#for real you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised him

[meandmypagancrew]

L during the Los Angeles BB Murder Case.

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 8: You Wouldn't Last An Hour In The Asylum Where They Raised Me.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming.

Scott Summers had seen Remy LeBeau walk down the path of self-destruction before. He’d watched him spiral after Anna’s death, seen the reckless edge take hold of him in ways that were impossible to ignore. Back then, it was like Remy had some kind of death wish, throwing himself into more dangerous situations than even Scott could tolerate. He watched as Remy took risk after risk, making shady deals with people even he wouldn’t cross, diving headfirst into chaos as if he had nothing left to lose. It had been hard to stand by and witness his friend unravel like that, but Scott had let it go, hoping Remy would pull himself out of the darkness in his own way.

But now? Now, it was different.

Now, Scott wasn’t watching a man who had lost everything—he was watching someone who was trying to drown himself in something much worse. Remy wasn’t picking fights with the underworld anymore, wasn’t flirting with death. This time, he was drowning in something far more subtle, far more insidious: guilt. And Scott could see it plain as day.

Every night, it was the same story. Remy would stumble home with another woman on his arm, someone new every time, as if he was trying to scrub away the ghost of you from his life. The laughter that floated from his house, the soft murmurs that could be heard through the walls—it all felt hollow. It was a facade, a way to push the pain so deep down that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t feel it anymore. But Scott knew better. He recognized the haunted look in Remy’s eyes, the hollow grin that never reached his soul. The women Remy brought home were as varied as the faces in a crowded street—different in appearance, but all the same in purpose. They were temporary distractions, fleeting moments of flesh and heat that dulled the ache for a few hours. Each one was a new mask, another attempt to bury the memory of you beneath the weight of another body. But no matter how many times he tried, no matter how many different women he brought through his door, the emptiness inside him remained.

They came in all shapes and sizes, all walks of life—some tall and slender, others curvy or athletic. Their hair ranged from jet-black to platinum blonde, their clothes either sophisticated or barely hanging on. There was no pattern to them, no real preference. They were simply there, placeholders for the comfort he couldn’t allow himself to have. Scott noticed it, how he never brought the same woman home twice, as if seeing the same face more than once might force Remy to acknowledge what he was really doing.

The first few nights, it was easy to dismiss. They were pretty, they were eager, and they seemed to leave in the morning with no complaints. But as the days wore on, Scott began to notice the way Remy’s choices became more erratic, more careless. Some nights, he’d bring home women who couldn’t even remember his name by the time they left. To Scott,  it felt like Remy was inviting strangers into his home just to see if he could feel anything at all.

It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about conquest. It was about punishment.

Scott could see it in the way Remy interacted with them. He wasn’t charming them the way he used to, wasn’t trying to woo them with his silver tongue or his easy smile. There was no playful banter, no lingering looks. Instead, Remy treated each encounter like a transaction, a means to an end. His eyes were cold, distant, as he led them up the stairs to his bedroom, like he was already planning how to get rid of them the moment they walked through the door.

He was trying to outrun you.

And with it, the crushing reality that no amount of women, no amount of mindless pleasure, could fill the emptiness in his chest.

Scott sighed, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he leaned against the doorway, watching Remy with his laptop placed in front of him, his fingers gliding easily across the keyboard. The man looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his movements sluggish. He was running on fumes, and Scott could see it—the weight of his choices, the self-inflicted torment that was eating away at him.

It wasn’t about the women. It never was. They were just another form of escape, another attempt to drown the ache that had been gnawing at him since the day he walked away from you. Scott knew that kind of guilt—the kind that sat heavy in your gut, twisting and turning until it consumed every part of you. Remy was punishing himself for something he couldn’t even fix, trying to wash away the memory of you, the way you had looked at him, the way he had felt when he left.

But the truth was, no amount of distractions could erase what was really tearing him apart. Scott could see it, even if Remy wouldn’t admit it—he wasn’t just grieving the loss of you. He was grieving the version of himself that had believed, even for a moment, that he could deserve you. That he could be something more than the man he had become.

And Scott knew, deep down, that until Remy faced that—until he stopped running—he would keep spiraling, keep destroying himself piece by piece. The women, the alcohol, the reckless decisions—it was all a mask for the one truth Remy couldn’t face.

That he missed you.

And no matter how many nights he spent trying to forget, the hollowness would always be there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for him when the morning light came.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was your face he saw. Every time he reached for someone in the dark, it was your absence that clung to him like a second skin. And no amount of bodies, no amount of fleeting pleasure, could change that. Scott realised that Jean had her own thoughts about what was happening.   She had had always been someone who saw through people's walls, who could sense the undercurrents of emotion even when they tried so hard to hide them. It was both a gift and a burden, and with Remy, it was no different. She had watched his slow unraveling with a mix of frustration and disappointment, her heart aching for the man who had once been so full of life and charm.

She watched as he buried himself deeper into his self-destructive spiral. There was a time when she might have tried to help him, to offer a kind word or a gentle nudge in the right direction. But now? Now she was just… disappointed. Watching him parade these women through the house like they were nothing more than fleeting distractions wasn’t just painful—it was infuriating.

Jean’s disappointment wasn’t rooted in judgment over his choices alone. It came from something deeper, something far more personal—because she knew what this was really about. You. She knew that every time Remy brought another woman into his bed, it was because he was trying to erase the memory of you. But what stung the most, what made Jean’s heart ache, was the bitter irony of it all: he would bring these women into his bed, into his home, but he would never bring you there.

And that was the cruelest part.

You—the one person who meant more to him than he could admit, the one person who had slipped past all of his defenses—had never set foot inside the walls of his home. Jean knew this because she had seen how he kept that part of his life separate from you, how he kept you at a distance from it, always finding some excuse to meet you somewhere else, to keep you at arm’s length. To keep you away from this side of his life, the side filled with broken promises and danger. The side that, despite being unintentional, had ultimately and cruely claimed you.

But these other women? They were allowed in. They walked through his front door like they belonged there, their laughter echoing through the house, their perfume lingering in the air long after they were gone. They were temporary, disposable, and that was exactly why Remy let them in. They didn’t matter. They weren’t a threat to the fragile walls he had built around himself. They couldn’t break him because they didn’t even come close to touching the parts of him that you had.

Jean had seen it happen too many times now. She’d heard the whispers in the halls, the quiet scuffle of footsteps as another woman tiptoed out in the early hours of the morning, her eyes half-lidded and her clothes wrinkled. She had seen the way Remy barely acknowledged them, how he let them drift in and out of his life like smoke, insubstantial and meaningless. And every time, every single time, Jean’s disappointment deepened.

It wasn’t just the recklessness that angered her—it was the hypocrisy. Remy could bring strangers into his life without a second thought, could share his bed with women whose names he barely remembered, but you? He had never let you in, not really. He had kept you at a distance, protecting you—or so he thought—from the mess of his life, from the scars he didn’t want you to see.

Jean had tried to talk to him about it once. She had tried to make him understand that what he was doing wasn’t just hurting him, it was hurting everyone around him—especially you. But Remy had brushed her off, that charming smile of his slipping into place like a mask.

“I ain’t hurtin’ nobody, Jean,” he’d said, his voice smooth but hollow. “They know the deal. It’s jus’ a little fun. Nothin’ more.”

But Jean had seen the truth in his eyes. She had seen the guilt, the shame, the way he couldn’t quite meet her gaze when he said it. He was lying to himself, to everyone.

Jean knew that, deep down, Remy didn’t believe he deserved you. That was why he had kept you at arm’s length, why he never let you into his home, into the part of his life that was messy and real. He was terrified that if you saw the real him—the man behind the charm, the man who was filled with guilt the man who had done unspeakable things—you’d turn away. He was afraid that you’d see him for what he truly was: broken.

But Jean also knew that by pushing you away, by trying to protect you from his darkness, he was only hurting you more. And it infuriated her that he couldn’t see that, that he couldn’t understand how much worse it was to keep you out, to let these other women into the space where you should have been.

So Jean watched, and she waited, hoping that one day Remy would wake up and realize what he was doing. Hoping that he would stop running from the one thing that could actually save him.

But as the weeks dragged on, as more women came and went, Jean’s hope began to fade. She saw the way Remy was slipping further and further away, the way the light in his eyes dimmed a little more with each passing day. And she wondered—how much longer could he keep this up? How much longer could he pretend that he didn’t care, that he wasn’t broken?

Because no matter how many women he brought into his bed, no matter how many nights he spent trying to numb the pain, Jean knew the truth.

There was only one person who could ever make him whole again.

And Jean was afraid that if he didn’t stop soon, there wouldn’t be anything left of the man he once was—the man who had loved you, even if he was too afraid to admit it. <><><><><><><><> It was a crisp afternoon, the kind of fall day where the chill in the air was just enough to make you pull your coat a little tighter around your body. The sky was a pale blue, streaked with wisps of clouds, and the city buzzed with its usual hum of life—people moving in and out of shops, the shuffle of feet on the pavement, the occasional laughter from a passerby.

Scott and Jean had been walking in comfortable silence when Jean first spotted you. It was a small café, tucked into the corner of a quiet street, the kind of place you might not notice unless you were looking. You were sitting at one of the outdoor tables, your back to them, your hair catching the light in a way Jean instantly recognized.

For a moment, she froze, her breath catching in her throat. She reached out and lightly touched Scott’s arm, stopping him mid-step.

“Scott,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. She nodded to you.

Scott followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he focused on you, sitting there in the café, a cup of coffee in your hands. There was someone sitting across from you—a woman, around your age, who they assumed must be your sister. There was a striking resemblance between you, though the other woman’s expression was more animated, her hands gesturing as she spoke, while you simply listened, a small, tired smile on your face.

You looked… better. Not perfect, not fully healed, but better.  And though there was still a hint of fragility in the way you held yourself, it was clear you were on the mend.

Jean felt a wave of relief wash over her, but it was tinged with something else—guilt, maybe. Or perhaps sadness. Because while you were sitting there, alive and recovering, Remy was still a wreck, spiraling deeper into his own self-imposed isolation, haunted by the guilt of what had happened to you.

Scott glanced at Jean, sensing the conflict in her expression, and then looked back at you. He could see the same thing she did—the slow healing, the way you seemed to be finding your footing again after the trauma. But he also saw the hesitation in Jean’s eyes, the uncertainty about what came next.

“Should we…?” Jean began, her voice trailing off as she looked at him, her brow furrowed.

Scott sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he considered the question. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, what do we even say? It’s not like we can explain why we’re here. And after everything with Remy…” He shook his head. “I don’t want to make things harder for her.”

Jean nodded, biting her lip. She understood. You had been through enough—weeks in the ICU, recovery that was both physical and emotional. And then, of course, there was the fact that Remy had walked away from you, convinced that his presence in your life was too dangerous. How could they approach you now, after all of that? What right did they have?

But at the same time, Jean knew that Remy needed to hear how you were. He needed to know that you were okay, that you were healing, that you were alive and moving forward. It wouldn’t fix him—it wouldn’t undo the damage he had done to himself—but maybe, just maybe, it would give him a small measure of peace. Something to hold onto in the wreckage of his guilt.

“We should do it,” Jean said finally, her voice firm but soft. “Not for us. For him. He needs to know she’s okay.”

Scott looked at her, his expression torn for a moment, but then he nodded. Jean was right. Remy wasn’t going to see you himself. He was too wrapped up in his own guilt, too convinced that staying away from you was the only way to keep you safe. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care. That didn’t mean he wasn’t tormented by the thought of you suffering because of him.

So they stepped forward, hesitantly at first, as though they were intruding on something private. You still hadn’t noticed them, your attention focused on the woman across from you—who they now realized was your sister, based on the way she reached across the table to touch your hand, her expression soft with concern.

As they got closer, Jean could see more details. The faint shadows under your eyes, the way your fingers trembled slightly when you lifted your cup to take a sip. You were still recovering, still fragile in ways that weren’t immediately visible. But you were there. You were alive. And that, at least, was something.

Jean hesitated for a moment, glancing at Scott, who gave her a small nod of encouragement before she took the final step forward.

“Hey,” Jean said gently, trying not to startle you as she approached the table. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but… we just wanted to check in.”

You looked up, your eyes widening in surprise as you saw them standing there. For a moment, you didn’t say anything, your expression unreadable as you processed their presence. But then your gaze softened, and you gave a small, tired smile.

“Jean. Scott.” Your voice was quiet, a little hoarse, but steady. “It’s… it’s nice to see you.”

Jean smiled back, though there was a sadness in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide. “It’s good to see you too,” she said, her voice warm but laced with concern. “How are you feeling?”

You glanced at your sister, who gave you an encouraging nod before turning her attention back to her own coffee, giving you space to respond.

“I’m… getting there,” you said after a pause. “It’s been hard, but I’m doing better. Just… taking it one day at a time, you know?”

Scott nodded, his eyes softening as he looked at you. “That’s good to hear,” he said quietly. “We’ve been worried about you. Everyone has.”

You smiled again, though this time it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Your sister was the first to speak after the initial pleasantries. She gave Jean and Scott a polite smile, though there was a touch of exasperation in her voice as she said, “She’s not exactly taking the doctors’ orders seriously. They told her to rest, to take it easy, but you know how stubborn she can be.”

Jean’s brows furrowed, concern flickering across her face as she looked at you. Scott, standing beside her, let out a small, knowing chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “Remy used to say the same thing,” he said, his voice soft but tinged with a kind of wistful humor. “He always said you didn’t know how to rest a day in your life.”

At the sound of his name, you felt a sharp pang in your chest, like a fresh wound being reopened. Your gaze dropped to the table, your fingers curling around the edge of your coffee cup as you tried to steady yourself. The world seemed to narrow for a moment, shrinking to the sound of Remy’s name hanging in the air, to the memories you had been trying so hard to push down. You went quiet, the words you wanted to say catching in your throat.

But your sister, oblivious to the storm of emotions raging inside you, kept talking, unaware of just how much it hurt to hear his name. “She’s already pulled two stitches since getting out of the hospital,” she continued, shaking her head disapprovingly. “I swear, it’s like talking to a brick wall. She won’t take care of herself.”

Jean’s eyes flicked to you, her expression softening as she caught the look on your face—the quiet anguish, the way your lips pressed together as if you were holding back something you couldn’t quite bring yourself to say. She knew, without needing to ask, what was going through your mind. She knew you wanted to ask about him. It was written all over your face—the conflict, the fear of what the answer might be.

And in that moment, Jean’s heart ached for you. She understood how complicated it was, how much weight the silence between you and Remy carried. She could see the question forming behind your eyes, even as you hesitated, too afraid of what the answer might make you feel.

Without saying a word, Jean reached out and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her touch light but reassuring. She gave you a tight, sympathetic smile, one that said more than words could. She didn’t push you to ask, didn’t force you to voice the question you were too scared to ask. Instead, she offered you her silent support, letting you know she understood, that she was there for you, no matter what.

“It’s okay,” she seemed to say with that look, her hand still resting on your shoulder. “You don’t have to ask. I know.”

You pressed your lips together, your fingers tightening slightly around your cup as you met her gaze. There was so much you wanted to say, to ask, but the words stayed locked inside. For now, it was enough that she knew. Enough that she didn’t make you ask the question you weren’t ready to hear the answer to.

Scott, sensing the tension, shifted slightly, his voice gentle but firm as he spoke to your sister. “She’ll get there,” he said, the faintest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “We all heal in our own way.”

Your sister sighed, clearly still frustrated, but she nodded. “I know. I just wish she’d take it slower. She’s always in such a hurry.”

Jean gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze before pulling her hand back, her eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. “Just… one day at a time,” she said softly. You nodded, though your mind was still somewhere else, turning over the sound of Remy’s name in your head, wondering where he was now, what he was feeling, whether he was thinking of you the way you were thinking of him.

And as Scott and Jean prepared to leave, you found yourself wishing you had the courage to ask about him. But for now, you stayed silent, holding onto the small comfort of knowing that, at least, they understood.

With a final glance back, Jean smiled at you, her eyes soft with unspoken understanding, and then they were gone, leaving you with the quiet hum of the café and the weight of the questions that remained unanswered. When Jean and Scott returned to Remy’s apartment, the air was thick with the unspoken tension between them. They had spent the whole walk back debating whether or not to tell him they had seen you that afternoon, sitting in that little café with your sister. It had been weeks since you’d left the ICU, and it was the first time they had seen you looking… well, not better, but alive, awake, and still trying to piece yourself back together.

“I don’t know,” Scott muttered as they reached the elevator, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Do you really think it’ll help? He’s not exactly in a place to hear that right now.”

Jean pressed the button, her jaw tight. She hadn’t stopped thinking about you since they left the café. The way your eyes had flickered with that brief, painful hope when Scott mentioned Remy. The way it had vanished just as quickly, replaced by the quiet resignation of someone who had been left behind—again. It had lit something inside her, a fire that had been smoldering for weeks but was now burning far too hot to ignore.

“He needs to know,” she said firmly. “Maybe it won’t fix him overnight, but he needs to hear it. He needs to know that she’s okay.”

Scott sighed, running a hand through his hair as the elevator doors slid open. “You know how he is, Jean. If he thinks it’s his fault, he’ll just spiral further.”

Jean didn’t respond as they stepped inside the elevator. Scott was right, of course. Remy was already drowning in his own guilt—about Anna, about the shooting, about you. But this wasn’t just about guilt anymore. It was about the way he was tearing himself apart, piece by piece, and how he was dragging everyone down with him.

When they reached the apartment, the first thing Jean noticed was the woman leaving. She walked past them in the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor, her hair a mess, the scent of perfume still clinging to her skin. She glanced at Jean and Scott briefly, giving a small, embarrassed nod before ducking her head and hurrying past them.

Jean’s stomach twisted. She didn’t even bother to glance at Scott, but she could feel his disapproval radiating from beside her. This had happened so many times now. Another woman, another meaningless night, another attempt by Remy to bury himself in someone who didn’t matter.

Scott sighed heavily, shaking his head as they reached the door. “Jesus, Jean,” he muttered. “How long is he going to do this?”

Jean clenched her fists. She’d had enough. She had been patient with him, tried to give him space to grieve, to work through whatever it was that was tearing him apart. But seeing you today—seeing the way you still hurt, the way you still carried the weight of what he had done—had broken something inside her. She couldn’t stand by and watch him destroy himself anymore.

“I’m done,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m done watching him wallow in this. He’s not the only one who’s hurting. She’s still out there, Scott. She’s still broken, and it’s because of him.”

Scott looked at her, his brow furrowed with concern. “Jean…”

But Jean didn’t let him finish. She pushed open the door to the apartment, her steps quick and purposeful as she stormed inside. The familiar scent of smoke and alcohol hit her as soon as she walked in, the air heavy with the remnants of last night’s chaos. She didn’t pause as she made her way down the hall, past the dimly lit living room and into Remy’s bedroom.

There he was, sprawled out on the bed, shirtless, a cigarette hanging from his lips. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and falling slowly as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. His hair was a mess, his face shadowed with the stubble of someone who hadn’t bothered to shave in days. He looked peaceful, almost, but Jean knew better. This wasn’t peace. This was resignation. This was a man who had given up.

She stopped just inside the doorway, her heart pounding in her chest as she took in the scene. The sheets were rumpled, the faint scent of perfume still lingering in the air. The woman had barely been gone five minutes, and already he was back to pretending like nothing mattered.

Jean’s eyes narrowed, her anger rising to the surface as she stepped further into the room. Remy didn’t react, didn’t even open his eyes. He probably thought it was Scott, or maybe he just didn’t care.

She didn’t say a word as she marched past him, her footsteps heavy as she crossed the room and headed straight for the walk-in closet. She knew exactly where to find it. The safe. The one he never touched anymore. The one that held the few things he couldn’t bring himself to look at, the things that reminded him too much of everything he had lost.

Anna’s photo album.

Her hands were trembling as she punched in the code, the soft beep of the safe opening echoing in the quiet room. She didn’t hesitate as she pulled out the leather-bound album, the weight of it heavy in her hands. She had seen it before, years ago, when things were still raw, when Remy had clung to it like a lifeline in the weeks after Anna’s death. But now? Now it was just another reminder of the life he had left behind, the life he refused to move on from.

Jean felt a lump form in her throat as she stared down at the album. It was old, worn around the edges, the leather soft from years of use. She could almost hear Anna’s laugh, see the way her eyes had sparkled when she smiled. For a brief moment, the memories threatened to overwhelm her, but she pushed them down, swallowing hard as she turned and walked back to the bed.

When the album landed on the bed with that heavy thud, Remy’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes snapped open, muscles instantly tensing, but he stayed still, his cigarette halfway to his lips, frozen in the sudden atmosphere Jean had dragged into the room. The sight of that photo album—Anna’s album—sitting just inches away from him made his chest tighten. It was like a punch to the gut, all the air sucked out of the room in an instant.

He knew exactly what it was, what it held—the memories, the moments, the life that had ended too soon. His fingers twitched around the cigarette, but he didn’t reach for the album. Couldn’t. Instead, he stared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched so tight it ached, his pulse thudding heavy and slow in his ears. He hoped if he didn’t look at it—if he didn’t acknowledge it—maybe it would all just disappear. The weight of it, the guilt, the grief.

But Jean wasn’t going to let him escape that easily.

“She would be ashamed of you if she saw what you were doing,” Jean said, her voice low, cold, and cutting.

The words hit him like a slap. His chest tightened, and something ugly twisted in his gut. Ashamed? He almost laughed, except there was nothing funny about it. Shame was practically all he felt anymore. Shame for how he had failed you. He had spent every day since your shooting dragging himself through the muck of his own guilt, trying to drink it away, fuck it away, smoke it out of his mind—but it never left. that had never healed.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to see her pity or her anger. He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his breathing shallow, but Jean’s words kept digging into him like a knife. Remy’s jaw clenched, his cigarette still smoldering between his fingers. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling before he flicked the cigarette into the ashtray beside the bed. His eyes finally snapped to hers, dark and furious.

“Don’ ya dare bring Anna into this,” he growled, his voice rough with barely restrained anger. “Ya don’ know what she’d think.”

Jean didn’t flinch. She held her ground, her arms crossed, her gaze steady. “What, you think I’m wrong?” she shot back, her voice sharp, unwavering. “You think if she saw you dragging woman after woman through this place, drinking yourself half to death, she’d just smile and nod? You think she’d be okay with you tearing yourself apart because you’re too much of a coward to confront what’s right in front of you?”

Remy shot out of bed, the photo album sliding slightly as he moved. He didn’t even bother covering himself, his bare chest rising and falling with the force of his rage as he stormed over to her, closing the distance between them in seconds. His face was inches from hers, his eyes wild and burning with fury.

“How th’ fuck would ya know what Anna would think, huh?” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. His hand balled into a fist at his side, his whole body trembling with barely controlled emotion. “She’s dead, Jean. She ain’t here. So don’ stand there and act like ya have any clue what she’d say. Y’ don’ know shit.”

Jean didn’t back down. They were chest to chest now, the tension between them crackling like static in the air.

“Yeah, she’s gone,” Jean said, her voice steady, even as her heart pounded in her chest. “But that woman—the one you’re running away from? The one you’re too fucking terrified to love because you think you’ll lose her the way you lost Anna? She’s still here, Remy. She’s still there, and she’s still heartbroken.

Remy felt like he couldn’t breathe. Jean’s words hit him harder than the rage that had boiled up moments before. He stood there, trembling, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had turned white. The anger that had flared so hotly inside him was already giving way to something colder, something more dangerous: fear.

You were the one he was running from now, but it always came back to Anna, didn’t it?

His mind shot back to that day—that fucking day—when everything had changed. He hadn’t been with her when the drunk driver hit. He hadn’t been there to hold her hand or whisper that everything would be okay. He hadn’t even known what had happened until he’d gotten the call. The surgeon had met him in the cold, sterile halls of the hospital, his face grave, his voice low. Remy hadn’t even been able to process the words at first.

Dead on arrival.

Those words echoed in his mind even now, years later, still as sharp and brutal as the first time he heard them. He had rushed to the hospital, thinking maybe there was still time, maybe there was a chance. But he’d never gotten to say goodbye, never even had the chance to hold her one last time. Instead, he’d stood in that empty hallway, his body numb with shock, as they told him she was gone. Just like that. One moment she was alive, vibrant, full of life, and the next—she was nothing but a memory.

He hadn’t been able to save her. He hadn’t been able to protect her.

And the guilt of that, the helplessness, had eaten away at him ever since. It had burrowed deep inside him, festering like a wound that never healed. So he’d built walls around it, around himself, to keep the pain at bay. To keep everyone at bay.

But then you came along.

And for the first time in years, he’d started to believe that maybe he didn’t have to be alone. Maybe he could let someone in again. Maybe you could be the exception. You had this way of looking at him, of making him feel like he wasn’t completely broken, like there was still something worth saving inside him. He had started to let his guard down around you, let himself feel something again.

Until that morning.

The memory of it hit him like a punch to the gut. You had begged him to stay in bed with you. You’d been wrapped in the sheets, your hair tousled, your eyes still sleepy as you’d pulled him close, asking him to stay just a few more hours, to forget the world and stay in the warmth of your bed. He remembered the way your voice had been soft, playful, the way you smiled at him like he was your whole world.

But he had been the one to suggest the market.

He knew how much you loved them—how walking through the stalls, smelling the fresh produce, the flowers, and browsing the little trinkets always made you light up. So he’d kissed you on the forehead, told you the market would be fun, told you the day would be perfect.

And then you’d gotten shot.

All he could think about was that he was going to lose you, just like he’d lost Anna. And this time, it was worse—because he’d been the one to suggest you go. He’d been the one to send you into danger without even knowing it.

The guilt had consumed him. He couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the thought that you’d gotten hurt because of him. That you might have died because of him.

So he’d done the only thing he knew how to do: he ran.

He had told himself it was for your own good. That being with him was too dangerous, that you deserved better. That if he stayed, you’d only get hurt again—maybe next time, you wouldn’t be so lucky. He had convinced himself that walking away was the right thing to do, that he was protecting you. But now, as he stood there, Jean’s words cutting into him like a knife, he couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

He hadn’t left to protect you. He’d left to protect himself.

Because the truth was, he was terrified. Terrified of losing you the way he’d lost Anna. Terrified of watching someone else he cared about slip away because he wasn’t strong enough to keep them safe. And in his fear, he had done the very thing he swore he wouldn’t—he’d hurt you. He’d shattered you. He’d walked away when you needed him most, and now, all that was left between you was the wreckage of what could have been.

Jean’s voice cut through his thoughts again, sharp and relentless. “You think you’re keeping her safe by leaving? You’re not. You’ve done more damage to her than Eric ever could. You’re the one who broke her, Remy. You.”

His chest felt like it was caving in, the weight of her words pressing down on him until it was almost unbearable. He had broken you. He had thought he was doing the right thing, but all he had done was tear you apart, just like he’d been torn apart by Anna’s death.

And now? Now he didn’t know if he could fix it. He didn’t know if there was anything left to save.

His hand shook as he ran it through his hair, his mind racing with regrets and what-ifs. He thought of you, of the way you had looked at him the last time you’d seen him—your eyes filled with hurt, with confusion, with betrayal. He remembered the way you had reached for him, your voice breaking as you asked him why. As you tried to fight him on his words. Words he didn’t want to speak, and words you didn’t want to hear.

He hadn’t had an answer then. But now, standing here, the truth was staring him in the face.

He hadn’t left because it was the right thing to do. He had left because he was a coward.

Remy’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving as he tried to keep it together, but the weight of it all was crushing him. Jean’s words kept echoing in his head, relentless and unforgiving.

You’re the one who broke her.

His eyes dropped to the photo album on the bed, but it wasn’t Anna he was thinking about anymore. It was you. You were still out there, still hurting, and he had been too much of a coward to do anything about it. Too afraid to face the possibility that maybe, just maybe, things could be different this time.

Maybe he could be different this time.

Jean’s voice softened, but it still held that edge of truth. “You want to fix this? Then stop running. Stop hiding behind your guilt. Stop pretending like you’re doing her a favor by walking away. You’re not. You’re just being a coward.”

Remy swallowed hard, his throat tight. His mind was racing, his heart pounding, and for the first time in a long time, he felt something stir inside him. Something that had been buried beneath the fear and guilt for too long.

Hope.

Jean’s eyes softened slightly as she took a step back, her voice quieter now, more measured. “I saw her today,” she said, watching Remy carefully, gauging his reaction. “She was with her sister.”

Remy froze. His thoughts stopped dead in their tracks.

“She looked… fine, as far as I could tell,” Jean continued, though her voice dipped with uncertainty. “But, god, Remy. She needs you.” Her voice trembled slightly, revealing the weight of her own worry. “She’s hurting, and you’re the person she needs right now. Do you understand that?”

The words hit him like a sledgehammer. She needs you.

His mind raced. You were out there, walking around, living your life—wearing a brave face, no doubt—but underneath it, you were broken. And it was his fault. He had left you to deal with the pain, to heal alone, and now Jean was standing here telling him that you weren’t okay. That you were just surviving without him, not living.

“She needs you, Remy,” Jean repeated, her voice firm but full of something else—pleading. “Maybe she hasn’t said it, maybe she’s trying to be strong, but I saw her. She’s not fine. Not really. And she’s not going to be until you stop running and face this.”

His chest ached, the weight of everything crashing down on him all at once. He had done this. He had hurt you, abandoned you, and now you were out there, trying to piece yourself back together without him. And all the while, he had deluded himself into thinking that walking away was the right choice, that it was better for you.

But it wasn’t.

She turned on her heel, her shoulders tense, and started walking toward the door, her steps heavy with the weight of everything she had just said. She had tried to be patient. She had tried to let him grieve, to let him drown in his guilt if that’s what he needed. But this? This self-destruction, this endless parade of women and alcohol—it wasn’t helping him. It was killing him, slowly, piece by piece.

Just as she reached the door, she heard the sharp sound of something hitting the wall behind her. She didn’t turn around, but she knew it was Remy kicking something across the room, probably the ashtray or a bottle. His frustration, his pain, his anger—it all exploded in that one violent action.

But she didn’t stop. She didn’t turn back. She had said what she needed to say, and now it was up to him to decide whether he was going to keep destroying himself—or finally face the truth.

As she walked down the hallway, the sound of Remy’s ragged breathing followed her, and she could only hope that somewhere, deep down, her words had broken through the wall of guilt and anger he had built around himself.

She hoped, for his sake—and for yours—that it wasn’t too late.

Remy stood frozen in place, his fists still clenched at his sides. His chest heaved with each breath, his mind spinning as the sound of Jean’s footsteps faded down the hall. The apartment felt like it was closing in on him, the walls pressing tighter, suffocating him. He stared at the door she had just walked out of, his emotions tangled in a storm of anger, guilt, and something deeper—something more painful and raw.

His gaze flicked back to the bed.

The photo album sat there, untouched.

He hadn’t looked at it since the day he brought it to your house. Since the day he realized that maybe—just maybe—he could risk letting someone in again. That you were worth that risk. He had thought he could keep his two lives apart: the life he had as someone to be feared, someone dangerous and the life he was beginning to build with you. But the memories inside that album—the photos of Anna’s smile, her laugh, her life—were too much. Too heavy. Too painful.

But that day, when he handed it to you, the weight had felt… different. It wasn’t about the past anymore. It wasn’t about Anna. It was about you. About the way you’d started to break down the walls he’d spent years building. About the way you made him feel things he thought he’d buried.

The first time he realized he was falling in love with you was the night he showed you that album.

He had placed the album in your hands, his fingers trembling slightly as he sat down beside you. For a moment, you had just stared at it, your brow furrowing in confusion. And then, slowly, you opened it.

The first page had been a photo of Anna—laughing, vibrant, alive. So alive. His chest had ached when he saw her face again, the familiar pull of grief and guilt rising up, threatening to drown him. But then you had looked at him, your eyes filled with something he hadn’t expected—understanding. You hadn’t said anything. You hadn’t asked questions or pried. You had just… looked at him. Like you saw him. Like you understood.

And that was when he knew.

He was falling in love with you.

It wasn’t the way you touched him or the way you smiled at him or even the way you made him laugh on the rare occasions he let his guard down. It was the way you saw him. The way you looked at him, even now, after he had laid his past bare in front of you. The way you accepted him—flaws, scars, and all.

He had watched you flip through the pages, his heart in his throat. Part of him had been terrified that you would react differently—that you would see the depth of his guilt, his pain, and decide you didn’t want to be a part of it. But you hadn’t. You had reached out instead, your hand resting gently on his knee, your touch grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Thank you,” you had whispered, your voice soft and full of emotion.

He hadn’t known what to say. Maybe there were no words for it, for the way you had made him feel in that moment. For the way you had taken something so heavy, so painful, and made it feel lighter. Instead, he had just nodded, his hand covering yours, his grip tight—desperate, almost—as if holding on to you could keep him from falling apart.

That night, after you had looked at the album and closed it, you had kissed him—softly, tenderly. It was gentle. Healing. And in that moment, he had felt something shift inside him. Something he hadn’t thought he would ever feel again.

Hope.

He had stayed the night. Not just physically, but emotionally. He hadn’t run. He hadn’t pushed you away. He had let himself be vulnerable with you in a way he hadn’t been with anyone since Anna. And it had terrified him. But it had also made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years.

Alive.

But now, standing in this apartment, with Jean’s words still echoing in his ears, that feeling of being alive felt far away. Distant.

Jean had no right to bring Anna up like that. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand.

Remy stormed across the room, kicking the ashtray hard enough that it clattered against the wall, scattering cigarette butts and ashes across the floor. His hands were shaking as he ran them through his hair, cursing under his breath. He wanted to punch something, break something, do anything to release the pressure building inside him.

But all he could think of was Jean’s voice, ringing in his ears.

She would be ashamed of you.

The words cut deeper than anything else she had said. Anna had been the only person in Remy’s life who had ever really seen all of him—the good and the bad, the light and the darkness. She had loved him despite it all, and even though she was gone, her memory still weighed on him like a chain he couldn’t escape. He had made a promise to her, hadn’t he? To keep going. To live. But here he was, drowning in the same guilt and fear that had haunted him since the day she died.

And then there was you.

Jean’s words about you hit even harder, echoing in his mind as he paced the room, his hands still shaking. He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not since he had walked away, convinced that leaving you was the only way to keep you safe. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into his world, didn’t deserve the danger that seemed to follow him, the chaos that always surrounded him. He had convinced himself that staying away from you was the right thing to do. The only thing to do. But then Jean had laid it out so plainly, so brutally:

You did more damage to her than Eric ever could.

It was like a punch to the gut. He could still see the look on your face that last day, the hurt in your eyes as he had turned his back on you. He had thought he was protecting you, but now… now he wasn’t so sure.

He stumbled back to the bed, sitting down heavily on the edge, his elbows resting on his knees as he let his head fall into his hands.

You had been different from Anna. Where Anna had been light and fire, you were something quieter. Steadier. But that didn’t mean you were any less important. If anything, it made him fall for you even harder. He had thought he had nothing left to give, that his heart had died the day Anna did. But you had proven him wrong. You had shown him that he could feel again, that he could love again.

And that had terrified him.

He reached out, his hand hovering over the photo album. His fingers trembled as they brushed against the leather cover, but he still didn’t open it. He couldn’t. Not yet. Not like this.

Jean’s words kept echoing in his head, cycling over and over again until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He had pushed you away because he thought it was the only way to protect you, but all he had done was tear both of you apart. He had been too much of a coward to face the truth, too afraid to love you because he couldn���t bear the thought of losing someone else. He had built walls around himself, convinced that isolation was the only way to survive.

But now? Now he wasn’t sure whether he had been protecting you—or whether he had just been protecting himself from the pain of loving you.

He stood up suddenly, knocking the album off the bed as he grabbed his shirt from the chair. His hands were still shaking as he pulled it over his head, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. He couldn’t stay here. Not like this. Not after what Jean had said.

He needed to move, needed to get out. The apartment felt like a prison.

As he reached for the doorknob, Jean’s words came back to him, louder now, clearer.

I saw her today.

His chest tightened. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, but the image of you flashed in his mind. Jean had said you were with your sister. That you looked… fine. But he knew better. He knew the kind of pain his absence would have caused you. He had seen it in your eyes that last day, the way your voice had trembled when you begged him to stay.

God, Remy. She needs you.

He stopped, his hand frozen on the doorknob.

You needed him.

Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe there was still time to fix things. To make things right. He had been running for so long—running from the pain, from the guilt, from the fear of losing someone else. But maybe this time, he didn’t need to run.

Maybe this time, he could stay.

Remy took a deep breath, his heart pounding as he opened the door. The hallway stretched out before him, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid of what came next. <><><><><><><> It was the sharp knock on the door that made your mother look up from the stove, her hand pausing mid-stir as the sound echoed through the small apartment. For a moment, she stood still, listening, as if expecting the knock to repeat. Her heart gave a familiar, anxious flutter as she wiped her hands on a dish towel and made her way toward the living room, the air thick with the scent of roasting vegetables and simmering broth.

She had been here for weeks now. Ever since that night when she had received the gut-wrenching call that nearly stopped her heart. The night they told her you had been shot. The hours long drive to the hospital had been a blur of fear and disbelief, her hands shaking as she gripped the steering wheel, her mind racing with every worst-case scenario. Even now, the memory of it was enough to send a fresh wave of panic through her, that cold, sinking feeling of almost losing you.

The doctors had said you were lucky. Lucky. That word had rung in her ears like a cruel joke as she stared at you lying in that hospital bed, pale and fragile, hooked up to machines that beeped and whirred around you. You had been unconscious for what felt like weeks but it was barely even days, your mother sitting vigil at your bedside, refusing to leave—even when the nurses gently suggested she get some rest. But how could she? She needed to be there. She needed to see your chest rise and fall, to remind herself that you were still breathing, still with her.

In the weeks since, she had taken on the role of caretaker with a kind of fierce determination, tending to you as if her love alone might somehow heal those wounds faster. She made sure you rested, made sure you took your medication, made sure you ate enough, even when you didn’t have much of an appetite. But more than that, she stayed close because a part of her still couldn’t shake the fear that if she let you out of her sight, she might lose you again.

Your sister had arrived a week after that fateful day, barely giving herself time to breathe before booking the first flight out, leaving her baby in the care of her husband. She had called your mother from the airport, her voice trembling with a frantic kind of urgency, demanding to know how bad it was, how you were holding up. Your mother had tried to reassure her, but her voice had cracked when she said, “She’s alive, but…” There was always a but. The kind of but that left a lingering shadow over every moment, as if the danger wasn’t quite past, even though the worst had already happened.

When your sister arrived, she had rushed into the hospital room, her eyes wide with worry, her arms wrapping around your mother in a fierce embrace. She had taken one look at you, lying there with blood still on your face, so pale and her face had crumpled. The baby she had left behind, her life back home—it all seemed so far away, irrelevant, when her sister was lying in a hospital bed, fighting to recover from something so violent, so senseless.

Since then, the two of them—your mother and your sister—had worked together in quiet, unspoken solidarity. They had taken turns watching over you, making sure you had everything you needed, making sure the apartment was stocked with food, making sure you rested when your stubbornness tried to push you too hard, too fast.

It wasn’t just about taking care of your wounds, though that was a large part of it. It was also about reassuring themselves, about proving to themselves that you were still here, still alive. They couldn’t forget how close they had come to losing you, how your fate had hung by a thread in those first few hours. Though the doctors had said you would recover, the trauma of that close call lingered in the air, heavy and unspoken.

Your mother, especially, had taken to hovering. Every time you winced or moved too suddenly, she was there, asking if you were okay, if you needed anything, if the pain was manageable. She couldn’t help it. She needed to see you, to touch you, to know that you were real, that you were healing, that you hadn’t slipped away from her.

And you, in your own quiet way, allowed it. You didn’t complain when she fluttered around you, didn’t protest when she brought you meals or fussed over your bandages. Maybe you understood that she needed this—needed to mother you, to care for you in a way that soothed her own fears as much as it soothed your pain.

Your mother stepped into the living room and opened the door cautiously, her heart still uneasy.

And then she saw him.

Remy.

He stood there, just outside the door, looking nothing like the man she had met in that hospital waiting room all those weeks ago. She remembered that day clearly. He had been tall, composed, and intimidating, the kind of man who seemed to carry the world on his shoulders without ever flinching. He had been arguing with James, the tension between them palpable, but it had been controlled, restrained. Even then, she had sensed the danger in him, the kind of danger that came from a man who was always a few steps ahead, always calculating, always prepared to do whatever was necessary.

She had learned more about him later, from whispers and rumors and things people had told her. The mobster. The king of New Orleans. The man who ruled the streets with an iron fist and wouldn’t hesitate to eliminate anyone who got in his way. She had known her daughter was involved with someone dangerous, but it wasn’t until after the shooting that she fully understood who Remy really was.

But now, standing in front of her, he was a shadow of that man. His clothes were rumpled, his face unshaven, and his eyes… His eyes were dark and hollow, filled with the kind of regret that seemed to weigh him down with every breath. He looked lost, broken in a way that shattered the image she had built of him in her mind.

She had been right all along, though. Her daughter had a power over him, even if you didn’t realize it. You had brought him to his knees, in ways neither of you fully understood. The man who had ruled the streets, who had inspired fear in everyone who crossed him, was now standing on her doorstep, looking like he didn’t know what to do next.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Your mother’s heart was still heavy with anger over what he had done—how he had walked away when you needed him most, how he had left you to face the aftermath of the shooting alone. But seeing him now, like this, that anger softened just enough for her to do something she hadn’t expected.

She stepped aside.

“Come in,” she said quietly, her voice steady even though her heart was racing. “I was just making lunch.”

Remy blinked, clearly surprised by the invitation. He opened his mouth as if to protest, to say something about not wanting to intrude, but your mother shook her head.

“She won’t be back for a while,” she continued, gesturing toward the kitchen. “You look like you need something to eat.”

For a moment, he hesitated, as if unsure whether he should accept. But then, slowly, he nodded and stepped inside, his shoulders sagging with exhaustion.

Your mother closed the door behind him, her heart still conflicted, but her mind set. She didn’t know what would happen next, didn’t know if you would be ready to see him when you returned. But for now, she could offer him this one small kindness—the same kind of kindness she had always offered to those in need.

Because even though Remy was dangerous, even though he had hurt you, he was also just a man.

And right now, he looked like a man in desperate need of something more than what she was offering. Remy stepped inside, his body moving on autopilot as the door clicked shut behind him. The apartment was small, quiet, but it held a weight he wasn’t prepared for. Every step he took felt heavy, as if the memories that lingered in these rooms were pulling him down, dragging him under.

It was strange how easily the past came rushing back. The scent of home-cooked meals still hung in the air, blending with the faintest trace of your perfume, even though you weren’t here. It was enough to make his throat tighten, his heart clench in his chest. He hadn’t been in this apartment for weeks—hadn’t let himself think too hard about it, about what it would be like to return here after everything.

But now, as your mother led him quietly toward the kitchen, the memories hit him, one after another, relentless and vivid.

He could see you, clear as day, sitting on the kitchen counter just a few feet away, laughing at him while he cooked dinner. You had always teased him about how serious he looked when he was cooking, how he could go from the hard-edged mobster everyone feared to someone so focused on making sure the sauce didn’t burn. He remembered the way your legs would swing back and forth as you watched him, the way your eyes would light up when you tasted what he had made, leaning down to steal a kiss as if you couldn’t help yourself. He’d playfully swat you away, but only because he knew if he kissed you back, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

His eyes drifted to the living room, and there it was—the couch. The same couch where you had curled up against him on countless nights, a blanket wrapped around you as you laid your head on his chest. He could still feel your weight on him, the warmth of your body seeping into his as he stroked your hair absentmindedly while you dozed off. You were always so peaceful in those moments, and it was in those quiet hours that he had let his guard down, had let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have something good in his life. Something pure. Something that wasn’t stained by the blood on his hands.

And then his gaze caught on the open bedroom door.

His heart skipped a beat.

He couldn’t stop the flood of memories that came crashing through him. The nights he had spent in that room, the way your nails would dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him deeper, as if you needed him just to breathe. He could still feel the ghost of your lips on his skin, the way you kissed him like he was the only thing that mattered, like he was the air you needed to survive. Those nights had been filled with passion, with a hunger that neither of you could ever seem to sate. But they had also been filled with something more—something he wasn’t used to. Something he couldn’t name but felt in every touch, every kiss.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away from the bedroom door. His chest ached with the weight of it all. The memories, the loss, the guilt. And beneath it all, a longing that he didn’t know how to deal with.

Your mother gestured toward the kitchen table, her voice soft but firm. “Sit.”

He obeyed, sinking into the chair, though his muscles felt painfully tight. His hands rested on the table, but he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He felt out of place, like a stranger in a home that had once been his second home.

She moved around the kitchen with a quiet efficiency, pulling out plates, setting utensils on the table, all the while keeping an eye on him. He could feel her watching him, studying him. Judging him, maybe. He couldn’t blame her for that. Not after everything he’d done.

There was a brief silence as she ladled soup into bowls and placed them in front of him. The smell was warm, comforting, but he had no appetite. His stomach churned with nerves, a sensation he wasn’t used to. He, who had faced down enemies and stared death in the face more times than he could count, was now sitting in a kitchen, feeling like a lost boy.

Your mother sat down across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes sharp and assessing.

“What are you doing here, Remy?” she asked, her voice calm but direct.

He stared down at the bowl in front of him, watching the steam rise. He didn’t have a good answer—not one that would make sense. Not one that would explain why he had shown up on her doorstep after disappearing for so long. He had told himself that you were better off without him, that leaving you was the only way to protect you. But that had been a lie, hadn’t it?

“I don’t really know,” he said quietly, his voice rough and low, like the words were being dragged out of him against his will.

Your mother didn’t respond immediately. She just sat there, watching him with those knowing eyes, the kind that saw more than you wanted them to. She didn’t press him for more. She didn’t need to.

And in the silence that followed, he realized she already understood. She knew what he was struggling with, what he couldn’t bring himself to say. She knew that he was lost, that the man who had once walked so confidently in and out of your life was now broken, unsure of how to fix what he had shattered.

“You’re trying to figure it out,” she said softly, her voice gentle but firm. “Trying to figure out if there’s a way back.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. The truth was written all over his face, in the way his shoulders slumped, in the way he couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a few seconds at a time.

She sighed, a long, slow breath, and picked up her spoon, gesturing for him to do the same. “Eat,” she said quietly. “You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

He hesitated for a moment, then picked up his spoon and took a small sip. The warmth of the soup spread through him, but it didn’t take away the ache in his chest. Nothing would.

Your mother set her spoon down gently, the soft clink of metal against porcelain barely breaking the quiet that had settled over the kitchen. Her eyes lifted to meet Remy’s, searching, as if trying to find something in him that wasn’t immediately visible. She had been talking for a while now—telling stories about you, about your childhood, about the way you had always been so full of life, so eager to escape the small town where nothing ever seemed to happen. Remy had listened, absorbing every word, but now the focus had shifted.

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers lacing together on the table in front of her, her gaze steady and unflinching.

“How did you get caught up in all this, Remy?” she asked, her voice soft but direct. “How did you become a part of that world?”

Remy’s chest tightened, the familiar weight of the question settling over him. It was a question he had been asked before, but never like this. Never by someone who was looking at him with both understanding and judgment, with both sympathy and a fierce protectiveness for the daughter she loved. He shifted in his seat, his hands resting awkwardly on the table, as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He hadn’t come here to talk about himself. He hadn’t planned on explaining anything. But now, with your mother sitting across from him, her eyes locked on his, he felt the weight of her question pressing down on him, demanding an answer. And for some reason, he felt like he owed it to her. Maybe because of the way she had welcomed him in, despite everything. Maybe because she had fed him, listened to him, offered him a kind of understanding he hadn’t expected.

Remy sat there for a moment, his eyes drifting down to his hands, which rested loosely in his lap. He could feel your mother watching him, waiting patiently for him to answer. He wasn’t sure why he was even telling her any of this. Maybe because she had opened her door to him, or maybe because, in some way, she reminded him of the kind of mother he never had.

He took a deep breath, finally looking up to meet her gaze. “I wasn’t born into this life if that’s what you mean,” he began, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. “I was… adopted.”

Your mother’s eyebrows lifted slightly, but she didn’t interrupt. She just waited, quietly urging him to continue.

“I don’t remember much about my birth parents,” Remy said, his mind drifting back to the hazy fragments of his early childhood. “I was too young when they gave me up. I was in foster care for a while, bouncing from one house to another. It was… rough. I guess I was a difficult kid. Angry, confused. I didn’t understand why they didn’t want me.”

He paused, the old bitterness rising in his throat, but he pushed it down. He wasn’t here to wallow in self-pity.

“Eventually, I got adopted by this couple. Seemed like good people at first. They had money, stability. I thought maybe things would finally get better, you know? But… it wasn’t like that.” He shook his head, his jaw tightening as the memories came flooding back. “They weren’t bad people, but they weren’t ready for a kid like me. I was already too far gone by the time they took me in. Too angry. Too broken.”

Your mother’s face softened slightly, her eyes filled with something close to understanding, but she stayed silent, letting him tell his story.

“I fell in with the wrong crowd when I was about thirteen,” he continued, his voice quieter now. “Started running with kids who were older than me, kids who didn’t have much to lose. We got into trouble—small stuff at first. Skipping school, stealing from corner stores. But it escalated fast. By the time I was fifteen, I was doing things that no kid should ever have to do. Selling drugs. Running errands for people who had real power in the city.”

He clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening as the memories churned inside him. “I thought I was tough. Thought I didn’t need anyone. But really, I was just trying to survive. I didn’t know how to be anything else.”

He looked up then, meeting your mother’s eyes. “By the time I realized how deep I was in, it was too late. I had already crossed too many lines. Made too many choices that I couldn’t take back.”

Your mother nodded slowly, her expression softening, though there was still a hint of sadness in her eyes. “It’s hard to break free from something like that,” she said gently, her voice filled with the kind of wisdom that came from years of seeing people make mistakes, from knowing how hard it was to find redemption.

Remy nodded, his throat tight. “Yeah. It is. Once you’re in that world, it’s like quicksand. The harder you fight, the deeper you sink.”

He paused, his voice lowering as he forced himself to admit the part that hurt the most. “And by the time I met her... your daughter… I was already too far gone. I thought I could keep her away from it. Protect her from who I really was. But I couldn’t. And now…”

He trailed off, the weight of his own failure hanging heavy in the air between them.

Your mother sat quietly for a moment, her hands resting on the table, her expression thoughtful. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but steady. “You can’t change the past, Remy. But you can decide what kind of man you want to be moving forward.”

Remy sat back in the chair, his eyes dropping to the floor as a tension settled over his shoulders. He had already said more than he planned to, already laid out pieces of his past that he wasn’t used to sharing with anyone, let alone your mother. But there was one more thing, one more truth that felt like a weight pressing down on him. If he was being completely open with your mother, showing her that he wasn’t what she perceived him to be, then she needs to know everything. Know the reasons why he is like he is, to gain her acceptance in a way that only a mother could give.

He took a slow breath, then forced himself to meet your mother’s gaze. “I’ve been married before,” he said quietly, the words coming out rough, like they were scraping against his throat.

Your mother didn’t react immediately. She just stayed still, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processed what he said. Remy watched her closely, waiting for the judgment, for the disappointment, for something that told him he had just made things worse. But it didn’t come.

Instead, your mother’s lips curved into a soft, almost bemused smile, her eyes glinting with an understanding he hadn’t expected. “So was I,” she said, her voice light but tinged with the weight of her own memories. “Twice, in fact.”

Remy blinked, surprised. He hadn’t known that. You had mentioned your childhood, your mother’s second marriage, but you hadn’t gone into much detail. He hadn’t thought to ask.

Your mother leaned back in her chair, her expression shifting to something lighter, though Remy could still see the weight of past experiences in her eyes. She took a breath, her lips curving into a small, almost mischievous smile.

“My first husband,” she began, her tone casual but laced with dry humor, “was an idiot. Couldn’t keep it in his pants if his life depended on it.”

Remy blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. He tried to hold it together, but a grin tugged at his lips, threatening to break into a full laugh. It was the first time since he’d walked into your house that he felt the tension lift, even if just for a moment.

Your mother noticed, her smile widening as she leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. “Oh, don’t worry,” she continued, her voice warm but matter-of-fact, as if she’d told this story a hundred times before. “It didn’t last long. I was young, thought I knew everything. We had my oldest together, and I tried to make it work for her sake. But… well, we just weren’t right for each other. Didn’t take long before we were more like strangers living in the same house.”

Remy stayed quiet, unsure how to respond, but the way she spoke—with such calm, as if she had made peace with it long ago—made it easier for him to listen. There was no bitterness in her voice, just the kind of wisdom that came from living through it and coming out stronger on the other side.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he finally let the smile fully form on his face. “Sounds like you’ve been through it.”

Your mother smirked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh, honey, I’ve been through more than you can imagine. But I learned a lot along the way.”

Remy nodded, his smile lingering. “Guess life has a way of teaching you the hard lessons.”

She nodded in agreement, her gaze softening. “It does. But sometimes, those lessons are exactly what you need to figure out who you really are—and what you deserve. When I met my second husband,” she said, her eyes softening at the memory. “I wasn’t looking for love. In fact, I was pretty sure I’d never fall in love again after the first marriage. But the universe has a funny way of proving you wrong.” She chuckled softly, a sound that carried both amusement and affection. “It’s like it just knows when you need something different, something better.”

She paused, her gaze drifting for a moment, as if she was lost in the past. Then she looked back at Remy, her smile turning just a little mischievous. “Sometimes, the universe lets you fall in love twice.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, settling over him like a blanket of quiet reassurance. He hadn’t expected her to respond like this—to take what he had said and turn it into something softer, something that didn’t feel like a confession weighed down with guilt. There was no judgment in her eyes, no disappointment. Just a quiet acceptance, as if she had seen enough of life to know that love wasn’t always neat, wasn’t always perfect the first time around.

Remy exhaled slowly, the tightness in his chest loosening just a little. He hadn’t talked about his marriage in years, hadn’t let himself think about what it had meant, or what it hadn’t. But sitting here, with your mother looking at him like she understood more than he’d ever expected her to, he found himself speaking again, the words coming out before he could stop them.

“Her name was Anna,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “My first wife.”

Your mother’s expression softened, her eyes watching him closely, understanding that this wasn’t something he spoke about lightly. She didn’t push, didn’t interrupt—just let him talk.

“She… she died,” he continued, his voice catching slightly on the words. “Drunk drivin’ accident. She wasn’t the one driving… but that doesn’t make it any easier.”

He paused, his throat tight as the memories rushed back—memories of that night, of the phone call, of the shock that had ripped through him like a tidal wave, leaving him gasping for air. “She was on her way home from a friend’s place. Some guy blew through a red light, hit her car. She never had a chance.”

He clenched his jaw, fighting against the familiar surge of guilt that always came with thinking about Anna. “I wasn’ with her that night. I should’a been. But I was workin’ a job—deep in my life with the crew. Thought I was doing what I needed to. And then she was gone."

Your mother’s face softened with sympathy, her hand resting lightly on the table between them. “I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice filled with the kind of quiet understanding that only someone who had lived through their own losses could offer. “Losing someone like that… it’s not something you ever really get over.”

Remy nodded, his chest tight. “No, it ain’.”

They sat in the stillness of the kitchen, the air thick with the weight of everything Remy had just laid bare. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was filled with the kind of tension that only comes when someone’s past is laid out raw and vulnerable. Your mother didn’t rush to fill it, didn’t push him for more. She simply sat, her fingers lightly drumming on the edge of the table as she processed his words.

But after a moment, her expression softened, curiosity flickering in her eyes as she shifted the conversation. “How did you meet my daughter?” she asked, her voice gentle, steering them into safer territory.

Remy looked up, his throat still tight from the weight of his earlier confession, but the mention of you brought a flicker of warmth to his chest, something that softened the edges of his guilt and regret. He couldn’t help but smile, just a little, as the memory of that first night came rushing back. “At the bar she works at,” he said, his voice quieter now, a touch lighter. “I was there one night. Saw her and James. She was… different. Strong. Unafraid. But there was something else in her eyes, too. Something that drew me in.”

He paused, the memory playing out in his mind like a scene from a movie. “She was on her break, I think,” he continued, his smile widening slightly. “Sittin’ on a crate, eatin’ her dinner. Just… completely comfortable in her own skin. I don’t know, there was somethin’ about her. The way she carried herself. How she didn’t take life too seriously, even though it’s clear she’s been through some tough stuff.”

Your mother raised an eyebrow at that, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smirk. “Bloody James,” she said with a playful roll of her eyes. “I swear that man is a bad influence on her.”

Remy chuckled softly, but he could see the fondness in your mother’s expression. She didn’t mean it. If anything, Remy could tell she trusted James, maybe even saw him as a kind of protector for you.

“So, that’s how it started?” she asked, leaning forward slightly, her interest clearly piqued.

Remy nodded, his gaze softening as he thought back to that night. “Yeah. I overheard her badmouthin’ her boss to James.” He smiled a little at the memory. “But it weren’  jus’ what she said. It was how she said it. She wasn’t angry, she was laughing about it, like nothing could really get under her skin. I don’t know… there was somethin’ about her. The way she seemed so unbothered by the world, but at the same time, so aware of it. I couldn’ stay away.”

He hesitated then, his expression growing more serious. “She had this… way of lookin’ at me, like she could see past everythin’. Past the life I was in. All the mess, all the mistakes. Like she saw somethin’ in me that I ain’ even know was there. And I didn’t know how to handle that.”

Your mother’s eyes softened as she listened, her hands resting lightly on the table, but there was a flicker of something else in her gaze—something sharper, more protective. “James told me about the night you pulled a gun on someone harassing her in the club,” she said, her voice steady, though there was a slight edge to it.

Remy winced, his gaze dropping to the floor. He knew that story had spread around, and he wasn’t surprised that James had told your mother. He wasn’t proud of what had happened that night, but he wasn’t about to deny it either. “Yeah,” he muttered, his voice low. “That happened.”

He could feel her eyes on him, sharp and assessing, weighing him in a way that made him feel exposed all over again. “Is that what you do, Remy?” she asked, her tone firm but not harsh. “Pull guns on people to solve problems?”

Remy’s jaw tightened as he looked down, shame twisting in his chest. He hadn’t wanted to be that guy. Not in front of you. Not in front of anyone. But that night… that night had been different. “I ain’ proud of it,” he admitted, his voice rough. “It ain’ something I’m proud to say I did. But…” He paused, his hands tightening into fists on the table as he forced himself to meet her gaze. “But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Your mother’s brow furrowed slightly, her gaze hardening as she tried to make sense of his words. “Why?” she asked, though there was no accusation in her voice—just a mother’s concern. “Why would you think that was the right thing to do?”

Remy took a deep breath, feeling the familiar tightness in his chest. “Because I couldn’t just stand there and watch it happen,” he said, his voice low but steady. “That guy… he wasn’t just harassing her. He wasn’ gonna  stop. I could see it in his eyes. He was going to hurt her if I didn’ step in. And I wasn’ going to let that happen. Not to her.”

Your mother stayed quiet, her expression unreadable as she considered his words. But there was something in her eyes that shifted, something softer, though still guarded. “You know,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, “she’s not someone who needs saving. My daughter’s been through a lot. She’s strong. She can handle herself.”

Remy nodded slowly. “I know,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I know she don’t need me to fight her battles. But that night… I wasn’ thinkin’. I just acted. I couldn’ let her get hurt. Not when I could do something about it.”

Your mother leaned back in her chair, her gaze softening slightly as she studied him. “You care about her,” she said, not as a question, but as a statement of fact.

Remy swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his own feelings pressing down on him. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I’ve ever cared about anyone.”

Your mother’s expression softened even more, a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose there are worse things than a man who’s willing to protect the people he loves. Just… no more guns, alright?”

Remy let out a soft chuckle, though there was still a heaviness in his chest. “I’ll do my best,” he said, offering her a small, tentative smile in return.

Your mother nodded, her smile lingering for just a moment before she turned her attention back to the table, her fingers tracing the edge of her mug. “Good,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that hadn’t been there before. “Because my daughter… she deserves someone who’ll stand by her side, not someone who’ll fight her battles for her.” The quiet inside the house was suddenly broken by the sound of a car door slamming shut outside, followed by the unmistakable sound of laughter—your laughter, joined by your sister’s, floating through the cool evening air. It was the kind of sound that carried warmth, the kind that spoke of inside jokes and years of shared memories.

Remy’s entire body tensed at the sound. His breath hitched, and his gaze flicked toward the front door as if he could see through it. He knew it was you. He knew the sound of your laughter anywhere, the cadence of it, the way it lit up a room. But here, now, it felt like a punch to the gut—a reminder of everything he had been running from and everything he had returned to face.

Your mother noticed the shift in him immediately, the way his shoulders stiffened, how his hands clenched slightly on the table. She reached across the space between them and placed her hand gently over his, her fingers warm and firm. The gesture was small but grounding, drawing his attention back to her.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said softly, her voice steady and filled with a quiet, maternal reassurance that cut through the tension in the room. “Thank you for talking to me. For opening up… about all of it.”

Remy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. He hadn’t expected your mother to look at him like this—to see him, really see him, and still meet him with understanding instead of judgment. He nodded slowly, dipping his head as if he could absorb the weight of her words.

“And thank you,” she continued, her eyes softening as she held his gaze, “for loving my daughter enough to come back.”

Her words landed like a quiet challenge, but not one meant to intimidate—more like an invitation to step up, to be the man she believed you deserved. Remy let out a slow breath, the tension in his chest loosening just slightly, though the weight of everything still hung heavy on his shoulders.

“I ain’ sure I’m the man she needs,” he admitted, his voice low and rough, like the words were scraping their way out of him. “I don’ know if I’ll ever be. I don’ wanna drag her down.”

Your mother’s grip on his hand tightened for just a moment, a silent insistence that he listen to her. “You’re here now,” she said simply. “That matters. It means something.”

Remy nodded again, his brow furrowed, his mind racing with everything he wanted to say, everything he didn’t know how to say. He wasn’t sure what being here would fix, wasn’t sure if he had already done too much damage. But sitting across from your mother, seeing the way she still had hope for you both, something inside him shifted. A quiet resolve, a determination that maybe—just maybe—he could try. He could be more than the man his past had shaped him into. He could be the man you saw in him.

“I know,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m tryin’.”

Before your mother could respond, the sound of the front door opening filled the room, followed by your sister’s voice, still mid-laugh. “Okay, but you cannot tell me that Bangerz wasn’t a cultural reset,” she was saying, her words punctuated by the thud of shoes being kicked off.

You followed her inside, your own voice teasing as you countered, “Plastic Hearts is superior, and you know it. Miley’s rock era is—” “Yeah but you’re biased aren’t you miss I-Never-Let-Go-Of- My-High-School-Emo-Phase,” Your sister countered earning a snort from you.

But then any retort you had froze on your lips the moment you looked up and saw him. Remy. Sitting at the kitchen table with your mother.

Your eyes locked onto his, and in that instant, the world seemed to narrow. The laughter, the lightness of the moment, evaporated, replaced by a sudden rush of emotions you weren’t ready for. Your heart hammered in your chest, and for a second, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Remy stood slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. There was a mixture of emotions written across his face—hesitation, guilt, relief. He looked like a man caught between apology and hope, like he wasn’t sure if you wanted him there, but he couldn’t walk away again.

Your mother rose from her seat as well, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the room. She glanced between the two of you, her expression soft but knowing. She placed a gentle hand on your shoulder as she passed, leaning in just enough for you to hear her quiet words. “We’re going back out for a bit,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Your sister, however, wasn’t so easily convinced. “But we were just—”

Your mother shot her a look—a single, sharp glance that silenced the protest before it could fully form. Your sister huffed, her frustration evident, but one glance at the tension between you and Remy was enough for her to understand that this wasn’t the time to argue. With a sigh, she followed your mother out the door, leaving you and Remy alone in the kitchen.

The door clicked shut behind them, and for a moment, the silence was deafening. You stood there, still frozen by the sight of him, your heart racing as a swirl of emotions warred inside you—relief, anger, confusion, hope. You couldn’t quite figure out which one was winning. All you knew was that he was here, after everything, standing in your kitchen like a ghost from a past you hadn’t fully let go of.

Remy took a small step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours, his face a mixture of hesitation and something deeper. “I—” he started, but the words seemed to catch in his throat, like he wasn’t sure how to begin.

Your chest tightened as you tried to process what you were feeling. Part of you wanted to rush across the room and demand answers—why he left, why he hadn’t called, why he thought he could just walk back in now, after all this time. But another part of you… another part of you was just relieved to see him. To know that he was still here, still trying.

“You can’t keep doing this Remy. You can’t keep walking in and out like this.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice soft but laced with the confusion and hurt you’d been carrying since the day he walked out.

Remy flinched slightly, as if the words stung more than he expected. He looked down for a moment, his hands flexing at his sides before he met your gaze again. “I came back,” he said simply, his voice rough. “I… I couldn’ stay away. Not anymore.”

Your heart clenched at the sincerity in his voice, but you weren’t ready to let the walls come down just yet. “And what makes you think you can just come back?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly. “After everything?”

Remy swallowed hard, his eyes pleading as he took another step closer, his hand reaching out but stopping just short of touching you. “Because I love you,” he said quietly, the words raw and unguarded, like they had been waiting on his lips for far too long. “And I’m sorry. For all of it. For everythin’.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his confession hanging heavy between you. You wanted to believe him—God, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe that this time, things could be different. That maybe he could finally be the man you needed him to be. But the hurt was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, the scars from the last time he left still fresh and raw.

You could still remember how it felt when he walked away. The emptiness, the sense of betrayal, the hours you’d spent staring at the door, waiting for him to come back. But he hadn’t. He had left you to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart alone, while he disappeared into the shadows, convincing himself that leaving was somehow better for you. And now, here he was, standing in front of you again, saying all the right things, looking at you with those eyes that once made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered.

But could you trust him? Could you trust that he wouldn’t do it again, that he wouldn’t break your heart all over the second things got hard?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice breaking slightly as he took another step closer, his hand hovering between you like he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. “I don’ know if it’ll ever be enough, but… I’m here. And I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

His words were soft, almost pleading, but they couldn’t erase the doubt that gnawed at you. You wanted to believe him, wanted to throw yourself into his arms and let everything else fall away. But you couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of your mind—the one that whispered that this wasn’t the first time he’d promised to stay. That he had said similar words before, only to walk away when things got tough.

What if he left again? What if, the next time the world got too heavy for him, he decided you were better off without him? What if you let yourself believe him, let yourself hope, only for him to shatter you all over again?

You took a shaky breath, your heart pounding as you stood there, torn between the pain of the past and the fragile hope of what could be. You could see the sincerity in his eyes, the raw emotion in his voice. But sincerity wasn’t enough. Not anymore. The decision wasn’t just his to make. It was yours too.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Remy,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you hadn’t said. “I don’t know if I can keep picking up the pieces every time you decide you’re too scared to stay.”

He flinched, the pain in your words cutting deep, but he didn’t look away. He didn’t back down. “I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I know I hurt ya. And I don’t expect you to forgive me jus’ like that. But I’m willin’ to do anythin’.”

You closed your eyes, your chest tight with the flood of emotions swirling inside you. You could feel the pull of him, the way your heart wanted to believe him, to trust that this time would be different. But trust wasn’t something you could give so easily. Not after everything.

When you opened your eyes again, he was still there, standing close, his face etched with the same conflict that was tearing you apart inside.

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” you said softly, your words barely audible, but you knew he heard them. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. He just nodded, as if he understood that this wasn’t something that could be fixed with a few words, no matter how much you both wanted it to be.

And in that moment, you realized that the decision wasn’t just about whether he stayed. It was about whether you were willing to take the risk. Whether you were willing to open yourself up again, knowing that he could still walk away. Knowing that loving him meant facing the possibility of getting hurt all over again.

The decision wasn’t just his to make. It was yours too. And you weren’t sure if your heart could take it. Not yet.

[perspectivestarters]

Perspective's Sentence Starters; The Tortured Poets Department by Taylor Swift (Part II)

GUILTY AS SIN?

I hadn't heard it in a while.

My boredom's bone deep.

This cage was once just fine.

Am I allowed to cry?

I dream of cracking locks.

Crashing into him tonight, he's a paradox.

I'm seeing visions.

Am I bad, or mad, or wise?

What if he's written "Mine" on my upper thigh only in my mind?

Oh, what a way to die.

I keep recalling things we never did.

Without ever touching his skin, how can I be guilty as sin?

There's no such thing as bad thoughts, only your actions talk.

We've already done it in my head.

Why does it feel like a vow we'll both uphold somehow?

What if I roll the stone away?

They're gonna crucify me anyway

What if the way you hold me is actually what's holy?

They don't know how you've haunted me so stunningly.

I choose you and me, religiously.

WHO'S AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME?

You don’t get to tell me about sad.

If you wanted me dead you should’ve just said.

Nothing makes me feel more alive.

Who’s afraid of little old me?

You don’t get to tell me you feel bad.

Is it a wonder I broke?

Let’s hear one morе joke.

Then we could all just laugh until I cry.

I was tame, I was gentle till the circus life made me mean.

Don’t you worry folks, we took out all her teeth.

So tell me everything is not about me, but what if it is?

Say they didn’t do it to hurt me, but what if they did?

I wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me.

You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.

All you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebs.

I’m always drunk on my own tears, isn’t that what they all said?

I’ll sue you if you step on my lawn.

I’m fearsome, and I’m wretched and I’m wrong.

Put narcotics into all of my songs and that’s why you’re still singing along.

You lured me and you hurt me and you taught me.

You caged me and then you called me crazy.

I am what I am 'cause you trained me.

I CAN FIX HIM (NO REALLY I CAN)

The smoke cloud billows out his mouth like a freight train through a small town.

The jokes that he told across the bar were revolting and far too loud.

God, help her.

I told them he's my man

I can fix him, no, really, I can.

The dopamine races through his brain on a six-lane Texas highway.

His hands so calloused from his pistol softly traces hearts on my face.

I could see it from a mile away.

A perfect case for my certain skill set.

He had a halo of the highest gradе.

He just hadn't met me yеt.

Good boy, that's right.

Come close.

I'll show you Heaven if you'll be an angel, all mine.

Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man.

LOML

Who's gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames?

We were just kids, babe.

I don't mind, it takes time.

I thought I was better safe than starry-eyed.

I felt a glow like this, never before and never since.

If you know it in one glimpse, it's legendary.

You said I'm the love of your life.

You took me to hell too.

A con man sells a fool a "get love quick" scheme.

I felt a hole like this, never before and ever since.

What we thought was for all time was momentary.

Mr. Steal-Your-Girl, then make her cry.

You shit-talked me under the table.

I wish I could unrecall how we almost had it all.

It was legendary.

It was momentary.

It was unnecessary.

Should've let it stay buried.

What a valiant roar.

What a bland goodbye.

The coward claimed he was a lion.

I'm combing through the braids of lies.

Our field of dreams engulfed in fire.

I'll still see until I die.

You're the loss of my life.

I CAN DO IT WITH A BROKEN HEART

I can read your mind.

She's having the time of her life.

I can show you lies.

I'm a real tough kid.

I can handle my shit.

They said, "Babe, you gotta fake it till you make it" And I did.

Lights, camera, bitch, smile.

He said he'd love me all his life.

All the piеces of me shatterеd as the crowd was chanting "More".

I was grinnin' like I'm winnin'.

I can do it with a broken heart.

I'm so depressed, I act like it's my birthday every day.

I'm so obsessed with him, but he avoids me like the plague.

I cry a lot, but I am so productive, it's an art.

You know you're good when you can even do it with a broken heart.

I can hold my breath.

I've been doing it since he left.

I keep finding his things in drawers.

I didn't imagine the whole thing.

'Cause I'm miserable and nobody even knows.

THE SMALLEST MAN WHO EVER LIVED

Was any of it true?

Who the fuck was that guy?.

Now you know what it feels like

I don't even want you back.

I don't miss what we had.

Could someone give a message to the smallest man who ever lived?

You didn't measure up in any measurе of a man

Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead?

Did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed?

Were you writing a book?

Were you a sleeper cell spy?

In fifty years will all this be declassified?

You'll confess why you did it and I'll say, "Good riddance".

It wasn't sexy once it wasn't forbidden.

I would've died for your sins, instead I just died inside.

You deserve prison, but you won't get time.

You said normal girls were "boring", but you were gone by the morning.

You kicked out the stage lights, but you're still performing.

You are what you did.

I'll forget you, but I'll never forgive.

THE ALCHEMY

This happens once every few lifetimes.

These chemicals hit me like white wine.

What if I told you I'm back?

The hospital was a drag.

Worst sleep that I ever had.

I circled you on a map.

I haven't come around in so long.

I'm coming back so strong.

Ditch the clowns, get the crown.

Baby, I'm the one to be.

The sign on your heart said it's still reserved for me.

Honestly, who are we to fight thе alchemy?.

Hey, you, what if I told you we'rе cool?

That child's play back in school is forgiven under my rule.

I'm making a comeback to where I belong

We've been on a winning streak.

There was no chance trying to be the greatest in the league.

He just comes, running over to me.

CLARA BOW

All your life, did you know, you'd be picked like a rose?

I'm not trying to exaggerate, but I think I might die if it happened to me.

No one in my small town thought I'd see the lights of Manhattan.

This town is fake but you're the real thing.

Take the glory, give everything.

Promise to be dazzling.

The crowd goes wild at her fingertips.

No one in my small town thought I'd meet these suits in LA.

You're the real queen.

You're the new god we're worshipping.

Beauty is a beast that roars down on all fours demanding more.

Only when your girlish glow flickers just so.

It's hell on earth to be heavenly.

Them's the brakes, they don't come gently.

You've got edge, she never did.

The future's bright, dazzling.

[scheodingers-muppet]

TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT (Stranger Things Version)

i have no clue why it took me this long, sorry guys

Fortnight: Jopper. “I was supposed to be sent away but they forgot to come and get me” “What about your quiet treason?” Joyce dating Bob. The references to spouses, “turned good neighbors”

Tortured Poets Department: Jancy. First part is from Jon’s pov. “you left your typewriter at my apartment” is such a Nancy line. “you’re in self-sabotage mode…but i’ve seen this episode and still love the show” Nancy self-sabotages a good bit, like with Steve or by fighting with Jonathan, etc. Second verse is Nancy. “You smoked than ate seven bars of chocolate” “I’ve read this one, where you come undone. I chose this cyclone with you” Both of them have seen each other at *lows,* spiraling and just doing bad, but they stick together and love each other

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys: Mileven. Mike and his Wheeler Self Destruct Button (ie closing himself off) “he saw forever so he smashed it up” forever not even as like, them being together forever but even the fear that she’s always going to be connected to the upside down. “once i fix me, he’s gonna miss me” reminds me of El and Max at the mall

Down Bad: El. “just to do experiments on” “everything comes out teenage petulance” she is soooo teen girl. this one is mostly vibes, honestly

So Long, London: Mileven, from El's POV. "I saw in my mind fairy lights through the mist" "Pulled him in tighter each time he was drifting away" "Wet through my clothes, weary bones caught the chill" "I didn't opt in to be your odd man out" El being excluded in season 3. "How much sad did you think I had in me? How much tragedy?" "You swore that you loved me but where were the clues?"

But Daddy I Love Him: Steddie. The imagery of people seeing the singer (Steve) as socially above the love interest due to him being "crazy" and "chaotic." The town being against him, like in season 4. "I'll tell you something about my good name. It's mine alone to disgrace"

Fresh Out The Slammer: Jancy. "Fresh out the slammer, I know who my first call will be to" "Splintered back in winter," (Fall but) "Silent dinners" and Nancy breaking down over Barb in season 2, which is part of what led to her and Steve splitting up. "He didn't understand me" but Jonathan did

Florida!!!: the Bylers leaving Hawkins. “Little did you know your homes really only a town you’re just a guest in” Will and Jon were never really accepted, outside of a few people. “You pack you’re life away just to wait out the shitstorm back in Texas” Hawkins in this case, and Flordia would be California

Guilty As Sin?: beginning of Jancy, from Nancy’s pov. “this cage was once just fine” her relationship with Steve. the whole song is about wanting someone else while in a relationship.

Who’s Afraid Of Little Old Me?: El. “my bare hands paved their path” “crash the party like a record scratch” “i was tame, i was gentle til the circus life made me mean” the circus life being the rainbow room. “they say they didn’t do it to hurt me, but what if they did?” “you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me” “I am what I am cause you trained me”

I Can Fix Him: Steddie, from Steve’s pov. "They shake their heads saying 'God help *her*'" the entire town hates Eddie. "His hand, so calloused from his pistol, softly traces hearts on my face" Eddie's hands would be literally calloused, from the guitar, but also it's a good metaphor for him having to be tough due to his circumstances, yet still being soft and gentle with the person he loves.

loml: Jopper, from Joyce's pov before they had Hopper back. "Who's going to stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames?" "Thought I better safe than starry-eyed" "I wish I could un-recall how we almost had it all" "Should've let it stay buried" "you're the loss of my life"

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart: Nancy and El. "I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit" El has the more breakup-oriented side of things, but Nancy's broken heart stems from losing Barb. The second verse hits for that. "I keep finding *his* things in drawers, crucial evidence I didn't imagine the whole thing" "all the pieces of me shattered while the crowds were chanting 'more!'" works for both.

The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived: Max about Billy. Hear me out. "You tried to buy some pills from a friend of friends of mine" if Billy was still alive i just KNOW he would try to buy from Eddie. "I just want to know if rusting my sparking summer was your goal" Billy was awful to Max. "Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead?" "In 50 years will all this be declassified, and you'll confess why you did it" "You deserve prison but you won't get time" "You are what you did. I'll forget you but I'll never forgive" I think it's safe to say Max has very complex emotions about Billy, still loving him for what he could have been, but still being really hurt and effected but his actions that cause a weird grief that I think this song conveys rather well

The Alchemy: Lumax, from Max's pov. This is gonna get kinda cheesy, stick with me. "The hospital was a drag, worst sleep I ever had" "Haven't come around in so long, but I'm coming back so strong" Max has been distant with Lucas but we finally see her starting to warm back up before Vecna gets her. The sports metaphors also fit. Wrong sport, obviously but ya know. "The sign on your heart says it's still reserved for me"

Clara Bow: Nancy and Karen. I think Karen was once a lot like Nancy. (i have not seen anything about the musical so I have no clue if that's canon but) and I think she sees a lot of herself in Nancy. The constant comparison to the women that came before you and you being the next great thing. Knowing someone will come after you, too. "Only when your girlish glow flickers just so do they let you know it's hell on earth to be heavenly"

The Black Dog: Byler, from Will's pov. "I move through the world with my heartbroken. My longings stay unspoken" "You said I needed a brave man then proceeded to play him until I believed it too" Mike was the one who spearheaded saving Will, even when he was scared. "Remember how my rain-soaked body was shaking"

imgonnagetyouback: Steddie. Why? I decided. The tension of "I hate you but I want you" and not being able to decide which one is stronger is so them

The Albatross: El. "She's the albatross, she is here to destroy you" "Locked me up in towers but I'd visit in your dreams" "I'm the albatross, I swept in at the rescue"

Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus: The Byers about Mike. "Hands in the hair of somebody in darkness...and I just watched it happen" Will about Mike, watching him get with El. "If you want to break my cold, cold heart, just say 'I love you the way that you were'" Mike confessing to Will would rock his world, and vice versa, but they've both been changed so much. "You said some things that I can't unabsorb" the “it’s not my fault you don’t like girls” “too impaired by my youth to know what to do”

How Did It End?: joyce after hopper “died.” “lost the game of chance, what are the chances?” “guess who we ran into at the shops, walking in circles like she was lost” “my beloved ghost and me”

So High School: it could be stancy, but i like it being jopper. a lot of it can be applied to any of the couples during their good moments, but i think since joyce and hopper are *out* of high school and actually look back on their flirting in high school as nostalgic, it adds to it

I Hate It Here: karen. HEAR ME OUT. i think karen used to be *just* like nancy, with big dreams and ambition, used to be dedicated to her grades while still having a good social life, etc. and i think she misses that. “tell me something awful, like you’re a poet trapped inside the body of a finance guy” about ted, who used to be romantic when they were teens. “i was a debutant in another life but now i seem too scared to go outside” “no mid-sized city hopes” “only the gentle survived; i dreamt about it in the dark the night i felt like i would die”

thanK you aIMee: either el about the rainbow room or eddie about jason if he didn’t die and made it big

I Look in People’s Windows: jonathan. there’s the obvious joke, but genuinely. we don’t necessarily see him look for someone in specific, but i imagine this is how he felt after his dad left

The Prophecy: steve. both in terms of him finding love and breaking out of the jerk-popular-guy role/getting the upside down closed forever. mainly in the bridge for the latter.

Cassandra: el and joyce. verse one is season one joyce. “that’s where i was when i got the call” with will going missing. “when the truth comes out it’s quiet” the imagery of not being believed and being treated bad by the town. second verse is el, about the rainbow room. “in my tower weaving nightmares, twisting my smiles into snarls” “what doesn’t kill you makes aware but what happens when it becomes who you are?” bridge is both. “bloods thick but nothing like a payroll. bet they never spared a prayer for my soul” about the people working the rainbow room and the government keeping everything quiet.

Peter: byler, from wills perspective. “in closets like cedar preserved from when we were just kids. was it something i did?” “promises, ocean deep but never to keep” “a natural scene stealer” “life was always easier on you than it was on me” the BRIDGE

The Bolter: robin. i can’t really explain why but it is

Robin: nancy about holly

The Manuscript: joyce. once again, can’t fully explain it. but it is.

[octaviasdread]

I hereby conduct this tortured poets society album meeting in all of its mania and sorrowful blues as I move from unhinged impressions to unhinged first-listen analysis because I am incapable of saying less.

(and to all the Aimees i’m so sorry but that’s on Kim)

This Anthology is taking me so long to process, but nothing feels like the first jarring moments of I Can Do It With a Broken Heart - the cacophony and flashes of a birthday breakdown bopping to 80s arcade game synth. It's crumbled cake and mascara streaks when Bejewelled is actually a delusional Mirrorball,

and The Secret Garden reference in I Hate It Here, oh god, she’s so me:

I hate it here so I will go to / secret gardens in my mind / people need a key to get to / the only one is mine / i read about it in a book when I was a precocious child

I need to come back to that. But the whirlwind of Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me? Plans cancelled. IM THE ONE barricaded in the bathroom with a bottle of wine, actually. It's me chained-up in that poor things victorian mourning dress shrieking elegies in my tortured nightingale screams.

She's Grammys Taylor looking at the crowd of her peers rolling their eyes, she's the litany of snide jokes diminishing her success, and the children, sisters, friends, and girlfriends of those who wronged her loudly singing her songs.

so i leap from the gallows and i levitate down your street / crash the party like a record scratch as I scream / who’s afraid of little old me

i was tame i was gentle til the circus made me mean / don’t you worry folks we took out all her teeth

ohhh, the throwback to Speak Now and the significance of MEAN. The song and its titular word show how childish language encapsulates that pointless spite and the bone deep hurt mean behaviour breeds - but now she’s a phoenix risen, and they hurl her youth and her downfall back in her face - word for word, surprised face - its the dark side the The Lucky One, of not escaping the cage of fame games.

you lured me and you hurt me and you taught me / you caged me and then you called me crazy

i wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me / you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me / so all you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebs / i’m always drunk on my own tears isn’t that what they all said?

PUT NARCOTICS IN MY SONG took me out. This album is funny in the most sardonic and absurdly humorous ways,

like the classic cowboy western guitar strings in her crime songs (I Can Fix Him, No Really I Can - pistols drawn), but especially the ones leading into Fresh Out The Slammer. Fucking genius, and to follow on with static sounds at 2:26ish to the house where you still wait up, is exactly the kinda detail I adore.

Naively, I thought Florence was done with me after Florida!!! It's a lyrical meme for single 20 & 30 somethings who moved away from home,

my friends all smell of like weed or little babies / and the city reeks of driving myself crazy / little did you know your home’s really only / a town you’re just a guest in

and the haunting morphs from the ghost of your girlhood into the catalogue of decisions and delusions which get you through adulthood. Yet it feels almost like an interlude within the song when

me and my ghosts we’ve had a hell of a time / yes i’m haunted but i’m feeling fine / all my girls got their lace and their crimes / and your cheating husband disappeared/ well no one asks questions here

appears like an alternative pov for No Body, No Crime with the girls and their ghosts and their pacts made over wine. Every Action has an Equal Reaction. Run away to Florida, or Texas, and lose yourself to lose the heartbreak. Its self-destruction, it's trauma-healing, bonding, and its breaking.

(what a song for an angsty girl collab, problematic girl in hand with problematic girl, lyrically and thematically, maybe the real love story is the friends we make along the way.)

And that wasn't even the last of it. It's Florence 2.0 with B side Cassandra, but instead of Dance Fever, its Taylor’s glorious mythology with all the allusions, parallels, intertextual and lyrical ruining of my mind:

when the first stone’s thrown they’re screaming / when its burn the bitch they’re shrieking / when the truth comes out its quiet

so they killed cassandra first cus she feared the worst / and tried to tell the town / so they filled my cell with snakes i regret to say / do you believe me now?

No apologies anymore. A girl given the gift of prophecy by Apollo, the GOD OF POETRY, is cursed with her prophecy never being believed: Burning all the witches even if you aren't one, indeed. She saw the truth of the Trojan horse, and the Trojans insulted her. Rep snake branding and the current cultural view of KK and Ye. I don't need to say anything else.

i was in the tower weaving nightmares / twisting all my smiles into snarls

the family the pure greed the christian chrous line / bloods thick but nothing like a payroll / bet they never spared a prayer for my soul

I literally played that THREE times before I got over it enough to finish my first listen,

and i’m still thinking about Clara Bow and that Stevie Nicks tambourine we collectively freaked over from the Spotify installation, and all the silent movie speculation from the track title release.

you look like Clara Bow in this light - you look like Stevie Nicks in '75 - you look like Taylor Swift

Three women whose public profession became entangled with their pain. Silver Springs. Boyfriend songs. The jokes. Clara Bow.

Clara feared being left behind by 'talkies.' Miss Americana. The fear of 30 bringing death to a woman's Hollywood/Musical career,

beauty is a beast that roars down on all fours demanding more / only when your girlish glow flickers just so / do they let you know?

Three women who beat the odds - three women whose talent, craft, and popularity carried them through.

But there's something more to unpack here with cycles and patterns - of the past endlessly repeating. It's the transient nature of fame and our fleeting view of beauty mapped out in the untouchable, ever-changing, and culturally worshiped moon.

It's a body of physical craters, a natural body we call discovered, and fight to claim. We project emotions and create rituals of worship - you're the new god we're worshipping. Endless stories are told about her, but we can never fully see the moon with human eyes. Eclipses, shadows, - 'half moonshinе, a full eclipse' - half-truths and half-moons:

this town is fake but you're the real thing / breath of fresh air through smoke rings / take the glory, give everything / promise to be dazzling

There's a play on light and a play on words in the repetition of Dazzling, shining so bright so blindingly bright. Who is dazzled? Who is doing the dazzling? There's an instability between Director - Public - Star. It's Hollywood lights, No one in my small town thought I'd see the lights of Manhattan / No one in my small town thought I'd meet these suits in LA.

She beat the 'War Big Machine' - but for me, there's ambivalence and illusion on all sides of the final lyrics, you've got edge, she never did / the future's bright, dazzling.

(and ‘Edge’ is particularly ironic when you consider the songs on this album…)

Moving again into the B Side, it's Taylor's departure from Invisible string, red strings of fate, and golden threads à la the golden chain of fate in Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities that strikes me.

First, I thought her writing was a complete departure from the themes of destiny and fate, but then, The Prophecy:

cards on thе table / Mine play out like fools in a fablе

it isn't an absent symbol; it transformed. It's the evermore forest amped to the max. Witches, folklore, fairy-tale and fable - a homeric epic. Its the hero's journey distilled as she opens the song with a move from 'full throttle' adventure, to slowing down 'Hand on the Throttle' to appeal for Supernatural aid at the hero's transformative fall.

and it was written / I got cursed like eve got bitten / a greater woman wouldn't beg / but I looked at the sky and said / please I've been on my knees / change the prophecy

Lover asking Traffic Lights becomes spending my last coin so someone will tell me, and this might be the most slept-on heartbreaking line. Her search for reassurance can't be framed as an arbitrary musing anymore. It can't be dismissed as a mere thought on her drive home, or something triggered throughout the day - its intent. It's a quest for answers, a plea, a last-ditch hope difficult to deny.

and I sound like an infant / feeling like the very last drops of an ink pen/ a greater woman stays cool/ but I howl like a wolf at the moon / and I look unstable /

gathered with a coven 'round a sorceress' table / a greater woman has faith But even statues crumble if they're made to wait / i'm so afraid I sealed my fate / no sign of soulmates

She's asking for a gift from the Gods, and when the God's won't answer, she plunges straight down from heaven or Olympus into the self seizure of power in witchcraft. And when it fails, she descends further - Spending my last coin so someone will tell me it'll be okay - paying mortal fortune tellers, even if they lie.

The song leans on figures without redemption, on the Eve's, on the women cursed and punished, and those who scream like infants rather than enduring burdens and pain in silence. She's poisoned, infected like Aurora from the wound of the pricked hand with dreams of him. Is this a punishment?

She's infected, cursed like Eve got bitten, [lyric of all time!!!!] but does a monster always do monstrous things? Who is the monster? Who is the folkloric, the literary Mad Woman? Perhaps she's written from the desperate, the scarred, and the wronged.

and the transition into another tale with Peter? As in Peter losing Wendy? Is it an epilogue to the Betty trilogy? or a different use of the metaphor?

and I didn't wanna hang around / we said it was just goodbye for now /said you were gonna grow up / then you were gonna come find me / words from the mouths of babes / promises oceans deep / but never to keep

The triangle is echoed in love's never lost when perspective is earned, reflecting the different povs of Betty, August, and James, and placing Peter as the new conclusion - the shelf life of those fantasies has expired / lost to the lost boys chapter of your life/ the woman who sits by the window/ has turned out the (porch?) light.

Promises wear out. Wendy's window closes, and so does this chapter in her life.

my lost fearless leader / in closets like cedar / preserved from when we were just kids / is it something I did? / the goddess of timing / once found us beguiling

is also - intentionally or not - Narnia coded. Is the storybook collecting dust in her closet? Or is the closet still holding a portal to another fairytale land accessible only in youth, another home you can't return to (and another folklore parallel with mtr, anywhere I want just not home).

Side B is so harmonious with ttpd being the end of a chapter as the anthology moves through all the seven stages (or Taylor playlists) of grief.

The Manuscript, the signing of the autopsy, is the Death of the Author. It's the Roland Barthes realisation of All Too Well reborn in joy and fan culture, the story isn't mine anymore, of the Eras - 'I hope you hear these songs and think of this night' - Tour. She knew what the agony had been for - art. connection. - and its these things that create the hope lost in ttpd's journey through mania, disorientation, loss and despair. It all leads to healing, nothing left but a manuscript.

So many thoughts from listen no.1 and they’ll probably change, but i’m so exhausted from this 31 song rollercoaster that I'm just gonna let this sit. death of the author, I guess.

[ahoyimlosingmymind]

Who's afraid of little old me but make it Fitz Vacker

"The scandal was contained, The bullet had just grazed At all costs keep your good name" <- Reputation stuffs, matchmaking, Alvar's betrayal... the like

"You don’t get to tell me you feel bad Is it a wonder I broke? Let’s hear one more joke Then we could all just laugh until I cry" <- The way Ro and other characters make jokes at his expense that dismiss the real issues at hand and further alienate him from his peers. (I'm gonna scream.)

"I was tame, I was gentle till the circus life made me mean Don’t you worry folks, we took out all her teeth" <- Being watched and treated like a spectacle, being 'tamed' into an image of perfection and innocence, being stripped of the ability to defend yourself because you'll be labeled as 'out of touch' 'entitled' etc...

"So tell me everything is not about me, but what if it is? Then say they didn’t do it to hurt me, but what if they did?" <- The need and desire to be heard, feeling dismissed, the awareness that he's been hurt and betrayed, but the way it isn't taken as seriously as it is for other characters.

"I wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made me You wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me" <- Alvar's betrayal, and the asylum being the craziness of the Lost Cities in general. Feeling like you're slowly going mad in a dizzying lie that has been your reality. He's had his own brand of madness shoved down this throat, the type you get when you're little and being asked to perform and be 'not-human' for the sake of a perception of perfection. "I’m always drunk on my own tears, isn’t that what they all said?" <- Expressing emotion and being seen as over-dramatic, and entitled. To have people whisper about it.

"That I’ll sue you if you step on my lawn" <- The perception that he thinks he's better than everyone else, which creates a weird envy/jealously factor in all of his friendships, which creates a divide and removes the possibility of him being genuinely vulnerable.

"Cause you lured me and you hurt me and you taught me You caged me and then you called me crazy I am what I am 'cause you trained me" <- Being raised with a very specific rhetoric your entire life, before you were old enough to understand what you were signing up for. Then being seen as crazy when the affects of that upbringing start cropping up in unsavory ways.

"So who’s afraid of me?" <- His anger.

[i-like-writing-stuff]

definitely love [five hargreeves x reader]

request:  Could you do a Five x reader fic where the reader is kidnapped by the Handler and Five comes to save them. Thx

a/n: it’s kinda short, but i feel like it’s pretty sweet, i guess??? the only warning is some curse words here and there cause i cant help myself and maybe the handler being like a huge y/n x five shipper lmao

perhaps therell be a part 2???

summary: when the handler kidnaps you, don’t you dare think five wouldn’t come to your rescue as soon as possible.

“Listen, lady!” You yelled, rolling your eyes at your former boss, “I have no idea where that dipshit is, alright?!”

The Handler raised a brow at your seventh burst this hour, taking a long drag out of her cigarette, before puffing out the smoke with a laugh, “I’m sorry- I can’t take your seriously when your boobs haven’t even kicked in yet.”

“Oh, you did not go there.” You squinted your eyes at her, trying to launch forward, but to no avail, as the Handler kept on laughing at your attempts of attacking her.

You only laid back in your seat, feeling the ropes around you squeeze you into place. You had been tied to that chair for the past three hours, although no real torture had been inflicted upon you- other than having to listen to the Handler talk for three hours.

Even when you worked for her in the Commission you didn’t like her much. She was too extra, too much work for you, in spite of her gorgeous sense of fashion. All you wanted to do was retire as soon as possible, but when Five Hargreeves got a job there, your world was turned upside down and before you knew it, you were a teenager again, in 2019, trying to stop the apocalypse with his other siblings.

Except that you failed, and you ended up in 1963... with another apocalypse on its way... because somehow you brought it with you.

“What do you even want with him?” You asked, as she stopped laughing to drag another long puff out of her lit cigar.

“Let’s just say I have a deal.” She smirked, turning to you, “And I need to make sure you two will hear me out.”

“Is that why you kidnapped me and brought me here?” You raised a brow, looking around the abandoned warehouse, “That’s cliche.”

“What’ll be cliche is if he finally admits to having feelings for you when he comes to your rescue.” The Handler scoffed, making you raise a brow at her, “Oh, please- we all had bets going on in the Commission on the two of you.”

“Wonderful...” You dryly said, shaking your head in disbelief.

However, somewhere deep within you, you hoped that what the Handler said would become true. You met Five on his first day working for the Commission and you quickly warmed up to each other since you had basically the same personalities, but you, yourself, were having a hard time understanding your feelings. 

You found that sarcastic piece of shit adorable and charming, but you were not gonna admit it to his face- you didn’t need him to get even cockier. He may or may not have shown in the past two weeks signs that he shared your feelings, but you decided not to put that much thought into it, since saving the world was the number on priority on your list.

“Hey!” Five’s voice suddenly rang through the room, as he stumbled in, holding Lila by the arm.

“Lila?” You wondered, confused by the presence of Diego’s crazy girlfriend which he picked up from a... well, crazy house.

“Well done.” The Handler smirked, placing her hands in the pockets of her coat.

“What is Lila doing here?” You frowned, watching as Five threw her on the floor, glaring at the Handler, “Five!”

“You were right to think she is familiar.” Five told you, placing his foot on Lila’s neck, “She is one of them.”

You perked your brows upon hearing the news, looking at the girl on the floor. She helped Diego escape the mental asylum and she’s been on his side ever since, but when you first laid eyes on her, you couldn’t help but get a familiar vibe off her.

Until you realized...

“That’s your kid?” You turned to the Handler, “The girl you adopted?”

You had heard years ago that during a task, somehow the Handler returned with a little girl, but you didn’t put that much thought into it, even if it was a bit strange. Five had a job in London and the Handler accompanied him, but you figured she just wanted to get some- come on, she is really creepy and kinda flirty!

“What?” Five raised a brow, looking at the girl beneath his foot.

“No matter.” The Handler said, stepping towards you, “Here we are... together again.”

“Yeah, it’s a real party.” You sarcastically said, “Ow!” You immediately yelped, as the Handler pulled on your rope, making you jerk back against the chair back, causing Five to tense up.

“I’ve gotta ask.” The Handler said, not once letting go of the rope, making sure the grip on you would be tightened, causing Lila to laugh, even if her throat was being stepped on, “Did you miss me, you little shit? Or did you miss your little girlfriend more?”

“I’ve been gone for only three hours.” You chimed in, making Five shake his head in disbelief, “Besides... nobody ever misses you, really.”

Five decided to put on the same tough guy act, not wanting to reveal his concern, because truth be told- when you didn’t show up at the family meeting that morning, he began feeling stressed. It was not like you not to show up, especially since his brothers and sisters treated you like their own, so that made him tense. 

But, when Lila showed outside the store with a smirk on her lips, he knew immediately she had something to do with it.

Because, truth be told, you were not expecting to let yourself get kidnapped by the Handler. Yeah, she was a great assassin, but you had been holding the title of the best agent in the Commission for the past seven years. That was, before betraying it to help Five save the world and his family.

“Ah, this one.” The Handler smiled sarcastically, letting go of you in order to push you forward.

“Woah!” You yelped, almost losing balance off the chair if Five hadn’t caught you. 

Lila quickly got up coughing before Five could return, but he couldn’t care less. At least you seemed to be fine, no cuts or bruises- the Handler did nothing to you, she was just toying with him to ensure he’d come here to hear out her proposition.

“Now that we’ve made the exchange...” The Handler said, as Five started untying your ropes, “Lila, darling, would you give us a minute, please?”

“Go play with your toys or something...” You taunted the girl, getting up from the seat after three, long hours, rubbing your sore wrists.

“Yes, the grown-ups need to talk.” Five backed you up with a smirk, as Lila only rolled her eyes, walking away from the three of you, knocking something off a table angrily.

“Very mature.” You raised a brow, “I can see how she and Diego made quite the couple.”

“Don’t make me vomit, Y/N.” The Handler scoffed, before changing the subject nonchalantly, “So... do you two lovebirds like jazz?”

After an interesting discussion with the Handler, you and Five walked out of the warehouse in silence, contemplating your decision. She made you two a tough deal, which needed some time to be thought upon, but, unfortunately neither of you had that kind of luxury.

“You know, if we do take the deal...” You spoke up, turning to Five, causing him to stop in his tracks beside you curiously, “It’d be like... one last job together.”

You and Five had been on jobs together before, but you never officially called yourselves partners, even if your success rate was off the charts. You had a great teamwork, so you were not that surprised when the Handler chose you two for a job of this level and risk.

“I don’t even want to think about that just yet...” Five sighed, covering his face tiredly, “We still have another option.”

Your heart ached at the sight- watching Five rub his small face tiredly, all stressed out and overall exhausted, you truly felt bad. You tried helping him, after all that is why you followed him through time, but this was beyond you, and him. 

You knew how much Five loved his siblings, in spite of his attitude towards them. Everything he has done so far it was for him... and you.

You had no idea, but to Five it was surreal. He accepted the fact that he loved his brothers and sisters, but it took him a lot longer to accept that he was actually in love with you. However, it did make sense- you always made him feel better, ever since you guys met. He wasn’t sure if it was love at first sight, but right now, in this moment, he knew it was definitely love.

“But...” Five spoke up, putting on a weak smile, as he placed his hands in his pockets, “At least you are safe now.”

Hearing those words come out of his mouth, your knees felt like they were about to fail you. As Five looked into your eyes, you knew he was sincere, so you couldn’t help the heat rushing to your cheeks.

“All thanks to you.” You quickly smirked, trying to brush off the nervousness, “I mean... she could have picked any one of your siblings to provoke you, but I had the pleasure of spending three dreadful hours with her.” You sighed, folding your arms over your chest, “So, thank you for coming to my rescue.”

“Thank you for playing the damsel in distress.” Five teased you, playfully flicking your forehead as he picked up the pace, “If things don’t work out with dad, now we have a plan B.”

“Hey, don’t let it get to your head!” You quickly yelled, rushing to catch up to him, “I still am a trained assassin!”

“And how exactly did the Handler get her hands on you, then?” Five asked, brushing off the way you absentmindedly locked your arm with his in an attempt to slow him down.

“I was baking cookies.” You slightly shrugged with an innocent smile, “And Frank Sinatra came on the radio, so of course I blasted it through the kitchen.”

“How do you survive?” Five wondered, looking down at you with a small smile on his face, watching as your lips turned to a playful pout.

Yeah... it was definitely love he felt for you.

[misslilli]

Hope you guys are not too busy with Fictober 😄 thank you, as always, for your amazing feedback!

Felix Felicis

MSR. AU. PG-13. | tagging @today-in-fic | read on AO3

Chapter 26 - A Pivotal Peppermint Mocha

[ DS ]

He respects my wishes, of course he does, and I don’t see him before or after Thanksgiving break, except for a few glimpses from afar, across the school yard or at the farmer’s market. As time passes, each time I see him, it gets less and less painful and my funk begins to lift. My kids at school breathe a sigh of relief and my friends stop tiptoeing around me. The nights get easier, too, and I manage at least a few hours of shut-eye.

I just got home from school, a little earlier than usual and I can hear the girls chatting and laughing in the kitchen.

“…and then Squirrel rolled her eyes and said: ‘But Felix, that’s impossible, no-one can stuff 100 marshmallows into their mouth, not even your dad!’ I get such a kick out of this kid, he insisted over and over again that Moose could do it and he’ll prove it to her. You should’ve seen the exasperated look on Squirrel’s face!”

What the hell? That conversation is eerily familiar because I’ve just had it this morning at recess. Why the fuck are they referring to us as Moose and Squirrel?

They jump about a mile as I step into the kitchen, guilty looks plastered all over their faces. Sarah, who just told the story, starts to speak first. “Uuuh.. hey D, you’re home early…” My hands on my hips, I give them each a long, hard stare.

“Who. The Fuck. Are Moose and Squirrel?” They share a look I can’t decipher and Holly pulls out a chair.

“You better sit down for this, D.” I do as I’m told and glance around the table, waiting for someone to start explaining what’s going on.

Sarah and Holly both make it clear by silently staring at Alex, the calm one of our group, the one they trust can explain in a way I won’t kick their asses afterwards.

Alex folds her hands in front of her and takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’d like to preface this with stating that everything we did was done with love and because we care about you and your happiness.” ‘Oh goody, I can’t wait to see where this is going…’

“We’ve been talking about Moo- Mulder a lot at our Friday night dinners and we could tell that you liked him. When nothing happened and no-one made the first move, we thought we’d give fate little pushes in the right direction.” I stare at her, starting to panic.

“Oh God, what did you do? Is anyone else in on this thing? Is he in on this whole thing?”

“No, no, no-one knows except for us. And Miss Hannigan, but only because we needed her help with the costumes and we swore her to secrecy.” I snort, you can’t swear the town gossip to secrecy.

“So the Halloween costume was your doing? That we went to the town fair in a couple’s costume?” Alex nods. “What else?”

“Just little things, I swear. Remember when we were at the Farmer’s Market and we all had various errands to run? We saw Felix and Mulder were heading over, so we scattered to give you some alone time.” Which led to our first quasi-semi-let’s not call it a date-date, yes I remember.

“So what’s the Moose and Squirrel business then?”

“Well, since it was all a secret operation, we needed codenames. Sarah came up with a play on the first letters of your last names and we thought it was cute, especially since there’s such a big height difference between these characters too. This was how Operation: Bullwinkle was born. Of course, after the basketball fiasco, we called it off… are you mad, D?” I sit in silence for a while, taking in the things my friends came up with to set Mulder and I up.

They eye me anxiously, trying to gauge my reaction and if they should run for cover right about now.

“No, I’m not mad. It was actually a really clever secret operation and I’m kind of sad it didn’t work out the way we all wanted.” Holly lifts her shoulders, relieved that I understood that they didn’t mean to cause any harm.

“Never say never, D.”

—————

[ FM ]

My mom has taken Felix with her while she’s out grocery shopping, which gives me a good part of the afternoon to leave the house and roam the streets. A good way to clear my head. It’s the first week of December, but New England hasn’t been graced with snow yet, just a misty cold that seeps into your coat and straight through to your bones.

My hands are freezing because I forgot to take my gloves, so when the green logo of the local Starbucks catches my eye, I go in to warm up and get a cup of coffee.

Usually, I avoid this place like the plague, I don’t possess the fast decision making skills required to choose from the 999 combinations, just to have a cup of freakishly overpriced coffee.

I can barely get through the door, the place is jam packed and soon, I can smell why. Peppermint Mocha season starts today. The prospect of standing in line for hours almost makes me turn back, but something stops me from leaving.

Most of the people are holding a cup in their hands gleefully already, so I push my way through the crowd to where the line starts. When I reach it, I find myself dumbly staring at the back of a fiery head of hair, a shade I’d recognize anywhere in the world and in the most crowded places.

Shi-hit, does this break the ‘giving space’ rule? No, I’m just getting a cup of coffee on a cold winter day, no big deal. I don’t even have to talk to her. Yeah right, who am I kidding?

—————

[ DS ]

I’m way too excited about the start of Peppermint Mocha season, so here I am, in a place packed with people, patiently waiting in line to finally get my hands on that glorious to-go cup of Christmas Spirit.

I’m next in line when the person in front of me turns a little too quickly, making me take a step backwards to let them pass, bumping into the person standing behind. I mumble a “I’m sorry!” over my shoulder and freeze when I hear a familiar voice respond with an “Don’t worry about it.”

Counting to ten in my head before I turn my head, I come to face with a grinning Fox Mulder, who adds “Fancy bumping into you here!” His silly pun elicits the first genuine smile I’ve given in weeks.

“Technically, you didn’t bump into me, I bumped into you.”

He grins even wider and nudges my shoulder with his index finger. “There. So, I’m new in town, what’s good here?”

I order my Peppermint Mocha with sweet cream foam and an extra espresso shot while he pretends to gag, he orders his black coffee to my snort and the barista’s comment on what kind of first name ‘Mulder’ is. We move to stand at the end of the counter to wait for our coffees.

“Sometimes, I just want to tell them my name is Bob, just so I don’t have to explain Mulder or Fox to another barista.”

“Don’t ask me how many time’s I’ve been Donna, Danny or Dinara and one time, Daniel. I think they do it on purpose. At least yours is easy to spell, Eff - Oh - Ex.”

“Oh I bet you were a regular hit at the spelling bee, with those mad skills of yours!”

“I’m a woman of many talents, Bob.”

The barista calls out our names, ‘Peppermint Mocha for Daisy, black coffee for Mouldy’ and we reach out to accept our respective cups. Pushing out way to the crowd, we continue our conversation.

“Daisy? That's not even remotely close to my real name… but Mouldy is freaking priceless!” Her giggle at their slip up almost makes it worth it to have a shitty first name.

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of the guy with the funny name. I kind of like Daisy, though, it’s a pretty name!”

I’m so happy to see that we turn to head in the same direction, strolling along the crowded sidewalk, sipping our coffee. I have to walk pretty fast to keep up with his long strides.

“It is, yeah! So tell me, Eff- Oh- Ex, how much flak did you have to take way back in the day, when “What does the Fox say?” came out?” I shudder at the memory.

“They didn’t tease me with it. Much. Just a lot of ring-ding-dingalinging. It became a thing in my friend group, whenever they asked me something, they’d add ‘So what does the Fox say?’. It went on a long time and they still do it sometimes, when we get together, just to drive me nuts!”

“I hope for your sake that Felix never discovers that song, he’d have a field day!” Oh God, she’s right. Must keep him away from it at all costs. At my panic face, she laughs an evil laugh. “We do listen to a lot of music at recess…”

“Oh no, you wouldn’t!” I point an icy finger at her. “Promise me you wouldn’t!”

“Well, it does have a lot of educational material in it, with all the animal sounds…”

“I’ll have you know that you hold my sanity in your hands, handle with care!”

“I hear they have a lot of fun pills at the asylum, maybe I’ll come visit so you can sneak me some!”

We come to stand at the junction where we have to part ways and she raises her cup.

“Have a good day, Mouldy!”

“You too, Daisy!”

—————

[ DS ]

I think about the strange but fun encounter all the way home, the world didn’t end like I thought it would when we met again and it was a rather pleasant conversation. Like a conversation between long-time friends, even though friendship is not exactly what I’m looking for here. But it’ll have to do, for now. It’s just nice to talk to him again.

[gendercraft]

Outlast: Revisited [Chapter Four: Waylon]

Read on ao3

Synopsis: I’m rewriting Outlast where the first game and Whistleblower are combined, Miles and Waylon are more connected, and also they kiss

Trigger warnings: Sexual assault plus everything already in the game; eye gore

Waylon hopped out of the vent into a tiny, mostly bare room. A Variant sat in the corner, hugging his legs with his face buried in his knees. A metal storage crate barricaded the door. 

“You mind if I move this?” Waylon asked quietly. 

The man shook his head. 

Waylon swallowed and braced himself against the crate. His weak muscles trembled and strained as he pushed. Holding back a groan, he squeezed his eyes shut. When it was finally out of the way he shook his hands out and sighed. 

Poking his head into the hall, he bit his lip. It was empty, the walls covered in plastic, emergency lights still blasting. The rest of the lights had gone out. There were several dead bodies littering the hall, blood smeared on the plastic. One body was completely ripped in half, torso from legs, guts spilling into the floor. 

He snuck into a security room and shut the door behind him. Through the window to a decontamination chamber, a man in scrubs pressed his hands to the glass. 

“Help me, please!” He cried. “I’m a doctor! I need to get home to my…” His eyes widened. He spluttered for a second, then said, “You’re not security. I was… I’m a patient,” he said carefully. 

Waylon stepped closer, brows furrowed. 

“I stole these clothes from a… dead body I found. You gotta let me out of here. Please. Just push the button, open the door. We can get out of here together!” 

Waylon hesitated. He wished he’d recognized the man—if it were really a doctor, he’d leave him to rot, but he couldn’t risk hurting a patient, could he? Fuck. He slammed his hand on the button. 

The doors slid open, and a Variant with a grimace and a red face stepped inside. The doctor/patient gasped and stepped back. 

“No, no!” 

“All of you,” the Variant snarled, grabbing the back of the doctor/patient’s head and slamming it into the glass. Waylon stepped backwards with wide eyes, “doctors and liars.” 

He slammed the man’s head into the glass, over and over and over and over again, thunk, thunk, crack, thunk, blood spurted everywhere. Slipping out of its socket, the eye was crushed against the glass. Blood dripped from his mouth and nose and eyes. Crack! Thin lines stained the glass like a halo. 

Waylon felt sick. Gagging, he backed up until he was pressed against the door. He couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

The Variant thanked him, then left. 

He’d never seen a man die before today. Never seen a dead body outside of a coffin. Dozens in the last few hours, murdered and worse. The look in the Variant’s eyes, the raw anger, as he crushed the man’s skull… There was no real difference between the doctors and patients now. They were all crazy, all sick. 

And what was Waylon? He watched a man die and only thought, it’s not me, thank God. 

He knew he’d die someday. He didn’t want to be murdered. 

Waylon stumbled out of the room and made his way to the airlock. It sprayed him with that awful-smelling green gas, then let him through. The corpse watched him as he left. He crept through to the closest exit he knew of, but it was jammed and blocked. Dead Variants littered the ground. 

A file caught his eye. He picked it up with shaking hands. 

 From: j.blaire@murkoffcorp.us.com

To: h.grant@murkoff.us.com

Subject: Resignation for Mental Health, CC 8208 

Ms. Grant, 

 You may receive requests for information from a Mrs. Lisa Park, of Leadville, CO, in the coming weeks concerning the resignation and hospitalization of her husband, Waylon. If so, please forward them to my personal attention. 

 Waylon’s stomach lurched. Lisa? Oh, God… 

 Waylon Park (former consulting contract 8208) resigned due to previously undiagnosed mental illness. I personally visited Mrs. Lisa Park and her sons and broke the news to them, with the “silver lining” that Murkoff Psychiatric would be graciously providing treatment. 

 Mrs. Park had some less than charitable things to say about myself and the Murkoff corporation. I assured her that with her power of attorney she could try to fight the doctors’ diagnoses of her husband’s illness. 

 However, if it were discovered that he resigned under false pretenses, his insurance would be cancelled and the family would be saddled with not insignificant healthcare debts. 

 The paper crunched in Waylon’s fist. 

 Hopefully she understood. 

But if she insists on making a nuisance of herself, or tries to get around me, please let me know. This is one I want to take care of personally. 

 Yours, 

Jeremy Blaire

 Waylon shoved the paper in his pocket. Please say she let it go. Please let her be okay. 

 Blaire’s voice echoed in his head. 

“Somehow not smart enough to realize that the last thing a fly ought to do in a spider’s web is wiggle.” The laptop cracked on the ground as Blaire dropped it. “Somehow dumb enough to think that a borrowed laptop, onion router, and firewall patch would be enough to fool the world’s leading supplier of biometric security.” He tapped his forehead. “Stupid, Mr. Park. More than stupid. In fact, that was crazy!” A sick grin spread across his face. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to have you committed. Mr. Park, will you willfully submit to forced confinement?” He glanced over his shoulder at the three armed security guards that followed him. “Did you hear that, agent?” 

Waylon’s heart slammed against his chest, his fingertips. The fear burned hot in his abdomen, sweat gathering on his brow. 

“He said ‘yes,’ Mr. Blaire.” 

“Great!” Blaire waved his finger. “Oh, and… did I just hear Mr. Waylon Park volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine program?” 

“That’s what I heard, Mr. Blaire.” 

“That was brave, indeed, Waylon. The Murkoff Corporation and the onward march of science both appreciate your bravery… and sacrifice. Maybe you should administer Mr. Park here a light anesthetic?” 

“Gladly.” The front guard stepped forward and wound his arm back. 

Waylon raised his hands. Blinding pain rippled across his face, and his eyes rolled back into his head. 

Waylon ground his teeth together so hard something cracked. He would get back to Lisa and the boys if he had to tear through the entire asylum. 

The next airlock was broken, so he climbed atop a stack of crates covered in a blue tarp and dragged himself on top. Army crawling across, he jumped to the ground. It was pitch black in the hall. He raised his camcorder and flicked on the nightvision. 

He found himself in the cafeteria. Body parts were strewn across like decorations. Someone hummed and mumbled nearby. Bodies hung from the freezer’s ceiling like cured pigs. Flesh teared in the cafeteria, munching. Hands shaking, he crept into the kitchen. 

Waylon gagged. Blood boiled on the stove like someone was making fucking spaghetti, an arm and a hand poking out of the bubbling warmth. He entered the dining area, and behind the glass of the bar, blood splattered across the copious amount already caked on. Around the corner, then he zoomed in to look through the glass at the naked, bearded man sawing into a corpse. 

Keeping his camera up, Waylon’s eyes watered. He stepped forward. 

POP!

The microwave beeped and the head inside exploded. 

“Oh, God,” Waylon choked out. 

“Don’t you look at us,” the man snapped. “I love him.” He pulled out an organ and dropped it into his mouth. 

He chewed with his lips open, blood spurting, tissue tearing. Waylon stumbled back and hurried out of the room. He doubled over and gagged, choked, trying to vomit but nothing coming up. 

Sitting on the ground, he set the camera down facing him. “Don’t ask to see my body, Lisa,” he choked out. “When I die, when you finish the lawsuits that let you pry this footage from Murkoff’s army of lawyers and corporate hitmen, don’t make them show you my body. Just bury it. Or burn it. Let my sons remember me whole.” He looked away and squeezed his eyes shut. “That man is eating human flesh,” he whispered. “He looks at me and I see anger. A little desire. But more than anything, hunger. Please don’t make them show you my body.” 

He grabbed the camera. He didn’t plan on dying, but he would not risk not warning Lisa. 

He passed through a locker room and into a hallway, towards a grated door. A corpse hung by the wrist to set of handcuffs, looped through the grate, holding it closed. He had to get through there to get to the prison, get to the radio. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, yanking at the handcuffs. He’d have to find the key. There had to be a security guard around here somewhere. 

Across from the grate was a boarded up door. The glass above it was broken. He climbed atop the desk resting there and pulled himself through the broken window, hissing as glass cut across his thighs. 

Keeping an eye out for the key, he crept down the hall. Bzzzz! 

Waylon dropped to the floor as the cook came into the hall. His eyes glowed in the infrared, slowly surveying every inch of the blackness. There was that desire in his eyes, that hunger. Waylon kept the camcorder up and swallowed, his skin crawling. Out of all the people in Mount Massive, he did not want to be in the hands of the cook. 

He thought about turning around and finding an alternate way to the prison, but it would take too much time. He’d just have to be careful, quiet. He crept forward. The hall went forward and then to the left, with a room to the right. As the cook disappeared into the room to the right, Waylon hurried forward, still low to the ground. His eyes were on the corner. If he could just get around the corner, maybe he wouldn’t be seen. 

His foot crinkled on a sheet of plastic hanging off the wall. He froze. 

“I can smell you!” 

Shuddering, Waylon crept further into the darkness. 

“Feed me! Feed me! FEED ME!” 

The saw buzzed, bzzz! 

Just keep moving, Waylon. 

He crawled forward in the hall and turned the corner. The man was still busy in the room to the right. In the turn of the hall, the walls were lined with wooden doors. He crept into the first one just long enough to catch his breath. It was bare with just a stack of mattresses on a metal bedframe, no key in sight. He stood up halfway and peeked open the door. 

The hall was empty. He swung the door open and snuck out. 

“MINE! You are mine!” 

The voice was right behind him. He broke into a sprint, just in time for the buzzsaw to catch the hairs on the back of his neck. 

“Fuck!” He gasped, skidding to a stop at the blocked end of the hall and slamming his fist into the door as he barged inside. 

He ran straight across the hall to the next door, barging through that one as well, leading him into a room full of storage shelves and crosses on the wall. A dead end. He looked around wildly, a place to hide, a place to escape. 

“Feed me! Feed me! FEED ME!” 

Waylon whipped around. The cook grinned, blood glinting on his teeth, white in the night vision. He swung the buzzsaw and Waylon leapt backwards. Tripping over his own feet, his back smacked against the ground. The saw came over the cook’s head, and Waylon rolled out of the way, only for burning pain to rip through his leg. 

“FUCK!” He staggered to his feet and felt frantically at the blood dripping down his calf. 

Another swing, Waylon brought his hand up, a slash down his palm. He whimpered and stumbled backwards. 

Then he saw it—an open vent sat above a desk. He ducked another blow and dashed for the vent. His collar caught and he choked, his eyes watering. The cook dragged him backwards and threw him into a shelf. His chest and knee and elbow slammed into the corners. Wheezing, he made another break for the vent. He shoved past the cook and leapt onto the desk as all the lights flicked on. 

The buzzsaw caught the bottom of his foot as he dragged himself into the vent. He curled into a ball and hissed through his teeth. His blood smelled of iron, it was all he could smell, all he could think. He sat up as best as he could, cramped in the little square space, and looked for a seam to rip with his teeth. The cook grunted and cursed as he tried to get into the vent, only to turn and leave the room. 

“I’ll find another way…”

Waylon found a seam in his pants and ripped off what fabric he could. It wasn’t even or clean, but it was long enough for him to wrap around his calf and tie tight enough to hurt. He ripped off another piece for his foot, and another for his hand. 

He was shaking when he dropped to the ground. His foot burning, he bit back a whimper. 

A Variant stood in the corner. He was dressed, thank God, but bandages wrapped around his eyes. 

Waylon held his hands up as the Variant stalked towards him. “Hey, hey… What’s going on, man?” 

“I have an itch.” 

He cringed. “I can’t help with that. Want me to get those bandages off?” 

The Variant shook his head. What could be behind the fabric? 

Waylon swallowed. “Your clothes… you come from upstairs?” He wasn’t wearing the standard jumpsuit the Morphogenic volunteers wore. His clothes came from the Male Ward. 

“Yes.” 

“So you can get around safely, you know how to not get caught?” 

The Variant hesitated, then continued forward. Waylon stepped back. “I can move around.” 

“I need you to find someone for me. Can you do that? I can switch out your bandage for something cleaner.” 

“...okay.”

“There should be an investigative journalist running around here somewhere—”

“Miles Upshur.” 

Waylon blinked. “Y… yeah. How’d you- how’d you know?” 

“He’s been… talking to everyone. Trying to. In the abandoned sections. Headed to the basement, last I saw. Why do you need him?” 

“Find him,” Waylon begged, “tell him Waylon Park, the whistleblower, is headed to the prison. I’m going to get help.”

He stopped walking. “You’re the whistleblower?” 

“Yes,” Waylon said uncertainly. 

“I’ll find him for you.” 

Waylon found a seam in his shirt sleeve and ripped it free. He carefully pulled the bandages away from the Variant’s face. In the sockets, the eyes were completely eviscerated, nothing but bloody pulp. Waylon felt like gouging his own eyes out with a spoon. He bit back a gag and pulled the new bandage around his eyes. 

“Get those clean,” he mumbled, then patted his shoulder. “I need to go.” 

Waylon was back towards the labs, plastic lining the glass walls and laptop carts clogging up the halls. He wasn’t sure if the handcuff key would be around here, but he was just grateful to be away from the cook. 

He looked around for a tense couple of minutes, stepping quietly and keeping an ear out for any buzzing, before he finally found a bathroom with a dead security guard. He snatched the key from the man’s belt and sighed in relief. 

All he had to do now was get back. 

He found his way back to the main hall and stuck his head out the door. The cook grumbled to himself, peeking inside a room, saw buzzing beside him. Waylon swallowed and crouched. He crept into the hall and around the corner. 

If he comes this way, I’m fucked. But the barred door he originally jumped over was in sight. The cook was not agile, couldn’t follow him. It was Waylon’s only strength here. 

He cursed himself, then broke into a sprint. 

“MINE!” 

His feet slapped the floor as the cook raced behind him. Vaulting over a turned over bed and leaping onto a desk, he scrambled up through the window again, the broken glass making more cuts across his thighs. 

Waylon stumbled to the ground. His vision blurred, his head hot. Panic? Blood loss? Both? Whatever. He got the key. 

Unlocking the handcuffs, the corpse’s arm slipped out and thunked to the ground. With shaking hands, Waylon pulled the handcuffs out of the lock and swung the grate open. 

It led into the crematorium. He headed down a short staircase and crept into the room. His heart was still racing, his legs still equipped to run. Something banged on the nearby door as he passed the ovens. He nearly jumped out of his skin. 

Backing up, he watched the door shake again, then stop. He hesitated. 

I have to go this way. 

He watched his steps, stepping over broken glass and litter. The second he passed the door slammed open. The cook grabbed him by the neck and threw him onto his back. Waylon wheezed and kicked, the wind knocked out of him. The cook hauled him onto a wooden slab and raised the buzzsaw. 

“This meat is mine,” he cackled. 

He brought the buzzsaw to his chest, slowly inching forward until red splattered. Waylon threw his head back and screamed. Then the cook pulled the saw away. 

Grabbing Waylon by the legs, he shoved him backwards. The heat of the oven burned the back of Waylon’s head. 

“You stay there,” he grinned, “and cook!” 

Then he threw Waylon into the oven, and slammed the door. 

@wasnt-hiding-in-cuba-for-7-years asked for waylon torture porn so here’s me delivering the best i can this early in the story. more whump later, hope you enjoyed lol 

[artificialqueens]

The Blue Neighborhood Series: SUBURBIA (Group) - Mac

AN: A million and one thanks to everyone who has been here for this journey, I cannot thank you enough for your support and comments and love. I’m so thankful to have you guys and I hope this last chapter lives up to your expectations.

All my love to Meggie for betaing. All my love to Alex who made me actually start writing this series a year ago. All my love to Barbie for letting me bounce ideas off of her.

All my love to you all reading this. <3

Summary: The girls of the Blue Neighborhood grew up together. Playing in the streets, trading secrets, and falling in love.

And maybe, just maybe, they can forgive each other.

Rock bit back a smile as she heard footsteps bounding up the stairs to the prop room.

A week ago she would have scuttled into the far corner and hid until the person left, but now, as Aiden’s flushed face appeared in the doorway, Rock felt only a trace of nervousness.

“What’s up, bitch?” Aiden said by way of greeting.

Rock rolled her eyes, but patted the cool stone floor beside her, motioning for the other girl to sit. Aiden took her spot silently, the two falling into a sort of semi-comfort that they had developed over the past weeks.

Rock pulled out her phone, instinctively tapping through the screen to pull up the next episode of Sailor Moon.

She felt rather than heard Aiden’s complaint from beside her. “We are not watching this garbage again,” the dark-haired girl said, making a grab for the phone in Rock’s hand. But Rock had been anticipating this, and snatched her hand away in the nick of time, ratcheting up the volume a few notches to drown out Aiden’s groan of defeat.

“You were the one who busted up into my lunch spot. You can either bite your tongue or find another place to hide from everyone who’s pissed at you,” Rock retorted. “Also, don’t pretend you don’t like it, I see the way you look at Neptune, you fucking lesbian.”

Aiden rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched up. “First of all, you’re a bitch. Second of all, shut up.”

Rock smirked. “I don’t hear you denying it.”

Aiden waved her hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, just play the damn show so I don’t have to hear you talk anymore.”

Rock smiled smugly to herself, pressing play and sinking back against the cold brick wall, Aiden’s warm presence heavy at her side.

The two watched in relative silence, save for Rock’s occasional need to info dump about a particular scene or character. Aiden rolled her eyes and gave her biting comments, but Rock could tell she appreciated the attention not being on her.

Ever since Aiden had been outed as the person behind the drama account, she had sunk even more into the background. Where before she would pipe in with snark and wit, now she sat back in silence, letting herself practically disappear in the horde.

Rock understood the feeling in a way.

Maybe that’s why they seemed to get along.

Aiden had stumbled up to the prop room one day, seeking asylum from her mistakes, and Rock had let her.

But questions still ate at her, bit at the tension in the air around them as they continued to watch in silence. Rock could feel them steadily bubbling to the surface, tempting her to ruin the peace she and Aiden had found.

She bit the bullet, pressing pause, noticing her breathing was coming out harsher than before.

“Why’d you do it?” she asked.

The question hung still in the air for a long while, so long that Rock nearly looked up to see if Aiden was still sitting beside her.

The older girl sighed, long and low. “You promised you wouldn’t bring it up.”

“Yeah.” Rock nodded, turning to meet Aiden’s eyes. “I lied.”

Aiden broke the contact, putting her head in her hands and letting out a shaky exhale. Rock expected her to leave, to lash out and storm away.

But Aiden just breathed in and out once more before lifting her head, staring at the stone floor intently. “My parents got divorced the summer before freshman year,” she said slowly, as if testing out the words on her tongue. “It came out of nowhere. There were no big fights or warning signs, just… divorce. And Mom never said why.”

Rock saw the other girl’s features soften the tiniest bit before harsh lines replaced them.

“We were happy. A happy, normal family. We played board games and went on camping trips and spent hours staring up at the clouds.” Aiden bit her lip harshly. “It came out of nowhere.”

She took a steadying breath before speaking again. “And then my dad got real sick. Couldn’t be on his own so he moved back in. And I couldn’t—” Aiden shook her head. “I didn’t know how to be there… in that house.”

“Everyday I would come back from school and I’d have lost a little more of him,” she practically whispered, voice suddenly hoarse and grating. “Mom did her best, caring for a man she didn’t love anymore, but she worked, and I went to school and… and… and we weren’t there for him.”

There was a beat of silence before Aiden spoke again. “I didn’t go home the week after he died. I slept in the theatre seats down there, showered in the locker rooms. Fuck.”

Rock didn’t know what to say, couldn’t imagine the pain and suffering that lived inside this girl she had known for so long.

Aiden’s expression hardened, but she still refused to look up from where her eyes were fixed on the floor. “That week I started noticing stuff. People doing shit they weren’t supposed to, shit that didn’t make sense.”

“The account wasn’t supposed to be anything serious, just a place to post dumb shit about the people who were dicks to me.”

Aiden finally turned to meet Rock’s gaze, her eyes wide and helpless. “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand, but all of a sudden people found it, and were sending the account other stuff. Confessions, kinks, teacher-student relationships and I-I didn’t know what to do.”

“And then I saw Gigi and Jaida,” Aiden exhaled shakily.

“And I remembered how hurt Crystal had been all those years ago, how hurt she still was about the whole thing. And I tried to bring it up to her, but she shot me down. And I tried to let it go, I really did.  But they just kept hooking up, and they weren’t even being secretive about it. And after three fucking years of hurting Crystal, I thought they deserved a little bit of shit for what they did.”

“So you posted the picture.” Rock nodded.

“Yeah.” Aiden sighed.

Rock took a deep breath in and out. “I didn’t know that, about your dad.”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” Aiden shook her head. “I didn’t want the pity. I didn’t want people… looking after me. It didn’t feel right since I didn’t-I couldn’t look after him.”

Rock nodded. “That all must have been…” She paused. “Really overwhelming,” she said lightly, placing a gentle hand on Aiden’s shoulder.

Aiden scoffed, shrugging off Rock’s affection. “Why are you saying it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you…” Aiden floundered, “I dunno, understand. Like you’re not mad.”

Rock shook her head. “Oh, I’m mad,” she assured.

Aiden looked down to her fingers, toying with the laces of her shoes.

“But I get why you did it.”

Aiden shook her head, words coming out in a desperate whisper. “I’m not sure I do.”

“You want answers.” Rock shrugged. “That’s all any of us want. You want to know why your parents divorced, you want to know why people lie, you want to know how someone could cheat on someone else.”

Aiden looked up to meet Rock’s eyes, the first look of genuine vulnerability passing between them.

“You don’t get to know.” Rock smiled sadly. “You gotta suck it up like the rest of us and get comfortable with not knowing.”

Aiden’s gaze darted away, breaking eye contact again, but Rock didn’t stop. “You don’t get to make up a narrative and force other people to fit it. You wanna be emo and angsty and upset at the world, fine, you do that, but you don’t get to ruin other people’s lives just because you got dealt a shit hand in life.”

“Tough talk for a bitch hiding in a prop room,” Aiden snapped.

Rock chuckled. That’s the Aiden she knew. “In case it escaped your notice, you’re also up here hiding, dumbass.”

Aiden looked at Rock hard, walls up, defenses primed, ready to attack.

But then she laughed.

Really, genuinely laughed.

And she didn’t stop.

She didn’t stop until tears started streaming down her face, and she was hiccuping around sobs she desperately tried to fight off.

And Rock held her through it.

…

Brita couldn’t help a smile as she made her way down the hallway and through the open doors to the art room. She was met with a chorus of greetings that still managed to make her stomach flip.

She took up her usual seat next to Heidi, and the two began to trade the entirety of their respective lunches. They fell into easy conversation, as the couples on either side of the room were too absorbed in each other to pay them any mind.

Brita watched them out of the corner of her eye, blaming it on curiosity.  

Nicky and Crystal sat next to each other, smiling ear to ear and occasionally feeding each other bites of food like lovesick idiots.

“They’re so gross,” Heidi groaned from beside her.

The two girls in question whipped around to glare at her.

“I miss when you were both too gay to talk to each other. Can we go back to that? I miss that.” Heidi whined, stabbing at the pasta Brita brought with a fork.

Crystal raised a challenging brow at Heidi, and without breaking eye contact, which was a feat in and of itself, pulled Nicky in for an overly loud kiss.

Heidi scowled. “I hate y’all.”  

Brita laughed at the pair, but as their kiss became more heated, she turned her head, hoping to conceal the flush that ran the length of her neck.

She shook her head to clear it, mind suddenly muddled as she tried to piece together the feelings welling up inside her at such a public display. Her eyes flitted around the room, latching on to anything that could keep her attention.

She saw Gigi, who was perched on one of the tables, elbows resting atop her knees, head in her hands as Jackie rambled on about something to do with a new congresswoman who was ‘changing the political game.’

They seemed… comfortable. At ease around each other in a way that wasn’t unexpected, they had known each other their whole lives, yet Brita was still shocked when they announced they were dating. But now, looking at the two sharing gentle smiles over their respective lunches, Brita didn’t know why she never put the two together before. The pair was well-matched. Their quiet intimacy seeped into their conversation, gentle giggles erupting every so often from their side of the room.

Brita again found herself oddly entranced.

Was that what it was like to love a woman?

Was it always so… tender?

Nausea filled the pit in her gut, and she turned away from the happy couple.

Internalized Homophobia.

She had read about it on the internet. Hadn’t batted her eye at the definition the first time, but now it seemed to be coming back to her.

It didn’t feel good, not at all. Confronting that about herself. Seeing such blatant representation of something she had learned to bury so long ago.

But it wasn’t impossible.

She knew that to get to the bottom of this… whatever it was she was feeling, she had to confront it head on. She had to understand where it came from and why it seemed to hurt her so much.

These girls, these couples moreover, were showing her that it didn’t have to be so hard. That there was a chance for happiness, unabashed joy even. Love.

And that, funnily enough, gave her hope.

Heidi chuckled from beside her, noticing her red face. “You sure you don’t like girls, Miss Filter?”

It took everything in her not to flinch.

Instead, Brita simply shrugged.

And she counted that a victory.

…

Widow started as she nearly ran headfirst into a lanky brunette.

Before she could so much as say something, the figure had bolted toward the school building. Widow just watched him go, an amused smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. As she rounded the sports shed, she overheard her friend’s voice clear and brash as always.

“Matthews only cares if your paper’s in fucking English, doesn’t matter the content.”

A short blonde girl rolled her eyes pointedly and went to say something, but Dahlia stopped her with a hand. “You know the rules yeah? Change the first and last word for each paragraph.”

The girl nodded.

Dahlia pulled out a handful of loose papers and held them out to the freshman, who grabbed them wordlessly. “Now get lost.”

Widow smiled as the young kid scampered off.  

“You really should charge them more,” she called out.

Dahlia started at the sound of another voice, but relaxed as she identified the source.

She smirked, shrugging. “Consider it a donation to charity.”

“I dunno if you can count having half the freshman class cheat off of you for tax write-offs.”

Dahlia chuckled.

“You ‘bout done here?” Widow asked, gesturing to the makeshift office Dahlia had set up.

The younger girl nodded, throwing papers haphazardly into her open backpack.

Widow looked around, the breeze ruffling her curls and sending a shiver down her spine. “Yeah, let’s get outta here, this place gives me the creeps.”

“You think this place is bad, you should see the old greenhouse. That shit’s fuckin’ haunted, man.” Dahlia shook her head.

Widow’s eyes lit up. “The WHAT?”

Dahlia turned to stare wide eyed at her. “You serious? You ain’t ever gone by it?”

Widow shook her head dumbly.

Dahlia chuckled, flinging her backpack over her shoulder.

“Lead the way, bitch.” Widow smiled.

They walked for only ten minutes, past the baseball field and through the line of trees that bordered the athletic quad. Through a patch of thick brush they came to a small clearing. An old greenhouse stood practically tethered to the surrounding vegetation, only because of the fading light reflecting against the frosted glass could Widow even make out the corners of the structure.

Before they could so much as stop, Widow was excitedly pulling her camera out of her school bag, fiddling with the aperture until she got the lighting perfect on the small screen in front of her.

Dahlia rolled her eyes fondly, allowing her friend to stalk around the building, snapping endless pictures, mumbling about shutter speed and light refraction. It was only a matter of time, and a few pleading words from Widow, before Dahlia found herself posing next to the greenhouse.

“I regret this already,” she groaned but allowed Widow to pose her in various absurd positions, all of which felt incredibly awkward, yet came out stunning.

The two girls ventured into the structure, finding the inside just as overgrown and sprawling as the outside. It felt much bigger on the inside, wooden tables covered in pots lined the walls, leaving only a center plot of ground to walk, but the walls were massive, green tint to the window panes making the ceiling appear vaulted.

“This place is gorgeous, oh my god!” Widow exclaimed, practically jumping up and down in excitement. She whipped around to face Dahlia, eyes alight with her signature mischief. “Oh my god, D, we could totally give this place a makeover.”

Dahlia went to protest, because really? But Widow started talking a mile a minute before she could get a word in.

“Just move that plant over there and that table against the far wall, and we could probably fit a couch in here if we turned it sideways. My dad has this old one in the basement that we don’t use. We could get Jaida’s truck and haul it here. And I know Crystal would fucking love to paint in this place. Not to mention we could totally smoke here without getting caught. And—”

Dahlia finally butted in. “What do I look like? Fuckin’ HGTV?”

Widow rolled her eyes, turning to face her friend, the plea evident in her tone. “This place could be a really bangin spot, D,” she implored. “Plus, with it gettin cold an’ all, we’ve got fuck all to do.”

Dahlia sighed. “Remind me why we’re friends.” Even as she said it, Dahlia couldn’t keep the smile from creeping up the sides of her face.

“Because you love me.” Widow whined, pulling Dahlia closer, and peppering kisses against the side of her face.

Dahlia pushed her off gently, miming vomiting, and Widow just laughed.

The two cleared off a bit of the tables, each setting up across from each other. They fell into a comfortable silence, inhaling and exhaling the late autumn breeze, watching as their breath danced in the air.

“You talked to Gigi?” Widow finally asked, shattering their peaceful silence.

Dahlia sighed, long and low. “Yeah.” She nodded slowly. “Said I was sorry about the stuff at the party. I didn’t know… I didn’t mean for it to come out that way. I had no clue.”

“None of us did.”

“Yeah, but it was kinda my fault in the first place.”

Widow shrugged. “It woulda come out one way or another.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dahlia bit her lip, refusing to meet Widow’s eyes.

“But?”

“But, I still gotta talk to Jan.”

Widow sighed, but nodded her head knowingly. “Yeah, you do,” she agreed.

“I just don’t know how the fuck to go about it.”

Widow scoffed. “Maybe start with ‘I’m sorry.’”

“Yeah, yeah I know.” Dahlia groaned, letting her head drop into her open hands. “Fuck, man. I really messed up.”

“You knew that when you fell for another girl’s boyfriend,” Widow replied.

“Yeah, but it just got so complicated.”

Widow nodded, smiling sadly. “That’s life for ya. Doesn’t mean you don’t do the right thing.”

Dahlia nodded into her hands, breathing in and out slowly. When she finally looked up to meet Widow’s eyes, she nodded. “She and Bryce broke up.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he told me last week. I didn’t know how to feel.”

There was a pause. “How do you feel?” Widow asked.

Dahlia looked at her for a moment, mind everywhere and nowhere at the same time. “I dunno. I thought I’d be… happy? I guess. But I just feel… nothing.”

Widow nodded. “Well, hey, if you’re ever feeling down, just know that Joe asks me at least once a month if you’d join us for a threesome.”

Dahlia laughed, even though she hadn’t wanted to. “I’ve still got it,” she joked.

Widow rolled her eyes playfully. “You’ve always had it, bitch. You just been wastin’ it on guys you couldn’t have.”

“Yeah yeah, all right, who are you, my therapist?”

Widow suddenly got very serious, her voice grave. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s fuckin’ terrifying.”

“Hey!” Dahlia yelled, flinging a handful of dirt at her friend.

Widow held up her hands in surrender. “Your mind is a scary place, D.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

…

Heidi looked up as the door to the house across the street opened and closed, revealing an exhausted looking Jaida.

The All-Star player exhaled loudly, leaning against her front door. When she opened her eyes, she saw Heidi and had the decency to look embarrassed.

Heidi just smiled knowingly. “You too?”

The tension in Jaida’s shoulders dissipated as she recognized Heidi’s meaning. “Dude,” she exhaled, shaking her head.

“I know.” Heidi chuckled.

“It’s like… they don’t know how to act like people.”

“I know!” Heidi agreed. “What’s with that?”

“The fuck if I know.” Jaida smiled warmly.

“Promise me if I ever get old and start acting like that you’ll just shoot me in the head.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Jaida chuckled.

“Hey!” Heidi scoffed, waving the bowl she had around animatedly.

Jaida just laughed, easy and light.

“Whatcha got there?” She motioned to the Tupperware in Heidi’s hands.

A mischievous smile broke out across Heidi’s face. “Banana pudding,” she winked. “Best you’ve ever had, I guarantee.”

Jaida’s eyes lit up and she raised a brow inquisitively at the dish.

“Go grab a few spoons and you can try some.” Heidi nodded.

“A few?”

“If you think we the only ones with crazy family on Thanksgiving, you got another thing comin’.”

As if on cue, the door to Jackie’s house banged open, the aforementioned girl storming out the door and into the street, breathing harshly. Heidi could feel the anger and hurt rolling off her in waves, and felt sympathy well up inside her. She knew Jackie’s family was rough, they’d been especially difficult the past month with her relationship with Gigi coming to light.

Heidi didn’t think twice about waving her over with a sweeping gesture.

“Hey, guys,” Jackie exhaled, the lines beside her face appearing deeper than they had a few days ago.

The two gave her sympathetic looks.

Heidi clocked the moment Jackie noticed the dish in her hands, her eyes widening a fraction. Heidi patted the ground beside her. “Jaida’s gonna go grab spoons.”

Jaida rolled her eyes but made her way back into the house.

Just then, Nicky’s door opened and the French beauty made her way outside, lighting a cigarette like a reflex as she noticed the girls. She waltzed over to them, smiling all the while. “I thought the point of this holiday was that you were supposed to spend time with your family.”

Before either of them could answer, Crystal’s door banged open.

“Nicky, that better not be what I think it is!”

Nicky’s eyes went wide and she quickly doused her cigarette with her shoe. The french beauty turned on her heel, offering a wide and not at all suspicious smile to her girlfriend. “Ma préféré! I do not know what you mean.”

Crystal raised a challenging eyebrow as she made her way over to the three girls. She surveyed the two on the ground, who pointedly looked away, not about to get in the middle of whatever the fuck those two were on about.

“Mhmmm.” Crystal rolled her eyes.

Jaida appeared again, with several spoons and her own tray of biscuits.

Jackie got up excitedly and rushed back into her house, claiming that she had food too.

The group set up their small feast in the middle of the numerous parked cars that lined the cul de sac. Chatting animatedly about their respective family drama.

It wasn’t long before they were joined by Widow, holding a vat of green beans that her family wouldn’t eat, even though she swore they were seasoned to perfection.

Slowly, one by one, each of the houses in the cul de sac opened and closed, girls pouring out of them, some with food, others with hopeful smiles.

Gigi had bounded over to the group, arms extended with a pot of mac ‘n cheese. She had sidled up right next to Jackie, the new couple whispering in hushed voices, blush high on their cheeks.

Brita joined them not long after, an array of silverware in her hands, and plopped down with Heidi.

Next was Dahlia, with a bottle of wine in each hand.

When Jan joined the group, she looked skeptically at the bottles, but bravely took a swig from each, wincing a bit at the taste.

At some point Rock had snuck into the circle, her occasional odd comment taking the group off guard at the suddenness of her appearance.

The comfortable conversation slowly petered out when Aiden arrived.

The black-haired girl gave a weak smile, gesturing down to the pot in her hands. “I brought stuffing,” she spoke softly.

There was silence.

The group stared at her, and Aiden stared back

The silence went on, each girl’s eyes flitting about the circle, unwilling to be the first to speak.

Until, Rock bit the bullet. “Thank god someone here knows what real Thanksgiving food is!”

There was another beat of silence.

And then conversations resumed.

Slowly at first.

The tension was still there, Aiden wasn’t forgiven, but the tense atmosphere eased a bit as the black-haired girl took up a seat on the outskirts of the group next to Rock, placing her dish in the middle of the circle.

Heidi surveyed the scene, smiling at the sight. A mixture of voices bubbled up from all sides as the girls fell into new, comfortable conversations.

She marveled at the fading color of the trees, signaling the change of season, and the coming winter. As she glanced back over to the group of girls gathered in the center of the street, head clouded, heart full, the only emotion she could pinpoint was hope.

Hope that the girls of the Blue Neighborhood had what it took to tackle the rest of their senior year.

[thirsty4theextraordinary]

Everything Burns - Chapter 20

Pairing: Ledger Joker X OC

Warnings: Murder, Guns, Extreme Violence, Gun Violence, Blood,

Word count: 2825

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 | - Chapter 19

Chapter 20 - The Verdict

It all happened so fast. One minute Jester and Joker were trying to make their escape via the fire escape. And the next Joker was lying on the floor motionless. His unconscious body shook with the current still passing through him and Jester shouted at the cop holding the other end of the taser, to stop.

"Put your hands above your head, lady!" shouted another the cop pointing their taser at Jester now. Joker stirred slightly at her feet but made no move to stand. The voice that would usually tell her to run was quiet as she looked down at Joker's figure. He hadn't left her behind when she was shot, he easily could have but he didn't. His voice was running through her head repeating over and over "We stay together".

She dropped her knife to the ground and raised her hands over her head. The cops rushed forward to handcuff her in an instant. For the second time in two days Scarlett and Jack were bundled into a police van.

"I'm sorry," Scarlett said softly as she watched Joker raise his head and look around. He was now handcuffed and sitting in the back of a police van with her.

"Don't," he muttered quietly. 

She waited patiently for him to spring them out, come up with another brilliant plan, to find their next escape, but it never came and he looked at her with a small smile as the van came to a halt and they were led into Gotham's MCU.

They were bundled into Gordon's cage rather unceremoniously. Jester looked around, it was still somewhat dishevelled from the explosion a few weeks ago and some of the walls were still broken down. One end of MCU was completely cordoned off, that had been the area the fat thug had been taken just before Joker set off the bomb inside of him, so Jester could only imagine what a state it was in.

James Gordon entered and looked over the two clowns in his MCU holding and sighed. He had no idea the Joker had already corrupted so many.

"I haven't got time for the clowns. I have Harvey Dent's memorial to organise and now that we are actively hunting Batman, I need to do a press conference. Turner, you interview the girl and don't even bother with the Joker, just take them to court with the evidence of what happened last time he was here." said Gordon, he pulled his glasses from his face and squeezed the bridge of his nose. He shook his head in dismay and disappeared from the room again.

The officer called Turner was a skinny man with a long face and scruffy ginger hair. He looked over at the two clowns in the cage and sighed.

"Open it up," Turner said to the guard, who unlocked the door and reached in to grab Jester by her handcuffs. Jester looked at Joker desperately as she was pulled from the cage but he just sat on the bench nonchalantly and winked at her.

"Play nice Jester," he said laughing. She laughed slightly and he grinned.

She was placed in the interrogation room alone and she waited for Turner, it was cold in there and the room echoed with every little noise.

Turner entered and took a deep breath, though he was glad he was not interviewing the Joker, he did not find this woman any less intimidating. She looked up at him and grinned widely, inwardly he shivered.

"What's your name" he began shakily and the clown laughed loudly.

"Really, that's your opening question?! You know my name otherwise, you wouldn't have come to my home." Jester said her eyebrows raised.

"Okay then Scarlett, I'd like to ask you what you have been up to recently," he began again.

"You dare say that NAME!" Jester screamed but quickly her face returned to a sweet smile and Turner swallowed hard.

"And recently, I've just been doing a bit of this, a bit of that. You, know the usual," she said nonchalantly.

"Your DNA has been linked to at least 3 separate murders," said Turner.

"Yes, I suppose it would have been. But you know those people weren't very nice…... Or something like that." Jester said laughing loudly again.

"So you and the Joker, what are you? Like boyfriend and girlfriend?" Turner asked and Jester went quiet and turned her head to the side slightly.

"You know, I've never liked to label things, but we have been known to spend the night together. But why would you ask something like that, are you envious Detective Turner?" Jester cooed.

"Who is the Joker?" Turner asked, shaking off her question.

"How would I know?" Jester replied holding her hands up and shrugging her shoulders.

"He must have told you something, anything at all about himself? You said you slept together, he must have said something!" Exclaimed Turner, he visibly jumped as she let out an ear-splitting cackle. For a moment Jester just cackled laughing and laughing at the officer, slowly she calmed herself somewhat to answer his question.

"Have you met him? You really think he is the type of guy to share" Jester said, still laughing.

"If you tell us something. We would be able to help you, with your own case, give a reduced sentence or at least a nicer cell because the way you are going I think Arkham is your best bet" Turner sighed. Jester didn't reply and again Turner sighed.

"I spoke to your old boss. She said you were nice, she said you were respectable. She didn't believe me when I told her what you had done" Turner said to her, shaking his head, but the girl in front of him simply smiled.

"You can't be all bad, there must be a real you still in there" he continued and again Jester cackled.

"I’m not bad, that is just your perception. This is the real me! You can't trust her description, you can never really know someone, not fully. You will never know what is really in their head. Deep down everyone has the capacity to be more, you just need to find the right motivation for them to find it. I mean how many of your friends turned out to really be working with the Joker?" Jester laughed.

"That's not the same, they were corrupted with money by the mob," growled Turner.

"There is no such thing as corruption, there is only motivation! Look at Gotham's white knight. Don't tell me he didn't kill those people because I know he did." said Jester grinning again.

It went on like that for another ten minutes until finally Turner gave up and left Jester in the interrogation room alone. She wasn't sure that they would go to court somehow. Arkham's padded cells seemed to be getting nearer and nearer and for the first time in a very long time, Scarlett was terrified and she did not like it. She did not want to go there. 

For around about six hours Joker and Jester were kept at the MCU until finally, a call came in, they would not be going to court. Their crimes had been judged as well as evidence given. It was decided by the Mayor and a governing body, this was a clear-cut case for Arkham Asylum. There would be no trial, no court case and no option to appeal.

When the 'men in white coats' came and the Joker and the Jester were dragged away the police station took a sigh of relief. The ride to the asylum was strange, Joker was laughing more than usual and Jester laughed along, though she didn't truly know why.

When they arrived they were separated from one another almost immediately. Jester was taken to a room where her weapons, boots and anything other than her clothes were taken from her before she was shut inside and left in the silence. A few moments later a large burly looking woman entered the room with a straight jacket in her hand. She dropped the straight jacket on the table and raised her eyebrows at the clown in front of her.

"Drop your pants and bend over." demanded the burly woman, a stern look on her face.

"I beg your pardon, you know I really don't swing that way," said Jester with a giggle.

"I've been ordered to give you a cavity search, so we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Jester began to cackle but the woman seemed undisturbed by the insanity and simply moved closer. Jester stopped laughing as she realised this woman was not kidding.

Jester thrashed and screamed but she was held face down on the table by the enormous woman, and as her hands began their search, a new kind of scream escaped Jester's lips. Somewhere across the Asylum, Joker heard and his insides turned.

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

Thanks for Reading! Please like and reblog if you enjoyed. 

[gigglybts]

Sleepless Nights | four

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | ?

Jimin x Reader

3.8k of Fluff and Angst

Sleepless Nights was your haven, but after the anniversary, it quickly became your hell.

“~” represents time skips because I can’t figure out how to do what i used to, I’m old, help~

“Are you done?” You froze at the voice, quickly turning to it. Kang Lou, Park Jimin, and other men surrounded the one who spoke to you. He looked to be the leader. You got your breathing under control, but did not speak to the man.

The Man called you by your name with the new addition “Miss.”

“Welcome to Basilium.”

Oh great. This place again.

Blood dried to your knuckles, the unpleasant wine color leaving a stain on your skin. You stood above the body you previously disheveled. The man below you let out a croak, so you threw a final blow to his head. “Now I am.” You announced, taking note of your surroundings.

The men stood around you, a few women cloaked in red with spears pointed at you joining them. Jimin looked at you, his eyes holding nothing but sympathy.  Kang Lou looked at you with a fire in his eyes, as if you had just killed his best mercenary. Oh wait- you probably did. The man between the two stood tall, his chin held high. This was the man who had interrupted your little session of laying in on someone, just moments ago. 

You were back at basilium. Crap. “I’ve been searching for you for a long time.” The man said, taking a single step forward and waving all of the men out of the room. “Lieutenant Park, please stay.” Jimin tensed up, but obeyed and halted his departure. The rest of the men and women left the room. The door closed behind them, leaving you in the bright orange room with two men. One who probably has good intentions for you, the other… not so much. 

“Child, would you mind telling me your relation with my Second-in-Command?” He asked. You rolled your eyes. “What’s your name?” You ignored his question. The man tensed up, looking at you, searching your stature for any point of weakness. You stood tall, holding your position, not daring to move. “That is none of your concern.” He dismissed you. “Fine, ChromeDome.” The new nickname left your mouth in a bitter tone, which caused Jimin’s eyes to grow wide at the comment. Nobody had ever treated the first-in-command this way, you assumed. 

Well- you’ll gladly be the first. 

“Miss, it is in your best intent that you keep your snooty remarks to yourself.” Chrome Dome quipped at you. “You didn’t give me your name. So I gave you one.” You crossed your arms over your chest, you were beyond annoyed with this man. He let out a sigh. “Jimin. What is she to you?” The man gruffly asked, facing Jimin. Jimin looked at you then at his leader. Jimin looked… scared? Was this how Chrome Dome treated his men when they did something he didn’t like? 

“We were partied for a few days after the anniversary. That’s it.” Jimin told the man. “Two days.” You grumbled, shuffling your feet as you recalled those days. “Is this true?” Chrome Dome turned to you. You simply raised an eyebrow. “This is the big and powerful leader of the Royal Guard that everyone fears?” You questioned, adding a scoff to the end. Jimin looked at you with wide eyes, stupefied. You were beyond brash in his eyes, now you were just being crazy. Chrome Dome seemed to grow angry but he quickly masked it with an exhale of breath. 

“Yes. We were with each other for like two days following the anniversary. Haven’t met since.” The lie came out swiftly. Hopefully he had no clue of the fiasco that happened about a month ago. “Miss, you are a very good liar, but you were in Jimin’s quarters no more than a month ago.” You tensed up, as did Jimin. “Now, Jimin is the highest ranking man in this game, but he is one of the Royal Guard, so his punishment will be as the council deems fit. You- on the other hand, will be punished very heavily-“ you were quick to cut him off.

“Um, first of all, I have not done anything that is deserving of punishment, thank you very much. Secondly, you sir, have absolutely no power over me. There is no Government or Monarchy in Sleepless Nights. Also, this is technically Kidnapping! Wouldn’t everyone love to hear that the Royal Guard are kidnapping people? So, if you could kindly- Fuck off! That’d be wonderful.” You growled, this man was annoying you to no end. Chrome Dome sighed agitated, he turned away rubbing his temples. “Jimin, take her to Cap C.” He instructed. “But-“ Jimin was about to protest. “Are you disobeying a direct order, again, for this girl?” Jimin lowered his head, in shame. He bowed to Chrome Dome before gesturing for you to follow him. You glared at Chrome Dome before following Jimin out the door. 

“Why didn’t you just keep your mouth shut?” Jimin hissed, conflicted. “That man holds no power over me.” You snapped. “This is bigger than you think! That man is a GM!” Jimin told you, in a hushed tone. Your mouth fell open. “Now you get why everyone is so scared of him?” Jimin turned from you and continued down the hallway.

Following the anniversary, several GM’s were put into place. Or so, those are the rumors. No one know who all them are. But there are plenty of suspects. And among the people, you’re one of them. 

 You followed him silently, your head lowered to the ground. You heard a door slide open, causing you to look up. Jimin stood, waiting for you to enter the room, he avoided your eyes. You took a step forward into the room, it was completely white, and pillow like… where people in an insane asylum would stay. You turned back to Jimin, but the door was already closing. 

The last glimpse you got of him was the left side of his face, and the downcast look in his eyes. 

~

Arms crossed, feet shoulder width apart, head held high. It’s how you’ve been standing for the past… 16 hours? Rough guess, but something like that. The clock in your personal menu counted in such an odd way that only beta testers knew how to decipher. Thank god you were a beta tester. But- most of the knowledge of time telling had been lost, so like you said- rough guess. 

You weren’t gonna let these people get to you, even though your legs and back were screaming at you to sit down. 

~ 

More time passed, and soon it was bridging 24 hours. Your legs at this point were beyond burning, standing was such a simple task, but you never stood for so long before. 

The door shot open and in rushed a frantic looking Jimin, a bag strapped to his back and another in his right hand. You looked at him confused. “What’s going on?” You questioned. Without explanation, He took the backpack in his hands and slipped it over your arms and onto your back. He then pulled something out of his pocket and grabbed your hand. A teleporting pop was crushed in his hands and a bright light flashed before your eyes. 

Jimin had teleported the both of you out, to a small house, in a place you did not know… at least, at first. The moon was in the sky, the only thing that was lighting this part of the town. Soon you realized, This was the house that you and Jimin stayed in the first few nights following the anniversary. The moment you walked in the door you felt the heavy atmosphere that still lingered from months ago. “Stay here.” Jimin mumbled, his shoulder brushing against yours as he passed you.  He searched the house, for any signs of anyone else living here. He soon came back to you, stopping a few paces in front of you. This was the first time you actually took in his appearance today. You could barely see him in the poorly lit room, but from what you could see, He looked frazzled, his hair sticking up in odd directions, he was no longer wearing the Royal Guard Armor. For a moment he just stood in front of you, his eyes trained on you with a look of worry. 

“They were going to kill you.” He whispered, the sorrowful words barely reaching your ears. You tensed up, not entirely sure what to think. “They didn’t want anyone to have a chance at getting the leveling rewards before I did.” He mumbled, twiddling his thumbs. His gaze was down cast, he looked like a child who was waiting to be scolded, which only filled your heart with sorrow. You stepped forward, once, twice, and then the final step before you pulled him into your embrace. “Thank you.” You whispered, resting your head against him. His arms snaked around you, hugging you tight to him. You then realized what was happening and you attempted to pull away, but Jimin’s arms grew tighter to prohibit your struggle. “Please, just for a little longer.” He whispered resting his head on top of yours. You felt the warmth, the warmth you had missed since the anniversary. You hadn’t felt this warmth since you’ve been in the real world. You didn’t realize how much you missed it till you felt it. 

His warm was intoxicating and comforting in almost every way. But- it also reminded you of how long you have been here. And much longer you still had here. You assumed you were on a time crunch here, because your bodies were still living, still working to stay alive. You were probably on life support in some way or fashion, keeping your body in somewhat shape till you woke up. But life support wouldn’t last forever. 

Who knows how long you actually had to find the boss before your plugs were pulled. But for now- you would accept this brief moment of bliss. For tonight, you would accept the warm loving company of Park Jimin. 

~

A yawn escaped your mouth as your eyes opened to the morning sunshine that snuck through the boards on the windows. Feeling a weight on your stomach, you looked down to see Jimin with his arms wrapped around you comfortably, his head resting on your rib cage. He looked… cute- to say the least. His fluffy cheeks were pressed up against the now wrinkled fabric of your shirt, his lashes pressed against his cheeks, he looked so soft, so at peace and comfortable. But this- this was the house he left you in, the house he left you alone in, to die whether or not you didn’t know. You hadn’t worried about that much. 

A sharp inhale was taken by the boy on your stomach as he slowly woke up. His eyes fluttered open, slowly taking in his surroundings. You leaned back, not looking at him, but still laying awake. “Good Morning.” He mumbled, sitting up. He rubbed his eyes, his hair sticking up in even more odd angles than yesterday. A small smile fought at your lips, making an appearance for a moment. He looked down at you, with his eyes barely open. He looked so tired now, barely able to comprehend where we are. He sat there for a moment, a blank look on his face. His rosy cheeks made him look innocent, but you knew it wasn’t the case, just about nobody here was innocent, not at this stage of the game. 

Jimin slowly climbed out of the bed, grabbing his bag off of the bedside table. He pulled it onto his back before looking down at you. “I’ll be right back. Just stay here, ok?” He gave you a small smile before picking up your backpack and leaving the room. “Wait!” You called out, confused. He couldn’t leave you again, could he? Jimin turned to you and tilted his head, curiously. “Where are you going?” You asked, your eyes pleading him to stay. He smiled and rested his hand, cupping the side of your face. “I’ll be right back, I promise. It’ll take no more than two hours.” You frowned at his evasive response but accepted it with a nod. “Be careful.” You told him. He nodded and began to walk towards the door but paused midway. 

He opened his player menu and clicked around before a pop-up appeared in front of you. ‘Would you like to join a party with Park Jimin?’ The pop-up read with a green dot and a red dot under it. You immediately clicked the green dot with no hesitation. In a party, his guild can’t split you up. It’s against the laws of the game. 

There aren’t many laws in the game, but the ones that are there, are heavily enforced. And protecting parties seemed to be one of the main concerns of the GMs. 

~

Soon it was dark and cloudy, no light in the sky to shine upon the earth. It was pitch black outside and now you were beginning to worry, it was the bridge of two hours and Jimin had yet to return. You stood by the front door, peering out the window, waiting, hoping. 

The last thing you wanted was for him to leave you again. In the distance you could see a small glimmer of light. 

Jimin. 

His figure grew larger as he got closer to the house. You ran to the door and we’re about to throw it open and jump into his arms but then you realized how weird that would be. Now you’re panicking.

Jimin’s just a couple paces from the door, he’s gonna open it and see you standing here like an idiot. 

Think

Think

 THINK

You launched yourself from the door onto the couch just a few paces away, and situated yourself in record timing. Jimin opened the door and walked inside, locking it behind him. 

He walked over to you, taking a seat on the couch, right next to you. He opened his inventory menu and ran through it quickly, the vast number of items in his pockets giving you a headache. 

“Here.” He held out a flatbread sandwich to you. It looked fresh, which means he must’ve just bought it. “I got it at the market in town, they were just closing up.” 

You smiled warmly, accepting the flatbread sandwich.

You knew these sandwiches… man how this brought you back. Taehyung gave you one back when y’all first met up, following the anniversary. 

“So what’s the plan?” You asked him, with a mouthful of food. He looked at you and gave a light hearted laugh. 

“I don’t have one..” he said softly. He seemed just as lost as you. But then you remembered your little place, where you became a level 80, which started this entire mess. You placed a hand on his. “How about we finish eating and get some rest, I have somewhere I want to show you in the morning.” You have his hand a squeeze and went back to eating your sandwich. He nodded and did the same. 

Once you both were finished, it was time to clock out for the night. You both knew there was only the one bed in the up stairs room. Frankly, you were okay with that. You stood up and held out your hand, he silently looked up at you and put his hand in yours. You turned on a dime and guided him up the stairs and into the small room on the right, with the small bed you laid in on the first night. You let go of his hand and sat on the side of the bed and opened up your wardrobe inventory. You clicked off your armor, which left you in a full body jumpsuit that hung loosely around your limbs. 

You remember buying this… it was cheap, and it fit… kinda. You took off your shoes and dropped them at the bedside. You should’ve taken them off at the door, just as you would’ve before the anniversary, but as we all know, nothing was the same. You shifted under the covers and looked at Jimin, who was staring at you, intensely. “Well?” You prompted him. His cheeks flushed and he opened his wardrobe inventory. One by one, items disappeared from his body as he clicked them off. Once done, he was left in a muscle tank and skin tight leggings. You just about drooled… holy mother of god. You smiled at him and muttered a “goodnight” before rolling onto your side, your back facing his side, and nuzzling into the blanket. You felt the bed shift, to signal him getting in. The blanket tussled around a bit before he seemed to be situated. 

Silence held the room in its clutches for a while. Jimin was the first to speak up. Calling out your name in a hushed voice, as not to disturb you if you were asleep. You hummed out a response, leaving the floor open for him to speak. 

“Can I hold you?” He asked, his voice timid. Damn, is the Park Jimin, really asking you- to cuddle? You’ve read the global chats, around the times when he would reach a new set of levels, the chats would be filled with many people swooning over the very existence of Jimin. And you were about to cuddle with him. “Sure.” Wow, nailed it. You didn’t sound as excited about it as you probably do, in your head. 

You heard a sigh of relief and the bed started shifting again as he moved closer. Then it hit you. This is actually happening. A hand sneaked around your midsection and pulled you back into him. The other arm joined in wrapping around your stomach, then his head went to the crook of your neck, and that was how you both laid there, in the warmth of each other… damn… so this is why people get married in game. 

The wedding bells were calling your NAME. Wait, you are wayyyy too young for that… What a joke, you could get married- BUT LET’S NOT THINK ABOUT THAT. For all you know, Jimin could have a girlfriend in the real world. But why would he be cuddling with you right now if he did? Oh right, cause he’s a man. Not an excuse, just an observation. Okay, you really need to stop overthinking this before you do something stupid. 

You lean back into the warmth of his embrace and smile. And that’s how you fell asleep. 

~

The sun peered in through the window causing you to squint as you woke up. Jimin’s arms were still wrapped around you, his breath wafting over the back of your neck. You smiled and opened up your menu and went to the global board, which everyone in your server was allowed to post notices on. Thankfully, there was nothing about you or Jimin. Just a bunch of sale postings, help wanted, and other small things. You checked global chat and most of the conversation was like the board. Not much was going on today. Good. 

You opened your wardrobe inventory, and just like last night, you became eerily conscious of how you were in desperate need of new clothing. Maybe the cave had some? While there was a bunch of gold, you recall there being other things scattered throughout those caverns. 

“Good morning.” You heard a mumble come from Jimin. “Good morning.” You whispered in return. His arms retracted from you as he sat up and rubbed his eyes. You pushed your legs off the bed and onto the floor, and you got up. 

Looking at your wardrobe, you clicked your armor back on and the weight appeared on your body. “You ready?” You asked, turning to Jimin. He had also already put his armor back on, but this wasn’t his royal guard armor, this was just regular. You liked regular. 

He nodded and followed you out the door. Walking downstairs, you pulled up the coordinates to the cave. “Here.” Jimin said as you reached the front door, causing you to turn back to him. He held out another sandwich, much like the ones last night. “How is this not spoiled?” You asked, taking the seemingly fresh food from his hand. 

“It’s a wrap that the royal guard engineered, keeps perishables fresh in your inventory for about an extra week.” You nodded in understanding of his explanation. You opened the front door, taking the first bite of your sandwich. 

And you were off. 

~ 

You were nearing the cave, which was no longer visible to the naked eye. It just looked like plains that went on for miles and miles, much like any other border of the server. Jimin looked around, confusion written all over his face, but he stayed silent. “Come on.” You told him, a giddy smile on your face. You grabbed his hands and pulled him towards what you hoped was the entrance on the cave, so that you don’t bash your head against solid rock. A flash of white took over your vision, then you were in the cave with Jimin. You grinned and bounded further into the cave. The gold was still there and shining proudly. 

You heard Jimin gasp behind you once he gained sight of the pile of riches. You turned to him, a giddy smile on your face. 

“How did you find this?” He asked.

“I had to get to level 80 somehow.” You walked towards the glowing neverending pile. It stretched throughout the floor of most of the cave and went on for what seemed to be miles. You hadn’t gotten a good look at it before, but in the distance you could see a golden structure, standing tall. You began to trudge over the gold, your feet slipping on the coins beneath you. Jimin followed behind you, eyes scanning the glimmering gold. 

~

After having climbed up the golden brick walls and searched just about every empty corridor in this castle like structure. The halls are lit by torches with fire that… should’ve burned out by now? But then again, this a damn game. Jimin found some abandoned bedrooms with furniture made of gold, just like the rest of this place. 

In one room there sat a bed with sheets so silky and shiny, it looked heavenly. The room is outfitted with a wardrobe, bench, two nightstands on either side of the bed and a full length mirror. You haven’t seen your own face in a while… not since you were with Jimin in Basilium. You stepped towards the mirror, slowly taking in your appearance as you looked upon yourself. Your eyes held bags under them, your skin was dull. You looked dreary. But your weight was healthy, you hadn’t lost too much over the past few months. Surprisingly. 

You looked tired.

You were hungry.

But, you were excited. This place was yours. You could make it something beautiful. A safe haven from the Royal Guard. 

Maybe, for all people? 

Maybe one day, so you may all beat this wretched game. 

You would make your own guild. And so you did.

[its-freakinbats]

uncertainty--q.b./reader

Much like the several requests that have been sitting in my inbox, this is a long overdue post. @that-aint-it-chief, you asked and you shall receive (four months later). 

This request is based off of sentence starters from strawberryjenos. I tried linking the post, but Tumblr hates me :-)

For those of you who don’t know, I am also posting for my QB/Reader story, “Heaven don’t have a name”.

I kind of liked how angsty this one was ;)

@lokismortallove @charmed-asylum

Enjoy!

You paced nervously around the hotel room that Guterman procured for you. 

You felt an abundance of uncomfortable things as you awaited Quentin’s arrival; you were annoyed, frustrated, scared, and anxious. 

You were annoyed that the plan hadn’t gone accordingly; hours upon hours of work, and you all had been bested by a teenager who was on vacation, of all bloody things. 

You were frustrated that you hadn’t been told the state of Quentin. He was alive, according to Guterman, but what else? Part of you told yourself to be grateful he was even alive, but what state was he in? What kind of tending would you need to do? Was he in one piece? Was he in a coma?

Your mind began reeling as you thought of the worst possibilities.

You were scared for the repercussions. Parker surely knew everything, and if he had his hands on EDITH? Chances were you could say goodbye to freedom. You, Quentin, and everyone you had grown to consider a twisted sort of family would all be implicated. 

So much for putting an end to Tony Stark’s legacy.

You were anxious that you didn’t have any of the answers you were looking for. You weren’t sure what was worse: not knowing, or knowing that it wasn’t in your favor at all. 

You gritted your teeth at the thought of it going sideways. Well, more sideways than it already was. 

Your breathing hitched, and you couldn’t bring yourself to calm down for several moments. Your pacing increased in speed, and you repeated a few helpful mantras to calm yourself down.

Finally, you were able to regulate your breathing.

Damn Peter Parker, damn Tony Stark, damn Quentin, and damn this whole operation! You could have kept your job in the medical field, but no. Quentin, and everyone your old boss had wronged, had sought you out to help get justice from him.

The knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts, and you arrived before it in mere strides. 

“Who is it?” you remembered to ask, and impatiently awaited the reply given to you ahead of time. 

“I have the materials for the Sazerac,” was heard from the other side of the door. 

You threw it open without looking into the peephole and gasped. 

Guterman was holding a positively beat up Quentin. If you were a passerby, you might assume that Quentin merely had a rough run in with someone, nothing special. You, however, knew that something must have happened for him to be nearly out while on his feet.

“Say nothing,” Guterman warned you as he propped the bag in his hand at the nearby closet. 

You acquiesced, but only unwillingly. You knew with everything that had happened, it was only a matter of time before Parker and Fury met up. What he’d say, you imagined, couldn’t be good. 

Discretion was mandatory. 

You quietly shut the door behind you and spun around to see that Quentin had been ushered to one of the beds.

“What the hell am I dealing with here, Guterman?” you asked impatiently. The man instead gave you several slips of paper. 

“You are to bring him back on his feet. You’ll meet us tomorrow at 11 where it says. You have the items necessary to fix him in this bag,” he said, gesturing to the nondescript black bag he was now bringing up. 

You nodded stiffly, and your eyes trained upon your partner; his breathing was somewhat uneven. You wondered how much internal damage had been done, and by what. 

Parker only had spiderwebs. He wasn’t bold enough to use the kill mode Stark left him, was he?

Guterman put his hand on your shoulder in a fatherly way and spoke quietly. 

“I think he’ll be fine. Riva’s fixing everything right now. We’ll figure out step 2 when we get there, okay?” 

You nodded again, still just as stiff. You felt discouraged looking at Quentin, and moved to go examine him. 

Guterman nodded at you, before swiftly making his exit.

As you looked at Quentin, you cursed the universe for putting you in this position. 

You sat on the edge of the bed, and examined him; he was wearing civilian clothing you could only imagine that he’d put on hap-hazardly while leaving the Tower of London.

You had started to pull the long sleeved shirt up, when a weak hand caught yours. You looked down and saw a boyish smile creep upon your partners face, before it contorted into a grimace. 

You pulled your gaze down to look upon the mark on the SFX suit he wore underneath of his street clothes. 

“Oh my god, is that blood?” you asked as your gaze focused. You shouldn’t have been surprised; there was a reason he couldn’t walk by himself. 

“...No,” Quentin tried saying sardonically, before groaning when you ran your fingers over the bullet wound in his abdomen. 

As you pulled his shirt up, you saw yet another bullet wound, this time just slightly higher than the first one. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“You mean other than the two bullet wounds?”

You gritted your teeth as he groaned again.

You did your best to ignore him, and you successfully managed to pull the long sleeve shirt over his head, leaving only the thin material of the special effects suit.

You bit your lip, before your eyes strayed to where the bag lay. 

Guterman had said that everything you needed was in that bag. 

You prayed to whatever deity was up there that he’d at least had the decency to get his hands on some Oxy.

✹

“Have the painkillers kicked in yet?” you said. You hadn’t said another word to Quentin since you began; whether it was from frustration at him or the situation, you weren’t sure. You opted to brew in your own emotions, lest you take it out on Quentin while he was injured. Part of you wanted to slap him upside the head, but what good would that do?

The man seemed surprised by your voice. When he spoke, he sounded uncomfortable. 

“‘m fine,” he mumbled. He was seated with his back facing you as you pulled the patch down gently to see if the bleeding had stopped. To your relief, it had.

“You were smart to put pressure on it, and cover it up,” you said as you examined it further. “You’d be on your way to the hospital with a collapsed lung right about now if you hadn’t.”

“I learned from the best,” he attempted, before making a noise of discomfort. 

You didn’t acknowledge his statement, and instead remarked, “Christ, it’s a miracle you’re still alive.” 

Your tone was curt. You weren’t sure if you should be angry, upset, or heartbroken. The disappointment in your voice was evident enough, but you weren’t sure anything else was.

Your words had been terse, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be entirely consumed with anger at that moment. You were just grateful that he made it out in one piece. 

You were thrilled that you weren’t transporting a corpse at that moment. 

You felt your gaze fall on the bullets that you’d pulled from his body, and you couldn’t pull away from them. 

Quentin must have noticed, and he made another attempt to speak. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

Your gaze remained on the bullets for a few more moments, before you focused on bandaging him up. 

“I’m gonna apply some petroleum jelly until we can get you real help. It’s gonna be cold for a bit,” you said, and you watched him nod stiffly.

As you applied the jelly to his wound, you wondered if this would be the last time you did this. 

Of course it would be, you thought. Parker had told at least his three friends, Stark’s old pal Happy, and you were positive that Fury and Hill would have figured it out. That was all that mattered. Everything that you all had worked for had fizzled just like that, and for what? Quentin to be shot? You were aware of your grinding teeth, but not the sound you released. 

“What?” Quentin asked, sounding slightly annoyed. You pulled back your hand.

“Excuse me?” you replied, sounding just as annoyed. There was a beat before you began to apply the final bit of jelly to his abdomen. Quentin slouched slightly into your touch when he spoke next.

“You always breathe like that when you’re annoyed. That’s the sound you make before you lecture someone.”

You pursed your lips.

“Well, I think there’s plenty to be annoyed about,” you replied as you began wiping the petroleum jelly from your fingers. “The destruction of our climate, for one.”

You heard Quentin sigh in defeat, and watched as his shoulders slumped further.

“Hon, please—“ he began, but you interrupted him curtly.

“I don’t wanna hear it,” you said as you pulled out the bandages and tape. “I don’t...I just...don’t,” you emphasized by tearing open the packaging. 

Part of you wanted to hear what he had to say, but the stronger part, the heartbroken part of you just couldn’t. 

What if that had really been it? And he wouldn’t have had anyone when it happened. 

The thought made you pause, and you had to restrain yourself from throwing the bandages at the wall.

Just hours ago, you were preparing for another victory speech and maybe even dinner with the Queen.

God, what a mess this had all turned into.

You began applying the gauze to his wounds, and pulled back gently every time he grunted or flinched. You were grateful that they weren’t large wounds, at least. 

There was another silence as you taped him up slightly, and you almost didn’t say anything as you pulled away to put everything away.

You felt the edge of the bed raise as he stood up to go find his discarded shirt from the other side of the room. 

You paused then, and rested your head in your hands as you tried to gather what it was you wanted to say. 

Quentin seemed to pick up on this, and turned to face you from his spot on the other side of the bed. You looked up at him and saw imploring blue eyes looking back at you. So much was going on in the typhoon of his gaze, that it took you a moment to read him properly. 

You moved so your chin was in your hand as you spoke. 

“I agreed to all of this because you were going to be a symbol,” you started slowly. “I agreed to...all of this, because you were going to bring people hope. Something that I think we’ve all needed after the last...six years.”

He was silent as he regarded you, and part of you thought he looked...ashamed. 

It was your turn to huff slightly, before pushing a hand through your hair as you gathered your angry thoughts. 

“I agreed to go along with this because people needed a hero to believe in. They needed someone who wouldn’t break their team apart because of a few unsigned papers. They needed a person who would carry the torch that the Avengers left in the world.

“I agreed to...the collapsing buildings, and the casualties, and...all of the craziness, because people needed someone other than a disillusioned sixteen year old to idolize. And you kind of accomplished that,” you added as an afterthought. 

His brow was furrowed as he considered your words, and you could see he was a little lost.

“I didn’t agree to go along with it if there was a risk that your life would be in danger,” you said finally, before turning away to put the medical box back together.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely after a moment. 

You looked up at him, tears stinging your eyes. 

“This was all just supposed to be projections and interviews with Time magazine. God, you would be shaking hands with the Queen right now!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands in the air.

“I didn’t...I didn’t think I’d get shot in the process,” he admitted. “I didn’t think I’d end up scaring you.” 

A silence fell between the two of you, and you didn’t know what to say. What else could you say? Nothing you could say would change anything that had transpired. 

“There was always a risk,” Quentin said softly. Your head shot up from its spot in your hands, and your gaze narrowed dangerously.

“Was there?” you countered irritably.

He didn’t respond. Did he realize how angry you were?

“The only people who posed a threat are all off with their own lives!” you continued to argue. “Parker was the only one we had to worry about!” 

“I didn’t think he’d be...as capable as he was,” Quentin said quietly. 

You continued as if you hadn’t heard him.

“And at what cost was all of this? All of the rehearsing, and espionage, and planning. You almost ended up dead!” 

You rubbed your forehead as you took a breath. Yelling wouldn’t accomplish anything, you thought to yourself. The frustrated part of you argued that it would make you feel better.

While you were lost in thought, you felt a hand grasp yours. 

You didn’t look up at Quentin at first, opting to instead fix your gaze back on the bullets that lay on the desk. 

You hated the failure and pain that they symbolized. 

Finally, you looked back up at Quentin and saw his imploring gaze. 

“It’s not over,” he said after a few moments of silence. 

You were taken aback. 

“What? Of course it’s over if you’re going to go out there and get your ass handed to you—” you started, but Quentin squeezed your hand and shook his head. 

“No, you’re not listening to me,” he said.

You fell silent and watched as he pulled away to sit next to you. His hands were in his lap and his gaze was fixed on you as he spoke.

“I...I had a back up plan,” he said. He pushed a hand through his hair, and you felt your eyebrows furrow at his comment. 

“Back up plan?” you asked slowly.

“Yeah, a...a plan B, in case something happened,” he continued. 

When he didn’t elaborate, you spoke up.

“What do you mean? What aren’t you telling me?” you sounded desperate. In a way, you were. What did Quentin have in their favor? What did he have that would fix all of this?

“It was just between Riva and I. I didn’t want you to worry if there wasn’t a reason to…” he trailed off. He didn’t voice the giant mishap that they were currently embroiled in, and you didn’t either. You figured he was well aware.

“Look,” he started, his pace picking up as he spoke. “When Parker was was taking out the Elementals, I got a bit of footage from my body camera, and then I got some more when he came to take back EDITH.”

“He took EDITH?” You asked then, confused. “How did he do that without permission from you?” 

“He didn’t ask permission,” Quentin said, drawing out the words for emphasis.

Dramatic man.

“EDITH isn’t Parker’s. It still belongs to you,” you finished. 

Quentin nodded and continued. 

“Riva’s gonna work some of his magic and send some footage to some of the bigger news networks.”

You frowned. 

“What footage?” you asked, unsure of where he was going with his plan.

“Footage that will make Mysterio a hero again. Footage that will make Spider-Man the real villain.” 

You were quiet as you considered what he had said. Could it all really be fixed that easily?

“What about Fury? And all of his connections—” you started, but you were cut off by Quentin. 

“It doesn’t matter what the government thinks,” he said, grabbing your hands excitedly. “Because in less than seventy-two hours, Peter Parker is going to be a fugitive. He’ll be a terrorist, and that’s a problem the remaining Avengers won’t be able to solve. Not without destroying themselves again.”

You were quiet as you fell into your thoughts. Was this really the end of their problems? You thought of Peter Parker. 

He was just a kid.

A kid with future plans and goals.

A kid who foiled your plan, but a kid no less. You bit the inside of your cheek as you thought about how this would change his life. 

Your eyes met Quentin’s again and the hope you saw in them was enough to quiet your worries.

For now, at least. 

You leaned into his touch, and wondered how this would change things. 

You didn’t know how much, but you were certain that things would change. 

[the-hilda-librarians-wife]

The Mistakes We Made - Chapter Four

Summary:  When her high school girlfriend comes back to town after two years with a baby and a terrible story she won’t tell, the Librarian has to deal with the feelings she had worked so hard to keep at bay.

Notes:  I have no idea of how libraries work, just roll with it *finger guns*

Read it on ao3: (chpt1) (chpt2) (chpt3) (chpt4)

Maven cracked her eyes open and squinted immediately. Her face was bathing in the early sunlight, and groaning she realized that she had left the curtains open the night before.

She turned her back to the window, knowing she still had time to rest until her alarm rang. Clutching her blanket tighter around herself, she tried to hang on to the last vestiges of the dream she’d been having. And it had been such a strange dream, so impossible and bittersweet.

Her sleep muddled mind failed to remember much more of it, so she simply accepted to let that be. That is, until she heard sounds of clatter in the kitchen, which made her sit up on her bed immediately. It couldn’t be an animal; she always let her house locked up at night. It wouldn’t be a visitor either: only Maven’s uncle had another key, and he was currently out of town. Her only other option would be faeries, but she had quite a few amulets to keep those away from the house. Besides, the scent coming from the kitchens smelled like coffee, not like flowers or milk like one would expect from the wee folk. So there was only one possibility.

It hadn’t been a dream.

Maven bolted out of her bed, heading straight to the bathroom and throwing water on her face. As her mind began to cooperate, the details of the day before came back to her. Johanna walking into the Poet’s Retreat, asking for help by the lamplight, feeding her child in the living room and putting her to sleep in her stroller: suddenly it all got as clear a the day outside in her head.

But her thoughts clouded over again as her heart took control. The shock of seeing her former best friend back, with a baby and without her husband, had stopped her from thinking about other things the day before. She had acted mostly on impulse. But now that she had rested and spent some time away from Johanna, she began remembering exactly why her impulse had been running away and lashing out.

Her mood didn’t improve as she got dressed, figuring she wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep and deciding to get ready for work instead; after all, an early morning wouldn’t hurt. Not to mention it would give her somewhere to hide from her feeling and a certain someone who had awakened them.

She got out of the bedroom wearing her typical clothes: a white button up shirt with a sleeveless grey cardigan on top, a pleated black skirt with leggings underneath and dark flats that were comfortable enough to not make her feet ache when she needed to stand up for hours organizing books.

The usual routine was comforting, in a way. Dressing up, brushing her short hair, putting the things she’d need in her dark blue messenger bag. It made her forget that something out of the ordinary was happening.

Of course, that sense of normality disappeared when she walked down the narrow wood stairs to the kitchen and found herself looking at the unusual picture that her former girlfriend and her baby made in Maven’s house.

“Good morning” Maven said when she was a few steps behind Johanna, who was in front of the oven scrambling eggs. She startled and turned back, facing her host with the fridge and spatula still in hand.

“Oh, good morning!” She chirped, making her tone politely happy and putting a smile on her face, but it wilted when she noticed how gloomy Maven looked. Her shoulders were tense, her eyes hooded with irritation and with dark circles under them, though she could barely see them as Maven’s hair was getting in the way. Surliness seemed to roll off of her in waves, and Johanna knew her way to well to think everything was okay.

But Johanna didn’t have the patience for this, and she surely didn’t have the strength for this any longer. She knew Maven wasn’t Torrin- there wouldn’t be much of a negative consequence if they had a row- but that didn’t mean she had the psychological and emotional strength to deal with a fight. So she just lowered her head and waited for her friend to speak.

Seeing this, Maven lifted her eyebrows in both surprise and mockery. Really? No “stop sulking! What real problems do you even have?”? No “quit being a happiness sucking spirit!”?. Even before everything went to hell, Maven would get an “well, someone woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning.” if her friend noticed she was in a bad mood. Staying quiet wasn’t typical Johanna behavior and it wouldn’t be in a thousand years. But the woman had no marks on her body, and that made a lot of Maven’s preoccupation with her succumb to the nagging voice in her mind telling her that she had warned Johanna, and she had been ignored.. Seemed fair she’d have to face the consequences now.

“I’m going to work.” She said shortly. “I’ll be back by lunchtime to get my stuff. I take it you’re still not back at college?”

“I’m not.”

Maven nodded and looked at the cabinets above Johanna’s head. She should probably get something to eat, but she really didn’t want to be in the same room as her at the moment. “Excuse me” she said as she reached out for the cabinet’s wooden handle, making Johanna take a step to the right. She quickly found a package of biscuits and took it out, giving Johanna space to return to her cooking once more.

She had already turned to leave. Her hand was in the bag where she’d placed her keys. But a bit of her conscience made itself known in her mind through the haze of pain. Monster, it seemed to tell her. You’re just going to leave? Are you really this cold? This is why you’re meant to be alone.

With her heart clenching, just like her fingers around her keys, she said:

“Do you need anything?”

Johanna turned her head from the oven to look at her, a confused frown on her face. Though Maven had to be talking to her, she was staring at the door. “For the baby.” She completed. “Do you have enough diapers and that sort of thing?”

“I do. Thank you.”

“If- if you have any problems” she reluctantly said as she unlocked the door. “You can call me.”

And after she had stepped outside into the chilly morning, she called. “You know, I haven’t changed my number. I was wondering if maybe that was why I never heard from you again, but it seems it remains the same.” Just before she shut the door again, leaving each of them alone with their own pain.

_#_#_#_

Yawning, Maven raised her arms above her head and stretched. After spending a good part of her morning and most of her afternoon sitting at one of the tables in Trollberg’s library, she’d finally finished studying and was ready to head home. For the day, at least.

Picking up her backpack from the chair by her side, she closed each of her notebooks and stored them away, doing the same with her pens. Most students from her class used laptops to do their essays and researches, but Maven’s mother didn’t have enough money to get her one, having to work alone to make ends meet, so she learned to deal with all the paper that she needed to get through college. She found she preferred that, too. Paper was comforting and it didn’t stop working suddenly and made you pay even more to repair it. Paper was reliable, even if it was a bit messy.

When all her things had been put away, Maven got up and lifted a stack with the four books she had used, and set about looking for Mr. Kavindi, to ask if he would put them away or if she could reshelve them herself. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know where pretty much everything went at this point.

She found him eyeing the library’s computer at his desk, frowning at the screen. His worried expression reminded her of the troubles he’d told her about days ago, and suddenly she was afraid that something bad had happened. For whatever reason, Aven had showed up at the library, an action so atypical of him that could probably justify sending him to an asylum, and declared that Mr. Kavindi’s work was insufficient , and that his father would know about how slowly work got done around there.

If it was anyone else, they wouldn’t have cared for the threat. Problem was, the bastard was the son of the mayor. And that complicated things a bit.

Maven didn’t really think that the good hearted librarian would be sent away. She couldn’t think of many people in this town who had the basic knowledge to get the job, and those who did were quite close to Mr. Kavindi and would surely refuse to do such a thing to him, not to mention that they all had their own stable jobs. But that didn’t stop her from being worried for a man who had helped her so much.

“Sir?” She began tentatively and he looked up at her, a smile slowly spreading over his face when he realized it was her.

“I just wanted to know if I should leave this with you or put them away.” She lifted her books in askance.

“Ah, Maven! Leave them at the desk, please.” She did as he said, putting them near a few other ones that also needed to be reshelved. “I wanted to talk to you, but you looked so focused in your studies I didn’t want to bother before.”

“It wouldn’t be a bother, sir. But is everything alright? You know, with the mayor?”

He nodded happily. “More than okay, my girl. You see, Mr. Torrin’s insatisfaction worked on my favour. It would seem the town hall finally allowed me something I’ve been asking for for years. They’re giving the library extra money so that I can have an assistant!”

Maven breathed out in relief and smiled, something she didn’t do quite often but seemed easier when she was with the kind man in front of her. “That’s lovely, sir. Maybe with a little help you could try to do more of those projects you told me you had planned when you first got the job. I bet Aven won’t have anything else to complain about, then.”

The librarian was looking at her with a little smile she couldn’t quite decipher. “Yes, maybe I could. Unfortunately, though, I seem to have a small problem. There seems to be a limited number of people interested in literature in this town, and all of those I’ve consulted weren’t interested in taking this part time job.”

Maven frowned. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone, eventually…” she remembered a girl in her high school class that had liked reading too, but she had moved to another city to go to college. There was also a boy who had been known to love Tolkien, but as far as Maven was concerned, he was studying something related to maths, so he was probably not an option.

“How’s your schedule, Maven?”

The girl looked up from the floor and at him at the unexpected question. “I’ve been handling it well enough. Mostly I have classes in the evening, so I have the mornings and sometimes the nights to myself. I use the half an hour of train ride to study or do homeworks… why?”

“Well, you’re smart, you’re young enough to go around stacking books with little effort, and you’re studying for this.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Would you consider working here?”

Maven could only gape at him. It was too easy, to have her dream job handed to her on a silver platter. It was never this easy. It shouldn’t be this easy. “Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t ask you if I wasn’t.”

“Yes!” She said without thinking twice. Time would get a lot shorter; she’d probably have to stay up many nights. Money wouldn’t be abundant, either; librarians were already underpaid, and a part time, unqualified assistant wouldn’t have it easy either. But it was a beginning. If she did well on that job, maybe once she had majored in Library Science (which she really hoped she would) the town hall would consider her when the time came to choose another librarian. Not to mention she’d get a lot of experience with that.

“I’ll warn you already, it doesn’t pay well.” He joked, but when Maven didn’t waver in her resolution, he asked her to give him her CV as soon as she could. She was a little nervous about that, since she’d barely gotten started on college, but he’d assured her the city hall would trust his decisions. Time tables would be better discussed later, but initially they agreed on having her help him out in the mornings.

She left the library doing her best to look like her usual serene and composed self when inside she felt happier then she’d felt in months. Finally, it seemed things were going her way.

That feeling changed when she began to head home and found there was an unusual flow of people walking towards Main Street. Not quite liking the situation, Maven began turning into Trollberg’s smaller streets, looking for the least used way home.

When she was nearly there, she saw a man, tall with dark skin and eyes, smoking and looking at the sun that was slowly moving down the horizon. Dimitri, her cousin, and the owner of the town’s Hoodoo shop.

She stepped closer. Dimitri knew about things, maybe he’d know what was happening.

“Hello, cousin.” He said before she had a chance to wish him a good evening, without even turning his gaze from the sky to her. “Something on your mind?”

“Yes, actually. Do you know why everyone seems to be going to Main Street?”

He rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, I do. It’s the Aven boy and your friend. Surely you heard that they got married today?”

The girl felt bile rise up in her throat. She knew, of course she knew. But she had tried so hard to forget that she actually missed the date.

Not that she’d been invited, anyway.

“Yes.” She answered simply.

“Yeah, the most dim witted parcel of the city’s population in going to watch them leave town, as if they were celebrities or something. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Maven fought against the stinging in her eyes. She’d tried to stay away from anything related to Johanna, but still she hadn’t been able to block out the whispering voices in the streets that told her she was moving away to the Aven family’s cabin in the woods. “N- now?” She asked tremulously.

“Yes, now. Why?”

She didn’t answer why. She barely uttered a “thank you, good evening” before sprinting out of the alley in the direction of Main Street as fast as she could.

“Oh, Maven.” Dimitri whispered and shook his head, taking his cigarette to his mouth once again. “Why must you make yourself suffer this way?

_#_#_#_

“Are you going to tell me about it?” Mr. Kavindi asked from under the ladder which she had climbed to stack some books that had been left in one of the library’s desks the night before.

“About what, sir?” Maven replied as she sang the ABCs in her head to find out between which books the one she was holding should go.

He lifted an eyebrow. Maven couldn’t see it, but she was sure she could feel it. “You know what I’m talking about. I know you enough to be able to tell when you’re not okay.”

She groaned internally, putting the book in its correct spot, and taking a moment to caress its red leather spine before she took a deep breath and answered.

“Sir, I would rather not talk about that. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Kavindi sighed. His assistant was such a good girl. He’d always tried to befriend her, but she had always been a closed off one. No matter, he thought. He knew exactly what the issue was about even if she wouldn’t tell him. Ever since she’d began attending the library with a frequency, when she was but a wee child, there had only been one person who had been able to make that sort of anxious energy roll off of her in waves.

He wasn’t going to press any further, but he would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious as to where his assistant could have possibly seen Johanna these days.

“How’s college?” He opted for a change of subject, and she was glad. She could even hear the concern on his voice; he knew that she wasn’t happy with her performance. Whereas before she had had time to study properly, after accepting the job at the library she’d been much more busy, and it only got worse when her mother passed away and she had to do some odd cleaning jobs here and there to make ends meet. Her family tried to help her, but she usually didn’t accept their money unless she had no other choice.

She paid attention to classes and made as good use of her time as she could, so her grades were not going to be bad enough for her to fail, but he knew it disturbed her to not be able to reach her full potential. And if he were honest, it disturbed him too. Maven was made for more than mediocre grades.

“Going as usual.” She answered simply. At the best of days she was somewhat reclused, but today he felt she just didn’t want to talk at all. So he politely excused himself and went to finish the preparations to open the library for the day, leaving the woman alone with her thoughts.

_#_#_#_

It had taken nearly an hour, but Johanna was finally ready to leave. Of all the people she’d hugged and said her goodbyes to, the last one was still in front of her, crying as if she’d gotten married herself.

“Don’t worry, Lucy.” She said to the woman who had been her best friend for the last couple of months. “It’s not like I’m going away forever. You can visit us whenever you like, and we will be back from time to time too!”

“I know, it’s just-“ she made a show of drying her tears. “It was all so very beautiful. The wedding, the lunch… everything! And it all happened so fast! I’ve never seen two people get engaged so quickly; the two of you just have such a deep connection.”

Johanna chuckled at her friend’s sentimentalism, but inwardly agreed with her. She understood Torrin better than anyone. And after she realized that, it didn’t take long for it to become easy to imagine a happily ever after with him. She was living the dream of half of the girls in the town, she knew.

“No time for this.” Johanna’s mother, Kate, said as she walked by the pair with her husband, who was carrying some of Johanna’s luggage. Most of her stuff had already been moved to the house she’d share with her new husband, but there were a few things she’d chosen to take with her. “There are many people waiting to see the two of you. Better not to keep them waiting.”

Johanna frowned. “What?”

“Oh, you know how people are in this town.” A voice came from behind her. She turned and saw him standing at the door of her kitchen, his blue hair falling on his eyes and his shoulder leaning against the wooden frame. There he was. Her Prince Charming.

“They love gossip, babe. And we’re a big thing, you know?” He smirked, stepping closer. “A great part of the town is on Main Street, just waiting to get one last look at us before we begin our life together. Isn’t that amazing?”

No, it really wasn’t. She wasn’t marrying for other people. She was doing it for herself; she’d always been a sociable person, but she wasn’t comfortable with the whole town wanting such involvement in her life. But clearly it made Torrin happy, and if it was good for him…

She forced herself to smile. “Yes! That’s… incredible.”

“Nothing less than what my princess deserves” he smirked, taking her hand. “Now let’s go. Your mother is right, and I can’t wait to begin our life together.”

He took her to the car his father had given him, powerful and imposing in the narrow street of her house. He opened the door for her, and after giving one last goodbye kiss to her mother, father and best friend, she got into the car in the backseat, and Torrin slipped at her side while she straightened the skirts of the dress she had chosen for the trip to their new house in the woods, one that was much more comfortable than the bridal one she had worn in the morning or the other that she had worn in the afternoon for the party.

Torrin took her hand as the driver that his father had hired started the car and headed for Main Street. He hadn’t even finished the turn when Johanna saw the ocean of people that had gathered to see them. The driver drove slowly, and Torrin lowered his window to wave goodbye at the people. Following his lead, Johanna lowered hers too and put her best smile on her face, waving at friends, family, former classmates and even complete strangers.

They yelled and cheered in happiness, but all noise seemed to disappear and time seemed to slow down as Johanna caught a pair of grey eyes in the crowd. It was so fast. Not after five seconds, the car had already moved enough that she couldn’t see her anymore, so she shouldn’t have noticed that she had been clutching her faded purple cardigan tighter around herself, apparently trying to look smaller. She shouldn’t have noticed that her mouth was closed into a tight line, a clear effort to hold back emotion. And she most certainly shouldn’t have noticed that the woman’s cold, grey eyes were filled with unshed tears.

Johanna had been paralyzed after that. Her hand stilled in the air and her gaze was redeemed unable to focus on any other person in the street; she only came back to herself once the car had crossed the town’s gates. Closing her window and her eyes, she took a deep, fortifying breath. Past. Maven was in the past. She was a mistake that Johanna wouldn’t commit again. Their friendship had been relatively harmless, but she’d stepped over a line when she took advantage of their closeness and Johanna’s confusion to turn their relationship into something more. Yes, she told herself. That’s what had happened.

But then why did she have to be at the Main Street to see her one last time, and why did she have to look so forlorn?

“Hey, Earth to Johanna.” Her husband’s voice took her out of her reverie, and she looked away from her hands in her lap and at his smiling face beside her. “Are you alright?”

She made herself smile. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

At her affirmation, he leaned towards her, and she closed the distance between them, making their lips touch. Johanna shut her eyes and forced herself to focus solely on him. This was her fairy tale, her happy ending, and there was no place for Maven in it.

But even though she kept telling this to herself, over and over, she never quite believed it.

_#_#_#_

Maven was feeling slightly better when she went back home in the beginning of the afternoon. Not that her heart had stopped aching - it hadn’t since years ago, and that wasn’t going to change in just a few hours - but her job had actually taken the edge off of her pain.

Her mother used to say that, if being amongst books, trees, or family didn’t help, then it was a very serious problem. At least the book part seemed to have worked, but now she was coming back home, and would have to once again face the source of her pain.

Except she didn’t have to, in the end.

When she arrived home that day, Johanna was absent, her purse gone along with Hilda’s stroller, but the rest of her things were left untouched. On the kitchen counter, there was a small piece of paper with Johanna’s clear, D’Nealian handwriting that said “I went to my parents’. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Well, Maven thought, I should expect her return to be town gossip by the time I come back. She hoped Johanna knew what she was doing. Her parents loved her, Maven was sure of it (or at least she liked to believe they did), but they weren’t the most sensible people in town. Johanna truly needed their support, and Maven was not sure that this is what she’d receive.

You tried to support her, remember? That same, terrible voice from earlier spoke in the back of her mind. And she turned her back to you. It would serve her well…

The librarian groaned. It would do no good to begrudge someone she was currently trying to help, but apparently she couldn’t help it. There had always been a darker part of her that told her that Johanna’s friendship, and then her love, was too good to be true. That it would crumble down, leave her broken, leave her hollow.

And now that it was proven right, it just wouldn’t leave her alone.

But she was a college student, she didn’t have time to spare with emotional crap. So she sent those thoughts to the back of her mind, where she could as easily take them from when she had the time to actually reflect upon them, and grabbed a few ingredients from the refrigerator. Spreading them over the counter, she hastily put up a ham and cheese sandwich, and began eating as she climbed up the stairs with her bag on her shoulders.

Once in her room, she found the material she’d need for the rest of her day and put it in the bag, closing the buckle on the leather strap. She had barely finished eating when she ran to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, used the toilet, and grabbed a comb that she could use while she ran to the train station.

When she arrived, her train was already waiting for her, so she got in and waited for the doors to close. The train was blessedly empty, as it usually was, and she was able to pick a booth with a table between the two sets of chairs. If an actual group of four arrived, there were other empty booths, so she felt no restrictions when she opened her bag and took out one of her textbooks and a pencil. Her next lecture would begin in 45 minutes, and she would like to make good use of the time it would take to get there.

Soon enough, the doors closed, the train started moving, and the raven haired girl tried to allow her mind to be taken over by the safe normality of her routine, though some of her ghosts just wouldn’t leave her alone.

_#_#_#_

She had run to Main Street in a haze, and now that she was there, her mind was still clouded over. She couldn’t recognize anyone in the small crowd that had gathered, though logically she knew that she had probably seen everyone there at least once. The noises and colours around her were all just a blur of activity, and she couldn’t tell if that was psychological or if she was running out of oxygen from the running.

As minutes passed and she was still waiting there, doing her best to ignore the judgemental whispers and looks the people around her were giving her, she realized that yes, it was psychological. She drew her cardigan tighter around herself, a futile effort to close herself off from the world around her. Her eyes began stinging and she closed them so as not to allow any tear to break free. A Sunday evening and here she was, pining for one last glimpse of her ex. She was truly pathetic, she thought. She should be stronger than this.

But she really, truly wasn’t stronger then this, and the proof of this is that she readily opened her eyes when the people around her began cheering and the sound of a car engine could also be heard. Though her surroundings remained a blur, Maven could see her clearly. She focused on the way her brown eyes skimmed the crowd for acquaintances, shining like melting honey when they caught a beam of light, her short curly hair flowing with the wind. She hungrily drank down her image, committing it to memory, because she was certain she wouldn’t see more of that woman for a long time.

And then their eyes met. For the most terrifying, wonderful second, their eyes met. The happiness that ought to have been in her eyes before wasn’t there anymore, and Maven was certain it was her fault. Of course it was. Who would like to see their ex after their marriage? Her lips stopped smiling, turning into a shocked expression instead. Her hand stilled in the air, too surprised to wave at those people any longer. Maven repeatedly slapped herself mentally. Her simple presence there had ruined their parting celebration.

This is why you’re meant to be alone, a voice inside her mind told her. And it was right. Johanna was a princess, good and strong and loved by all. She deserved her ending with her brave knight, even if Maven wasn’t at all sure about said knight’s morals.

But Johanna was a good character judge, so if she trusted him, shouldn’t Maven too? And now, she had disturbed this gift from the town to them. She had intruded on their happy ending; made the princess feel on edge, she had seen it in her eyes.

Maven sighed and began walking away as the rest of the crowd dispersed. If she had understood this since the beginning, she would have spared herself so much pain.

She was the witch. And there was no room for the witch in the princess’s happy ending.

_#_#_#_

Each night the sight of her front door got more and more alluring. But that was probably because each night Maven got more and more tired, and honestly all she wanted was to do the assignments she absolutely had to, have a bath and go to sleep.

But as fate would have it, she couldn’t do that! After all, Johanna was staying with her and she’d probably have to, once again, face the feelings she’d tried for years to quench down to no avail.

The first thing she did upon entering the house was head to the cupboard and take a package of biscuits out of it. She was starving, but she had no energy to prepare anything to eat. The second was wonder where could Johanna be. She didn’t know if she wanted the woman to be back or not. If she was, that meant more emotional labor for her. But if she wasn’t, Maven would probably be too worried about her to sleep that night.

Dropping her bag on the sofa, she headed to the most obvious room in which to look at first: the room she had allowed Johanna to stay at. As she walked down the corridor, the sound of her crunching the biscuit drowned down the other noise that was reverberating through the corridor, but as she got closer, it got too strong not to hear.

Johanna’s sniffles startled Maven, making her reactionless for a moment before she bolted forward, easily opening the unlocked door and worryingly looking around the room. She found her friend on top of the bed, curled into a ball with her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with every deep breath she took, and only after a moment did she raise her head to look at the intruder.

Looking at Johanna’s red skin and miserable hair, she thought that her parents would need a damn good excuse if they didn’t want Maven to curse them.

[cbk1000]

Jenn Recommends: Historical Fiction II

Welcome to another blog post in which I tell you what to read, and you just sit and passively do it because I have excellent taste in literature and also I’m kind of a bully. Check this tag for more recommendations.

Today we revisit historical fiction, because it’s one of my favourite genres and I have lots of suggestions, all of which you should definitely take to heart. My first list of historical fiction recs (which can be found here if you’re curious) was all gay, all the time; this list is slightly more heterosexual, although not much, because here be lesbians.

If You Like: Dickensian lesbians (and really, who doesn’t?)

Read: Fingersmith by Sarah Waters

I’m going to lift the summary from Goodreads, because it’s faster, and I’m lazy:  Sue Trinder is an orphan, left as an infant in the care of Mrs. Sucksby, a "baby farmer," who raised her with unusual tenderness, as if Sue were her own. Mrs. Sucksby’s household, with its fussy babies calmed with doses of gin, also hosts a transient family of petty thieves—fingersmiths—for whom this house in the heart of a mean London slum is home. One day, the most beloved thief of all arrives—Gentleman, an elegant con man, who carries with him an enticing proposition for Sue: If she wins a position as the maid to Maud Lilly, a naïve gentlewoman, and aids Gentleman in her seduction, then they will all share in Maud’s vast inheritance. Once the inheritance is secured, Maud will be disposed of—passed off as mad, and made to live out the rest of her days in a lunatic asylum. With dreams of paying back the kindness of her adopted family, Sue agrees to the plan. Once in, however, Sue begins to pity her helpless mark and care for Maud Lilly in unexpected ways...But no one and nothing is as it seems in this Dickensian novel of thrills and reversals.

This novel really hearkens back to ye old days of sensation fiction when literary thrillers were a bit slower, a little more cumbersome; they wanted more patience from the reader, who watches all the little threads get teased out bit by excruciating bit. There’s a sinister undercurrent you feel pulling at you till about the halfway point of the novel, when everything is suddenly upended and you sit up in bed screaming, “BRUH!!” because your stupid ass did NOT SEE THAT COMING EVEN A LITTLE BIT.

Waters is really good at this; her evocation of Victorian England is excellent, and transports you in a way that only the best historical fiction can manage. The narrative unfolds slowly in the first half, building upon itself with a sense of heightening doom that a faster pace could never achieve. As the reader, you’re in on the con (or are you?), and you know what’s going to happen, how it’s all going to end, where the burgeoning relationship between the two girls is painfully trundling along to--except you don’t. Waters pulls the rug out from under your feet, and she doesn’t just do it once, which is why I’m reluctant to say too much about the plot. AND--she does it all in really lovely prose that’s reminiscent of the time period she’s working in; I never really felt a modern hand guiding me. I could have been reading any piece of 19th century literature; the seams between the 21st century and the 19th are never visible, never jarring. If you, like me, are a slut for ornate Gothic literature, and/or you want your historical lesbians and you want them now, give this a try.

If You Like: Watching an oblivious pre-WWI Edwardian society hurtling to its inevitable doom through the eyes of a fucked-up family whose matriarch loses herself in the magic of her own fairytales instead of actually paying attention to the flesh and blood children they are based upon

Read: The Children’s Book by A.S. Byatt  

From Goodreads:  When Olive Wellwood’s oldest son discovers a runaway named Philip sketching in the basement of the new Victoria and Albert Museum—a talented working-class boy who could be a character out of one of Olive’s magical tales—she takes him into the storybook world of her family and friends. But the joyful bacchanals Olive hosts at her rambling country house—and the separate, private books she writes for each of her seven children—conceal more treachery and darkness than Philip has ever imagined. As these lives—of adults and children alike—unfold, lies are revealed, hearts are broken, and the damaging truth about the Wellwoods slowly emerges. But their personal struggles, their hidden desires, will soon be eclipsed by far greater forces, as the tides turn across Europe and a golden era comes to an end.

It actually took me about a month or so to read this book--not because I kept putting it down and then begrudgingly picking it back up again, but rather because I purposefully wanted to draw it out. The language, the atmosphere--it was all just something I needed to savour. This is a slow, thoughtful book that focuses rather minutely on the dramas of one family and the people who become entangled with it; it will not be for everyone (which is a caveat attached to every book, but I feel this one in particular requires the warning). This is a book about the creative process and the myriad escape hatches it offers us from the real world, sometimes to our own detriment. It is a book about WWI even though the actual war inhabits only the last quarter of the book. It is a book about the options of women in a time when society was still debating whether or not they should be considered full-fledged people. 

This is one of those books that sort of just crawled inside me and stayed; I didn’t want to leave it. I think part of my reluctance came in not wanting to reach the end, knowing WWI was bearing down on these characters, knowing many of them wouldn’t make it, because that’s what the war did to an entire generation: it erased it. I knew it was going to erase whole swathes of the story I had spent hours devoting myself to. I knew for so many of the characters there wasn’t going to be a tidy ending, and there wasn’t; they just stopped, abruptly. You follow generations of the family and in the end feel cheated, not through any failing of the author, but through the cruel and arbitrary machinations of history and the things it has perpetuated against the human race through our own blind stupidity (I’m still upset about WWI, ok??? please don’t touch me).

There was magic in this book, in Olive’s fairytales, in the puppet shows of a family friend: but it’s magic that the matriarch in particular is using to encapsulate herself. It’s not a childlike reverence for things we forget about as we age; it’s a hiding. It’s a sort of disappearance into ourselves and our storytelling because we can’t bring ourselves to look at the material world in all its varying shades of shit and wonder.

Anyway, I had feelings, ok?

If You Like: Italian people, anatomically impressive statues, and erotic descriptions of marble (seriously, I think my dude Michelangelo might have put his penis in a block or two of it)

Read: The Agony and the Ecstasy by Irving Stone 

This is a biographical novel of Michelangelo which begins when he is thirteen and still in the very beginning throes of his artistic talents. Stone apparently read through Michelangelo’s entire personal correspondence (and patiently waited years for it all to be translated) and also moved to Italy to write this, so that’s dedication, and the least you can do to repay it is sit through the sometimes vaguely uncomfortable descriptions of Michelangelo’s artwork and his sexual tension with it.

While this doesn’t have the literary merits of the previous recommendations, it’s meticulous historical fiction; Stone painstakingly recreated Michelangelo and his work. It’s an interesting peek into a niche section of art history and also covers part of the turbulent Renaissance period and the powerful politics at play which snare the hapless Michelangelo when all he wants to do is sculpt (and probably wank to) realistic marble people, goddammit. It’s entirely believable as a biography (though it is, in fact, fiction).

Bonus: Michelangelo’s poetry, which was not a thing I even knew about prior to reading this book.

[mindfulwrath]

Onward

A BuzzFeed Unsolved Fanfic

A spirit can only move on when it has completed its unfinished business.

Or, it can't, because ghosts aren't real.

Words: 4,922 Warnings: Blood & gore, major character death Additional tags: Angst with a happy ending, character turned into a ghost, platonic Shane & Ryan

AO3 Link

"It's really kinda nice up here, don't you think?" Shane says, looking out over the vast moorlands. Moonlight glimmers off of brackish water, casts soft shadows across lumps of heather and gorse.

"You're insane," Ryan spits.

"What? You don't think it's nice? Just look at this view! It's lovely."

"It's creepy as fuck, aaaaaaand you're crazy."

"Okay, well have fun looking for ghosts while I'm enjoying the beautiful Scottish countryside."

"Yeah, thanks, I will," Ryan says under his breath, shaking his head. He raises his voice and speaks for the cameras. "Okay, so, here we are up on the battlements of Crathes Castle, uh, Shane is admiring the scenery, but we are hopefully gonna see something much more interesting. Now, the curator told us there'd been some restoration ongoing up here, so uh, watch your step, 'cuz . . . oh boy."

"We are pretty high up," says Shane, sticking his neck out to look over the parapet. Far below, there's a pale square of concrete, some outbuilding being redone after falling over. It's about the size of a postage stamp from this perspective.

"And when Shane's saying that, you know it's high."

"Hah-hah, the height jokes! Fruit so low-hanging, even you can reach it."

"Yep, sure, that's about what I expected from you. Anyway, let's see if we can find some ghosts."

"You do that, I'm just gonna hang out here and watch."

"Yeah, good, stay out of my way," says Ryan.

Shane spares a glance over his shoulder at the camera. He shakes his head. As Ryan starts up his customary shouting-at-nothing, Shane puts his elbows up on the parapet and leans back, settling in for the show.

Stone grinds on crumbling masonry. Ryan yelps. Shane flails at empty air.

"Whoah, fuck—"

There's no scream. There's a horrible, plunging sickness, and an instant of perfect clarity.

The second-to-last thing that goes through Shane's head is, Wouldn't it be ironic if—

The last thing is a four-foot piece of rebar.

It isn't surprising that the universe has a cruel sense of humor. That's been made evident since the dawn of time, in things like rosy-lipped batfish and mass-extinctions and the invention of capitalism. The Homers and Ovids of the world, the Shakespeares and Edgar Allen Poes, they might actually have gotten things kind of almost right—at least in that whoever's running things, they're 1. a poet, and 2. a bastard.

It is somewhat surprising to look down at his own dead body.

"Son of a bitch," he says.

His body settles, dripping blood. There's a lot of blood, and a lot of him is broken—shattered, really. A noise draws his attention upward, a shout and clamor. Shane can't make out what it is. The sound is distorted, and now that he's paying attention, everything else is, too. It's like a dreamscape, like someone took dozens of photographs over decades of time, printed them on transparencies and overlaid them. If he concentrates, he can pick out individual images and bring them to the forefront.

Something moves in the doorway. Shane can't quite focus on it. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. He's not sure, but he thinks he can hear screaming, and it stirs something in him and he doesn't like it. Fortunately, it goes away pretty quickly, and silence falls again.

"Well?" he calls out. "What now?"

The world does not answer.

"Do I have to stay here, or can I, like, go? Can I just go? 'Cuz uh, gotta tell you, I'm not really into the whole ghost-thing!"

Still, nothing. The distant sound of sirens drifts on the breeze. He looks down at his body and folds his arms.

"Oh, shit, I could go to my own funeral," he realizes. "Boy, that'd be a trip, huh?"

All's quiet on the moors, save for the approaching sirens. Shane glances over his shoulder. Out of curiosity, he wanders back to the camera crew. The bright lights leave the world in a haze, illuminating a sea of phantasmal cars, buses, carriages, horses, people. It's hard to focus on the ones that are here now, so much so that it gives Shane a killer headache.

Or maybe that's just the lingering memory of the rebar going through his skull. Could be either.

He finds Ryan huddled up in the back of the equipment van, a blanket around his shoulders and about six people clustered around him. He's shaking like crazy, his eyes wide and wild, and he's . . . he's. . . .

Sobbing.

He's explaining, to the crew, what happened. The words are a jumbled mess. Tears stream down his face. They're trying to comfort him, but they all look just as shell-shocked and sickened and scared. Somebody calls Ryan's girlfriend for him. Somebody else is on the phone with corporate, and someone's still talking to the emergency dispatcher, and Ryan—and Ryan is crying so hard he can't breathe. . . .

Shane backs away, slowly. He goes back to the shattered wreck of his own body, sits down on a chunk of stone that might have been dragged off two hundred years ago. It's less disturbing than the scene back at the van.

"Man, I look like a really fucked-up unicorn," he remarks. "I got brains comin' out the back of my head! That's no good!"

Nobody answers. Blue and red flashing lights crest the hill. Shane sighs and hangs his head.

"And here's me, talking to air again," he mutters. "Okay. So uh—here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna leave. I'm gonna go do . . . other stuff. And not watch them take my body outta here, 'cuz that's gonna be gross. Eugh."

And he's not going to attend his own funeral, either, he decides, as he wanders down the hill away from the castle. He'd kind of assumed everybody else would be as cool with him dying as he was, that it would be no big deal, that it would be sad, but overall just another Thing That Happens. He doesn't want to see Ryan cry again. He doesn't want to see any of his other coworkers cry, either, his friends, or—God forbid—his parents. He doesn't want to be mourned.

It occurs to him about an hour later, as he's slogging through a thousand years of Scottish fen.

He is in an absolutely unique position to find out exactly where, and how many times, Ryan was wrong.

It's hard to gauge the passage of time, but it's probably been a few years, and Shane has learned something very important about ghosts: they don't happen where—or to whom—popular opinion had it.

The big places, the asylums and castles and manors, they're quiet, they're empty. Taverns can be a little bit more populous, although they really aren't any fun.  Nobody's having a good time in this part of the afterlife, and most people are alone. He almost never sees anyone with a friend, and never a group of more than three. He's really hoping he never runs into anybody he knows, for . . . lots of reasons.

It's the mundane places that are really teeming, the streetcorners and back-alleys, the factories, the wilderness. And it's not the big people, either—not the mobsters and judges and doctors, but the urchins, the servants, the prostitutes, forgotten in life and forgotten in death. He made it back to America eventually, and the horrors that soaked the earth there made him sick. Not a square inch of all that once-beautiful land was free of blood. In places, it's like the earth itself has died. In places, he can see its ghosts, too.

One place he finds Ryan was right about is Salem.

There's an old house, well-kept, slightly more there than most other structures he finds, although he's sure he never saw it when he was alive. He climbs the steps. An old Black woman sits by the fire.

"Are you Tituba?" he asks. It's a stupid thing to say, but he hasn't said much in a long time. Most of the other ghosts don't like talking to him. For a minute, he thinks Tituba won't, either.

"I remember you," she says. "You were very rude."

"I guess I was," says Shane. "Uh . . . sorry."

She rocks her chair. The fire crackles, although it makes no warmth.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"If you want to know the answer."

"Why are you still here? Why haven't you gone . . . wherever dead people go?"

"I'm waiting," she says.

"For what?"

A shrug is all he gets.

"Well . . . good luck, I guess," he says. "I hope it comes to you, whatever it is."

He asks around a little more after that, although people who will talk to him are few and far between. Why are some of us here? It's obviously not everyone. Why are you here?

And he gets the same answer.

I'm waiting.

Time has passed. Shane's more well-traveled than he's ever been, but there's still a strange restlessness in him. Something, he feels, needs to be done, but he'll be damned if he knows what it is. It gets so bad that at one point he risks going to visit his own grave.

It's nice. The tombstone is nice. There's no epitaph, which is about what he wanted. Somebody's left flowers, although they're plastic.

"Kitchy," he says to no one. "Get that shit outta here."

"Plastic?"

Shane starts. There's another man, very old, loitering at a nearby grave. It's the first time someone's struck up a conversation with him, instead of the other way around.

"Uh . . . yeah," he says. The old man shakes his head.

"Kind gesture, but it does feel cheap, doesn't it."

"I guess."

"I always told them not to put plastic flowers on my grave, but some damn fool's done it anyway."

"Sucks. I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "No point in getting upset about it now. Say, do you know when the chariots or what-have-you come down?"

"I don't," Shane admits. "I've never seen 'em."

"Ah, what a shame. I'll wait, then. It's not like I have anything else to do."

"Right?" he says, chuckling, shaking his head.

Between one moment and the next, the old man disappears, like smoke, like fog. There's not even a shadow of him left, not in all the layers of history painted across the world.

Even without a choir of angels, or a blast of Hellfire, it's pretty obvious what just happened. Maybe neither of those things exist to happen, and the vanishing is all there is, after this.

Shane looks down at the flowers on his grave. He takes a deep breath.

"Okay," he says. "All right. I get it."

It's going to take a while to get to L.A., but he's got time.

Ryan's actually kind of doing okay. That's a pretty firm marker on how long Shane's been gone. Incredibly, he's still doing Unsolved, even the paranormal stuff. He's got a new guy working with him, too, although they're a little stilted and they have difficulty making each other laugh, even for the cameras. They seem like they're getting along okay, though. Ryan's definitely chilled out a lot since the last time Shane saw him. He's rusty on the ghost hunting.

It takes a while, takes a lot of following and waiting, but eventually Shane gets the chance to tag along on a trip.

"Man, this brings back some memories, huh," he says, meandering along behind Ryan as he creeps through some abandoned, burnt-out warehouse. "Look at you, though! You grew a big ol' spine since the last time I saw you."

Ryan doesn't respond, because of course he doesn't. He's looked right through Shane a dozen times already. Shane's not too bothered by it. Nobody's seen him in years.

The hunt goes like it always goes. Eventually Ryan and the new guy split up. The new guy goes first.

"This is so dumb," he mutters to the camera, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Right?" says Shane. He shakes his head. "Hey, take a little nap, buddy. It's nice! Nice little break from all the craziness."

The guy waits out his five minutes. Shane hangs out. Ryan comes in, trades some banter with the new guy, and is left alone.

Something about the way he moves makes Shane's mind come into sharper focus. The layered blur of the world grows clear in the darkness when Ryan turns out his flashlight.

"Oh, man," he whispers. "Okay. I'm getting chills already. Shit. Shi-hi-hit. No, I'm okay, I'm okay. I'm a big boy. I got my big boy pants on."

"Calm down, big boy, nobody's gonna hurt you," says Shane, rolling his eyes.

But something in him hurts. Something aches. He hasn't felt a damn thing in years, but suddenly, now, it's almost like being alive again. It's almost like he wants something again.

"All right," Ryan says, raising his voice. "So, uh, if there's anybody here with me, uh, my name is Ryan Bergara, I'm a—a paranormal investigator."

"Oh, huh, are you? Is that what you're calling it these days?" says Shane, folding his arms.

"Um . . . if there's anyone here, can you make a noise?"

"No, Ryan, I can't make a noise, because I'm a ghost, and I can't interact with the material world, ya big dummy. I'm made of ectoplasm, or—electromagnetism, or something, I don't actually know. But it doesn't touch stuff! Sometimes if I concentrate real hard, I can walk through walls!"

Ryan just stands and listens. His head swivels back and forth like a radar dish. His eyes are wide and bright. He swallows. He waits, and waits, and waits.

"Okay," he says to himself. "Okay, okay, that's fine, that's okay. Uh—okay, so if there's anybody here, uh, I'm gonna get out this little, uh, this little device. It's called a spirit-box."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Shane sighs, except that the heart he doesn't have anymore is suddenly up in his throat. "It's not gonna tell you anything. It's baloney."

Ryan takes it out and sets it down gingerly on the table, his breaths coming quick and panicky. "And, if you wanna talk to me, you can use this, okay?"

"What—how?" Shane cries. "How am I supposed to do anything with that hokey box?"

"So I'm gonna . . . turn this on, and you should be able to talk to me, through it. Okay, here we go."

The box squeals, then launches into its randomized chirping. Ryan gulps, his eyes flicking around the room. Shane kicks at the table the box sits on. His foot hits something, but Ryan doesn't react, so it probably wasn't the table-as-it-is he kicked, but the shadow of some past version from ten or twenty years ago.

"Okay, so . . . if there's anybody here with me, my name's Ryan. Can you say my name back to me?"

"Of course I can't, the stupid box doesn't do anything."

Ryan stands in silence, listening, listening. A squawk of static comes out of the box.

"What was that?" he says. "Can you say that again?"

"I said your stupid box doesn't do anything."

Choppy white noise, blips of music and talk shows and nothing.

"If there's somebody here with me, can you make a noise?" Ryan asks.

"No! I can't! Because I'm a ghost, you idiot!"

Ost oop it, goes the box. Ryan stiffens.

"What was that? Did you say something?"

"I did, but I didn't say it through your stupid box, which is fuckin' useless!"

Useless.

Ryan pales. His eyes go wide. His breath comes short. "Ohhhh man, okay. Okay. I'm freakin' out a little now. You—Eustice? Is that—is that your name? Eustice?"

Shane's too blind-sided to call him an idiot again. He seizes the spirit box and shakes it. It's like trying to shift a boulder. His voice cracks as he shouts.

"No! No, it's Shane, it's Shane Madej, tell him, tell him it's me!"

Eh ih-ih ee.

"I don't know what that was, I—I'm sorry. Could you repeat that, Eustice?"

"Shane! It's Shane! Ryan, come on, man!"

Chk chk chk chk shh sht cht chk.

"Okay, fuck this, I'm done," says Ryan, reaching for the box. "That's all, bye Eustice, we're done!"

In absolute, idiotic desperation, Shane screams, "Spaghetti!"

Spa-ghet-ti.

Ryan freezes.

"What did you just say?" he whispers.

"Spaghetti! Apple tater!"

Ap-ah t-t-r.

He's shaking so hard his hand blurs over the spirit-box. His breath mists in front of his face. There are tears in his eyes.

"Did you just say . . . apple tater?"

"Yes! I did, yes! Ryan, it's me! Come on, you stupid box, tell him it's me!"

Stih-up-p-p box.

All the blood drains from Ryan's face. He stops breathing. When he blinks, the tears slip out. When he speaks, it barely makes a sound, but Shane feels it, feels it like a punch to the chest, like a struck bell.

Shane?

The only thing he can do is shout, whoop at the top of his lungs and jump in the air. The spirit-box lets out an ungodly wail, and in an instant, Ryan slaps it off the table, screaming.

It smashes on the floor. The room goes silent.

"No," Ryan says, choked up. "Nope, no no no, fuck this, fuck it, I'm out, I'm done! Fuck everything about this!"

He beelines for the door, his knees wobbling. He's just a hair shy of a full-on sprint.

"Where are you going?" Shane demands, hurrying after him. "Hey, no, don't leave! You—you fraidy cat! Ryan! Ryan!"

But he's out of there, back to the noise and bright lights of the camera crew, where the world becomes less real, where Shane's head gets fuzzy and his focus scatters. He retreats back to the shadows, a sudden exhaustion overtaking him.

"Okay," he says to himself. "It's okay. First try's always gonna be . . . messy. And Ryan's an idiot, so—yeah. So yeah. Just gotta keep—keep on keepin' on, Shane. Chin up, buddy. We'll get there."

So of course, because the universe is a poet and a bastard, Ryan does the one thing Shane could never have predicted.

He gives up ghost-hunting.

Quits his job at BuzzFeed, in fact, and moves up north to the Klamaths, and lands a nice little job teaching film and creative writing at a community college. His girlfriend—now wife, apparently—doesn't comment on the fact that they have a night-light in the bedroom. They've probably already talked about it. Shane doesn't like it, the smug little bluebird shitfish, but he leaves it be. Some things are sacred, inviolable.

Anyway, he's got time.

Ryan's daughter first sees him when she turns three.

"Daddy Daddy!" she cries, barreling into his room at ass o'clock in the morning. "Daddy, there's a tall man in my room!"

"What?" he mumbles.

"A tall man, I saw him!"

Ryan comes to check. He turns the lights on. He looks right through Shane a dozen times as he searches the closet and under the bed and behind the lamp and everywhere.

"There's nobody here, sweetie," he says. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

"Okay," she says.

He kisses her head and clicks the light back out. Shane follows him through the door, because—well, it's kind of weird, hanging out in a three-year-old's room. He was just a little spellbound at first, because it was Ryan's kid, and that's a bizarre thought even when he's looking right at it. But staying would be weird, so he doesn't stay.

But he does come back.

It's not like he's haunting Ryan, no, that's not what it's about. He mostly keeps to himself and doesn't bother anyone, but the kid is weirdly good at spotting him, and there's something about being seen that makes him feel . . . good? Important? Less dead and miserable and alone?

Daddy Daddy, the tall man came back. Daddy Daddy, I saw him by my closet. Daddy Daddy, he came to my tea party. Daddy Daddy, he moved my book!

Which, yes, he did, as ludicrous as it was. For lack of anything better to do with his time. If he focuses as hard as he can and pushes with all his might, sometimes, just a little bit, he can move things. Like a child's book, or a doll's hand, or maybe a door if the hinges are well-oiled. He tries not to do it when anybody's home, but he can't always tell. The kid's too good at seeing him, too, but at least she isn't scared. He tries to make sure she knows he's not there to hurt anybody, and although he's pretty sure she can't hear him, she seems to have gotten the message.

Ryan, maybe, didn't.

He gets more jittery. Lights stay on. There's a marked increase in the amount of religious iconography and (likely) holy water. He spends a lot of time on the computer, drinks a lot of coffee, falls behind on his teaching stuff.

One night, the wife and kid go out, and Ryan stays in. This is weird. Shane sticks around.

Ryan goes up to the kid's room, and he settles into the reading chair by her bed, and he turns out all the lights. The blue glow of his phone illuminates his face. He sits still for a long time, just breathing.

"Shane," he says. His voice shakes. "If you're here right now, could you give me a sign?"

The old desperation seizes him. He slaps the window blinds as hard as he can. They manage a faint, whispering sway. Ryan stiffens, takes a deep breath, lets it out again.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I—I made this for you. I thought maybe it would help, if you're . . . if you're struggling to move on. I hope it helps you, or . . . something. So here it goes."

Another deep breath. Shane waits, pulled taut with anticipation. Ryan adjusts his glasses and looks down at the phone, and he starts to read.

The alien planet of Tomat-0. A rustbucket of an old spaceship sits on a landing pad, engines primed, ready to launch. A pair of plupples, which are alien fruits that are like plums, but cooler, and blue, carry a charismatic box of fries from the future and a sturdy can of good soup up the loading ramp.

"Plup, plup!" says one of the plupples.

"Plup, plup," the other agrees. Plupples are very stupid. However, unfortunately for our heroes, they are not so stupid that they cannot carry out orders from their dark master.

Shane can't believe his ears. He wanders across the room. Even if he had lungs, he wouldn't be able to breathe. He sits down on the bed near Ryan, pulls up his knees and wraps his arms around them. Ryan reads on.

"Wait just one plupping minute, there!" A voice rings out! The plupples halt. There, coming over the horizon of Tomat-0, a witch-hologram of corn riding upon a giant plupple comes charging to the rescue.

"Plup, plup!"

"Plup, plup, plup!"

The hologram corn, Maizey, arrives. "You put those critically-acclaimed and universally-beloved characters down, you Ewok ripoffs!"

"PLUP," the giant plupple plups in agreement.

"Whoah, hey, uh, whoah!" Garce, one of two intelligent plupples, emerges from the ship. "Hey, uh, wow, corn girl, how did you, uh, escape your deadly trial by combat, which you were sentenced to by the great Dr. Goondis, played by Ryan Steven Bergara?"

"I fought the beast and I won, as you can see, because I am riding it into battle with you little blue freaks. Also I ate Dr. Goondis, because we didn't have the time to cut up more VO files for him, so now he's dead."

"That makes perfect narrative sense, uh, but how did you find us?"

A flash of light, a creaky, cackling voice.

"Pam, Pam, kazam, it was me!" A tiny hotdog, about forty percent bigger than Jiminy Cricket, appears in a flash of witch-light on Maizey's corn shoulder. "I'm doing my part to atone for the evil I did before I died, even though it was totally sick and awesome!"

"That's understandable. But uh, what are you both going to do now?"

Maizey draws herself up tall, tall and proud atop the giant plupple. "We're going to take our friends back from you blue goons. We're going to travel back in time and save my witch-hologram wife, stop Pam from killing the hotdog family, the unbelievably rich and compelling characters of Dan, Rebecca, and Brandon, and creating the Gauntlet of Ultimate Power, or G.U.P.—"

"Gup! Gup! Gup!" plup the plupples.

Shane laughs. He puts a hand over his mouth, like Ryan's going to hear him or something, come over bashful and stop reading. Ryan doesn't hear him, though. He keeps going.

And that, dear listeners, esteemed fans of the Hotdaga, that is what they do. Together, Maizey and Pam, along with the un-drugged Gene and Mike Soup, they rout the plupples. They fix the Minestrone, that marvelous spacecraft, and equip it with the Bernoulli Converter to reach the wormhole in the Graxilon quadrant. Dear fans, they travel back in time, and stop the evil Pam from dumping that delicious party of wedding guests into the lava. By having Pam from the future eat herself. It's totally wicked awesome.

Maizey reunites with her witch-hologram french-fry wife, Gebra. Gene gets the Risky Fixin's band back together, for one last smash hit before the happily ever after you've all been waiting for. And here, my dear friends, here it is.

Music plays. It's stupid. It's the stupidest thing Shane has ever heard, and the production value is shit, and Ryan can't sing worth a damn, either.

For the next two minutes and eighteen seconds, he cries like a baby.

"And that's . . . it," says Ryan. He's crying too. "That's the thrilling conclusion to the Hot Dog Saga, or Hotdaga. It's . . . solved. I hope you—I hope you liked it."

"You nailed it, man," Shane says, choked up. "You got it. You nailed it. Shit, Ryan. Thank you."

Ryan sniffles. He wipes his face. He puts his phone down and sits in the dark.

"I don't wanna sound rude or anything, Shane, but . . . now could you please, please leave my family alone? Like, I miss you, but I just—I can't. I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, man. I'm so fuckin' sorry for what happened."

"What? No, no no no, what are you talking about? Ryan, it wasn't your fault, Jesus!"

Ryan scrubs at his face, puts his head in his hands.

"Just please . . . please let me—just let me move on, too. I can't do this anymore."

"I—yeah," says Shane, shaken right down to his core, in so much pain he can barely hold himself together. "Yeah. Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't even think about . . . yeah. I'll go. I'll go."

He almost puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder, then thinks better of it. He walks out the door.

He doesn't look back.

About four months before Ryan's eightieth birthday, the Universe catches up with him.

Shane isn't sure how he knows, but he knows. He makes his way back to Crescent City, finds the hospital, the bed. It's bad. It's been bad for a long time.

It's not going to get better.

His daughter is with him that night, when the lights are dim and Shane doesn't have to fight so hard to stay present. She's middle-aged now. It's weird how fast five decades can slip by, when you spend them wandering around doing nothing.

Well, nothing except waiting.

"Sweetie, do you remember the Tall Man?" Ryan asks.

"My imaginary friend?" she asks. "Kinda. Why?"

"I think . . . I see him," says Ryan. "The Tall Man was always nice, wasn't he? He was always nice to you?"

"He was, Daddy. You were the only one who was worried about him."

"Good. Good. Because if he ever wasn't, I'm gonna . . . I'll kick his ass."

She laughs. Shane laughs.

They're stupid last words, but it's okay. He dies in his sleep about three hours later, when his daughter is sleeping, too.

Ryan takes a moment. He looks down at his body. He isn't terribly concerned.

"Huh," he says.

"'Bout sums it up, doesn't it."

Ryan turns, and he sees Shane. Shane waves.

"Hey," he says. "So uh . . . turns out you were right."

You were right.

It rings down through fifty years, reverberating, a struck bell, a punch in the chest.

You were right.

The corner of Ryan's old ghost mouth turns up, and then he smiles a big, wrinkly, toothy smile, and Shane knows, in that moment, that this is what he was waiting for.

"Damn right I was," says Ryan.

"So you uh . . . you got anything you wanna do, before . . . whatever's next?" Shane asks.

"Mm, maybe a couple things. Like, y'know, see all the haunted stuff, if it's actually haunted."

"Yeah, that's cool, that's cool. Pretty much what I did. You uh . . . you mind if I tag along?"

"Mind? No. Wouldn't have it any other way."

"The Ghoul Boys ride again," says Shane, smiling, even as he feels something begin to dissolve within him.

"Hell yeah," says Ryan.

He sticks out a hand, old and weathered. Shane shakes it. Ryan pulls him in and hugs him, so tight it threatens to pop him like a bubble.

"I'm sorry, Shane," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

Shane hugs him back.

"It wasn't your fault," he says. "It's okay."

From one moment to the next, with no choir of angels and no Hellfire—

In a flash of white—

They go onward.