, which publications she’d sell her prints to, and what subjects she covered. Still the noble girl Betel remembered, Lydia photographed rallies for causes she cared about, like humanitarian efforts, animal rights, and environmentalism, and her camera took her all over the country capturing protests on film. But sometimes rallies could become unruly, even dangerous, when tensions with police or counter-protesters flared, and Betel worried. He knew that if something happened at a rally or anywhere else, The Worsener’s contract prevented him from directly stepping in to protect Lydia if she needed it. His concern was suddenly validated on a crisp, fall morning when America was collectively traumatized.

Lydia was in her Manhattan apartment, finishing her morning preparations and about to leave for the day, when the first plane struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center complex on September 11, 2001. Back then, news about death on that scale traveled faster in the Neitherworld than in the living world, and the moment Betel heard about the first tragedy seconds after it happened, he called me and we raced to Lydia’s apartment. Trying not to panic, Betel reluctantly stayed on our side of the veil, watching me go topside invisibly through Lydia’s mirror. Although he couldn’t risk directly interfering with Lydia’s environment, I was bound by no such restrictions, which is exactly why he’d brought me along. 

I stayed invisible and broke the lock on Lydia’s front door, effectively trapping her inside. Not yet knowing what dangers were so close, she yanked and pounded on the door, screaming for help from her neighbors. Unbeknownst to her, I muffled the sound of her cries so they never reached beyond her apartment. I couldn’t afford a neighbor breaking down her door and releasing her into the wild. When she stormed to her windows to climb down the fire escape, I locked those down tight, too. She yelled in frustration, still unaware of the catastrophic historical event taking place in her city.

When she got on the phone to call her landlord, I turned on her television and the local news came on right away, already showing footage of the first devastating crash into the North Tower. She stilled and sat on the floor in front of the TV, appalled and riveted, and it seemed to dawn on her that a spectral force was keeping her inside for her own protection. But as a successful photographer who'd made a career out of news, it was obvious she still wanted to escape, not wanting to miss capturing history with her camera. While her dedication was admirable, there was no way I was letting her out until we knew what was happening. And if danger came for her, Betel and I agreed I’d get her to safety somehow. I’d planned to whisk her back home to Winter River if necessary, but was prepared to bring her to the Neitherworld if I had to, even if that meant risking punishment for breaking the rules.

When the second plane struck the South Tower, not even seventeen minutes after the first crash, Lydia's hands flew over her mouth. Watching the fire and smoke consume the buildings on her television, she was understandably now less eager to leave her apartment. And when the towers came down, she was freshly horrified, and wept. Though phone lines were quickly getting overwhelmed, Delia’s call from Winter River managed to come through and Lydia was immediately relieved to hear her stepmother’s voice. She told Delia about how she’d been trapped in her apartment, how she thought that the Maitlands were protecting her somehow, even though she’d helped them move on when she was a teen. Delia, being the only living person who knew about Lydia’s friendship with Betelgeuse and the contract with The Worsener, probably guessed that it was Betel protecting Lydia, just like he’d promised when they said goodbye in 1991. But as agreed, Delia kept their history a secret from Lydia, and just went along with Lydia’s assumption about the Maitland’s intervention instead.

After the danger of the devastating attack had finally passed and I released Lydia from her apartment, she immediately went home to Winter River. She stayed for weeks, grounding herself with her family and memories of the Maitlands, while Betel remained on our side of the veil, not wanting to risk her somehow finding him in the model. Luckily, the years that followed weren’t anywhere near as eventful, and Lydia resumed her photography, traveling where her camera led her as soon as she learned about a rally online. 

Even after the dot com bubble had burst, the internet was becoming more widely accessible, and suddenly the pace of life began changing rapidly. After Facebook was founded in 2004, "social" started to mean something different than it had for hundreds of years. The hyper-connected future was on the horizon and racing towards humanity fast. But platforms like Facebook made it easier for Lydia to keep an ear to the digital ground about upcoming protests and events, so she was often first on the scene to get the best shots.

It was at such a rally that she met Richard, an activist passionate about fighting climate change and preserving the environment, who’d helped organize the event. Apparently, Lydia had been something of an environmental activist herself when she was a teen. According to Betel, she’d once tied herself to a gnarly old tree (that she’d lovingly nicknamed Spooky) to block the town from cutting it down to widen the road. Ultimately, Betel brought the tree to life so they could escort it on a walk to the park, where it rerooted itself. 

So it was no wonder that she and Richard hit it off, especially when they discovered their mutual love of classic horror films. Betel felt Lydia’s joy and relief at finally finding someone who shared her interests, someone who really cared about her. Richard wasn’t put off by Lydia’s strange and unusual nature, even if he didn’t necessarily believe she could actually see ghosts after she finally shared that detail with him. He loved and supported her just the same. And this time, Betel’s sense about people didn’t trip any alarms when it came to Richard. It became clear how much the man cared about Lydia, and Betel resolved not to get in the way of her happiness, though it gutted him watching her walk down the aisle and into Richard’s arms. Needless to say, after Lydia’s wedding, Betel and I returned to Japan for a few weeks as he reconciled wanting the love of his life to be happy, even if it was with somebody else.

When Lydia found out she was pregnant, Betel knew before Richard did. He felt her joy, her exhilaration, and after her bliss passed, her trepidation and fear about whether she’d be a good mother. Her own mother had left her and Charles when she was still young, and it took a long time before she formed a bond with Delia, so she didn’t exactly have the best examples growing up of what stable, nurturing motherhood looked like. Concerns about whether she could even carry the baby to term further fueled her anxiety. Knowing she would be giving birth at 35, she worried she was bordering on too old to have children and was running out of time. Betel, on the other hand, had no doubt that Lydia would be a great mom and his only worry was about Lydia’s health and the health of her baby. When she got pregnant, he started researching pregnancy and all the things that could go wrong, to the point where he was asking ghosts who’d died during childbirth about their complications. 

He and I talked a lot about Lydia’s pregnancy as it progressed, as he was feeling more and more of not only her emotions, but also her physical state. Her morning sickness hit him particularly hard. Betel had always been proud of his ability to negotiate hangovers without tossing his cookies and yet found himself praying to the porcelain god frequently until she was safely in her fifteenth week. He found her cravings for bizarre food combinations surprisingly odd, which was really saying something for a guy that eats bugs at the drop of a hat. By her ninth month, he may as well have been pregnant himself for all the discomfort he felt through her. Then, the day finally came in 2007 when Lydia’s water broke during an all-night Mario Bava horror fest in the middle of “Kill, Baby… Kill!”

As soon as he felt Lydia’s adrenaline racing when her water broke, Betel called me and we followed them to the hospital, where Betel and I observed from the other side of the mirror in Lydia’s room. Delia and Charles were traveling, so we knew it would be just Richard at Lydia’s side. When Lydia’s contractions started, Betel was initially just breathing through it, as if it were any normal cramp. But by the third hour, he was on the floor in agony, feeling Lydia’s pain as it grew. Thank God he’d been watching her through her birthing classes and at least knew how to breathe properly. If my son weren’t writhing and yelling through gritted teeth, I would have found the whole situation, a man intimately understanding what labor was like, amusing. He held my hand tight as he lay on the floor, shaking and sweating as he suffered through each excruciating contraction, knowing Lydia was feeling the same. The longer it went on as the hours passed, the more anxious Lydia, and therefore Betelgeuse, became, worrying something was wrong.

“Why is this taking so long?” Betel gritted out.

“It takes as long as it takes, Betel. Stay calm, keep breathing.”

“Uggghhh! How long were you– Christ!” he clenched his teeth at another contraction until he remembered to breathe. “...in labor, Ma?”

“We didn’t exactly have the means to tell perfect time back then, but I remember it was summer. My water broke in a field in the morning, and by the time you and Donny were born, the stars were out and Orion shone above us. I focused on your star, which had only recently been named, as you came into the world.”

“As– aaaack! …beautiful as that story was, that still means you were doin’ this for over 12 hours!”

“Well, there were two of you, as much as Donny was a surprise.”

“Wait, wha–!” He choked on his question as another contraction hit.

“Mmhmm. I wasn’t as big around as you’d expect for someone having twins, probably because you were so small when you were born. So we didn’t know until Donatello arrived that he was even there. That’s how he got his name, “little gift,” since he was given to us unexpectedly.”

“Huh… I always wondered why our names were so– gaaah! …different.” He paused, trying to breathe through the pain. “How long’s it been now?”

“Only 10 hours. This could go on for a whole day, maybe more.”

“A day?!” He looked at me like I’d just told him the world was ending. “Ma, she’s already terrified. Didn’t those Lamaze weirdos say stress makes this take longer?”

“Yes, it can. They’ll probably give her an epidural if the pain is making her more stressed.”

“She won’t take it. She’s afraid of needles–aaaAAH!”

Hearing that, I had to control my reaction to keep Betel calm. Lydia could still get through labor without an epidural, but it would be more challenging if her pain, and therefore her stress, were drawing the process out. I’d noticed her disproportionate discomfort when they put in her IV, but hadn’t thought much of it. The longer her labor continued, the more she probably thought they’d want to give her an epidural, which probably made her that much more anxious. It was a vicious cycle of pain and fear, spiraling into a longer labor. There were only so many safe alternatives that didn’t involve needles, and I wasn’t sure if Lydia was aware of her options. 

“Ma, something’s wrong. Now she’s even more scared. I think she’s alone.”

I left Betel’s side for a moment to peek through the mirror into Lydia’s room. I could hear Richard’s voice drifting away beyond the door, having just left to take a call from Delia. Lydia needed reassurance and I had an idea.

“Betel, Richard’s outside on the phone with Delia. I’d like to go talk to Lydia.” I snapped my fingers and my outfit changed to that of a nurse. “She won’t know who I am, I can just be a nurse who died of a heart attack on the job.”

“GO! I’ll be fine!” He let out another grunting wail.

I scoffed with a smirk. “As if I’d leave you like this.” 

I quickly cloned myself, splitting my consciousness between the me that would go to Lydia’s bedside and the me that sat back down on the floor and took Betel’s hand again. The second me crossed the veil and entered Lydia’s room, knowing she would be the only one who saw me whenever Richard returned. Her eyes were clenched tight when I materialized, so she hadn’t seen me arrive so suddenly. After I cleared my throat, she opened her eyes. Seeing my nursing scrubs, she seemed relieved, perhaps that she wasn’t alone anymore, and her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. I approached her bed and knelt to be eye level with her.

“Good evening, dear,” I began. “It seems you’re having quite a day. How are you feeling?”

She winced, as did Betel on the other side of the veil, at a (thankfully) small contraction. “Great,” she gritted out and resumed breathing.

Lifting an eyebrow at her, I tilted my head with my best sarcastic skepticism, and she seemed to know I didn’t believe her. I let my face show my deep care and concern as I said, as sincerely as I could, “You don’t have to be brave for me or anyone else. I’ve had two children, I know how hard this is. Please, be honest. How are you really?”

She paused, still breathing, but she blinked rapidly as tears began to form until they were spilling down her cheeks. “I’m so scared,” she whispered, and her words tumbled out as she breathed through her pain. “Everything hurts and it’s taking so long, but I don’t want an epidural and…” 

I could tell another contraction was coming on and I offered her my hand, which she took and squeezed just as Betel squeezed the other me’s hand across the veil. When her contraction passed, I met her gaze and made my expression gentle and reassuring.

“You don’t have to have an epidural. Laughing gas would take the edge off and it’d be safe for you and your baby.”

Lydia’s eyes widened at the sudden hope on the horizon. Whether she’d learned about laughing gas during her Lamaze classes or not, she’d clearly not been thinking about it as an option.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I smiled softly. “You’re welcome, dear.”

Just then, Richard walked in and Lydia’s face lit up. The other me saw the relief in Betel’s expression that was rushing from her to him.

“Man, I don’t know where Delia is, but her reception is terrible,” Richard said as he took his seat next to Lydia’s bed opposite me.

“Richard, this great nurse just reminded me–” she grunted through another contraction “–I could get laughing gas instead of an epidural.”

“Oh, that’s right! How’d I forget that?” Richard began. “What nurse? I must’ve missed them.”

“She’s…”

Lydia’s face fell and her head whipped to me, but I smiled reassuringly with my finger over my lips, signalling this was a secret between us. Realizing I was a ghost, Lydia understood and her face calmed as she changed course.

“She was only here for a second and got called away. Could you go ask for the laughing gas, please?”

“Sure, sweetie. I’ll be right back.” 

Richard rose again and left the room, on the hunt for a (living) nurse. Once he was gone, Lydia’s gaze met mine. 

“You’re dead?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Thankfully, I’d become a better liar as a ghost than I’d ever been alive. “Mmhmm. You’d think having a heart attack in a hospital would make me a shoe in for survival. Didn’t pan out that way, unfortunately.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and another contraction made her and Betel clench their teeth until they both breathed through it.

“Don’t be. It was nobody’s fault, and now I get to watch the miracle of life happen every day.”

She smiled weakly, exhausted from hours of discomfort. Richard returned with an actual nurse in tow, who had the laughing gas and mask prepped for Lydia. Inhaling her first breath, she was immediately less anxious, and her grip on my hand loosened while the medication took the edge off her pain. Even some of Betel’s tension started to leave his body. 

Richard’s phone rang again. It was Delia calling back, so he stepped out of the room to give her an update now that Lydia's pain seemed more manageable. The nurse followed him out, leaving Lydia and I alone again. She was almost euphoric with the laughing gas, and for a moment she stared at me, seeming puzzled.

Her voice was soft when she said, “You look so familiar.”

Uh oh. I knew there was no way she actually remembered me, so I wasn’t sure where this was going. Thank goodness my poker face was well honed. 

“I get that a lot,” I casually replied, still gently smiling.

“No… you look like him.”

I stilled slightly, but carried on as if her observation hadn’t caught me off guard. “Like who, dear?”

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

I leaned in, wearing a gentle smirk, trying to convey my confidence that nothing she could say would possibly disturb me. “Try me.”

She took a breath in her mask, taking in more gas. “You remind me of a ghost I met once.”

Ah. She was noticing the family resemblance. That was easy enough to play off and feign ignorance, so I smirked and chuckled softly. “I don't know whether to interpret that as a compliment.”

She was suddenly flummoxed and tripped over her words when they all tried to come out at once.

“No, I didn't mean– You're lovely, it's just–  He was… dirty and there was moss and…” She was getting agitated trying to explain herself and stress was the last thing she needed.

I smiled at her reassuringly. “It's alright, dear, it’s alright. I think I understand. I'll take it as a compliment.”

That seemed to calm her. “Only my parents know. I've never told anyone else about him.”

“Why not?”

“He tried to marry me when I was sixteen.”

I raised my eyebrows in a convincing enough expression of surprise. “There must be quite a story behind that. He sounds like quite a scoundrel.”

“He was…” She paused, but after another inhale of the gas, continued, “...but he kept his word.”

Again, I had to control my face, trying to contain my joy at the implication of my eldest son’s honor. As Betel’s mother and witness to the person he’d become by Lydia's own influence, I felt the urge to defend him and explain his behavior, but I dared not. This conversation was beginning to dance into dangerous territory. Although I didn't want to stop her from talking, I had to be mindful that she was heavily influenced by the nitrous oxide. And I couldn't risk warming her up to Betelgeuse before the thirty years were up when we were only halfway through. If she found the courage to summon him early, she'd be back in coma, with The Worsener’s contract violated, and would likely die. Instead, I'd have to do the opposite and reinforce her wariness of him in a way I knew would stick. Motherhood.

“Even if it’s as you say, you’ll be a mother soon. The world will feel much scarier when all you care about is protecting your child.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and I continued. “Are you having a girl or a boy?”

“A girl.”

“Even more so, then.”

Another contraction hit her and she grimaced, clutching my hand tight, and when it passed, she looked at me.

“Will you stay?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

If the laughing gas weren't doing such a good job, I doubt she would have asked me to stay with her. But I smiled and nodded, not about to turn her down in her time of need. “I’ll be here for as long as you'd like.”

Suddenly, her contractions increased in intensity and frequency. Luckily, Richard returned, taking her other hand, as the nurse and doctor came in to check her progress. But there was a problem. After an ultrasound, they determined the baby was turned the wrong way and they'd need to physically rotate her to get her in the right position. If they couldn't, a C-section would be necessary and the thought made Lydia's anxiety soar, even with the laughing gas. The doctor manipulated the baby through her belly, which was clearly uncomfortable for Lydia, but couldn't get the baby in the “launch position” properly, and gave up. They left the room to get everything they'd need for a C-section and Lydia began to squirm.

“Ma, she's tryin’ not to freak out, but she's right on the edge of a panic attack,” Betel told me, wide eyed as his anxiety shot up with hers.

Watching Lydia's heart rate and blood pressure climb on the monitors, I could tell Betel was right. Richard was gently telling her to stay calm, but when has that ever worked?

“Do you really not want a C-section that badly?” I asked her carefully.

Rather than talk to me in front of Richard, she shook her head violently as a “no” and clenched her teeth through another contraction. I suddenly flashed to the day Betel nearly scared Pope Leo X to death with a heart attack in 1515, and how I coached him through squeezing the man's heart in his chest until it beat properly on its own. 

I took a breath. “Lydia… there's something I could do to help so you could still give birth naturally.”

She looked at me with a question in her eyes, desperate.

“I could… pass my hands through your belly and turn the baby. It'll probably be just as uncomfortable, but more accurate than the doctor could ever manage.”

Her eyes went wide. To her, we were strangers and she had no reason to trust me, whether I was supposedly a nurse or not. I wouldn't pressure her either way, but quietly hoped she'd let me help her. Finally, she gave me a tiny, inconspicuous nod.

“She'll do it,” Betel said to the other me. “She's scared, but she wants to believe it'll work.”

I nodded back to Lydia. “Remember to breathe and take as much gas as you need,” I told her as I let her hand go and rose to my feet. 

Reaching down, I phased my hands through Lydia's belly until I felt her little girl, definitely turned the wrong way. Lydia's eyes clamped shut and she bit back a wail as I gently, carefully rotated her baby. Richard noticed the shape of Lydia's belly change like it did when the doctor made their doomed attempt, and his eyes got a little wider watching their baby seemingly turn on its own. Finally, she was facing the proper direction, ready to launch. I removed my hands cleanly and Lydia panted with relief.

“What just happened?” Richard asked hesitantly.

Lydia managed to choke out, “Baby turned, she's ready,” before her contractions started in earnest again. It was time.

The doctor and nurses returned, confused as to how the baby had managed to rotate, but were just as happy not to have to do a C-section. Meanwhile, Betel wailed and Lydia took heavily to the gas, breathing through the worst of it, until she felt the need to push.

“Holy SHIT!” Betel yelled. 

“Dammit, Betel, breathe!” I snapped back, gripping his hand as Lydia gripped mine. My encouragement to Lydia was much more polite.

“I hate Richard so much right now!” he barked.

“Is that how you feel or how Lydia feels?” I asked sarcastically.

“BOTH! AAAHHH!”

Luckily, for both Lydia and Betel, it wasn’t long until another cry filled the room, and little Astrid was born. When the nurse put her in Lydia’s arms, Betel was overwhelmed with the astoundingly deep adoration she immediately felt for Astrid. With tears in his eyes, he suddenly understood how a parent’s love for their child was profoundly different than anything else he’d ever experienced. And when I saw Astrid for the first time, with a tiny tuft of midnight fuzz on her head, I flashed back to a morning subway ride in 1973, when Betel and I encountered a sleeping woman and her baby, also with raven black hair, who saw Betel perfectly and adored him immediately. 

The me at Betel’s side softly gasped. “My word…” I whispered, still holding his hand. With such startling evidence at how small the world had suddenly become, perhaps there was such a thing as destiny after all.

“What?” Betel whimpered, wrestling with tears of joy and relief now that Astrid had come into the world. 

“I'll tell you later,” I answered, while the me at Lydia’s side congratulated her and took my leave.

Luckily, that was the only time Betelgeuse felt Lydia’s physical state or shared her pain, though we never understood why it happened in the first place.

This journal dovetails into a Beetlejuice fanfiction epic here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63522586/chapters/162777649

The final chapter, "A new afterlife" is now up.