#found that MY IRON WAS LOW all the way back in February | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

the-seas-song · 3 years

Text

Richard Armitage and Astrology

Hi! I find astrology fascinating, and am an armchair expert on it myself, so I found Richard's comments in his recent Total Film Magazine interview very interesting. This is what he said:

I’ve been incredibly lucky. I’ve dabbled with having my celestial chart looked at every couple of years, just for a little tune-up. Every time, the guy sighs, and goes, “What can I say? You’ve just got a sprinkle of luck.” And I say, “That’s good, because I don’t have the talent, so I really need the luck!”

[cut]

There is a naughty, dark side to me. I am quite strongly affected by the moon. So if there’s a full moon I’ll go a bit crazy. (source)

This isn't the first time Richard's mentioned astrology – he's mentioned being a Leo, reading his daily horoscope, and finding out he was born in the Chinese Year of the Pig; but these were all informal twitter comments. He has also mentioned the effect the moon has on him before, in February 2020:

“Everyone has cycles of positive mental and emotional feelings and negative mental and emotional feelings and I know that I am profoundly affected on a monthly cycle. I always look at the calendar when I'm feeling particularly low and check the lunar cycle to see if it's a full or new moon.” (source)

However, what prompted me to write this is that Richard's personal put-downs were even more direct here than usual; and the connection that has to his natal, or birth, chart.

A little disclaimer: Personally, I think general horoscopes (like the ones you find in magazines) do far more harm than good. They are based solely on the twelve sun signs, and your sun sign is just one puzzle piece out of 25+ pieces that make up your natal chart. This is why many people don't relate to their horoscope or it's personality description.

Your natal chart, however, is a whole different animal. It's an intricate puzzle created by the exact date, time, and location you were born; which is why most people find their natal charts to be scarily accurate.

Back during the Hobbit days, a fan blog reported that Richard told a NZ fan that his birth time was just after 4 a.m. I used 4:05 for this post, and being off by a few minutes doesn't really make a difference.

Richard and self-esteem

I really feel for and relate to Richard's self-esteem struggles, because our charts mirror each other. We are both Leo suns; but I have my moon in Aries with my MC and Chiron conjunct each other in Virgo and sextile my North Node; while Richard has his moon in Virgo with his MC and Chiron conjunct each other in Aries and sextile his North Node.

What on earth does that mean?

Each planet represents a different part of you. The sun represents your ego/conscious self; the moon your emotions, mercury your mind/intellect, venus love and beauty/aesthetics, mars passion and drive, etc.

On top of the twelve planets, there are specific points and asteroids that are also important. Your MC, or Midheaven, represents your career and public persona. Your North Node describes your inner journey and life purpose. The asteroid Chiron describes your major soul wound, that you will be forced to deal with throughout your life.

A conjunction and a sextile are two of several different kinds of aspects. The different kinds of aspects are the different ways your respective puzzle pieces can interact with each other. Some are 'easy/positive' and some 'difficult/negative'. A sextile is considered easy/positive. A conjunction means two things are next to each other and overlap with one another, and is usually considered positive.

Leo and Aries are both fire signs. Fire signs are generally playful, warm, passionate, confident, and optimistic. Virgo is an earth sign. Earth signs are generally practical, grounded, sensual, and logical.

Richard's personality is dominated by an almost equal amount of Leo and Virgo influence, with both his sun (core self) and venus (love and beauty) in Leo and his moon (emotions) and mercury (mind) in Virgo.

Aries and Virgo are said to be the most difficult Chiron signs, because they are the wounds tied directly to your self-worth (Aries is the wound of Self and Virgo is the wound of Perfection). With Aries Chiron you feel a core sense of worthlessness, like you're missing a fundamental piece of your core self. This deeply felt lack of self-worth leads people to be people pleasers and have issues with confrontation and conflict.

Aries rules the planet mars. It is the warrior planet of passion, drive, and combat. A conventional Aries is confident, outgoing, impulsive, and strong willed. Aries and mars are definitely the rowdiest sign and planet in the zodiac. However, with Chiron here the traits are inverted, and so someone like Richard is much more likely to be scared of his inner passion, confidence, and willpower – depending, of course, on what the rest of his chart is like.

That leads us to Virgo. Chiron Virgo feels impure, like there is something fundamentally wrong with them. This kind of low self-esteem makes you feel like you have to constantly try to 'fix' yourself so people will love and accept you. It's an OCD type of perfectionism that only ends in failure and heartbreak.

A good example of how this works is when I talked to my therapist recently. I hadn't quite succeeded in meeting my goals, and so my automatic response was to condemn myself for failing. My therapists immediate response was to congratulate me on how much progress I had made.

Ironically, unlike with Aries, this isn't an inversion of the conventional Virgo. Conventional Virgo is meticulous, detail-oriented, focused, patient, efficient, practical, perfectionistic, systematic, and pessimistic with high expectations. If Aries is the official warrior of the zodiac, Virgo is the official nit-picker.

This means that Richard's subconscious intellectually (mercury) and emotionally (moon) expects and demands perfection, whilst simultaneously feeling fundamentally worthless. In short: ouch.

Interestingly, a significant number of celebrities have their Chiron conjunct their MC. Personally, I think Richard hit the nail on the head as to why in his essay on the Human Condition for Cybersmile:

The answer in my humble opinion, (and believe me it is humble, to a point of taking 43 years to be shared) is actually something which applies to my work as an actor. It’s why sometimes actors are called in to work with therapists, in large corporations, in schools. It’s why drama therapy is fantastic to understand what we do, how we do it and what the outcome might be, and in an improvisation where we aren’t playing ourselves sometimes we explore avenues that are too frightening or unacceptable in our own lives.

[cut]

So going back to my very first point, the “social media society” in which we’d all like to feel safe, supported, excited, creative, spontaneous, innovative, courageous, is really in our own hands. And back to acting, it’s taken me a long time to shake off the effects of bullying in school. That people were always laughing behind my back. I was always looking out of the corner of my eye. I now have incredible peripheral vision which is so useful, (as is Kinesthetic sense…Google it) but try being a brave, experimental, uninhibited actor with all of those hang ups. Wasn’t happening.

So here is the thing, and it’s key to my work and I think ours as a community. When we speak or write, we ultimately desire to ‘affect’. If we aren’t watching the destination of that affect, then how do we know our words have landed and the ‘effect’ they have caused?

[cut]

If I have a strong opinion about something which I want to express I really task myself with backing it up with the ‘why do I feel that?’

Again it’s part of my work building a believable character, and actually part of building a believable ‘me’ outside of my work. Just.. “because that’s what I feel” is a bit of a cop out.

[cut]

As for Bullying, it’s like the moment the pot boils over, or it’s the poisoned stream that can’t be cleansed, so why bother. Well I think that’s what art is for. It’s can support the best and the worst of ourselves. We can ‘attack’ a canvas with black angry paint, we can ‘savage’ a piano keyboard, we can dance until we drop, we can read about a Puritan society who executed elders, we can explore the psychology of a serial killer, and when we can’t do this ourselves we can experience it, and witness it through others.

It’s more than being nice. Edward Munch’s “The Scream” is far from nice. Francisco Goya’s “Saturn” is horrific, Metallica, Die Antwoort etc etc. But then there is Monet, Faure, Renée Fleming, Peter Jackson, Ariana Grande (ok it’s getting a bit eclectic I admit) but when we look, listen and empathize, we tune in to the Human Condition.

We are all part of The Human Condition, whether we like it or not. Social Media. Expression. The Human Condition.

Us human beings are wired for emotion and connection. For actors, their career gives them a way to safely process and explore their personal wounds through the characters they play. For Richard in particular, his mars is conjunct his North Node. So, his mars and North Node are sextile his Chiron and MC.

Remember, Aries (the sign of Richard's Chiron and MC) is ruled by mars. Mars is the warrior planet, like Aries is the warrior sign. This means that Richard's spiritual journey/life's purpose (North Node) deals directly with healing his soul wound so he can accept and embrace his inner confidence and willpower. This explains why he ends up playing a lot of ultra-masculine characters – mars/Aries are the most macho of them all.

This isn't to say I think Richard should change who he is! I wouldn't be interested in him if he was ultra-masculine or macho. However, for his own sake, I would be overjoyed to see him gain more self-esteem and inner confidence.

Extrapolating from my own personal experiences, the constant criticism and judgement I received during my adolescence from my peers and various authority figures (like family members and teachers) for being unconventional and 'over the top' caused me to turn on myself and repress my passion and will-power for several years. I think it's highly likely that Richard experienced this too.

Here are some quotes from Richard that illustrate everything I've been talking about (emphasis is mine):

Armitage is still notably handsome, but, within minutes of meeting him, it’s apparent how incongruous it is that this bookish, sensitive, self-described ‘melancholic, philosophically-minded softie’ and ardent fan of The Great British Bake Off was cast as beefcake killer totty for a considerable part of his career. ‘It’s ridiculous. It’s the complete opposite to who I am. I’m such a pacifist,’ he laughs. ‘But then, part of me always felt: “Well, isn’t that why we’re actors?”

[cut]

'I think the turning point was losing my mum,” he says. “Up until that point, I felt like I mustn’t put a foot wrong, that if I said the wrong thing or revealed too much about my personal life, it could all come crashing down, and it would come down on my parents, and they wouldn’t be proud of me anymore.” He shrugs. “Now that I’m past that I’m actually much more carefree about the choices I make.” (source)

Richard Armitage puts his head in his hands and emits a noise that's somewhere between a sigh, a laugh and a groan. “Oh no! Why would you want to pin this up?” he says with a horrified whisper.

[cut]

Never has a man seemed more ill at ease with the heartthrob label. He squirms with embarrassment in his chair every time the subject comes up. He is grateful for the loyalty of his fans, he says, but worries that “there is this thing of, 'Is he just totty?' Because the industry will sometimes write you off as a serious actor if they think that. I have always been conscious of that and fought against it, because I don't really see myself like that at all.”

[cut]

This brings us back to Astrov, who looks so relentless towards the future that he can't see the truth in front of his eyes. “It's interesting that he's an outsider in the play. I've often felt like that myself in life. I'm quite a solitary person. I enjoy my time with me, and sometimes it's not necessarily healthy, because I can talk myself into quite a dark place.

I'm an optimist, but at the same time, there's a discipline in me that will attack me for not working hard enough, not achieving enough, not being good enough. You always think, 'I'll grow out of that. With success, those voices will disappear.' But they don't, they get louder. I suppose I'm learning a bit about myself through Astrov.” (source)

The answer in my humble opinion, (and believe me it is humble, to a point of taking 43 years to be shared) is actually something which applies to my work as an actor. … And back to acting, it’s taken me a long time to shake off the effects of bullying in school. That people were always laughing behind my back. I was always looking out of the corner of my eye. I now have incredible peripheral vision which is so useful, (as is Kinesthetic sense…Google it) but try being a brave, experimental, uninhibited actor with all of those hang ups. Wasn’t happening. (Human Condition essay)

So I kind of travelled on that line for a while, and I was bullied for it as well. The problem with me is that as soon as you try to push me down or say “you can’t do this” and “I don’t think you should do that”, I immediately push back. So I did – I’d decided really young that I was going to try to make a career out of it.

[cut]

Actually, there was something I wanted to add to what Shaun said, about inclusivity, is that um, no matter how – how much confidence you have or how, in my case, lack. Y’know, I always felt like a misfit, or an oddball, or that I didn’t belong. But I always – I always told myself that ‘you exist in the world, so therefore there’s a place for you in this industry’. I think anybody who feels like, “I can’t become an actor because…” – you exist. And, y’know, the job of filmmakers is to write about our life and society, and if you are a part of that, then there’s a place for you in the industry. (source)

I'm a bit of a brooder. I don't like confrontation, so I think I suppress things. When my temper does come out, it goes all the way – the kind of temper you can't apologize for. Yep, the chair getting thrown out of the window. Those emotions are scary, but hey, they come in useful when you're acting. (source)

Armitage is a noticeably calm presence but he talks with passion.

[cut]

In the past, he has described himself as a shy person. “Not any more,” he says forcefully. “I mean… if I’m very, very honest, I’m a big guy, I think I’m at times quite a frightening person.”

In what way?

“I think I’m quite uncompromising. I can’t bear bulls---. And in a way the shyness is me protecting other people from that. I can feel that there’s an intimidation that can happen if I own my full height, and speak at my full volume. So I’ve learned over the years to just tone it all down a bit.” (source)

I've become one of those actors who find it difficult to say no when things are offered. I think if I had come out of drama school and been an instant Hollywood superstar I would be taking long, leisurely holidays. But I always feel somehow it's going to be taken away from me so I work when I can. When you struggled with work as I did when I left drama school you make hay when the sun shines. There was a time when I thought, and my agent thought, it wasn't going to happen for me. We both sat down and I actually said I don't know if I can stay in this state. The interesting roles have only come since I got into my 30s. But I didn't know that was going to happen. I'm a bit of an all or nothing kind of guy. To be honest, I had no blind faith in myself. I don't think I could have stayed around as a jobbing actor. I would probably have quit. Who knows? I think I would have found that too frustrating. But at the moment when I thought I was going to quit, something happened and it all changed again. (source)

[talking about being cast in the Hobbit]

There was a little bit of guidance as to what they were looking for. I felt that I was too young for the character, too tall for that character, so I thought, you know, ‘I’ll just look at the scene they’ve written’. And then I realised the essence of the character that they were aiming for. So I went to meet Peter and Phillipa and we read some of the scenes. I think we spent an hour-and-a-half talking about the character and what their vision was, and I sort of explained who I thought he was, and that was it.

[cut]

Yeah, my first instinct, whenever that kind of thing happens, is to say, 'Well what's wrong with the part? Why did nobody else want it'? Which is kind of the story of my life really. When I get offered something, I'm like, 'Well there must be something wrong with it if they're offering it to me!'

[cut]

But you know, the thing is, you talk about all of this: ‘How did you get the role? And how did it feel when you got the role?’ And once all that’s died down you start to think, ‘I’ve actually got to go and play this now’. They’ve trusted me. Everyone’s happy, everyone’s celebrated, the phones have gone down and the deal’s been done. Now it’s over to me to make the role work. And that’s the scariest moment, because you do have that elation and then the work begins and you think, ‘How the hell am I going to do this?’ (source)

How was it for you taking on this beloved role, this character that has such a huge responsibilty on his back? Could you relate in some ways?

Richard Armitage: Yeah. There is always building within him this paranoia that he’s not a good enough leader, and that weighs him down. I have experienced that same feeling as an actor in this role. And I was aware of taking on the responsibility of that character, so there was something I could latch onto there, as one of the people who loved ‘The Hobbit’ book and had envisioned that character. It took me a while to be convinced that I could do it, it wasn’t until I saw some sketches, this one particular pencil sketch….there was something about this characters eyes and the way that his hands are crossed, I thought, “I think I can do this, I can pull this off.” (source)

Q: I wanted to ask you about what your Arkenstone is. For you personally.

A: Me personally?

Q: And I meant for this to be materialistic. What's the thing that you covet so much that it makes you mad that you don't have it?

A: Well, it's actually not material. It's not material, and it's – (laughs) You want a comedy answer, don't you? But it's respect. It's the thing that always eludes you, you know. You have to fight for it and when you get it, your arkenstone, the thing that crowns you, is respect.

Q: And also a sweater.

A: And a sweater. I do have this little natty number.

Q: It's a good one man.

A: Tom Ford made this personally. But hey, he can have it back. I don't covet wealth and material. (source)

Q6: You’ve done a variety of different roles, I wonder what influences you to pursue those roles?

R: More often than not, you go where you’re wanted. So getting hired is still kind of a revelation to me, a shock and a surprise. Sometimes you have very flat periods, where I don’t really care what comes next, I just want to work on something. I feel like I’ve got a little cloud of luck over my head so the right thing always seems to come along. But again, I’m easily excited about literature and stories, so I’ve always said I don’t really pursue glory, I’d happily do acting for two people in my living room if it was a role that I really enjoyed with a story I’d really like to tell. So it’s chance, I would say.

[cut]

Q8: Once in an interview about Thorin, you were asked what your arkenstone was and your answer was respect. I like this answer a lot. So I was wondering what’s your red dragon? As you said yesterday he’s a character who sheds his skin, improves, and becomes something. I was wondering if there was something you’d like to improve, become?

R: I guess the antithesis of that is disrespect. Do you mean in myself?

Q8: Yes.

R: Yeah I try not to be too disrespectful. I guess I value the truth. I think we’re living at a time at the moment where the truth is warped and there’s a word that’s been in my head for a long time, and particularly recently it’s come to the surface. When I was studying Macbeth, at the RSC, I read a long thesis about the gunpowder plot, which was one of the things they thought that Shakespeare (or whoever Shakespeare was) was stimulated by to write Macbeth. And the word equivocation was used in this thesis, it was actually about equivocation and what equivocation is. And if you look it up in the dictionary, at the moment most politicians are equivocating. When you don’t answer a question, or you bend the truth to make it seem like you are answering the question, and in fact you’re telling a lie. So I would say my red dragon would be equivocation.

[cut]

Then there was the physical form that I was studying and observing, but also, I do sometimes enjoy locking myself away in a room and reading a book or just doing something alone, and you sometimes can go a couple of days without speaking to anybody. I don’t know whether anyone else experiences this or whether I’m just a weirdo. But I find that when that happens my voice changes, and I always forget how to make a noise, I have to do a warm-up before I go into the world and start speaking again.

[cut]

Q15: I was wondering if you ever had to pull out of a project because it felt wrong or something, and what is the point where you say “nope I can’t do this”?

R: Um, no. But that’s partly to do with the fact that I have a lot of loyalty, probably too much loyalty for my own good, really, and there’ve been moment when I’ve been on board a project, and actually it happened this year with The Lodge, I was already on board that project and something else came along which was bigger and better and brighter and more money, and your agent says “look we can pull you out of The Lodge, they can probably recast it,” and here I think “I’ve already started this process, I don’t want to let people down,” and I don’t have a problem with that at all, I never have any regrets over the things that you miss or the things that you decide not to do, I think there’s a strong enough reason why you’ve decided not to do it, but in general no I haven’t ever pulled out of something. There was one television show I remember, I’m not going to say what it is, but after the first readthrough, I did call my agent and asked, “can I get out of this?” And then he quickly got back to me and said, “don’t do it. Don’t build a reputation built on disloyalty.” So I try not to.

[cut]

Q18: I think you are very handsome, but your character Francis hated the way he looked, how did that make you feel?

R: Francis hated the way he looked? Yeah. I guess there is something we relate to in that. Without getting too personal, I don’t always enjoy looking at myself in the mirror. I don’t do it very often, to be honest. I do it just to be sure I don’t have food on my face. I do it in character, actually. I do spend a bit of time studying my own face when I’m playing a character, which is interesting because your face does change. (source)

He cannot see the handsomeness: “I think I am odd-looking. I have big lines on my forehead.” I squint, looking for them, but he is talking over me, sounding slightly panicked. “I shouldn’t draw attention to it, because then everyone else will see the oddness.”

[cut]

Laziness is what makes him angry: “Laziness in myself. Laziness in other people. And dishonesty. All things I feel capable of myself. I have a propensity to be lazy and lie about it. Fear makes me rageful. There are words in The Crucible I actually find it quite hard to say.” I beg for an example — The Crucible is in the public domain. “No,” he says, “you’ll see it in the play.” I tell him it will make no sense in print if he will not tell me. But he won’t. So I change the subject. It works. “OK, I will give you a line.” He inflates a little and says: “Is there no good penitence but it be public?” And then: “Were I stone I would have cracked for shame this seven month.” (source)

Q: How would you describe your evolution as an actor since you started?

A: I think everything has to do with the fact that today I’m not afraid anymore. At first, I was embarrassed to do something wrong or do things badly or make myself ridiculous. Today, I am almost looking for opportunities to be ridiculous or vulnerable or to make as much of a mistake as possible. In a sense, it’s now the opposite of being undercover.

Q: Are you the actor you dreamed of being when you started?

A: Not yet. I am not yet fearless enough. It’s in waves, actually. But I have already approached this dream. There were moments, especially during Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, which I performed on stage, where I felt I had no control over things. That’s what I’m looking for: to lose control.

Q: You often play bad guys. What do you like in these characters?

A: I like disobedience. I like the fact that you can be disobedient thanks to your creativity. As a person, I must always be polite in life, be careful and correct so as not to hurt anyone. In a fantasy world, I can be as offensive as I want. It’s an outlet. (Laughter)

[cut]

Q: Many actors are moving to directing. Is this also your goal?

A: I would like to, but I do not think I’m smart enough. I am good when it comes to working with another’s vision. I do not think I have that creative spontaneity that creates a vision from scratch. But the future will tell. (source)

I applaud Richard for being so open and direct about his fears and insecurities. It takes a lot of bravery to do so. And while I've seen some fans get annoyed with his continual self-deprecation, I think his honesty and openness is much more significant, and shows his inner strength. He doesn't try to pretend to be someone he's not.

He recently described himself as “patient, obsessive, and silly” (source). The patient part is classic Virgo, and the obsessive part comes from an element of his natal chart that I have not mentioned.

The silly part, however, is classic Leo. Like I said above, he has an almost equal amount of Leo and Virgo in his personality. Personally, I'm proud to be a Leo, but I also know we get misunderstood a lot of the time. I wrote the following for an essay of mine on Leos in Disney:

Your sun sign represents your core identity. Just like the physical sun is the center of the solar system and its energy creates life, the astrological sun is our consciousness and life force. Each of the twelve sun signs are ruled by a different planet and element.

Since Leo is the fixed fire sign, we don't inherit the reckless and impulsive nature of fire, but instead are a steady flame. No sign is more reckless and impulsive than Aries, because they have the double combination of being a cardinal sign and a fire sign. Meanwhile, all four of the fixed signs struggle with stubbornness and admitting when their wrong.

Leo's are well known to be natural leaders and the rulers of the zodiac. We are ruled by the sun and our animal is the lion. We dream big and are born with big personalities, and we can't help but be theatrical and dramatic. This means we are always self-centered in the sense of being strong-willed and having a strong sense of self. It does not mean all Leos are egotistical.

Unhealthy Leo traits all revolve around the ego: attention-seeking, egotistical, selfish, bossy, controlling, pushy, jealous, possessive, lazy, vain, arrogant, aggressive, and obstinate.

Healthy Leos, however, are known for our fire-based traits – being animated, theatrical, happy, outgoing, independent, competitive, charismatic, creative, open-minded, open-hearted, confident, assertive, playful, warm, social, courageous, idealistic, affectionate, romantic, optimistic, and adventurous.

What isn't often talked about is our steadiness, our fixed-based traits. Leos are authentic, steadfast, fiercely loyal and protective, consistent, persistent, full-hearted, dedicated, need to do their best, generous and selfless, honorable and moral, genuine and direct, extremely supportive, hard-working and responsible, dignified, strong-willed, and ambitious and determined.

Something that is often mentioned but highly misunderstood is our trait of courage. Having courage doesn't mean you're fearless or reckless. The definition of courage is “the power or quality of dealing with or facing danger, fear, pain, etc.” It means that instead of running away from our problems or denying our emotions; healthy Leos face them and be genuine and direct with ourselves, embracing our vulnerability.

Having a big personality doesn't necessarily mean someone has a big ego. C.S. Lewis once said, “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it's thinking of yourself less.” Leos have huge hearts and are incredibly generous. The sun never goes retrograde, always shines, and gives life and energy to all living beings – it isn't selective or discriminatory. Healthy Leos are like mini suns; which is why we are also irrepressibly upbeat, optimistic, and fun-loving.

We're not pushovers. We are like roses – we have both flower petals and thorns. If you mess with someone we love you're going down. We're too loyal and protective to let major things slide; and even if we forgive, we never forget. Little things? We'll try to work them out with you.

Being naturally strong-willed and assertive is healthy – it just means we usually make horrible subordinates and yes people. There's nothing wrong with having high standards and being open about them. In fact, in relationships it's far better in the long run to open and frank about what you need and what you consider a dealbreaker from the beginning.

And oh yes are we ambitious and competitive – but most often with ourselves. We're natural leaders who always dream and think big. For a healthy Leo it's not about being the best, but doing your best. We have to be grand and intense, we're ruled by the sun. It's all or nothing for us. Settling is not something a Leo does. We need to be the best leader, the best friend, the best partner, etc. that we possibly can.

Also, in astrology each sign rules a different body part, and Leo rules the heart and upper back.

Adding to this, Leos are known as the Kings/Queens of the zodiac not because we're egotistical, but because our sun sign is the sun. It's like a double amount sun. I could go into significantly more detail about this, but it involves a lot of technical astrological details; so if anyone wants to know more just message me!

Going back to Richard, having his core self (sun) and love/beauty (venus) in Leo explains why he is an actor and artist; and why he is often warm, silly, and dramatic when he feels comfortable – his long interview with The Anglophile Channel (and it's deleted scenes) does a great job of showing the synergy between his Leo and Virgo sides.

We see Richard express the heartfelt, generous, sincere, and honorable side of Leo all the time. This is why I'm sure he has the inner-confidence and strength hidden within him to overcome the deep pain his Chiron causes him (like it does to us all). I hope he continues to find projects and people that help him on his journey to heal.

Thank you for reading this, I'm wishing him and you all the best. Take care!

#Richard #Richard Armitage #Astrology #Mine

33 notes · View notes

eddiesfaerie · 4 years

Text

Long Sleeves (part 2)

Summary: Pushed to its absolute limits; a retelling of the past 4 months of you and Charlie’s complicated relationship (13.5k words, i dont know what to say other than im so sorry)

Warnings: NSFW, f!reader, major angst, annoying fluff, mentions of divorce, affairs, age gap (between Charlie and reader, previously implied), nudes, phone sex, PIV sex, daddy kink, some size kink, pain kink(?), rough (and angry and sad) sex, dom and sub themes, spanking, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), i also mention christmas a lot at the beginning which isn't really a warning but i know not everyone celebrates it!

Part 1

A/N: for those of you who are not a fan of d*ddy kink but who may still want to read this; i only use it between the time stamps of Christmas Eve to March, following the March timestamp there will be no mention or use of that word! just thought i’d mention cause the ending is cathartic!

LATE DECEMBER - APARTMENT

With Henry and Nicole staying in LA until after the holidays, Charlie would be alone with you until he left again.

And he didn’t leave your apartment once in the meantime.

Making up for lost time, is what you could call it.

The hours, days, spent in between sheets, on countertops, on couches, in the shower. Like he was trying to mark your apartment with his scent, make sure you never forgot him when he would leave again for LA in a few days.

You would remember him everywhere.

The way your knees bruised on the tile floor of your shower. The welts on your ass from his harsh hand. The bite marks on your shoulders, the bruises littering your neck, stomach, anywhere he could reach.

You would remember him everywhere.

The thousands of ‘good girls’ he praised you with and the thousand and one ‘fucking sluts’ he punished you with. Charlie was coming to know your insides and outs better than you could at this point, it was a certain level of familiarity you were happy with him reaching. He was becoming more and more comfortable around you.

You could tell not just because of the frequent sex, the hard fucking, but because of how he was opening up to you about the divorce. About what was really going on down in LA, what was happening with Henry, what had been happening (or more so, not happening) with Nicole for nearly the past year.

He told you about how she ignored him, refused to have sex with him, even touch him. How he had found solace in a one time affair with their stage director, how he just missed feeling needed, feeling wanted by the only person who was supposed to fulfill that innate human desire.

He told you everything he could think of, every little detail. He was tired of hiding, holding it in.

He realized he would have to tell you when he would get a random call from his lawyer or from Nicole herself, when he would talk to Henry. When he yelled through the phone or hung up crying, slamming his device against the wall, nearly breaking it.

He knew he would have to explain it to you, he owed it to you.

You deserved to know, especially now that he was involving you in this to some degree. He didn’t want to, didn’t want to involve you but he needed you more than he needed anyone else right now. More than he was ready to admit perhaps, just how much he truly needed you.

And that’s why going back to LA would be the hardest thing he’s done all week.

He stood at the door, dressed, suitcase packed, heart lurching, thumping low in his chest with dread, resent, fear, and some feeling he couldn’t fucking name.

Lo-

“I wish you could come.” He says instead, the saddest smile you’ve seen adorning his perfect lips. You smile back, just as sadly. You know there was absolutely no reason for you to go to LA with him, to spend Christmas with Nicole and Henry and whatever extended family would be there as well. It would never happen, never work. At least, not right now. Not like this.

The divorce proceedings were on break till after the holidays, both in and against Charlie’s favour. It meant not giving Henry two Christmases, one last normal one. But it also meant pretending, indulging in that… façade that him and Nicole have been keeping up for too fucking long now.

The deed would be done sometime in February, maybe March, Charlie couldn’t remember. He tried not to think about it too much. Think about losing everything-

“I know. But you’ll enjoy yourself. Henry will be happy.” You remind him, letting him hold you so, so tightly. His vice grip, digging into you, trying to anchor himself to you.

“I can’t believe I’m leaving you alone during fucking Christmas.” You laugh.

“I’m going home to see my parents, I won’t be alone, Charlie.” He nods his head, hearing the words you’re saying but he still can’t stop the guilt from creeping up on him. He doesn’t want you to think he’s abandoning you. He won’t abandon you, like everyone’s abandoned him. He just hoped you wouldn’t abandon him either.

Charlie presses his forehead against yours, his hands gripping your waist and pressing your body against his. Your arms wrap around his neck.

“I’ll call you this time, I promise. Every night… I’ll call.”

“Okay.” You giggle, believing him.

His hand sneaks its way up your jaw, gripping your cheeks gently but angling your face for you to meet his dark, dark eyes. You know that look, so familiar now. You feel the pressure start to rise inside you, heat pooling in the very pit of your stomach.

“You’ll be good for me?” You nod immediately, fervently.

“Yes, Charlie.”

“If I ask you to send me pictures, what’ll you do?”

“S-send you pictures.” Breathless, your voice sounds so breathless. Your eyelids threatening to close but you keep them on him, always.

“That’s my good girl.” He growls, tilting your face all the way to his lips, a kiss, a seal of approval. You moan against his lips, letting your eyelids flutter shut, imagining yourself in all those new lingerie sets he’s bought you over the last week.

Your early Christmas presents, he had told you.

“The… the taxis waiting out front.” You say against his lips, not wanting him to leave just yet, but also not wanting him to leave you high and dry before getting on a plane set for across the country for at least another week, probably longer. Charlie ignores you, shoving his tongue down your throat, his grip on your jaw moving down to your neck, squeezing ever so slightly, fingers ghosting over bruised skin, enough to make you fall further into his chest, gripping his perfectly ironed shirt, ruining it.

He pulls away all too soon, no doubt doing this to you on purpose. It was 7am and you were already whimpering into his parted lips.

“I-I’ll miss you.” You admit, heart crashing into your ribs.

You hadn’t meant to say it but he was making your brain foggy, your thoughts were jumbled together and you just let it slip past your lips. Charlie stares at you, red lips swollen like petals, cheeks matching, hair perfectly in place with your help nothing but fifteen minutes earlier. It feels like a lifetime has passed before he says anything back to you. The taxi honks outside on the curb.

“I’ll… I’ll miss you more.”

CHRISTMAS EVE - UPSTATE NEW YORK

It was relieving to be away from the city, surrounded by more wilderness, more foliage, more trees, more animals. A literal breath of fresh air that wasn’t tainted by sewage and the ever present scent of smoke coming from somewhere or someone.

You loved coming up here. Escaping. You hadn’t been back home since last Christmas. You moved away when you were quite young, the relationship you had with your parents was complicated, clashing personalities, it was difficult to understand each other when you were younger but there was clarity that came with age. They finally respected you, and you finally respected them as well, understanding them better.

You think spending so much time with Charlie and Henry gave you an insight into parenthood that you had never been privy too beforehand. You were thankful for that, not only did you appreciate your parents more, but now parenthood had many more benefits that you had never considered before. Magical, rewarding, fulfilling.

Charlie kind of made you feel that way too.

It was still awkward at times with your parents, that was unavoidable. No siblings around meant all eyes were on you. They were asking for too many details, prying too deep and you just never felt comfortable indulging in yourself this much. But you always came prepared, it was the holidays after all, things always got weird.

After Christmas Eve dinner, your parents invited you out on a walk with them around their little town. They did this every night apparently, just walking together, talking. It was cute, endearing. You declined their offer, however. Thankfully you weren’t sixteen anymore, and your parents didn’t press you any further to come along with them like they used to.

They’d be back in thirty minutes.

That gave you thirty minutes to call Charlie. Just as he instructed.

Earlier this evening, as your parents were beginning to prepare dinner, Charlie’s family was just finishing lunch out in California. A perfect time for a perfect distraction, or intrusion.

You had packed a few sets of the new lingerie Charlie had bought you, not knowing what he would want to see on you or how often you should switch it up. You nearly brought all of them but didn’t want to take up too much space in your luggage and be suspicious.

You put one on that you thought Charlie was particularly fond of, a skimpy little number that revealed more skin than hid, it’s colour complimenting your skin like it was made for you, made to hug your figure in all the right places. You forgot that Charlie had such a visual mind sometimes, he knew exactly what you would look good in.

Nervous and a bit shaky, you tucked yourself away into your childhood bedroom to take your pictures for Charlie. You felt like a teenager again.

Charlie was not pleased with the timing of your pictures, seeing as he was surrounded by family and innocently looked at his phone only to get a glimpse of your beautiful fucking body, all the blood going from his head straight to his cock. He nearly fainted. His cheeks lit up like Nicole’s Christmas tree and he stumbled from his chair. Thankfully, everyone seemed to be more occupied with paying attention to Henry than to notice him sprint to the bathroom to scold you over text.

That was hours ago. Charlie had told you to call him exactly at 11pm eastern time. That was only 8pm where he was but he said it worked out perfectly so you didn’t argue. You just waited patiently on your bed, number dialed on your phone and ready to call, all the clock head to do was strike eleven.

Finally, the clocks ding around the house, your thumb flies across your screen and you hold the phone up to your ear, worrying the flesh of your lip between your teeth. It rings once, twice, three times before you can hear his breath on the other end. It already sounds heavy.

“H-hi Charlie.”

“What are you wearing.” His voice is strained, maybe he’s already holding himself in his hand.

“Merry Christmas Eve.” You twist your fingers together nervously. Charlie grunts on the other end, a frustrated sound.

“I f-fucking told you, no pleasantries. I-it’ll only make us miss each other more-” You stayed quiet. You knew he was right, but you already missed him so much and hearing his voice was making it worse. You felt your lip tremble, you missed his arms, his warmth, his-

“Are you fucking pouting right now?” His voice was firm, sturdy, and annoyed.

“No, Charlie.” A lie.

“Good, now tell me what you’re wearing.”

“I’m wearing your favourite, the one from earlier. I’m barely covered.”

“Oh I know baby, your tits looked so fhuuuucking good in those pictures you sent me.” The fluctuation in his voice was rising and falling randomly, you could picture his hand wrapped tightly around his angry cock, the head flushed red, precum dribbling out the top, just begging to be licked. He tasted so good…

“A-are you touching yourself?”

“No, you didn’t tell me to.”

“G-good girl, you’re so fucking good to me, you know that?” You pictured his chest, the way he flushes right in the center, between his pecs. The way the red splotches climb up, up, up his neck and onto his cheeks and up to the peaks of his ears. You thought about the heavy rise and fall of his chest as well, how fucking wide he is, how much bigger than you he is. You audibly moaned.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about?”

“Y-you.”

“Be specific- fuck.”

“Um, your- your cock. How big it is, how big you are. How it feels when you stretch me out, when you go so deep I feel you in my stomach-”

“Keep going baby, I’m… I’m so f-UHcking close.”

“I think about the first time, a-a lot. How it felt the first time you split me open- fuck Charlie you’re so big I never think you’re going to fit but I always take it, I-”

“Yeah, yeah you always take me like the good little girl you are, such a good fucking slut for me, taking my cock in that tight fucking pussy.” He sneers, you can tell he’s talking from behind clenched teeth and you moan again, loudly. Your brain short circuits, what comes out next, comes from the deepest part of you.

“Oh Daddy,-”

“What did you just call me?”

Fuck.

You hadn’t really meant to say it, you were just so caught up in the moment, the feeling, the sound of him that you completely lost your inhibitions and let it slip out. You expected him to just end the call now.

“Charlie I’m so sorry-” He cuts you off with a firm call of your name.

“I asked you a question. What… did you call me?” Your stomach flips and your insides threaten to spill past your lips and onto your floor.

“Daddy.” You say so quietly you’re not sure he even heard you.

“I didn’t catch that.”

“Daddy.” Frustration laces your voice as you project the word throughout the entire upper floor of the house. He definitely hears it that time. You think you hear Charlie moan on the other end but you don’t want to be too hopeful.

“You wanna call me Daddy? Hmm? You want me to be your fucking Daddy, is that it?”

“N-no…” You’re not sure what he’s getting at, but you feel like he’s just going to torment you.

“Don’t fucking lie to me you little slut.” His breathing picks up again, his voice booming, heavy breaths between every few words. You can hear the slick of his hand as it moves quickly over his length.

“Yes! Yes I- I want you to…”

“Say it.”

“I want you to be my Daddy.” Charlie moans loudly again, his hand somehow moving faster. You can tell he’s close. You can’t believe he likes this. You love it.

“Yeah, I’ll be your fucking Daddy. You better fucking call me that non stop when I get back to you, my sweet little girl.” You moan this time, squeezing your thighs together, feeling your arousal trail slightly down onto your thigh. You were so distracted you hadn’t realized you’d completely soaked through your underwear.

“I will, Daddy.”

“Fuck, I’m-”

Confidence surged you. You still couldn’t believe he liked this but you finally gave in, feeding his desires. When you spoke, your voice was filled with something wicked, sickeningly sweet and most of all, evil.

“Are you going to cum for me, Daddy? Make a mess for me?”

You felt like you hadn’t even finished your sentence before a loud moan punched through your phone and into your ear. You moaned as well just from his release, feeling it in your mind and in your chest, squeezing your thighs again for any sort of friction. Charlie continued to moan through his release, you pictured his silky cum painting his taut abdomen and his beautiful chest. You imagined it blending in with his moles and freckles, you pictured yourself rubbing your hands through it, massaging it into his skin before licking it all up.

He wouldn’t even have to ask, you would just do it.

“Y-you’re fucking perfect… you fucking angel.” He’s so breathless, completely spent and wasted from your voice alone. You felt so hot. You needed to relieve yourself but you didn’t know if you should ask for permission or not. Before you could even debate it, Charlie spoke again.

“Go to bed, wouldn’t want Santa catching you up like this.” You laughed softly at his comment. Static on the other end. He said your name as if to check if you were still there.

“Yeah?”

“Merry Christmas.”

The line went dead.

JANUARY - BROOKLYN

You had sent Charlie pictures nearly every night after that. And you two called each other every other night as well.

He asked it of you and you couldn’t say no to your Charlie. It was a bit tricky while you were still staying with your parents, he would simply text you and you would have to scurry off to your room or the bathroom and snap as many flattering pictures of yourself as you could. You tried to make it seem less suspicious by drinking tons of water and just blaming it on your bladder.

But the new year had finally come, and you were now back home in your apartment. Charlie would be returning tonight and you were counting down the hours until you saw his taxi pull up on the curb side. You distracted yourself until then.

At around 7pm, you got an unexpected call from Charlie.

“Hi.” You felt like your smile was audible through the phone.

“Hey,” Charlie chuckled darkly, his voice always sounding deeper and richer through the receiver. “I just got in. I was wondering if you’d like to join us for dinner tonight?”

Us? He didn’t mean….

“It’s just me and Henry, Nicole’s uh, staying in LA until further notice. If you’re busy or if you can’t that’s-”

“I would love to,” The fact that Charlie would ask you to spend dinner with him and Henry warmed your heart beyond comprehension. Your weeks of loneliness suddenly dissolving into the background and becoming nothing more than a distant memory, a distant feeling. “but is Henry okay with it?”

“Of course he’s okay with it. He’s actually been talking about you quite a bit. I think he might have missed you more than I did,” Charlie choked a bit on his last words, “not that I didn’t miss you, I just meant that he, you know, Henry was-”

“It’s okay, Charlie I understood what you meant.” You giggle, finding his slight awkwardness endearing. How was it that you both were having incredible phone sex for the past two weeks and now you both sounded like teenagers calling their crush?

“So, you’ll come?”

“Yeah, I’ll come.” Charlie groans at your suggestive tone.

“Don’t start now.” His voice stern, unwavering. You laugh again, more mischievous this time. You test the waters, not stepping in enough to drown... just yet.

“I’ll be over in ten minutes, is that okay, Daddy?” You hear rustling on the other end of the phone and then Charlie cursing a low ‘fuck!’. You think you hear Henry’s voice too, followed by more of Charlie’s now muffled voice.

“Ten minutes is fine.”

Henry had bombarded you at the door, he wrapped his tiny arms around your legs and hugged himself tightly to you. It took everything in you not to cry, you knelt down so you could hug him back.

“I missed you.” He dug his cheek into your shoulder. This kid was the sweetest, he would melt your heart every time.

“I missed you too, Henry. How was LA? How was Christmas? Tell me everything!”

Henry grabbed your hand and dragged you into the living room where all his new toys were laid out, ready for him to play with. As he was pulling you there, Charlie emerged from around the doorway like an angel himself. Your eyes met and you felt as if you were moving in slow motion, and not being dragged at top speed by his child.

“Hi.” You greet, almost shyly. Unsure of how to act around him with Henry present.

“Hi.” Charlie repeats, grabbing your free hand for the briefest moment, giving it a tight squeeze until it's pulled out of his grasp by Henry.

You’re not sure how long you spent playing on the floor with Henry, him retelling you the events of the last two or three weeks while Charlie sat on the couch, glancing at the two of you every now and then. You tried not to think about the position you were in, kneeling on the floor, carpet digging into your knees, Charlie sitting tall above you on the couch, looking down at you from between his parted knees. It looked like such a natural position for him, almost like he was too comfortable like this, too familiar with it. You wanted to-

The doorbell rang, making both you and Henry jump from the sharp noise.

“Henry would you like to go pay the pizza guy?” Charlie asked, already pulling his wallet from the pocket in his pants.

“Yes!” Henry shouted, jumping up from the carpet, whisking the crisp bills from his dad’s hands and running to the door to answer it. Charlie figured he had a minute or less before Henry came back.

He lifted himself from the couch, taking your jaw into his hand and bringing you to stand with him. He crashed his lips into yours, violently shoving his tongue down your throat and you had to bite back the moan that threatened to spill through your lips and into his awaiting mouth. His hands had a deadly grip on your waist and on your jaw, you only wished he would ease up because you didn’t want Henry to wonder why you both looked so flustered.

“I can’t wait until tonight.” He said against your lips, his hand on your jaw moving to trail down your throat.

“W-what’s tonight?”

“I got it!” Henry came rushing back into the living room but not before Charlie pushed himself away from you and let go of your throat and waist. It looked like nothing had happened.

“Let’s go set it up in the dining room.” Henry stomped his foot in retaliation, whining slightly.

“Nooo, Dad, can we please watch a movie with pizza?”

“Henry, we have a guest-”

“Please!”

“What movie do you want to watch?” You asked, budding in, trying to stop a tantrum in its tracks. Henry’s eyes lit up and he glanced between you and his dad.

“Have you ever seen ‘Frozen’?” You actually had, but he didn’t need to know that. You gasped.

“I haven’t!” You glanced over at Charlie. His eyes were dark but an innocent smirk pulled at his lips.

He was thinking about how this just meant it would take longer before he could finally fuck you again, a two hour movie cockblock. It had been over two weeks since he had felt your body against his, nothing to satiate him but the sound of your voice and some mediocre photos. Charlie thinks he should show you how to take some really good ones sometime soon. Not that yours didn’t most definitely do the trick, he just thinks he likes the idea of directing you, positioning you...

But Charlie was also thinking about how he found it very sweet, very heartwarming to watch you bond with Henry. He loved watching you have such a good time with him and treat him like a person, not just a child. And he could tell that Henry really liked spending time with you too. Not just from how much he talked about you when you weren’t around, but the smile that lit up his face when you came over or when he went over to your place.

It was getting harder and harder to get Henry to smile like that.

You all sat down on the couch, little wooden fold up tables in front of your seat to hold your plate of pizza slices. Henry sitting between you and Charlie, of course.

Henry sang along passionately to almost every song, sometimes with bites of pizza in his mouth and Charlie would scold him for it, afraid he would choke but Henry ignored his dad’s requests, just continuing to belt out along with the characters on screen.

As the movie progressed and neared the end, you could feel Charlie getting more and more sleepy on his side of the couch. He would rearrange his sitting position every now and then and his eyes would close for minutes at a time. He looked so soft with his arms folded across his chest, his eyelashes fluttering against the tops of his cheeks, his lips coming to rest in the softest little pout. You nudge Henry gently and he turns to look up at you.

“Looks like your dad’s asleep.” You giggle, pointing to Charlie. Henry immediately jumps on him, startling Charlie awake.

“Dad I can’t believe you fell asleep again!” Henry pouts, grabbing Charlie’s face between his hands and shaking him from side to side. Charlie grabs his son’s little hands to stop his efforts, sitting himself up straighter on the couch and hugging Henry to his chest.

“Mmm’wasn’t sleeping.” Henry rolled his eyes.

“Why don’t you go get your daddy a blanket so he can get comfy for the rest of the movie.” You wink at Henry, sending him searching upstairs for the perfect blanket for his dad.

Charlie groans and drops his head on the back of the couch, his hand draping across is as well, coming to rest on the very tip of your shoulder. He wraps his fingers along your muscles, squeezing the flesh into his palm, tightly.

“I heard that.”

“Heard what?” Daddy.

His head lifts from the couch to glare at you, his stare deadly, shooting right to the deepest parts of you. Why were you teasing him like this?

“Dad is the dinosaur one okay?” Henry calls from up the stairs, slowly making his way down and back to the couch.

“It’s perfect, Henry. Thank you.” Charlie takes the blanket from Henry and kisses the top of his forehead before he settles back on the couch, cuddling up next to his dad.

You unpause the movie, admiring the two of them every now and then, watching Henry becoming more and more sleepy as the film nears its end. As the credits roll, Charlie removes the blanket from around himself and moves it to wrap around Henry.

“I’m going to go tuck him in.” Charlie whispers to you. You nod sweetly at the two of them. Charlie carries Henry in his arms towards the stairs before Henry grumbles, calling out your name to you back on the couch.

“Will you come too?”

You look to Charlie for guidance, you don’t want to overstep any boundaries. You’ve never been in the upstairs part of their apartment, you’ve never seen the rest of their place, Henry’s room, Charlie’s room, their bathroom. You’d never seen any of it and it all felt incredibly intimate and incredibly wrong in some way. You didn’t want to accidentally see something you shouldn’t. But Charlie just smiles back at you and nods his head gently.

“Of course, Henry.” You follow them up the stairs, smiling at Henry who smiles that shiny little kid smile at you before laying his head back down on Charlie’s shoulder, resting his eyes again.

Henry’s bedroom is exactly like you imagined it would be. Colourful blue walls, vibrant comic book patterned bed sheets, toys absolutely everywhere yet Charlie avoids them like their place on the floor has meaning, like he’s ingrained it into his mind from stepping on them too many times, muscle memory. You stay in the doorway, leaning on the door frame watching them, not wanting to intrude.

Charlie carefully lowers Henry onto his bed, tucking him in the covers and kissing his forehead. He says sweet words to his son, lulling him further to sleep and Henry smiles dopily back at him, whispering a quiet ‘love you, dad.’

Charlie turns around to face you, he flicks his head in the direction of the stairway mouthing the word ‘go’ to you, you nod and head down the stairs, waiting for him in the living room. You decide to settle yourself at the foot of the couch, sitting on your knees, feeling the burn of the carpet again and waiting for your Charlie.

He descends the stairs slowly, achingly slowly. Making you wait for it, making you feel the weight in his steps, his foot pressing into the wood, applying his weight until he shifts down another step before finally, finally, making his way to you.

You look up at him from your place on the floor, you try not to let your mouth hang open as you gaze up at him, this beautiful man. Sometimes, when you look at him, you wonder if whatever god or gods were out there made him like this on purpose. Sent him here looking the way he does to taunt you, to test you. Test your strength, your will to defy him when you know there is no humanly way possible to deny this man of what he wants. And what he wants is you. Why would you say no? How could you?

After observing you on the floor below him, Charlie seats himself down on the couch like before, knees spread, looking down at you. You scoot closer to him, hoping he doesn’t tell you to stop. His hand comes to rest on his knee before he pats it.

“Lay your head down on me.” His voice rumbles in his chest. You think you feel it through the floorboards, through your knees, up your spine and in the pit of your stomach. You listen and scoot closer, resting your head on his bony knee, nuzzling it with your cheek and looking up at him through thick lashes. You continue looking at him as you press a tender kiss as well, just for fun.

The lights are dim in the living room, the time ticking closer to midnight, Henry asleep upstairs. You both had to be quiet, you both knew this. Charlie’s hand comes to brush against your cheekbone, he trails his index finger all along the valleys of your face and then moving into your hair, gripping the back of it into a fist before relaxing again, bringing his hand back to hold your cheek.

“I’ve missed this.” He says so quietly. You nod, biting your lip.

“Me too.” You say, eagerness beginning to fill your voice. You adjust your position, coming to lean further into him, closer to his crotch where you can tell he needs you. Charlie hums contentedly.

“Mhmmm. Tell me what exactly you missed. Who you missed.” You let your hand glide over his knee, over his muscular thigh and towards his crotch, feather light touches along the fabric of his pants. You could feel how hard he was, it seemed painful.

“You. I missed your cock too... Daddy.”

There it was. He found what he was looking for. His hand found its way into a fist again in your hair, tugging it tightly, his head falling back against the couch as you pressed your lips over his covered cock, straining in his pants.

“You can do better than that,” he groaned, voice almost as strained as his cock yet still so forceful, “show Daddy how much you really missed him.”

You whimper at his tone, your voices both so hushed, rasped and desperate, spurring each other on much quicker than usual. Your hands, shaky with desire, reached up for his belt, grasping the cold metal into your hands and unbuckling it as quickly as you could. Only when you got to his zipper, did Charlie stop you with a light tap to your cheek.

“Teeth.” He scolded. You nodded.

You brought the zipper in between your teeth, biting down on the tiny piece of metal and slowly dragging it down over the hill his cock was creating in his pants. The heat radiating from his body was palpable, you could feel it coming onto your face the lower you dragged the zipper and the more he was revealed to you. You could also smell him, that smell that was undeniably Charlie; musky, earthy, a hit of fabric detergent and just the natural smell of his skin, like almonds in the summer. It made you dizzy, drunk off of him already.

You hadn’t even gotten him in your mouth yet.

You nuzzled your face into his clothed crotch, feeling his hard member pressing into your cheek, you could feel it pulsing, you could feel him wanting, waiting for the moment your mouth would take his length as far back as you could. You whimpered at the thought.

“You like it? You like my cock?”

“Yeah, I love it.”

“Then show me with that pretty fucking mouth of yours.” He sneered, pulling harder on your hair. You hummed and smiled, you felt giddy, maybe you really were drunk. You nuzzled your face into his crotch one more time before bringing both of your hands up to his waist, letting your fingertips dance around his beautiful skin that lay revealed to you above the waistband, you lean up, up, up pressing the softest, delicatest kisses to his skin.

Charlie groaned, pressing on the back of your head, pushing your face further into his tummy. You left more and more kisses before you gave him a tentative bite, not letting your teeth sink in too much before you lave your tongue over the abused flesh.

“Fuck that feels- fucking good.” Charlie moaned, looking down at the new mark that would only darken itself by tomorrow as more blood rushes to the affected area. It was placed beautifully next to his hip bone. You think it looked pretty. So did he.

You finally let your fingertips dip into his waistband but not before latching your teeth onto the stretchy fabric as well, aiding your fingers in removing them. You dragged it down, down, down his skin, just until his cock sprang free and laid heavy on his lower stomach. Charlie hissed, his hips bucking slightly from the sudden freedom.

He has the prettiest cock you think you’d ever seen. You never get used to seeing it, taking it in your mouth or your cunt. The stretch is always so painfully good, you’ve come to crave it. And going without it for the past however many weeks has made you near delirious for it. You stick your tongue out and run it all along the underside right to the very tip, where a shiny, pearly bead of precum has just begun to spill over. You hum as you lick it up, eyes nearly rolling back into your head.

“Don’t be a fucking tease.” Charlie grits from behind clenched teeth. You look up at him innocently, you notice that he’s clenching and unclenching his jaw like clockwork, his eyes look glassy and his cheeks are a few shades darker. He already looks so disheveled, so perfect like this.

“I can’t help it… it’s so pretty.”

“You think Daddy has a pretty cock?” You nod your head, humming, which you can’t seem to stop doing tonight, he just has you feeling so content, so safe. You don't think you could be like this with anyone else. You trace your fingers along his length, watching it bob from the slightest of touches, even Charlie tries to bite back his groans.

“Can-can I kiss it?”

“Please.” You lower your head towards his length, pressing your lips so softly onto his red angry head, giving little kitten licks in between kisses which has Charlie gripping your hair like a vice, afraid you’ll float away. You like the way his stomach flexes in response to your touch, like his body is bracing himself for the tidal wave of pleasure that’s bound to hit at any moment.

You finally take the spongy pink head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before letting a few inches fall past your lips as well. Charlie’s tummy flexes even more, the v shaped muscle becoming more and more prominent and you moan onto his cock. His free hand that had been clenched into a fist comes to hold one side of your head and the other comes to meet it. He holds your head in his hands and forces you to take more of him, but not all of it just yet. You start bobbing your head up and down on his length, his hands helping you find his ideal speed.

“Fuck yes, oh my god, j-just like that-” Charlie moans your name, his fingernails digging into your scalp making you moan on his cock again, only making him dig deeper, pressing your head further down his length, forcing you to take him until he hits the back of your throat.

“Gonna let Daddy f-fuck that pretty little whore mouth of yours?” You let your jaw go slack more than it already has and do your best to nod with his cock half way down your throat, tears already beginning to brim in the corner of your eyes. Charlie starts lifting his hips off the couch slightly, all the while moving your head further up and down his cock, forcing it down your throat as far as it’ll go without you making obscenely loud gagging noises.

His son was asleep right upstairs, after all.

You let your eyes roll back into your head, letting Charlie take control and just fuck his cock into your mouth like you know he needs to, like he knows you need it too. It’s been too fucking long. Too fucking long since he’s had you like this. At his disposal, his little plaything to do whatever he pleases with. And you fucking love it.

The cool, sharp metal of his unzipped zipper digs into your jaw and occasionally your neck, biting into your skin and scratching your skin when Charlie lifts his hips up particularly high but you don’t care. In fact, you welcome the pain, embracing it as a mark of Charlie’s rough loving. You hope it draws blood.

“Fuck, your mouth i-is so fucking perfect, so warm... I don’t-” He doesn’t finish his sentence, his eyes screw shut and you can feel his cock growing impossibly harder. He looks down at you, his face twisted in absolute pleasure as he loses himself in your tight little mouth. He pulls you off his cock with all of his strength. A trail of saliva connecting your spit swollen lips to the head of his cock. You start pumping him quickly with your fist.

“No-no wait I don’t…”

“I want it Charlie, please,” Charlie throws his head back, moaning your name, “cum in my mouth... please.”

You nearly whine that last part. Charlie grabs your hair and tugs it, shaking your head a bit.

“I want to fuck you, I don’t wanna cum yet- FUCK!” You hadn’t stopped your hand movements, your fist moving faster over his cock while he fights his release.

“You can fuck me tomorrow.” You say quickly before attaching your lips around the head of his cock, sucking on it until you feel his thighs, abdomen, hands, mind and soul tense up before he bites back his guttural moans, letting them rumble through his chest like thunder passing, before spilling himself onto your tongue. You moan as it lands, letting it slide down your throat as you taste him, taste all of him until he’s completely drained.

You look up at him through heavy lashes, coated thick in tears that have streamed down your cheeks. Chest heaving, abdomen pulled taught, cheeks incredibly flushed, lips swollen, eyes heavy and tired. Completely spent. He looked so beautiful, your Charlie. So beautiful like this.

“S-show me.” His hand reaches for your jaw, pinching your cheeks to force your jaw and mouth open. You stick your tongue to show him. All gone, you swallowed all of his cum, for him.

“Good girl.” He whispered, patting your cheek affectionately. You smiled sweetly at him, coming up with your hands resting your weight on his thighs, pressing your swollen lips to his. As you extend your knees to stand, you feel the ache in the joints, the bruises already present, no doubt. You loved the pain. Your lips glide effortlessly across each other, so tired, so worn out but always wanting.

“Stay, please.” He says against your lips. You shake your head, no. It was a simple answer. A simple predicament.

“Henry.”

You pull back to look into Charlie’s eyes, he pulls you into his lap and he winces as you apply just a bit too much weight onto the base of his cock. You look into his eyes, already so sad at the idea of you leaving. But Henry would ask too many questions in the morning.

Why is the nice lady from next door still here, Dad?

Did she stay the night, Dad?

Did she sleep in your bed, Dad?

You and Mom’s bed, Dad?

“I know, I know.” Charlie says, defeated. He presses you into his chest, hugging you to him tightly, tighter than you were expecting. It was a hopeful thought. He understood why it couldn’t happen, couldn’t work. Maybe he just wanted you to entertain the idea for a minute with him. Maybe it would happen one day.

“I really did miss you.” He whispers into your hair, cradling the back of your head with his large, warm hand, pressing you further into the nook of his neck.

“I did too. I really missed you too, Charlie.”

MARCH - BROOKLYN

Charlie was currently back from his third visit to Los Angeles, hunting burroughs for the perfect new home for himself and for Henry. Maybe for you as well, but Charlie didn’t like to dwell on that for too long, he couldn’t allow himself such hopeful thoughts, he would only be let down.

Would you really want to move in with him? Was that moving too quickly? Would you think he was insane? Crazy? Obsessed? The truth was, he is all of those things; insane, crazy, obsessed with you. He couldn’t help it, no. Not when it came to you.

He would always be desperate for your affection, your attention.

Things were escalating with the divroce. Nicole and Charlie had turned bitter, viscous, backstabbing, conniving. Both fighting for a child who has no intention of hurting anyone, certainly not his mother or father.

Henry had no idea what weight his actions or words held, no idea what it meant when someone came over to observe him and his dad, or him and his mom. When they sent someone out to New York to watch him there, sometimes you would be over too. They asked you so many questions, he didn’t understand why. Why were strangers suddenly so involved in every little thing his parents did? Were they in trouble? Were they bad people? Was he a bad kid? Did they hate him?

Henry pouts as you hold his hand, walking up the driveway to the new apartment Charlie was almost one hundred percent decided on renting. It was in more of a family oriented neighbourhood, still close to his school. Somehow, it had a decent sized backyard (which you had never heard of in New York, even Brooklyn), three bedrooms, an office, a beautiful kitchen, it was basically perfect in Charlie’s eyes.

The first time he visited it back in February, he sent you dozens of pictures and little videos when he had gone alone. He quickly booked another appointment for you to go and look at him with it so he could get your opinion. He made it very clear how important your opinion was to him on this matter, he was always asking you questions about the apartment, even bringing it up randomly. He would scroll through the pictures he had taken, scrutinizing every detail and ask you about it.

Do you think the backyard is big enough?

What if I end up getting Henry a dog? Would there be enough space for that?

Do you really like the kitchen? Be honest.

What about the office room? Do I really need that? Is that too much?

What about the guest bedroom?

You wonder if he was so invested in your opinion because he trusted you, or because he wanted you to move in with them. Neither of you had ever spoken about it before, never had that conversation. And even if you did, Henry would always have the final say. If he didn’t want you living with them, well, that was that. You couldn’t argue with Henry, not when his childhood and upbringing was in question. Especially after this divorce. Charlie would do anything for him. Even if it meant risking you.

Charlie ended up getting the house he had been eyeing for nearly a month.

Him and Henry would restart here, no painful memories embedded in the walls, in the flooring, in the holes in the walls, the slammed door frames, the windows that threatened to shatter from all the screaming and crying. None of that was here, it would never be here. None of that would happen again.

Charlie hadn’t asked you to move in.

And you hadn’t necessarily been waiting on him asking either.

You were already coming over pretty frequently. And not just on account of Charlie, Henry still loved seeing you and hanging out with you. You still babysat him when things at the theatre ran late.

When Nicole moved to LA, Charlie was thrown full force into his work. Forced to recast, rework, and rewrite so many things that she had just left hanging. You watched Henry those nights, stayed until Charlie got home and then took the subway back to your place, next to their now vacant apartment.

You were so lonely those nights you couldn’t sleepover at Charlie’s. You missed his warmth. You hadn’t realized just how much comfort you got knowing he was just next door, just beyond a thick wall. You could have touched it and felt his presence radiating through. But now, nothing. It was cold, dark, empty, meaningless.

And because Charlie had been so overworked for the past few months, the stress was starting to get to him. The constant obstacles and backtracking in the theatre production. The random calls from Nicole, his lawyer, the random flights down to LA, the weeks Henry spent away from him, the nights he lost himself in you, using you as an outlet. You let him, you liked it when he took it out on you, you liked how rough he would get, all that pent up anger being pounded out into your hot cunt. You loved it. Loved when he got mad, frustrated. You were always there for him. You would always be there for him, you hoped he knew that.

But what you didn’t love, was when he started neglecting you.

He would go days sometimes without calling you, so much as even texting you. You would get no word from him for a couple of days and sometimes you would just randomly piece together that he was in LA and he just forgot to tell you. You tried to not let it upset you, you couldn’t imagine what he was going through, the stress of the divorce, the potential of losing Henry, his whole life hanging by a thread. It really wasn’t his fault that he just forgot to mention it to you.

Sometimes he would lash out at you, a small comment or action rubbing him the wrong way and he would erupt, say something he didn’t mean or just walk out on you. Times when things go heated, you tried your best to keep you composure for his sake. He didn’t need you being upset at him too on top of everything else, so you kept it in, for Charlie.

Sometimes he would lash out before you two went out with his theatre friends. He would smile and hug everyone, but kept somewhat of a distance from you. Barely speaking to you, barely including you in the conversation unless someone else asked you a question or directly addressed you. What did you look like to them? Friends? Friends with benefits? Did you look like his whore? The babysitter that he was secretly fucking?

You kind of were.

You drank a lot that night. He fucked you when you got back to his new place. He fell asleep quickly after. You pulled on your long sleeve shirt and nice dress pants that you had been wearing that night after laying next to his warm, sleeping body for thirty minutes, debating, thinking, worrying, dying inside.

You stood up and walked to the door, you looked back to find him watching you. You nervously tugged at your sleeves, staring back at him until he turned around, pushing his face into the pillow, as if silently willing you to leave. You left. You called a taxi and left. You didn’t sleep that night.

You think it was because he told you he was going to Los Angeles again.

Maybe he mentioned Nicole? His lawyer? Something about Henry? The theatre?

You couldn’t remember what started all of this yelling, smashing. You were over at the new place, helping Charlie organize some things for Henry before he came back with him the next time he went out to LA again, which was in a few days.

Charlie was pissed and this time, you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold your calm resolve for him.

“Charlie if you just need some space from me tell me, it won’t hurt my feelings, I understand.” You decide to try and change the subject, maybe just cutting to the chase. Offering him what you think he wants, alone time. Time away from you, from everything. There’s no way he doesn’t need a break.

You hated how quickly you would give everything up for him. You would do anything for him, anything he asked.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” He asked, eyes squinting in confusion. You sigh, running a hand down your face, your patience was running thin and you didn’t want to accidentally set him off.

“Everytime you see me you manage to get frustrated or mad about something. I just don’t want to give you more problems than you already have. I know you’ve been really stressed.”

“Elaborate, please.” His voice was clipped as he put his hands on his hips, stopping what he was doing and turning to you, seemingly giving you more attention than he had in weeks. You huff, not sure how to explain this to him.

“Charlie I-”

“No, what the fuck are you trying to say? That if I fucking ended things you would just leave? No questions asked?” His voice boomed, echoing off the newly painted walls, shaking the frames of yours and Henry’s dinosaur paintings from all those months ago.

He takes a step closer to you, you take one back, then another just for good measure. Your back hits the wall and you take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts as best as you can with him staring at you with those eyes. Those fucking eyes. They still managed to twinkle even when he was angry.

“I- I would… for Henry. You put Henry first, I put Henry first. If he wanted me gone-”

“He doesn’t fucking want you gone, you know that.” Charlie scoffed, walking closer to you, his face red in frustration, maybe anger. He says your name, it's never sounded so sad.

“Why are you lying to me?” He’s a step away from you now, chest heaving with laboured breaths. He’s trying to compose himself, you can tell. Trying to stay calm but his patience was wearing thin.

“I’m not, I w-wouldn’t lie to you, Charlie.”

“You would leave me?” You nod your head, lip trembling, tears burning, stinging in your eyes, your breathing becoming heavy too. Was this it?

“If that’s what you wanted, if you want me to leave I would.”

“Why? Why would you do something so fucking stupid?” His lip is also trembling, you feel like he’s about to spit in your face, yell at you for being such an idiotic little girl. The thought alone had you squeezing your thighs together, this was so fucked. You shouldn’t like this, shouldn’t like when he got frustrated, you resented the fact that you did.

You couldn’t think straight, the words leaving your mouth didn’t feel your own, like you were speaking some other language, possessed by a foreign being.

“Be-because…” Bile rising in your throat, you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“Fucking why? Tell me why!” He was yelling, his face in yours and his voice breaking.

“Because I… because I love-”

And then Charlie was kissing you.

Charlie was kissing you.

His tongue swiped into your mouth like he was trying to strangle you with it. His hands came to your cheeks and pressed your body flush against his and the wall, sandwiched between the two. He was hard, you could feel his cock pressing into your stomach as he rolled his hips into you, you moaned into his mouth, tears spilling down your cheeks. He didn’t wipe them away.

“Don’t say it… don’t- fucking say it.” He said against your lips, voice so hush, so quiet and scared.

“Why? Why are you afraid of me?”

“I’m not fucking afraid of you.” He says, confused, angry, lips rough on your own. He keeps trying to kiss you, you don’t want to push him away but you try, you push on his tough chest, his heart beating wildly in its cage.

“Yes you are. You keep pushing me away.” You cry, hiccupping on a ragged sob that leaves your chest, as you ironically try to push him away from you. Charlie tries to kiss you through it, trying to suffocate you.

“I’m not.” He fights.

“You are.”

“I’m not-” You push, harder this time. He stumbles back, lips already swollen, his eyes are wet, glossy too. Like yours.

“You are!” You yell, voice breaking, choking on your tears. “Don’t act like you haven’t been treating me differently for the past month.”

When Charlie says nothing, you continue.

“You don’t call me, you don’t text me, I only come over to babysit Henry when he’s here and when he’s in LA you just fuck me and then get mad about something and leave. When we go out you don’t look at me, you don’t touch me-” Your voice falters, you’re not sure you can go on with the way the sobs wrack through your chest and into the rest of your body. You feel weak, like you might collapse into the ground. You wish you would, you wish the floor would just swallow you up and you could disappear.

Charlie sees red. His fists shake, clenched into fists at his side after you’ve pushed him away. His palms burn to touch you. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should listen to what you’re saying, let you talk, remind him how much he’s been hurting you. He knows what he’s doing, he’s not stupid.

He wasn’t trying to push you away, he definitely wasn’t doing it on purpose. But he was sabotaging himself, sabotaging everything because he felt he didn’t deserve you. He was a bad father, a selfish person for wanting to take Henry away from his mother, for wanting Henry to himself, a bad person for hating Nicole, a woman he once loved.

Love.

It was all because of love wasn’t it? Charlie wants to laugh at the thought. Wants to laugh and scream and yell and hit something at the thought of stupid fucking love. Was he really becoming that nihilistic already?

Would he come to hate you like how he hates Nicole? Would you come to hate him the way he hates himself? The way Henry probably hates him? The way his parents hated him-

His knees hit a hard surface, blistering, blinding pain shooting up his legs. He’s collapsed onto the floor before he’s even aware of it. Unaware of the sobs that push and pull at his lungs, forcing his chest to heave in the oxygen before choking it back out along with spit and tears.

He’s crying. You’re crying. Fuck, how did it come to this. This was all too familiar. He feels numb.

How could he love you when love was the scariest thing? When love was the most frightening emotion he had ever experienced. Everything that’s happened to him for the past two fucking years was because of love. Love would ruin everything. It always did. But he couldn’t…. he couldn’t lose-

“Y-you… you can’t- leave me.” He chokes, hands planted shakily on the floor, holding his upper body up, his arms weak.

You… you’ve never seen Charlie like this. And honestly? It scares you. Sure, you’ve heard him yell, scream, cry at Nicole, his lawyer over the phone. But this was different. This was visceral, burning desire, regret, shame, embarrassment… this was everything coming crashing down around him at once.

Fuck.

This is what you’ve been trying to avoid over the past month. That’s why you’ve tiptoed around him, letting him get angry, letting him yell, letting him ignore you, use you, fuck you and ask for nothing in return. You were avoiding this.

But maybe you had just prolonged the explosion? Let enough gas build up before it eventually burst into flames.

Eventually…

You had definitely made this worse, by ignoring it you’ve let it fester, let it rise and rise and rise, just pushing down the lid for your own sake. Maybe it was both of your own faults? You don’t know, you don’t care. This was bound to happen at some point. And it just so happened to be today. All you really care about is Charlie.

You kneel down on the floor in front of him, resting your palm on the floor like he has, letting your pinky finger graze against his. The slightest of touch as to not scare him off. He flinches, his head still hung low, eyes screwed shut.

You place your hand on top of his, feeling his burning skin, testing the waters. He doesn’t pull back so you continue your efforts. You intertwine your fingers with his, slowly, slowly lifting his hand up off the ground and closer to you. He still doesn’t look up. You keep moving his hand until it’s on your chest, covering your left breast. Only then does he look up, searching your eyes.

He feels it then. That same thing he felt the first time… the first time he had you. Your beating heart, pumping wildly in your chest just like his was. Did you know? Did you know what you did to him? Did you know how much he needed you, how much he thinks of you? Did you know that he… that he-

“I won’t.” You say, cutting him off mid thought. His hand clutches onto you through the fabric of your shirt, trying to reach through you and grab your heart into his hands. He wants to pull it from you, keep it for himself and lock it away, make sure you never fucking leave him. He was so selfish.

“I won’t leave you Charlie.” You say again when he says nothing, just watching his hand twist into the fabric of your shirt, tugging it strangely until he’s rid you of it. He places his hand back on your chest, feeling your heart better now through the barrier of only your flesh.

“I…. I’m sorry.” “You said you wouldn’t lie to me?” It feels like the first thing he’s said in hours, his voice rough around the edges, gooey in the middle. His post-yelling voice, you knew it too well.

“I wouldn’t.”

“Then why… why would you even say that? That you would leave me?”

“Because if that’s what you wanted, what you needed… I would do it. I would do anything you wanted, anything for you, Charlie.”

“Why?” He couldn’t understand. There was no fathamobale reason as to why he would deserve such devotion. Especially from you.

You’re quiet, unsure of how to answer him. This was the same back and forth you both had before he exploded, when you almost told him you… that you lo-

“I-I don’t know how to answer… you told me not to say it.” You whimper, tears spilling from your eyes again. His hand comes to hold your cheek, thumb swiping away the tear. You nuzzle into his hand, kissing his palm. You stay there for a moment, resting your face in his palm, feeling his warmth radiating from his hands, letting a silence wash over the two of you. It was sort of peaceful. A chaotic peace.

“Charlie, I-”

“Don’t... don’t say it.” You cry some more, tears spilling. His hand moves to your throat, squeezing gently, you find it oddly comforting.

“But I want to, I want to say it, please.” You grab the wrist of the hand holding your throat, squeezing his flesh, asking.

“No.”

“Charlie-”

“I said no.” He grabs your jaw, shaking you from side to side a little. You whimper, eyes screwing shut, pushing more tears past the precipice. He pulls you into his lap, you’re putty in his hands, letting him move you however he needs to move you. He holds you in his arms, your legs wrap around his waist and his legs bring him to stand up somehow, his strength always shocking you.

“You can’t say it... you can’t leave.” He continues, you sniffle, hiding your face in his neck, grabbing onto his hair as he carries you somewhere through the apartment, up some stairs…

“I’m sorry, Charlie, I’m- sorry.” You hiccup and cry into his neck, wetting the skin. You press your lips over the newly wet skin, feeling his heartbeat flutter underneath, teeth grazing the thin flesh.

Suddenly he’s lowering you down, down, down until you come in contact with a soft surface, his mattress. Charlie crawls on top of you, you let him rest between your thighs, keeping your legs up high on his waist.

“Don’t ever fucking leave me.” You shake your head from side to side in agreement with him, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. His hand trails down the length of your body roughly, burning your flesh in its unforgiving path. You’re left only in your jeans since he removed your shirt when you were still downstairs.

“I won’t, I-I didn’t mean-” You can barely form a proper sentence, choking on your own tears and sadness that wrack through your mind and body. Charlie’s hand in already palming your sex through the thick denim you wear, you whimper, trying to squeeze your thighs together but his body blocks them.

“Stop talking.” He barely gets out the words before he’s pressing his lips to yours again, letting his lips glide against your wobbly and swollen ones. You breathe each other in, letting your tongues dance across one anothers as you gasp and cry into his mouth. It’s all teeth and all tongue, it’s messy, clumsy, desperate, burning. You don’t care, he doesn’t either when your teeth clack against each other, nibbling on lips, biting sometimes.

Charlie flips you over underneath him so that you face the sheets, sliding down your body and roughly tugging down your jeans along with your underwear in one swift motion. You gasp as your wet cunt comes in contact with the cool air of the darkening day. Charlie stands on his knees behind you, pulling your ass up higher, higher, higher until he’s satisfied. His cheeks are warm, his ears pink at the peaks. Before either of you even have time to think, his hand comes down harshly onto your right ass cheek, you cry out, gripping the sheets by your head.

“Ch-Charlie!” You gasp, earning you another smack to your other cheek. You push your head down into the covers, trying to muffle your cries and moans as he keeps going.

His smacks you again, and again, and again and again until you’re a sobbing mess in the sheets. Words, languages lost to you in your muddled brain. A pool of spit near your mouth soaked into the white fabric, only a wet spot remaining to show for evidence of your euphoria. You can feel the imprint of his hand on your ass, you know it's burning red, you know the skin is raised and puffy. You fucking love it.

Charlie’s chest is heaving, breaths labored as he takes it all out on you like he knows you need it, knows you love it. He does too; love it and need it. The way your ass gets so much brighter, how big the imprint he’s left on you is. How fucking perfect you are for him... He’s pulling off his shirt before he knows it, shedding his pants too until he’s in nothing but his underwear. You’ve stayed exactly where you are, not daring to move a muscle since he hasn’t instructed you otherwise.

“So now you listen.” Charlie mutters to himself, it's barely audible to you since the blood is coursing so loudly through your veins, through your ears. You’re buzzing.

Charlie pushes you back down on the mattress so you lay completely flat. He pulls your jeans and underwear down the rest of your legs until you lay there bare before him. He inhales sharply at the sight of you. He could see the way you glisten for him, he could feel it on his hand when he had spanked you, your arousal having begun to trail down the tops of your thighs, he moaned at the sight.

His hand comes flying down, this time spanking you roughly on your pussy causing you to lurch forward into the sheets, crying out his name pathetically again. He leans over you, keeping his hand clutched tightly around your cunt, feeling your juices seep between his fingers, you moan and try to press back into his hand but he just slaps it again, your eyes screwing shut. He’s nearly got his entire weight on top of you, his hot breath fanning across your cheek as he comes close to your face.

“You’re so fucking wet for me… you want it that badly?” You nod your head vigorously.

“Yes! Yes, Charlie I want you, I-I need you so badly, please.”

“Hmmm, what do you need?”

“Anything, y-your fingers…”

“Where”

“... in me, in me please.” You’re completely desperate, your crying and sobbing from earlier making you especially weak to his ways, his voice, his body. God, he could do anything to you, and you would let him, you would beg him, you would thank him.

Slowly, Charlie sinks one thick finger into your soaking cunt. Your eyes roll into the back of your head as he pumps it slowly, in and out, in and out of you. You try and push your hips back to meet the small thrust of his finger but he keeps you pinned down.

Charlie could feel you clenching around his single digit and he groaned next to your ear, nibbling on the soft lobe as he continued his ministrations. You whined, withered underneath the weight of his body, his hot chest pressing into your back, pressing you into the mattress.

“Charlie, please I-”

“What? You need more? You need more from me?”

“Please.” Charlie draws his index finger out of you before joining it with his middle one, probing your entrance teasingly, swirling his fingers around it but never going in.

“Fuck-”

“Do you think you deserve it?” He didn’t deserve it, didn’t deserve you, your pussy, none of it. He was only projecting his worthlessness onto you. He didn’t mean it, he couldn’t.

“N-no.” You say, tears welling in your eyes from a multitude of things. Overstimulation being one of them. You tried to get your hips to stop pressing into his hand but it was so hard when the temptation was right there.

“No… you don’t.” He kisses the tears that slip from your eye, pressing a finger to your mouth and you gladly take it in, laving your tongue around his salty, rough skin. His two fingers at your entrance finally push in deeper, causing you to cry out around his finger that was in your mouth, drool slipping past your lips.

Then he starts pumping, quickly, and you can’t stop the way your hips push into his hand, trying to meet him halfway through his thrusts, needing more so badly. You moan around his fingers, he echoes your moans back into your ear. You can feel his cock filling out, getting harder and harder against the back of your legs where it still lays confined in his underwear.

All too quickly he pulls his fingers from you and spanks your pussy again, you choke on a cry around the finger that’s still in your mouth. You’re already wrecked, and he’s nowhere near done with you.

“You only get to cum on my cock, understand?” You nod your head with vigour, eyes trying to meet his from where he’s positioned, behind you yet over top of you. You can feel him moving around, pulling his fingers from your mouth and his underwear off as best as he can without moving too far away from you.

“I understand, Charlie.” You cry, the tears unrelenting at this point, beyond your control.

Fuck, what weas he doing? Why was he doing this now?

What other way did he really have though, to show you what you mean to him? Definitely not words, no. No matter how much he writes for the theatre, words could never come close to describing what he feels for you, what he needs from you, wants from you, what he wants to give to you, tell you, provide you. None of it, no language would do.

Nothing would come closer to his body on you, in you, moving in tandem with you, hearts so close together that he loses sense of himself and just feels you wrapped so tightly around him in every sense. That’s the only way he could show you, the only way he could tell you.

He grabs his cock in his hand, pumping himself slowly and rests his head on your shoulder, groaning into your skin at the sensation. “Beg.” He spits, his lips moving against your flesh. He rubs the head of his cock against your slick folds and you yelp, pressing your hips back but he anticipated it, drawing his hips back, away from you.

“Charlie, please I-I need you so badly, I’ve never wanted… anything else but you, I just- please, I need you so bad, I-I, l...love-”

“I told you not to fucking say it.” He grits from behind clenched teeth, slapping your ass harshly and you let a sob leave your lips. The burn was so good.

“I-I’m sorry, I can’t help it-” You whine, fists bunching up the sheets with a grip so deadly your skin is turning white. He lets his head drop to your shoulder again, his own eyes screwing shut, trying to will his own tears away as he continues to run his cock along your pleading entrance, collecting whatever arousal has seeped out of you.

“Fuuuck, perfect little pussy... so desperate for my cock, isn’t it?” He mutters, almost to himself as he watches the way his cock moves between your glistening folds. Unashamed, you keep crying, moaning at the feeling of his big cock so close to where you need him most, nodding your head.

“Please, Charlie I need you inside m- fuck, just put it in, please-”

Your breath hitches in your throat as you feel him press in with the tip, letting the spongy head break through your folds and slightly dip into your entrance. Your fists clench and unclench against the sheets. With a sharp ‘fuck’ Charlie presses the rest of his long, thick cock into you, both of you moaning and breathing in one another.

He lets his cock sit in you, coming to interlock his fingers with yours, pinning your hands above your head, elongating both of your bodies but mostly yours, from how much longer his body is. Only then does he start snapping his hips into yours, letting his thrusts punch out your moans and cries from your chest.

At this angle, he’s hitting places inside of you so deep you never thought you could fathom, filling you up to the brim, you swear you can feel him in your stomach, punching your guts into your throat with every violent thrust.

You moan his name without relent, it’s the only thing you could possibly ever know. Charliecharliecharliecharliecharlie to infinity. You never wanted to know anything else, no other thought suddenly as interesting as him. He was the only thing that mattered. The way his cock filled you was dizzying, mind-numbing, and bone-shattering.

“You always need me so badly, you could never leave me, never leave this cock. Desperate little slut.” Charlie groans, head resting on your back as his powerful thrusts push you up the bed. He latches a hand around one of your hips, trying to keep you pinned down.

“You would never fucking leave me, you’d never fucking do it.” He continues, maybe to himself. You can feel him nuzzling his face into the skin on your shoulder, kissing and biting the skin, leaving a mark in his wake like he always does.

“I won’t, Charlie- I won’t, I promise.” You hiccup, his thrusts unrelenting in their assault. You could feel your release building, that bright white feeling rising inside of you. The only sounds in the room were your breathy moans, Charlie’s growls and the loud slap of skin on skin, his hips colliding with your ass every time.

“Dont ever say that s-shit again- dont ever fucking leave me. Don’t - ever. Fucking. Leave.” He growled, biting your shoulder and punctuating his words with harsher thrusts, fucking into you.

“I’m s-sorry Charlie-” You’re cut off by a sensation on your back. Hot, wet, slippery. Charlie sniffles.

He’s crying, burning holes into your flesh as they land on your back. Your own eyes well up all over again. The pleasure of his cock deep, deep, deep inside you and the emotions flowing through both of you was overwhelming, overstimulating, your mind was going blank, you felt like you would black out.

You hear it then, his quiet cries, the way his chest shakes as he finally lets it go, lets it out. And then he’s suddenly pulling out of you, grabbing one of your ankles and one side of your hip, flipping you over quickly, hiking your legs back up around his waist and continuing his punishing, relentless pace. You moan embarrassingly loudly as you watch the way his stomach flexes into you, the way his chest tightens and constricts, the flush that spreads from in between his marvelous pecs to his cheeks, his dark wet eyes, the red that fills them, the way his eyelashes clump together, making them look longer, darker, the dark halo of hair that frames his face. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

It was beyond you at this point, you couldn’t stop what was already put into motion.

“Oh, Charlie…” You cry, chest arching into his, your nails scraping his biceps. He moans at the pain, dropping his forehead to yours. You’ve never heard him moan like this, never seen him cry like this, never seen him so lost and completely gone in you.

Even if it was a mistake.

Even if you would regret it tomorrow.

Or five minutes from now.

Or immediately afterwards.

It was the truth, your truth. His truth. It was the only thing you could ever possibly know.

“I love you.” You cry, burning tears streaming down your cheeks. Charlie’s eyes meet yours, lost, delirious, shocked.

“You… y-you can’t.” He doesn’t tell you to stop this time. Doesn’t tell you to shut up, doesn’t tell you how dumb and pathetic it is to love him. You love him.

“I do, Charlie I-I do. Fuck, I love you so fucking much.” You whine, nails biting the skin on his back. His hips never stop, he’s fucking common sense and all things rational out of your mind. All you know is him. All you ever want to know is him, Charlie.

His chin wobbles, moans escape past his lips as he refuses to stop fucking you, his cock so fucking hard it hurts him, almost more than this. Almost more than the chant that has started to leave your lips, the floodgates have been opened and you can’t stop your confession now.

“I love you, I love you- shit, Charlie I love you, I love you so much, I love your fucking cock, fuck!” You couldn't stop, you felt like you could never stop at this point. You never wanted to stop saying it, never wanted to stop telling him. You loved him, you loved him, you loved him.

“You’re… you’re not real… you’re- fuck, too fucking good for m-me.” Charlie gasps, his hips speeding up, his cock growing harder somehow. You feel him pulse inside of you. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, mouth hanging agape, no sound being emitted from you. Charlie moves his lips down to your exposed throat, kissing and sucking on the delicate skin before wrapping a firm hand around it, not squeezing too tight.

“Yours.” You manage to choke out, gripping onto his wrist that's at your throat with all the strength you had with your body gone pleasure weak. Charlie moans your name, it makes you cry more.

“I’m yours, Charlie.” You manage to say more clearly, using all your willpower to look him in the eyes. His eyes are blown black, the dark circles underneath them so, so pigmented. You could feel the crescendo building, he was about to break. His lips were glossy, spit slicked and roughly bitten.

“You’re mine.” He confirms, more to himself than to you. He just… he felt like he could never be sure enough. Like he would never believe that you were his. That you were in love with him.

You nod your head, hands interlocking behind his head, gripping tightly into his hair.

“I’m yours, yours.” You keen, hips rolling into his as you both neared your release. His hand around your throat keeps you pinned in place as his fucks you into the mattress, moaning, groaning, crying your name. The slight added pressure makes you see stars, your pussy flutters around his cock and your back arches, pressing your chest into his but Charlie keeps you exactly where you are, your body convulsing as you cum, cum, cum around his cock, screaming his name.

“M’gonna cum, gonna f-fucking cum s-so deep inside, fill you up-”

“Please, Charlie.” You whine, dumb from the high that he continues to fuck you through, tears stained on the skin of your cheeks. You tug on his hair roughly, meeting his thrusts with a roll of your hips and that sends Charlie over the edge.

“Fhuuuck-” He lifts his head slightly, to look at you better as he splits you open one final time, his cock stilling in the deepest parts of you before he cums so fucking deep inside your pussy with the most guttural moan.

He fucks his cum back in to you until it’s seeping back out onto his cock. He groans so loudly you feel it in your bones. His hands wrap around your upper body, holding you tightly as he spins to lay on the mattress, holding your body to his chest, his cock still nestled deep inside of you.

Charlie gives you a small thrust, pushing and mixing his cum with yours one final time. You gasp and cling to him, your nails digging slightly into his muscular pec at the sensation, the delicious burn. You feel so incredibly full, so full of your Charlie. You love him.

“I lo-”

“I love you.”

Your heart must have stopped beating, your lungs, forgotten their functionality, your brain short circuited, your limbs incapacitated.

You looked up at him with those big, shiny wet eyes. You looked like a fawn, lost on the side of the road who just found someone who could help them. Someone kind, someone gentle, honest, safe, warm. Someone worth loving. He was worth loving. Charlie was worth loving.

But you already knew that.

He said it again, so low in the dark room, the dark night, eclipsed with spilled feelings and sweat, tears too. So many fucking tears. His voice so low it almost didn’t register, the deep vibrato rumbling your insides and warming you up all over again.

He said it with you curled up on his chest, he said it again when you moved up his body to press your face into the crook of his neck, pressing your lips to his bruised skin, he said it as tears spilled from your eyes. He would say it as you fell asleep on him in the deadly hours of the night and again in the morning when you woke. He would remind you constantly, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t hold it in. Not anymore.

He would tell you he loves you a million and one times from then on, until you didn’t want to hear it from him anymore.

tag list! @morby @shesakillerkween @gamingaquarius

#charlie barber #charlie barber x reader #reader insert #charlie barber x you #charlie barber imagine #charlie barber smut #long sleeves #part 2 #tw: daddy kink #cw: daddy kink #my writing

375 notes · View notes

kaitycole · 4 years

Text

chapter 5: let the schemes begin

Summary: Two little friends have always desired one thing: to end up as siblings. So when the chance presented itself after a finalized divorce, who were they to decline such an opportunity to finally bring their parents together?

Pairings: Bokuto Kōtarō x f!Reader

Word Count: 4453

Warnings: Angst. Fluff. Mentions of divorce, cheating, cussing

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters portrayed in this series. Part of the @babythotshq Dearest Daddy Collab

Tags: open (send me an ask to be added!)

January 5, 2026

Jess watches her daughter through her laptop screen, the little girl has been quiet for about five minutes and she looks worried which makes her mother want to reach through the screen and comfort her.

“Seiko, baby, what’s bothering you?”

She sighs, swinging her feet back and forth. Ever since Misaki’s birthday something’s been on her mind, but she’s been too afraid to ask her dad or her mom. Usually Seiko would just say what was on her mind, ask whatever questions she had that popped into her head, but this was different, her dad and Y/N whispered when they talked and stopped when her or Haruki came into the room.

“Nothing, Mama.”

“It makes Mama sad when you’re upset.” Jess pokes out her bottom lip which gets a giggle from Seiko.

“Daddy said he made that face up!”

“Oh, he did? That sounds like Daddy.”

Seiko smiles a little, “can I ask you something, Mommy?”

Her sweet and low tone melts Jess’ heart as she gives her daughter a smile. “Of course baby girl.”

“What’s a divorce?”

Jess sucks in a quick breath, trying to decide how best to approach it while also curious as to where the subject even came up.

“Well, it’s when a mom and dad stop living together.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes it’s because they may be fighting a lot.”

“Why?”

“Because sometimes people stop getting along.”

“Oh.” Seiko starts wringing her hands again. “I heard Haruki ask Daddy about it. Does that mean they don’t love him anymore?”

“No baby. Y/N and Youta love Haruki very much, just like Mommy and Daddy love you. Divorce is a grownup thing, but it has nothing to do with Haruki.”

Her golden eyes start shining, filling with tears. “Promise, Mama? I don’t like Haruki sad.”

“I promise. Can you go get Daddy?”

Seiko bounces out of the chair, quickly returning to her usual energetic self as she runs out of the room, shouting for her dad. Jess laughs when Bo walks into the room, carrying their daughter upside down as she squeals.

“Daddy put me down!”

“If you say so.” He acts like he’s going to drop her which only makes her start to squeal louder before he finally sits her down on the floor.

“Mommy wants you. I think you’re in trouble.”

Bo looks directly at Jess with a puzzled expression before she shakes her head. Seiko giggles before running up to the laptop.

“Bye Mommy!” She leans forwards, kissing the screen. “I love you!”

“I love you too baby girl! I’ll talk to you tomorrow!” She waves as Seiko runs into her room, leaving her parents alone.

“You look radiant as ever, Jess.”

She blushes, “you, as handsome as ever Bo.”

“Seiko said I was in trouble.”

“You are. How dare you not tell me about Y/N and Youta’s divorce.” She shakes her head, quickly checking her phone after it pings, Bo catches the way she bites her lip as she smiles at whatever she’s reading.

“I didn’t know you were so invested in their marriage.”

“I’m not, but I am invested in the happiness of my baby daddy.” She smiles wide, knowing Bo doesn’t really care for that term, that it makes him feel cheap, but she can’t let a teasing moment pass them by

“I’m not happy about it.”

“Maybe not directly, but it does leave Y/N open for new ventures. New possibilities. New relationship with an old friend, perhaps?”

“Jess! The papers aren’t even signed.” It wasn’t like the thought hadn’t briefly, very briefly, crossed his mind. A chance to finally tell you how he felt, but just like back in high school, the timing was all wrong.

She repeats what he said, mocking him which makes him roll his eyes. “Well either you can tell her or I will.”

“You wouldn’t.” Bo narrows his eyes at her and she mimics the expression.

“Do you really want to test that theory?”

There’s no doubt in Bo’s mind that Jess would actually do it which slightly worries him. He knows her better than himself most days and that she only has the purest intentions when it comes to him, it was something that he saw a lot in Seiko too. Even if there was a chance for him, he knows he has to tread lightly since it’s not just you he has to worry about but also Haruki and somewhere in there Youta counts too.

“Just promise me you won’t wait forever?” She tilts her head with a soft smile on her face. It’s the same one Seiko makes when she first wakes up and Bo feels a tug on his heart. “Even the knight deserves happiness in the fairy tales.”

“I promise. Just want to make sure the timing’s right.”

* * Mid-April – 2010

Bokuto had realized his feelings for you on a seemingly random day after the first volleyball practice of your second year. He was thrilled when he heard that a first year named Akaashi Keiji was a setter, but the first person that he wanted to tell wasn’t there: you.

He had a few crushes before this, but he could tell this time it was different. The only downside to this realization was that now he found himself nervous to be around you alone. Before it didn’t bother him to sit next to you, shoulders brushing against each other’s, but now he opted for a seat across from you and if he had to sit next to you, his face was red the whole time. Then came the struggle between telling you or not telling you, both sides had a plus and negative.

Telling you meant you had the chance to share his feelings.

Not telling you meant he could keep you as a friend.

Telling you meant you could reject his feelings.

Not telling you meant you two would only be friends.

And of course, the one person who Bo would normally go to when he needed serious advice was you, but you were the one person who couldn’t help him with this one.

** “Yukippe!” He called out to the second-year manager at the end of practice.

“Ko-chan!” She smiled as she turned to face him. She raised an eyebrow at his demeanor, he was chewing the inside of his cheek while nervously shifting weight between his feet.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Which class?” She put a hand on her hip, a small smirk on her face.

“Huh?”

“You need notes, right?”

“Oh, no.” He shook his head, “It’s uhm…I need advice.”

Her eyes widened, grabbing his hand she dragged him over to the bleachers, patting the stop next to her for him to sit. “Advice about what?”

“Well I think I like someone…”

She cut him off, “Is it Y/N? Tell me it’s Y/N!”

He wanted to deny it, but if she guessed that easily, obviously he wasn’t good at hiding his feelings. Or it could have just been you’re the only person he really hangs out with outside of the volleyball team. But if it was obvious, had you picked up on it? Or was that a sign you didn’t like him back?

“If it’s that obvious how come she didn’t already notice?” He sighed, shoulders dropping.

“She could just be shy. You two are really close, maybe she’s just nervous. Or she could want you to make the first move, some girls like that.” Yukie shrugged.

“What if I tell her and it ruins our friendship?”

“But what if you tell her and you have a really great relationship?” She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, “you can’t be in the game if you just stand on the sidelines, right?”

* * The first time Bo went to confess he had practiced his small speech all night, not falling asleep until close to 2:45am. He even asked one of his sisters to iron his uniform in exchange for doing the dishes all week and made sure he left a bit earlier. If there was a pre-confession checklist, he had all the boxes checked and ready to go. It was all planned, he wanted to tell you his feelings as soon as he saw you, but he also didn’t want it to distract you from classes, you were very serious about getting into a good university. So as much as he hated to wait, he held out until the end of the day, right before practice.

He had told you to meet him at your locker after your last class and he pepped up when he got a quick glimpse of you waiting there for him. Taking one last deep breath, he continued to walk towards you until he saw something that brought him to a complete halt. You throw your arms around some guy he doesn’t recall seeing around Fukurōdani Academy, but to be fair that wasn’t saying much. He didn’t really keep up with people who weren’t in his class or on the volleyball team. He tried to hold on to the confidence he had all day, but it was shattered when you waved him over, introducing whoever the guy was as your boyfriend.

That’s how Bokuto spent all of his second year and most of his third year, watching you get into a relationship with what felt like everyone but him. He’d smile when you introduced the newest guy who confessed, whisper how sorry he was when you came to him crying when the relationship inevitably ended, help you pick up all the pieces. He became the one you could turn to who didn’t have an ulterior motive, the one who was just there for you without you even asking him to be.

Then after Bo felt he had waited long enough, that you were in a good place after the break-up, he’d get ready to confess only to have it shot down by you introducing him to the guy who managed to confess a day or so before he had the confidence to. And the cycle just continued, you got in a relationship, broke up, Bo went to confess, you already had a new guy, leaving Bokuto’s self-esteem to slowly be chipped away.

* * February – 2012

“Bokuto-san, you should really say something to Y/N.” Akaashi said, helping the ace pick up a few stray volleyballs from their extra spiking practice.

The ace just shrugged, he had realized that it had been a while since your last break up and you hadn’t been acting like you were in a new relationship like you usually did. But for longer than he’d care to admit, he’d held on so tightly to his feelings that he wondered if he could even let them go.

“I’ll support whatever you decide, but I’d hate for you to regret not telling her years from now.” Akaashi gave Bokuto a small pat on the shoulder before he headed for the locker room.

** March – 2012

Bokuto took a deep breath and smoothed the wrinkles on his shirt. Today was the day, he was finally going to confess his feelings for you. He had it all planned out, with Akaashi’s help of course. He had bought the small owl keychain you had said you liked last weekend when out shopping.

His heart fluttered when he heard your laugh and his pace increased even though his legs felt like they’d give out at any moment. He swallowed thickly, the heaviness of his nerves filling his chest with each step he took. The butterflies in his stomach multiplied making him feel a slight wave of nausea when he finally sees your face. You jumped up from the bench you’ve been sitting on, waving him over eagerly with a huge smile on your face. Something about this time felt right to Bo and he dug into his pocket, tightly holding on to the keychain.

“Bo!” You throw your arms around him and he let the floral scent of your perfume calm him.

“Y/N.” He cleared his throat, “I want to tell you something.”

“Can I tell you something first?” You smiled at him and gave him a small pout which he knows he can’t refuse. How could he ever say no to you?

“Of course.” What was a few more minutes?

“I got into Kyoto University!” You started to jump up and down, hugging him once again.

“Y/N, that’s awesome! I’m so proud of you!” The two of you sat down on the bench, knees slightly touched when you turned a bit to the side to face him.

“Thank you!” You let out a breath, “it might sound odd, but I’m glad to be going to university single. No distractions, I can just focus on me and my degree.”

You had started to ramble about the course catalog and the two different majors you were torn between, but Bo didn’t hear any of it. Your words repeated on a loop in his mind, breaking his confidence and maybe even a little of his heart. He wanted to get up and just go home, skip practice, he didn’t care about Nationals right now. Once again, he was too late, but for some reason this time felt more permanent.

“Bo! Bo!” You called out, “what did you want to tell me?”

When he looked up at you, you had that signature smile on your face, the one he always looked for on a bad day or the same one Akaashi would point out when he hit a slump during a game and it broke his heart.

“Nothing. Oh wait,” he stood up, pulling the keychain out of his pocket. “I just wanted to give you this.”

Your eyes widened and you squealed when the owl keychain was placed in your hand. You had briefly mentioned you liked it while the two of you walked past the small shop. To be fair you weren’t sure he had even heard you, but you weren’t surprised, Bo always came through. You pressed yourself up on your tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his cheek, thanking him over and over for the gift.

At that moment, Bokuto wasn’t sure which had hurt him more. Coming to confess to you, just to see someone had beat him to it or coming to confess just to hear you say you didn’t want a boyfriend. Each time had taken a toll on him, each time carrying the heavy weight of rejection, but this time Bo knew it would be the last time because he couldn’t take that pain anymore.

* * January 13, 2026

“Let’s go to the swings, Hakkun!” Seiko grabs the boy and drags him across the playground.

“No. I don’t want to!” He tugs his arm away from her which causes her to stop and look at him. Haruki didn’t normally act like that, usually he just went along with whatever she wanted to do, but lately he’d been acting differently and Seiko didn’t like it.

“Fine! Play by yourself!” Seiko stomps away, crossing her arms as she goes. When she finally hops up on the swing, there’s an older girl on the one next to her.

“Don’t worry. Brothers can be moody sometimes.”

It isn’t the first time someone called them siblings, assuming they were related which usually bothered her because she didn’t think they looked anything alike. But this time, it gave her an idea that she wanted to share with him. Though it would have to wait because she was still mad at him.

* * January 20, 2026

You and Youta have been sitting across from each at the kitchen table going over the fine details of your divorce for the last half hour. It still feels weird to you, for months the two of you could barely hold a conversation, but within the last few weeks it was as if you were back in college. As if this whole process was the same as a college debate and you both were able to effortlessly keep up the conversation. It was as if when you both accepted the end of your relationship had come, that pressure to make things work, to keep up the facade was gone and you two could breathe again.

It feels weird that 12 years of your life was now simplified into a small stack of papers, that somehow the love that you two had stumbled upon on a college campus was just gone. The same love that brought your beautiful son into the world had somehow vanished without you noticing. Maybe you had noticed, maybe you saw the way Youta’s eyes never stayed focused on you for long, how even when he was there he seemed to be somewhere else. Maybe it was something you had known when the lack of your husband’s touch had stopped bothering you and you’d wish he had stayed out all night rather than stumbling in at 3am just to end up waking you.

Your son walks by the table, going into the kitchen and grabs a snack that he knows he shouldn’t have because it’s almost time for dinner. He tries to walk by you, without a word before you reach out, stopping him.

“Ruki, it’s almost dinner. Let’s wait on the snack, okay?” You say, your tone gentle as you reach out to pull him into a hug. You were used to your son being more reserved than outgoing, he usually preferred to read or draw and always opted to be in the living room so he was around you but could still be alone. But recently you noticed that he preferred spending most of his time alone, if there wasn’t a specific reason to be around you or Youta, he holed up in his room.

“But I don’t want to.” He puts up his arms, pushing away from your embrace before he starts to open the foil package.

“Haruki, I asked you to wait for dinner.” You reach for the package, but he yanks it out of your reach.

“I don’t care!” He shouts, walking back towards his room.

“You need to apologize, Haruki. That’s not how you speak to your mother.” Youta stands up from the table, a serious expression on his face as his words come out steady and firm.

Haruki stops midway down the hall, turning his head slightly to the side and he mumbles an apology, heading back into his room before you or your husband could say anything further.

* * February 22, 2026

“Hakkun!” Seiko throws her arms around her best friend, squeezing him a bit tighter than usual. She had been talking to her parents about what was going on between you and Youta and when she asked how she could help, they told her just to make sure he knew he was loved.

“Hey Seiko.” He gave her a small smile. You had dropped Haruki off with Bo since you had a job interview and Youta had to travel to Miyagi for a short business trip.

“My daddy said we can watch him practice if we want!” She smiles, taking his hand in hers, “you still wanna play volleyball, right?”

He shrugs, “I guess.”

“Maybe you and Saki-chan could practice together! Uncle Kaashi is gonna teach her!”

Haruki follows her to the top of the bleachers, she swears it’s the best spot to watch, but Haruki would’ve been fine on the first row. Both of them are watching the MSBY team run drills when Seiko screams before turning to Haruki.

Bo immediately starts apologizing to the team who just waved him off, telling him that it’s fine, they love Seiko and the slight distraction was the perfect chance for a small break.

Sakusa’s eye twitches as he glares towards Bokuto, “I really wish she was more like Jess.”

“Seiko is perfect the way she is.” Hinata quickly adds, giving the outside hitter a thumbs up.

“Is she?” Sakusa raises his brows before walking away, leaving both Hinata and Bokuto speechless.

“Speaking of Jess, how is she doing?” Meian jogs over to his teammates, water bottle in hand.

Atsumu cocks his head to the side, curious about his captain's seemingly sudden interest in Jess, but before he can ask, Bokuto begins to tell him that they had just talked earlier that morning and she’s been doing fine.

** “I FORGOT TO TELL YOU ABOUT AN IDEA!” Seiko shouts before Haruki reaches over to cover her mouth with his hand.

“Seiko, inside voice.”

Her cheeks turn red and she gives Haruki her signature sorry smile before waving at her dad telling him the same.

“Sorry, I just got so excited.”

“What did you forget to tell me?”

“Remember when we were at the park and I wanted to swing?”

He just nods, he didn’t like thinking about how mean he had been and what made it worse was when he tried apologizing, Seiko just brushed it off, telling him that it was her fault not his.

“A girl called you my brother.”

“People do that a lot.” Haruki turns his head when he hears the smack of a volleyball, his attention going back to the MSBY practice. It wasn’t anything new for them to be mistaken for siblings even though they didn’t really look anything alike.

“But what if we were siblings?”

“Then one of us would have totally different parents.”

She huffs, annoyed with his attitude, but remembers what her mom said and calms down. “No, I mean what if your mom and my dad got together.”

His head snaps towards the little girl, his attention completely on her. “What?”

“My dad always smiles around your mom.”

“And my mom really likes being around your dad.” He taps his chin with his index finger, thinking. You did seem a bit sadder since he learned his parents were getting a divorce and he knows Uncle Bo makes you laugh a lot. He looks over to Seiko who has a grin on her face, “what did you have in mind?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Seiko leans towards Haruki, cupping her hand and whispering in his ear.

** “Seiko! Haruki! Get your jackets ready, I’ll be back shortly.” Bo calls up to the two kids who are both smirking.

“Okay Daddy!”

“I’m serious. We have to meet Y/N on time.” He points at his daughter before heading into the locker room, but stops when he hears Jess’s name come up in conversation.

“What yer askin’ about Jess for?” There’s a slight amount of teasing in his curious tone.

“Just making conversation since Sakusa brought her up.” Meian’s almost boring response slightly irks the setter, but the faint blush on his cheeks aren’t lost on Atsumu.

“If yer that worried, I’m sure Bo would give ya her number.” Atsumu raises his eyebrow at his captain who seems to be a bit flustered now.

“I uhm—it’s really fine. I was just making conversation.” Meian shuts his locker a little too hard.

“You’re sure Bo would what?” Bokuto lets his presence known, a puzzled look on his face.

“Invite the team to Seiko’s birthday party, of course.” Atsumu smirks.

“Yeah, of course.” He goes to his locker, grabbing his stuff for a quick shower. It had never crossed his mind before, not that he was opposed to it, but thinking of Jess with someone else left a weird feeling in his chest.

* * February 27, 2026

“What do you think they are talking about?” You ask Bo, both of you looking at the table next to yours. Despite popular opinion, Bo didn’t take Seiko out for fast food often, but you managed to convince him this one time wouldn’t hurt, so here you all were at McDonald’s much to Bo’s distaste.

Seiko and Haruki are sitting close to each other, hands cupped over their mouths as they whisper to each other, eyes going back and forth between their parents and each other. Both of your children had begged to sit at their own table, claiming they were discussing their next big adventure where no adults were allowed.

Bo shrugs, “probably scheming something or another. Seiko’s birthday is coming up.”

“That’s true. Can you believe they’ll be six this year?”

“Sometimes I still can’t believe I’m a dad.” He laughs.

“Anything special planned?”

He leans over, whispering in your ear, “Jess is coming in, it’s a surprise.” When he sits back up, he sees Seiko giggling before she looks down at her food, almost like she had been caught.

** “What do you think they are talking about?” Seiko looks over at Haruki when she sees her dad lean over towards you.

“Adult stuff, probably.” Haruki takes a bite of a chicken nugget.

“Haruki, c’mon. We have to think of ways to get them together.” Seiko grabs one of his fries despite his protests.

“Maybe we should ask an adult.” He shrugs, “they’d probably have more experience with this.”

“But who?” She rests her chin on her hand, looking over at her dad who is laughing with you. Her eyes widen along with the smirk on her face, “I know the perfect person.”

* * February 28, 2026

A yawn comes from the other end of the video call before the lamp on the nightstand flicks on, the once black screen now showing a very sleepy woman, brown hair thrown up in a messy bun.

“Sei…ko? Is everything alright?” She looks at the clock on her nightstand: 4:35am.

“Hey hey hey!” Seiko yells, waking her mother even more. “I have a favor to ask.”

At 4 in the morning? You really are Kotaro’s daughter. “Can it wait until Mommy wakes up, princess?”

Jess already knows by the small pout on her bottom lip that that is just not going to be an option. She sighs in defeat, wondering if she should just get up and get a coffee.

“It’s really important, Momma.”

“What is this favor that simply cannot wait?”

“Haruki and I need help getting Daddy and Y/N together!”

Jess fully supported the idea of Bo and you together, just a few weeks ago she too was advocating for him to tell you of his feelings. But hearing her daughter advocate for the cause left a funny feeling in her chest. She put that feeling to the side, the look on her daughter’s face as she anxiously waited for her answer was enough to take precedence and hearing about the McDonald’s table set-up she had come up with made Jess feel proud. Seiko takes so much after Bo that it’s rare Jess sees herself in her, but when she does, it’s a great feeling.

“Okay, here’s what you do.”

Previous/ Masterlist /Next

#bokuto x reader #bokuto kotaro #bbthots #bbthots collab #scheming monsters

119 notes · View notes

itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 4 years

Text

Infected/Undead Boyfriend

Warning: some language and fluff.

Part 2 - Part 3 (FINALE)

When It Rains, It Pours

It always rains in January-- or was it February? It didn't matter, it had been a long time since you remembered, and you didn't care. It wasn't a problem for you in fact: what was a problem for you was how you were going to get out of the city without being taken out first.

The city was swarming with infected since the beginning; when the world had gone to rot.

You had been attempting since day one to get out, but the military had been doing its damn best in containing the population through fear and control. They kept the those from coming in and from leaving, practically blocking you all in like cattle from the very start.

The military was eventually taken out, leaving their cells and high walls that were impossible to pass. And it wasn't just the living that had been out of control; the dead were rare but they were rising daily – it didn't matter how you died, they returned stronger and in larger herds; carving their way through the city with little care.

It had been three years since you had heard from your relatives: from your uncle and cousins who had been living outside of your city and had found a refuge to live in. They assured you a safe place to stay when you escaped, but you had last heard from them three months ago; the signal dying.

It was risky, but you needed supplies, and gaining them not just for yourself but for your radio was to help you get out quicker. You weren't going to rot alive inside these walls, no matter how few humans and dead remained.

The supplies were growing scarce, the food dwindling: your fears of starving to death seemed to be the worst way to go out, but you wanted to endure and live, but raiding shops for food was difficult.

The sky was gloomy and bleak when you had been caught by oncoming dead, their swarm had surprised you in the back of a building, where they had been twistedly been locked away for someone like you to run into on purpose.

The many corridors chasms seemed to get deeper and deeper the further you ran in, the less hope you had for getting out when you were certain you would be dead. It was only with a certain gap between the floors had given you a chance to get away only for the very weak floor you had been standing on to collapse beneath you, sweeping you with it to hit the very pit that welcomed you and not very much else.

Your head was pounding, a soaring ache in your sides from how you had fallen had gotten you whimpering and groaning in discomfort and fear: the darkening walls had been slicked so sinisterly that it was impossible to see what could be lurking within the shadows.

When your trembling hands came to touch at your head, there was a slick pool of something falling into your sight, like water heavily, it dampened the front of your face to make you look as if you were wearing a crimson mask.

There was a scuffle of shoes, a groan of the floorboards as something lurched within the dimness that came from the right side of you, and in your short time to respond or react and with your blinded sight that was washing over your vision quickly, you had clumsily pulled out your knife just as you saw the figure stumble out from behind a fallen cabinet.

You reacted loudly, grunting and swinging as you defended yourself pitifully, the figure had kicked the knife out of your hand almost too precisely, the clatter of it hitting the concrete ground brought your attention that you had no case of surviving.

The figure loomed over you momentarily: your bleeding head made it difficult to see when you were trying to stay focused and alert, your head was drubbing with thrums that came every passing second, screaming for rest, with your hands still scrambling before you finally whimpered before you had collapsed fully; your fall not as hard as you had predicted.

There had been light pouring through the small opening when you had come back around: the slow movements that came from not too far to you made you aware that you had been taken out by someone; someone had dragged your unconscious body out from that dreaded Hell.

There was a tentative hand at your forehead, feeling at your temperature, before their touch came to lift individually each eyelid, earning a low groan from you each time. You were alive – for now.

Your eyes had adjusted to the brightness that shouldn't have been coming so early in the day—no not during this month, it always rained. You pondered, your eyes had fallen on the figure beside you, momentarily stunned before your body had kicked yourself free from their grasp, and for you found yourself falling back against the iron wall.

When your unsteady eyes had fallen over their silhouette, you would've been certain that they had been dead. There could've been something human over their shape and how they stayed squat in the same position from nurturing you prior, but you couldn't lay why their appearance didn't look right.

Maybe it was their skin: it was milky and ashen, their hands were darkened and reddened around the knuckles and fingernails and you had assumed they had been wearing gloves, but their nails were peeling and uneven, wild to the fault.

Their—he – you were unsure how to describe them at first, they had masculine features, but you didn't know whether to describe this person in front of you as a human or the glimmer of an apparition.

Your eyes wandered past his wan face, his dark hair was chin-length, thrown messily up with strands that had fallen out and hanging over his deep-set eyes. His eyes—oh, God – the eyes were maybe the most human thing. They held more than just the husk of a shell of a human once. They were alive and conscious even when they had looked so unresponsive from afar.

He observed you carefully, his body language told you that he wasn't like any other infected creature you had dealt with in the many years since the outbreak, he was nothing like them- no, he was still aware of everything going on around him as if he was not one of them at all.

You didn't realise that the two of you had been staring at one another for quite some time, neither one speaking nor reacting in any way, but he watched, being aware of what you did or how you moved, making sure you didn't do anything that would harm him; his angular features told you so.

"Holy fucking shit, how—I-" Your words were stiff in your mouth, like hardened honey everything had solidified in your throat, leaving you just as lifeless as the infected. He had remained in his spot, rigid and hesitant in your language, but he didn't seem reluctant, as, from his jacket pocket, he was pulling something out, some granola bars and a can of dried beans.

He slowly slid them across the hardware floor, the can hit the sole of your sneaker, the granola bars he held up as a peace offering for you to take, all whilst you stared at him in what you could describe as disbelief.

"I- Where'd you find these?" You picked up the can and gave it a gentle rattle; they seemed decent still. He pointed to behind you, and from your view from behind, you never noticed that the two of you were secluded in an area that had a high spot that allowed you to onlook the entire city. It was nothing perfect, but you could tell that he had done a lot in keeping the area cut off with the desks and chairs barred up against the doors. From here, you could even see the deserted block you had been staying in for the last few weeks.

When you had turned back to him, he was standing, now a little closer to you, his hand outstretched with the food. "You got this for me?" You asked, warily taking it from his grip before stuffing the items into your pockets. You could get back to your place before the day ended if you were lucky; with hopes of finally finalising what you needed finishing.

He nodded, and you understood that there was now something of him conscious that was still alive and living: he was infected but not as dead as you had assumed.

"I need to get out of here, I need to get back to my place before it gets too dark." You found it troubling to think of the right words and whether he would say yes. "Will you help me get out of here?"

He didn't have much on him, but he had grabbed at your backpack and handed it to you, and already you knew his silent gestures was him saying yes. It was all that was needed to get you out quicker.

You and your... your new friend had left and travelled east through the stilled avenues and lonely desolate streets, the infected man lingering not too far behind you but close around if you needed help.

When you finally arrived in your place it was eerily tranquil, the sky had reached a calming picture of calmness over the horizon from your barricaded window, the dim light flooding through as you threw your bag to the couch you had been sleeping on; the half-dead, half-living man remaining close by in your closed doorway.

You made your way to your stationed radio, finalising the parts of bolts and wires that you finally had with you, twisting, tinkering and pushing buttons you had to learn in knowing, before finally turning on the HAM radio to be greeted with distorted and unruly squeaks and shrieks of the channels.

Behind you, the undead man grunted, covering his ears, a haunting cry that came from him threw you off as you looked back on him, quickly quieting the sound as you turned through the signals quicker, quieting the static.

"Come on, this gotta work." You gritted your teeth, trying again and again, "Hello? Is anyone out there? Are there any survivors?" You repeated the questions, nothing but your own voice ringing out and dying along with the signal.

Your eyebrows furrowed, slapping the side of the radio, your cheeks burning. "No! Come on! I have everything for it to fucking work, why isn't it working?" You let out your pent up feelings on the old thing, shoving it away as if the sight of it would make you feel better. It didn't.

An unexpected hand came to rest on the back of your shoulder, your body stiffening with your head twisting to look up from your kneeling spot, the male behind you. From his close-up, you could see his face so clearly, the skin had broken into a state of decay: with veins protruding along his round cheeks.

His eyes weren't as dark now that you saw them so closely, they were brown, and a lovely shade too. His eyes had broken blood vessels in his sclera but there was clearly still something so sympathetic that was in the surface.

So alive, but he's trapped in a dying body.

It startled you for a moment when his hand gingerly came to hesitate inches from your face. You didn't back away, inquisitive rather than cautious as to what he was going to do, his eyes looking back and forth over your face before he reached forth, the back of his ashen fingers collecting a just-to-fall teardrop from the corner of your eye.

"Oh, thanks." Your body came to wipe at the unwanted tears, looking away from him momentarily as you looked around your small haven.

"You can uh, I don't know if you wanna stay for a bit?" You suggested to him, watching in your peripheral that he had moved away, and had gone to move towards your window, looking out. You stood yourself, looking to him finally before going to the bathroom, shutting the door and deciding to have a shower to calm down.

When you had finally emerged out, it was now dark finally, and your stomach hadn't settled, the need to eat was making you not think properly. That had to be the real reason. You found the male in the small spot on the wide windowsill, his head and body slouched, eyes shut as he peacefully slept.

Rummaging in your bag had woken him from however long he had been sleeping for, his eyes blinked in and out as they finally landed on you, and you came over to sit opposite him on the sill, watching the empty world outside.

“Want one?" You held one of the granola bars out to him, but he had shaken his head. He doesn't eat, but does he eat... humans?

You chewed nonchalantly on the brittle bar, the dryness was unbearable but it was still decent to eat regardless of how stale it had been. When you had finished your bar, he was still looking at you, as if reading you as best as he could. Not many people do that, but he isn't exactly... normal.

"How long have you been here for?" You asked once the granola was out of your teeth, and the male beside you gave a sign with his darkened fingers as he held them up for you to see. Three. "Three years?" You asked and he had nodded.

"How did... how did you turn?" Your voice was oddly quiet when you had asked him, uncertain.

He didn't seem so sure by your question and how to answer it, but he gave a short answer by the gesture that you could only guess was what he meant. Bitten. "But you didn't... you're not like them. The infected."

His face had given a small smile since your meeting, and it made you wonder how his laugh would sound. You could only hope you would see him smile again. It quickly fell from his face as if it had never been there, to begin with. No. He shook his head. "That's good," you reassured with relief, "you did scare me when I fell through the ceiling."

He gave a silent laugh, his eyes vivid. Sorry. He gestured, his motions tender when his hand came to rest on your knee, squeezing softly. The act itself didn't disgust you nor did you pull away, the mere feel of a person's touch was soothing.

The two of you spoke as best as you could (he found communicating hard and he didn't speak) and by the time early morning had come, you had found yourself lying on the sofa with his folded up jacket beneath your head as a pillow, with no sign of him at all.

You felt a bit gutted that he had left before you had a chance to see him leave; maybe he didn't want to hurt you or risk getting him harmed. You told yourself, but when you heard the soft twisting of your doorknob being opened, you kicked into overdrive, your knife in hand as you hid along the wall so you weren't seen.

You had lunged forward before the person had seen you, your wrist had been caught before you could harm them, those brown eyes were widened and fearful of the situation, but his grip had lessened, as if ready if you wanted to plunge your knife into his colourless flesh.

"I'm sorry," You pulled away quickly, putting your knife away as you led him inside and shut the door, "I didn't know it was you."

Sorry. He had gestured sheepishly, handing you the bag that he had over his shoulder. You took it from him as you opened it up, pulling out the many items he had found. Your eyes were wide, a closed-mouth smile had lit up on your face. "Where'd you find all this?"

He didn't answer you, to begin with, but he had guided you, pointing out towards the cluster of shops that weren't too far from you. How he managed to find all this secret food was amazing, and you didn't know how he did it. "You didn't have to do this for me, you know." You said in an inquisitive tone.

He shook his head, making sure you kept hold of the can as he kept his hand around yours. It's yours. His eyes told you for a fact that he wanted you to have it, and you couldn't turn that away.

You spent the next few days hidden away in your shelter, with enough food that could keep you going, whilst your new friend had been there to go in and out and find necessary things and food if you needed it.

He had been gone like most of the mornings by the time you had woken up, the only thing that you had from him was his jacket, and the smell of rainfall was comforting when you smelt the leather. You had sat up and stretched your bones, finding something small that had fallen from his pocket.

Picking it up, you recognised it as a driver's license, the faded words and photo had caught your interest, your eyes peering back to the door as you had looked over the photo ID tentatively. The face had been oddly familiar to you, their facial features were fuller and healthier, a chiselled jaw and those eyes you could only describe as lifelike.

Your eyes drifted to the name found just below the picture, the name you didn't think you would find:

RYAN CHEN

You had just about heard the front door twist slowly open once more, the adrenaline was quick to make you panic, quickly throwing the ID card underneath his jacket, before slipping into the bathroom before he entered the room.

You had another shower and had opened the door to see him sat on the couch, staring off into space as if he was deep in thought. He didn’t seem to even sense you there. Your hands were shaking when you finally called to him after staring. “Ryan.”

You didn’t think he would react to the name being said aloud, but his head turned so quickly to look back on you, you feared he had gotten whiplash. It wasn’t long before he was standing in front of you, his eyes were so blown with fear that you could feel it radiate it off of him. A hand came to cradle the side of your face with a tenderness that it had made you flinch. “Is that your name?” You questioned softly.

He seemed to be fighting two sides in his mind, but it was more than an astounded you when he said, “Yes.” His voice was a soft timbre, mixed with hoarseness that almost made you back up from him in awe. “You can talk?” Your voice was gravelly, leaning into his touch against the side of your face.

“Sometimes,” he drawled thoughtfully, “it’s… been a while.”

The more you looked up at him, the more you saw the features that looked similar to what he had looked like on his ID, he was still there, and now, Ryan had an identity that hadn't been lost forever.

“Did you hide your ID from me? Or… did you want me to find it?”

“I wasn’t sure. It had been a long time since I had identified as him.” He said with a gentle doubt. “But I wanted you to know.” “You saved me that day,” you leant into the musky scent of his clothes, breathing in deeply. He had been oddly warmer than you had expected, “why?”

“I don’t remember when I last saw a living being, but you were brave and living.” He leant his forehead against yours. “I wanted to know what it felt like… to live again.”

“You’re more than that, Ryan,” you intertwined your fingers with his other hand, the grasp as affectionate as each other’s words. “you’re still to me very much alive.” His face came inches to your before his lips touched almost hesitantly against yours, the tenderness that you had expected when he pulled you in, as if he was trying to pull something from you that you didn’t know you held.

His lips were chapped yet welcoming, and you kissed him like he was the warmth you needed when you had been lonely for all those years, the loneliness you felt from missing another as you pulled him closer to you, both afraid of the other disappearing like a hallucination.

“Stay with me, as long as you can.” You promised him sweetly, running your fingers through his dark locks. Ryan smiled broadly, his smile seemed crooked but it was the sweetest sight to look at. “I won’t be going anywhere.” He pulled you close to his chest tautly. “Not without you.”

Support me on Ko-fi!~

#zombie boyfriend #infected boyfriend #exophilia #monster story #monster boyfriend #monster exophilia #infected monster exophilia #infected exophilia #zombie apocolypse au #zombie apocalypse #Monster #male monster x reader #infected boyfriend x reader #monster lover #infected male boyfriend #infected monster x reader gn #monster x gn reader #gn reader x male monster

397 notes · View notes

psychedellic-phase · 4 years

Text

Fifteen (pt 11)

tw: mentions of vomiting, pregnancy, miscarriage

wc: 4.2k

masterlist!

series masterlist!

“I apologize in advance for the way this letter is going to be. It’s going to be a mess of my word vomit that is poorly strung together and probably won’t make any sense. The pages are going to be tear-soaked and ripped, kind of like me right now. I feel tattered and torn and achy and bruised. I’m physically fine, but mentally? I’m at my absolute low. The lowest of lows, even though I should be better. I was better for a while, because I still had you. Even after we broke up I was better, because I still had coffee with you at work and we sort of started speaking to each other again. Leaving is hard, but I know with time I’ll be better again. I won’t be at this rock-bottom this forever.

Speaking of, I should really tell you where I’m at. Physically, it is 1:36 am EST on February 15th. I am still at the kitchen table in that red blanket. The way it smells like you has gone from revolting to comforting in the last few hours of writing. My hand is aching. I have the locket on my neck and I’m incessantly playing with it and opening it to see your face. I haven’t eaten. If I did I’m afraid I’d just puke it all up, so instead I’m half way through a bottle of red and well on my way to a second. I need it. You know what the next part is, Spence, so can you really blame me?

I’ve decided to combine these next two mementos; I feel like they just go together naturally. They tell the same story and they’re both important to that said story. Grab the tissues, Love, you’re gonna need ‘em.”

Spencer did as you asked, reaching to his nightstand and grabbing the box of tissues that was already half empty from how much he had used them in the last fourteen hours. His nose was red and sore from the constant blowing and sniffling. The box felt hollow when he lifted it, and he couldn’t help but relate to it.

“It all started a month or so after that conversation on the balcony; the one between me, you, and the moon. I felt sick. We weren’t surprised and if I’m being honest, being “careful” had taken a backseat. Don’t think I’m complaining, because I’m not. I loved every moment I ever got to spend with you, especially in those compromising positions we found ourselves in often. I love the way you loved me, so gently, so kindly, with passion and heart. I loved feeling you love me, and you loved me often. So, naturally, we weren’t shocked when I woke up each morning throwing up. I purposely ignored the way my boobs hurt and my hip bones ached. I wasn’t surprised, but I was still terrified. Loaning out your body to another human being is scary. But you?

It’s like you had this sixth sense. You knew immediately, before I even had a clue. Every day for a week you rubbed my back, held my hair, and soothed me. You got me saltines and ginger ale every day, gently told me to stop with the coffee and deli meats. The way you cared for me during it all made it okay, more than okay. It made me excited. I felt lucky to share that experience with a man like you. I was lucky to share that experience with you. I can say with 100% certainty I will never share it with anyone except you, because no one except you would stop at Walgreens and pick up a box of ClearBlue for their cranky, definitely pregnant girlfriend. You’re the only one who would run to the store when I couldn’t physically eat anything but potato chips and raspberry Arizona Iced Tea. You’re the only one I’d want holding me on the bathroom floor as we waited for the longest three minutes of our lives. You’re the only one I wanted to scoop me up in a hug when it said ‘pregnant’. You’re the only one I’d ever want to be the dad of my kids. That’s just it Spence, you were the one. The only one. I realize that now.”

Spencer shook as he picked up the test in his hands. It felt delicate, and sacred, like it was a relic. Actually, everything in that box felt like a relic, like holy objects that he had to cherish and safeguard. His chest tightened, but he couldn’t cry. He was all out of tears. He spun it, staring at those eight letters, remembering when he bought the test.

It was Father’s day, ironically enough, and he had gone into the BAU to do some paperwork. You were too sick to come too; you had woken up at four to start your new-found morning routine of shoving your head into the toilet. He woke up with you, saltines and ginger ale in hand as he rubbed circles into your back and whispered ‘you’re okay, I’ve got you’ in between your gagging noises. It was good practice for being a dad, he thought. Waking up at any beck and call of yours would be similar to a newborn, and he needed all the practice he could get.

Every morning, you’d vomit for an hour or so, chug a ginger ale, and throw that up too before falling asleep on the toilet seat, after which he’d gingerly pick you up and carry you back to bed. That morning was no different, so he felt awful leaving you at home. He left you with a note saying ‘Be back later, Salt and Vinegar or BBQ? Let me know, love you,’ and a bottle of water with a Motrin.

You had been sick for almost two weeks straight, and he knew you knew why. You just didn’t want to admit it. Neither did he at first; he had a plan. This went against the plan you had agreed to a few weeks ago, but plans change. And for once that didn’t bother him. He was happy the plans had shifted, elated even. He didn’t know how to contain it, spending most days looking up which cribs were safest and which prenatal vitamins he should grab for you. He fully immersed himself in being a dad, before he even knew if he had someone to be a dad for.

When he stopped at the store to get you salt and vinegar and barbecue chips (you requested family sized bags of both), he wandered over to the family planning section. He decided it was finally time. Today was going to be the day. He’d officially be a dad-to-be, and on Father’s day of all days. It felt right. The universe was finally on his side. It was sunny, birds were chirping. Everything felt perfect.

He grabbed a box of clearblue and checked out, the cashier smiling and commenting, “I hope good luck is what I should say.”

He smiled ear to ear, “Yes, I appreciate that, thank you.”

The tests felt like they were burning a hole through the paper bag the whole walk home. A few times he considered not even giving them to you. He was scared for how you’d react. He was happy, but would you be? Would you cry? Would your tears be happy or sad? Part of him didn’t want to find out, but a bigger part of him needed to find out.

When he got home, you practically ran to greet him.

“Chips! Chips!”

You kissed his cheeks and face, and he squeezed you tightly, but not too tightly. Just in case.

“Yes, I got the biggest bags that they sell.”

“You know I love you? So much?”

“I know. I love you too, so much,” He blushed and watched you dig in the shopping bag, where you found the box of tests.

“Spencer—“

“We need to talk.”

He cut you off, trying to profile the look on your face. It was half shock, but he swore he saw you bite back a smile.

“I know,” you said, opening the box, “And I think we both know what this is going to say.”

“I have an idea of what it’ll say. Is that okay?”

“Is it okay?” You said, standing in front of him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders, “Yes. It’s scary, but it’s wanted.”

He placed his hands on your belly. There was nothing there yet, but he still couldn’t contain the smile, “Really?”

You rolled your eyes, using humor to deflect as usual, “Don’t pretend you haven’t been trying to knock me up for months, Dr. Reid,” now he rolled his, “I’m going to go pee on this.”

He followed you into the bathroom, and then proceeded to wait for three minutes. The longest three minutes in the history of time.

“First time?” You asked him, nestled between his legs on the bathroom floor.

“Yeah, believe it or not this is the first pregnancy test I’ve ever taken.”

You laughed, shifting even closer to him in an attempt to have him swallow you whole, “Nah, I’ve peed on a ton of sticks.”

“Is that so?” He joked back. You stiffened, and he gripped you tighter. If he could hold you together, maybe you wouldn’t fall apart.

“No,” your voice was low and weak, “and I’m scared. I don’t know why. I’m happy, but terrified, does that even make sense?”

He kissed the back of your head, “I’ve got you.”

The rest of the time was silent, just appreciating the warmth the other offered. You made him go look at it, not trusting yourself to be able to stand in that moment.

“It’s positive,” He said, trying to conceal his excitement.

“Really?” Your face lit up and he lit up too, sweeping you off your feet into a hug he wished would have lasted for a hundred years.

“Yeah, Love, really. You’re going to be a mom!”

Happy tears breached both of your eyes, “And you’re going to be a dad!”

He groaned at the memory, wishing that slice of pure bliss would have lasted. He felt so much happiness in that moment, maybe too much. Maybe we’re all given an allotted amount of happiness at birth. Maybe he only had so much happiness in his body, and he used all his happiness up with you. That would make sense, because he hadn’t found a speck of genuine happiness in his life without you.

“When you told me it was positive, that was simultaneously the happiest and most terrifying moment of my entire life. I was elated. Over the moon. Ecstatic. Because I always wanted a baby and I always wanted a baby with you. But I was scared. I was scared because pregnancy is scary and birth is supposed to feel like breaking all your bones at once or something. I was scared because I didn’t know if I had the money to get the best crib and best everything for our baby. I was scared because our baby would have two parents with dangerous jobs that we might not come home from. It’s the sad truth of our lives Spencer. We’ve stared down the barrels of many guns, been taken and tortured, looked evil in its eyes. I was scared because instead of living in that moment of pure happiness and love, I was looking ahead, as if anything in this life is guaranteed.

I ignored my fears, like I ignore everything I really should be looking in the eyes, and let us be happy. All I ever wanted was for us to be happy. And that was the start of when we were the happiest.

Everyday was full of baby name lists and Mozart and nutritionally balanced meals you made for me. You fed me a lot of sweet potatoes, because “Sweet potatoes are high in vitamin A, Y/N, and you need to increase your vitamin A intake by about 20% during pregnancy.” The only problem was I hate sweet potatoes, and all I really wanted to eat was loaded nachos and cheese fries.

Being pregnant with the smartest man in the world had its pluses and minuses. On the plus side, you knew everything about everything. If I ever felt a funny movement or a weird symptom, you knew what was going on. Because of JJ (another thing I chose to ignore). But that was also a minus, because I’d tell you my tummy hurt and suddenly you’d overreact and make me call my doctor. I’d laugh and tell you it was all okay, I didn’t have any rare conditions that have only ever affected 3 people in the history of the world. I was okay. Me and her, we were okay.”

Spencer stopped. Her? You actually used ‘her?’ You never did that. After everything happened you referred to her as ‘the baby’ because it made it less personal. If you called her ‘her’ or by the name you’d chosen, that made it real. Neither of you wanted it to be real.

You had cried over this page heavily, the words marked by inky tear stains. He was following suit, staring at that word.

Her. A girl. His daughter. His girl.

“You’d give me weekly updates on how big the baby was and what was growing and changing. And trust me, I felt growing and changing. And to me, it felt like sore boobs and vomiting. Pregnancy did not make me glow, it made me dull and gray and cranky and somehow still so happy. I was happy because of you.

You listened to me compare the pros and cons of virtually identical bassinets while you rubbed my feet. You laid your head on my belly, even before there was a bump and listened or talked to her about your day. You always got me potato chips. You removed every vanilla candle in our house when the smell made me want to hurl. You were understanding when I’d snap at the littlest things or cry at a sad commercial. You made every stomach ache and hip ache feel better, even if you did fact dump about it every four seconds. I got so caught up in being a mom-to-be that I often forgot you were a dad-to-be, too. I’m sorry for that. I should've supported you the way you supported me, through everything. For that, I'm truly sorry.

Remember when everyone found out? We decided to wait to tell them, at least into week twelve, just in case something happened.

“If a miscarriage were to happen, it would most likely occur in the first trimester;” you explained one day, while I had my grubby little hands in a plate of loaded sweet potato fries (a compromise).

“My mom always said it's bad luck,” I said, “But I’m happy to keep this between us. I wish we could live in this bubble of happiness forever, Spencer.”

I still wish we could’ve lived in that bubble forever, but it popped.

We still went to work like usual. They all knew something was up. I was opting out of takedowns and always eating. Like, always. Derek knew not to go to the vending machine without getting something for me. I sized up in Kevlar and Rossi did mention that I was looking ‘glowy’ a few times. No one asked us though, which is a surprise given the people we work with. They knew we loved each other before we even did, so I’m sure they knew I had one in the oven.

We told them by getting a onesie that said “FUTURE FBI AGENT” on it. Super cheesy, but perfect for us. We showed up to a carbonara ala Rossi dinner with it stashed in my purse.

“No wine?” Rossi asked me and I shook my head no, “Okay Bella, okay.”

He sent me a knowing look with a grin. Classic Rossi, always the dad.

After dessert, we stood up, clinking a class and you held me close.

“Attention, everyone!”

The whole crew stared at us, and you gave them the line you had rehearsed in the car on the way over, “The BAU is my family, and I love you all so dearly. which is why Y/N and I would like to tell you that we have a new recruit coming in February!”

We each took one sleeve of this adorably tiny onesie and held it up, everyone cheering and clapping and congratulating us.

The boys patted you on the back, Penelope tackled me in a hug, Blake kissed your cheeks. Even JJ had a genuine smile for us. It was perfect. Literally perfect. That may be the best moment of my life. It was me and you, sharing the most important part of our lives with the people most important to us. My heart aches just thinking about them. God, they were so excited. Garcia and Derek bought me gifts. JJ gave me advice. We sent Emily a picture of me and you with that baby onesie, and she texted me everyday to ask how I was feeling. My dad was over the moon, he didn’t even care that we weren’t married. Diana was the happiest of them all. She was so excited for you to have this journey, and she told me she was glad it’d be with me. She once wrote to me that a dream of hers was to be a grandma, and when you were a kid she thought that may never happen, since you were so smart and special and different. She thought no one would ever understand you enough to love you like that. She said that all changed when she met me. She could tell I understood you and loved you. So tell Diana that I’m sorry I couldn’t give her that dream and that I hope she gets her wish of being a grandma one day. I hope you get your wish to be a dad, too. It may kill me to know that you’d be out there parenting without me, but it may kill me more if you never get to have that dream Spencer Reid. So do it. Break my heart a million times over. It’s worth it as long as you’d be happy at the end of it all.”

He sighed shakily, he’d only be happy at the end of it all if it was with you, an option that seemed less and less likely with each passing letter.

The box contained that little onesie. He held it up, astonished at how small it was. How could a person ever be so tiny? He let himself cry into it, the onesie still smelling like you. He remembered ordering it online, sneaking it in your purse and the look on everyone’s faces when he gave his little speech. He remembered JJ squeezing him tight and telling him he’d be amazing and how happy she was that Henry and Jack would have a new friend. He remembered Derek slapping him on the back and commenting how pretty the baby would be, “You and Y/N? We may have a new pretty boy in the house soon!”

He remembered Rossi immediately finding a copy of ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ on a shelf in his massive mansion, and giving it to him with a kiss on both cheeks. He remembered sneaking to Vegas to tell his mother, how she leapt up and swallowed him in a hug. But perhaps the most memorable and meaningful interaction he had that night was with Hotch.

He came up to Spencer separately, at the end, and gave him his own fatherly wisdom, “Congratulations, Reid. This is going to be the greatest adventure of your life, and you’re going to be an amazing father.”

Spencer smiled, looking over at you, hands all over your barely there belly, giggling with Garcia and Derek, “Because of her.”

“What?”

Spencer cleared his throat, “I’m going to be a great father, because she makes me a great man.”

Hotch smiled and brought Spencer into a hug, two rare occurrences, “I felt the same way about Haley.”

Spencer felt Hotch stiffen, and he waited for him to finish, “My only advice to you is to not be me. If she makes your world spin a little faster, if she makes life a little better, if she makes the job easier, then don’t wait. I waited too much with Haley. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

Spencer smiled, knowing then what he needed to do. You did make his world spin faster. You made the world a better place.

“I won’t, Hotch,” He cleared his throat, “I promised her that much.”

But there he was now, making all the same mistakes Hotch had. He had waited. He said he wouldn’t but he still did. He poured himself into work instead of love, just like Hotch, and it led him to his rock-bottom. He was staring at a baby onesie that should’ve held his baby, except he had no baby, and he had no you.

He toyed with the snaps on the bottom, undoing them and redoing them in an attempt to relieve stress. He could imagine what she would’ve looked like. He thought she’d be chubby, like a little michelin man with rolls on her knees and elbows. He thought her hair would be brown and curly, like his, and her eyes would hold the universe in them like yours did. He thought that he’d love her tenfold the amount he loved you, which was a lot. He wondered if when he saw her face his heart would be too full and give out then and there.

“My favorite memory of being pregnant is that day we went to Meridian Hill Park, remember? You fixed up a picnic basket full of nutritious foods, sneaking a bag of saltines just in case I felt sick. That was one of the last days, if I remember right. It was week eighteen. I looked like I had a basketball shoved under my dress. The doctor’s said I was measuring large; the baby would probably be nine pounds. We knew she was a girl. We didn’t have some big gender reveal, we just had the doctor tell us at the ultrasound.

You set the blanket down, helping me sit and get situated. It was mid-October, so the leaves were bright yellow and orange. You had on a cozy sweater and brought a blanket to drape over my legs. I remember eating a few apple slices and leaning on you, just admiring the world. I looked over at you and smiled. Your hair was shorter and you were sitting cross-legged, slouching and eating a sandwich.

“You know what would be a cute name for her?” You said, shifting to allow me to lay my head on your lap.

“Hm?”

“Annabelle.”

“Like from the Poe story?”

“Technically, it’s a poem, but yes.”

“Doesn’t she die in it?”

You shrugged, “Yes, but it has such beautiful lines. ‘We loved with a love that’s more than love, I and my Annabell Lee.”

Your hand met my rather large bump, and upon hearing you whisper “Annabell Lee” the baby kicked, right into your hand.

You looked down at me, smiling, “See she likes it! Don’t you Annabelle?”

I rolled my eyes, “Must everything be macabre with you Reid?”

You gave me pleading eyes, “Even without the poem, it’s still a beautiful name. It’s of English origin and means gracious or beautiful.”

“Annabelle Diana Reid,” I said, trying it on for size.

You scrunched up your eyebrows and nose, “Diana?”

I shrugged, “I thought it’d be nice, and that makes for a really pretty name.”

You grinned, “I love it, and I love you, and I love Annabelle. I promise I will love you both for the rest of my life.”

I like to think you’ve kept that promise.

You kissed me gently, the sun washing over us and a few stray leaves falling, just you, me, and Anna.

I don’t believe in jinxes or superstitions. I believe in science and facts. But some part of me can’t shake the feeling that if we picked a different name things would’ve been different. Maybe if she was an Ava or an Olivia we wouldn’t be here. But she was Annabelle. Our Annabelle.

I got rid of every other speck of baby stuff from this place. When you were off on cases and I was at home, I filled a bag with the few things we had gotten and dropped them off at the Salvation Army. I couldn’t bear parting with this onesie though, in fact I’m having a hard time even giving it to you. But she was yours too. My favorite part of the poem is this:

‘And neither the angels in Heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea, can ever dissever my soul from the soul, of the beautiful Annabel Lee’”

Spencer crumpled the letter up. He was done reading this. He had to stop, his breath and heart rate were skyrocketing. He felt he’d been chewed up and spit out. He wanted to scream or punch a wall. His sadness forming into an angry monster that he couldn’t contain. He threw the crumpled letter across the room with a yell.

When he realized what he had done, he quickly tried to flatten the paper out, “No, no, no no! Please”

Hot tears were streaming down his face uncontrollably making his vision bleary and the letter even harder to read. He needed you. You always knew how to calm him down and he needed that now. His mom was right, you did understand him. You were probably the only person alive who ever really, truly, did.

He grabbed his phone, scrolling to find your contact name. He didn’t press ‘call’. He just stared at the ten numbers, frozen, and allowed himself to sob.

Part 12!

Taglist!

@l0ve-0f-my-life @aperrywilliams @helloniallslovelies @random-ravings (tag isnt working) @ajwantsapancake @andiebeaword @boiled-onionrings @frnks-stuff @icantevenanymore1 @mellifluouswildbluebells @rottenearly @sammypotato67 @blushingwueen @peaxhyjaes @justanotherfangurlz @juniorgman187 @mbowles23-blog @blameitonthenight21 @goldentournesol @rainsong01 @thelifeofadumbbitch @swimmingtrashwobblersludge (not working)

#spencer reid #spencer x you #spencer reid fic #spencer #reid #reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #cm #cm fic #criminal minds #mgg #spencer reid smut #spencer reid self insert #matthew gray gubler

129 notes · View notes

indurarinks · 3 years

Text

the mardi gras conundrum

( 9. ) “Acheron?” Beyond mere passing curiosity, it was the urgency supporting Bonnie’s need to understand the man sitting behind the wheel of his ridiculously expensive car that scalded her tongue. He was ever evasive, enigmatic and rarely straightforward where his past was concerned. But none of it quelled her demand to search for the truth. She didn’t seek it for personal gain either, she only sought to soothe the battle-weary hearts of her hunters. During the long weeks of bonding with each one of them, Bonnie convinced herself their inner peace was too valuable to be overlooked. Neither was the sharing type yet she was determined to help them heal wounds inflicted centuries ago, in a time innocence still characterised their human lives. And only the deepest betrayal could taint it. Riding in comfortable silence, Bonnie suspected the indecipherable Dark Hunter would resort to the infamous technique called feigned indifference where he pretended not to hear her while she would be forced into accepting his choice for silence. Stoic, and his features impassive, Acheron Parthenopaeus held all the charisma in the universe with full lips pressed against one another into a thin line. His gaze seemed focused on the road but behind that wall of opacity from his shades, Bonnie couldn’t be certain. And if her senses were correct, then he was, most definitely, eyeing her with the stealth of a predator. She felt the burn of his gaze on her. “Back at the comp—“ He sighed. As if the weight of the world had been dropped on his shoulders. “You want to know.” He interrupted her train of thought. “About the... incident from earlier.” The wilderness that rolled naturally from the contained storm of his voice offered her familiar security. A balm to her soul, she would never grow weary of it. It was almost as if he could read her innermost thoughts. And though she knew Dark Hunters possessed different gifts, Acheron seemed to be the rarity to that rule. The odd one out. Kyrian once told her he was the first one to be created. And she figured that was why he shared similar abilities to those of his brethren. Perhaps Kyrian and him were even more alike than her initial evaluation, conducted on the spot, back in Sanctuary when she first met Ash. Their personalities, however, differed significatively. “I—I probably can’t imagine...” she started but her words lost their direction when Acheron steered the Porsche into a new destination. No longer on their way toward the Garden District, it wouldn’t be long until Bonnie recognised St. Louis Cemetery’s aged iron gates. The car came to a stop near its old entrance. And without another word, he vacated the cramped space to welcome the fresh air of February. At first, Bonnie didn’t dare moving. She was paralysed in fear, mostly. The waters in which she swam were dangerous and treacherous, she knew of the promise navigating through the past and what it could potentially entail for the one taking a peek, even if brief, into that old chest of memories. She sensed barely contained pain, and worlds of sorrow and unrestrained grief. Outside, Acheron sat on the hood of his car. Alone. His chin slightly raised, it was obvious his gaze was lost to the skies already painted with the light tones of dawn. The night had come fast but the sun showed signs of similar elation for its return. It was now or never, she thought. As she opened the door on her side, left the car and took a seat next to him, Bonnie registered no movement from the embodiment of enigma himself. His shoulders slumped, his gaze finally sought refuge in wide-open doorway to her soul —those forest green eyes he had gotten lost in on multiple occasions before. But Bonnie wasn’t having any of it by allowing him to hide behind the comfort of his ever present shades. Hesitantly, and watching him from beneath curtains of thick lashes, her fingers took possession of his sunglasses as she slowly stripped his eyes naked. She knew what to expect but the gasp of appreciation still escaped. Liquid mercury swam quietly in his eyes as he watched her disarming him. Bonnie was the first and only one to accomplish that since his rebirth. And while he said nothing, a furious tic thrummed visibly along his jaw. She expected the momentary peak of anxiety after the bold exposure of him. A small grin stretching her lips, Bonnie folded his sunglasses and slid them inside her jeans pocket. For the time being, she was holding them hostage. Despite her calm facade, her heart suddenly became a professional gymnast as it did flips back and forth like there was no tomorrow. “It’s okay, Ash. If you prefer to keep your story to yourself,” she interrupted their silence at last. Besides panic and desperation, she was hit with a fathomless wave of grief the likes of which the young witch had never drowned in before. The raw intensity of these emotions flooring her, she was left breathless for several heartbeats. “I just... I hate seeing the torment of your past shadowing the light in your eyes.” Staggering from the onslaught of emotions, tears prickled her eyes. “You’ve been so hurt. I can sense it. I can.” Her chest rose and fell repeatedly. “You still bleed from your wounds. The past still holds you prisoner. And I don’t even know for how long! I can’t imagine the damage that’s caused on your soul.” Disturbed, Bonnie quickly wiped away the disgraceful tears that managed to escape her defences. The gates were now wide open. Beside her, her companion chose immediate silence. Frozen by the prejudice of his past, he walked trough the wastelands of memories without realising her fingers interlocked with his as she slid her palm on top of his massive hand. An earthquake-like tremor shook the whole of him. “It’s eleven thousand years.” He stated matter-of-factly. Surprise and shock registered on her face. It couldn’t be, her meagre knowledge of history told her it wasn’t possible. Yet, the exhaustion etched on his features spoke a whole different tale. “How is tha—?” She started. “That history lesson is too long and complex for tonight.” His gaze wandered to where their fingers stood united, Bonnie’s index finger stroking his knuckles. “And Bonnie? I’m soulless. All Dark Hunters are.” Promptly rolling her eyes, she smacked him on the arm. Like a masochist, he smiled down at her. “Ow.” Acheron massaged his arm, successfully allowing them both a reprieve from the growing tension. “That ought to teach you not to smart-mouth me! You know what I meant. It may not inhabit your body, Ash, but it’s still yours. Still bleeds. I can see it, you know?” The soft, tangent urgency to secure his understanding clung to the breaths expelled. Since the moment she had been brought into their lives, Bonnie had been silently collecting data, studying and gathering every ounce of information about her warriors. Acheron and Kyrian, in particular, as both had been the ones she had spent the most time with. After careful analysis of her research, she was fairly confident Ash loathed the thought of having someone at his back. He even recoiled with the exaggerated proximity of another. With that thought in mind, and wanting to test her theory, Bonnie leaned closer. Purposely invading his personal space. Even though it was minimal and discreet, he drew back. Inside her chest, the thin walls of her beating heart cracked. The desolation mirrored in those pools of mercury laying waste to the fields of her weeping soul. ───Just how much misery has he been put through? Persisting, she tried again. “Back at the Mikaelson’s, before Klaus showed up, you…” With her insides twisting in oceans of anxiety, she lifted her gaze to his face. The urge to see him impossible to bypass. He was now peering right through her. “I know.” Serene but resigned, the direction of his gaze shifted so that he was staring at the horizon whilst pushing closed fists into the pockets of his worn-out leather coat. Soon, the first timid rays of sunshine broke free. Tearing the darkness apart. Had she been sharing this moment with Kyrian, they’d be on their phrenetic way home. As a norm, Dark Hunters were banished from sunlight, yet their leader stood as exception to that rule. Nothing about Acheron Parthenopaeus was ordinary. After several minutes spent in absolute silence, and with a defeated sigh, she rose from the hood of the car and handed him his shades, certain he had murdered the topic and buried its corpse. Her hands tied, Bonnie decided to respect his deafening silence and privacy. “Come on. Let’s face King Stubborn. I can almost hear his tirade from here.” It was her way of letting him know of her decision. “It was my nephew.” Halfway through her march to her side of the car, Bonnie froze. Her curls bounced back and forth with the abrupt movement of her head as she looked back at him. She almost doubted she heard him when he didn’t elaborate. His tone had been so low as well, as if afraid of the damage the words would deliver. Hesitantly, she approached him again. ─── Was Acheron Parthenopaeus finally allowing her to take a peek into the fortress of solitude of his soul? The sunglasses still caged between his fingers, calloused by countless battles, Bonnie found herself peering deeply into the oceans of mercury of his eyes. Saying nothing, the petite woman simply reached for his hand, securing it between her fingers as she gave him a nod of encouragement. “He was murdered while I lay in a drunken stupor in the room next door. His death and my sister’s, his mother, are on me, Bon. Their blood still stains my hands.” Without pretending she was privy to all the details of that tragic night, Bonnie shook her head vehemently. “It wasn’t your fault, Ash. You would probably be killed too if you had gone into their room… And besides, something tells me you weren’t drunk because you felt like partying. You’re not that type. You were drowning. Weren’t you?” She lowered her chin while her thumb and index finger secured his. Turning his head her way, she then forced him to look back at her. “Weren’t you?” Again, she asked. “That’s no excuse, Bonnie.” Rising from his spot on the car hood, the Dark-Hunter swiftly made his way to his side of the car. “I let them die.” With a sense of finality, he tucked himself behind the wheel of his Porsche. But Bonnie couldn’t disregard the raw vulnerability drenching his words. The agony exuding enough to rob the air inside her lungs. Enough to inject her with a weakness capable of driving her to her knees. Leaning over the passenger’s seat, Acheron opened the door to welcome her inside. And without another word, she took her place beside him. A stirring of magic began tickling her senses then, like a foreshadowing of sorts. In the cramped space, Acheron touched her arm in the midst of shifting gears as he brought the engine to life. Taken by surprise, Bonnie gasped loudly. Not by the touch itself but the sudden flashes of ancient memories taking her brain hostage, without an ounce of mercy. Lying in a pool of his own blood, Acheron Parthenopaeus struggled to rise from the slippery floor of the grand palace. Lost to his anger and bloodlust, his attacker, a male figure of pure perfection with a golden aura, sank his knife into Acheron’s heart before slicing him open up to his navel like a hunted animal being gutted by a barbarous predator. The brutality of the scene alone successfully stealing the remaining air flowing through her lungs. “You died that night, too.” She stated in a whisper, haunted by the violence still burning behind her eyelids. This time around, he didn’t elaborate. But he watched her, from the corner of his eye with a strange light reflected on his gaze. The assertiveness supporting her revelation pushing him to put his every available resource to use, he was soon faced with a growing mystery Acheron couldn’t quite figure out yet. Still petrified by the sudden revelation on both parties, the pair rode in a rather strained silence for the remaining journey. At Kyrian’s antebellum mansion’s gate, the young witch finally dared a peek at the man sitting beside her. “Ash—“, she started only to be interrupted by him. “You don’t have to apologise, Bonnie.” He paused as if weighing the impact of his following words. “I wanted you to know. For some reason.” The air of mild astonishment clung to him furiously before quietly leaving her to her own thoughts as he braved the path toward the main entrance of Kyrian’s exuberant manor with regal superiority that bled from every pore without an ounce of vanity exuded. “One day, Ash. One day, you will tell me every secret you’ve buried deep in your soul. Then, I’ll set you free.” With that whispered vow, Bonnie vacated the car to follow him and, finally, confront her latest source of woe. Their gazes locked instantly as she stepped through the door. The cold morning’s timid breeze blowing, dragged her curls behind her shoulders as her fingers made haste to shield Kyrian from the invading sunlight. Even in darkness, the ancient Prince’s blonde curls glistened like an aura of mortal divinity. Incapable of staying unaffected, her heart quickened at the sight. And though his stance prevailed rigid and unfaltering, Kyrian stood silent. Almost defeated, and at a loss for words. In return, Bonnie’s demeanour evolved through different discharges of emotions as her thoughts raced through her mind. Neither willing to break the silence of discomfort. Drowning in conflict, she entertained their staring contest for a little longer just so she gave herself the time to examine the source of all her current heartache. Convinced her stubborn Dark-Hunter had recovered from most of the damage done to him the previous night, she finally mustered the courage to reveal her intentions of returning to Mystic Falls for a few days. “You look better already. That’s a relief.” Pause. Fidgeting fingers found temporary shelter in her jacket’s pockets. Then she cleared her throat. “Ash is taking me home for a couple of days.” ─── There. It’s done. Best to just blurt it out and take them both out of this misery. Unsure he had heard it right, he sought Acheron for clarification. Or any indication of the meaning behind her words. As the sole witness to their exchange, characterised by tension and uneasiness, Ash chose not to elaborate. Leaving that pleasant task to her. “I’m gonna find Nick. There’s something I need to discuss with him.” And just like that, he vanished toward the kitchen. Betrayal spoiled Kyrian’s patrician features. As a member of the male community, he had hoped his boss would join forces with him in solidarity. To dilute the growing tension building between him and Bonnie. But no, the old bastard slipped through the cracks at the first chance. “Why?” Defeated, he couldn’t even hide his dismay. It took him several heartbeats of aching silence to finally tear it apart. In his head, Kyrian had already demanded her all the answers but none were brought into the light. Only that broken whisper seemed to matter. “You know why.” She murmured back, without wasting a heartbeat. Though Bonnie wouldn’t admit it out loud, her poor bruised heart cracked even further. Pain oozed from it like poison as it continued to pump blood unknowingly of the destruction caused. Suddenly lightheaded, and with weakened knees, she sought swift support from the nearby sofa just to avoid worlds of embarrassment. His rejection had been enough. It stung like a viper’s attack and now she bled. She just wanted to bleed alone for a couple of days before raising her chin and throwing her misfortune over her shoulders as if nothing had transpired.

Guilt-ridden, at least he had the decency of showcasing remorse by fixing his stare anywhere but her eyes. “I’m going upstairs to pack. Can you, please, tell Acheron I’ll be ready in a few minutes?” Sighing in extreme desolation, she left him alone to his thoughts. The whole packing process didn’t take her even twenty minutes, she had been taken to New Orleans against her will after all. A bittersweet smile tugged at the ends of her lips as the memory of the first encounter with Kyrian invaded her thoughts like a Trojan’s horse. She nearly laughed reminiscing on their first exchange of words and how much he had feared her even though he had been the one kidnapping her. Instead, a choked sob escaped. Life had to have a grudge against her, she pondered. All her efforts to turn things around when nothing went right could never hold the walls that sustained any form of happiness. It took her a minute of sitting on the bed that had been hers for several weeks to pull herself together. Her emotions ran haywire and she was having some trouble taking their reigns. Once certain she wouldn’t break as easily in front of him, Bonnie grabbed the bag with her clothes. But as she was leaving her room, she felt the urge to leave a memento that would remind him of her. Aware of his instant appreciation for relics, Bonnie decided to gift him with one of her grandmother’s old necklaces, a witch’s talisman. Her favourite and most powerful. Hoping he would find it after her departure, Bonnie made her way downstairs to find both Kyrian and Acheron waiting for her in a silence that felt strange, thick with tension. “I’m ready to go.” She announced bravely while focusing her attention on the straps of her bag, avoiding Kyrian’s burning gaze. Sensing the unresolved tension between them, Acheron gave Kyrian a meaningful stare with a message only privy to them both before getting up and making his exit. “I’ll wait outside for you, Bonnie. Whenever you’re ready.” Emphasising that last sentence, Ash conveyed his belief the two of them should trade some parting words before her temporary departure. In silence, she nodded and waited until Acheron was outside. “I don’t want you to go, Bonnie.” Kyrian’s delivery almost like a plea took the young witch by surprise. She had expected to be one breaking the silence. “I can’t stay and pretend nothing happen. I’m not like that, Kyrian.” The anguish in her voice becoming more solid with each word. “If I’m coming back here to fight against this enemy alongside you then I need time to put my priorities in order.” Unable to withstand the sound of heartache in her voice, her fallen Prince closed the gap between them and took her face with both hands. Admiring the beauty of her strength, Kyrian closed his eyes for a few heartbeats as he cursed his very existence. For the first time in over two thousand years of solitude and misery, his heart awakened from a long death. But they could never be, regardless of his feelings toward her. That would be a direct insult to his vow and the goddess he served. Resting his forehead on hers, temptation bit him hard as they stood on the verge of goodbye. ─── I love you, Bonnie. The words never came. Instead, he breathed in her perfume. “At least let me be the one to take you home...” With tears prickling her eyes, she attempted her escape but he wouldn’t let her. Kyrian remained frozen as if willing to extend their moment. “I can’t. If I allow it, I’ll just delay the inevitable. Better to just rip it off and hope for the best.” Inside, every wall crumbled to the ground. There was shards of glass everywhere. She was a wreck, bleeding and the ruins of what could be would become unfinished dreams. “I should go now, Kyrian.” Fighting off a sobbing session, she rubbed her eyes to dry unspent tears. After all, nothing would change even if she cried. Opposite from her, an ancient warrior stood deep in thought. Tormented by visions of a future he never meant to have or share with another, Kyrian remembered the tragedy of his human days, mostly marked by the betrayal that had murdered him. An inner voice had once convinced him he was not worthy of love but looking down at her, the infamous “what if” tormented him aggressively. Saying nothing, her Prince pressed his lips to her forehead and closed his eyes to savour the bittersweet moment as he committed into memory every piece of her. “Be safe.” The softness of his whisper practically snuffed out Bonnie’s remaining strength as her knees buckled. With a tenderness that rivalled even her grandmother’s, Kyrian caressed her face one last time as if afraid he might not see her again. He was determined to make her departure the hardest one yet. Only by Bonnie’s perseverance did she manage to break them apart. “I will.” Finally turning around to leave, their fingers crossed paths in intimate touch and his self control flew out the window. Awakening from self-inflicted slumber, Kyrian closed his fingers around hers and pulled her back, drawing her into his body by surprise. He, then, stole her breath with a searing kiss, full of longing and unspoken promises her warrior vowed not to disclose in fear of what might befall her were he to defy the goddess he served. Bewildered, Bonnie gaped at him. Giving her half a smile, he knew he had to let her go but his fingers refused the separation by caressing her face while his midnight eyes dove deep into her soul. “You shouldn’t have done this.” The words came barely above a whisper as she enforced their physical distance by taking his hands hostage. “Goodbye, Kyrian.” Barely holding on, with the grip on her emotions fading with each heartbeat, she made a hasty retreat. The front door slammed, effectively shutting another chapter of her life as the weakened walls guarding her heart crumbled. She couldn’t breathe through the onslaught of heartache and agony. ─── Was this what she was destined for? Her gut-wrenching sobs, though quiet, didn’t go unnoticed by Acheron who waited for her by his Porsche. Rather unsure on how to approach her as Bonnie’s heart bled without restraint, he took calculated steps in her direction in hopes that she would note his presence. And she finally did. “I’m ready.” The strain she put on to have her voice sound remotely even through the remains of her shattered heart reinforced Acheron’s respect for her. Perturbed by her breakdown, the ever observant but quiet Dark Hunter offered her a modicum of solace by drawing her trembling frame into his chest, surrounding her with his strength through an unusual embrace. Massive hands stroked her hair with inimitable softness. “You’re an extraordinary woman, Bonnie Bennett.” The admiration reflected on his lilt administered a sense of temporary serenity. “Just remember it is not an obligation to be strong 24/7. Sometimes we have to drown before we can return to shore.” Struggling for words, she merely nodded. “Alright, then. Shall we go?” As if pulling a rabbit out of a magician’s hat, Ash offered her his hand. “We aren’t taking your car?” She asked, perplexed. Tearing a rift in her skies of grief, Acheron Parthenopaeus conjured a disarming smile she felt particularly victimised by. “No. Not this time. Have you ever traveled through the time-space continuum, also commonly known as teleportation?” Openly gaping at him, she then glanced at his exposed palm, the tears making it a near impossible feat. A stirring of excitement unleashed a few wild butterflies in her stomach as her fingers touched Acheron’s calloused hand. “Should I be afraid? How does it work?” Like any other creature, she grew hesitant just as treaded these unknown waters. “For me, it’s like breathing. Do you trust me?” Assuming an almost defensive posture as if expecting the worst, he stared at her intently from behind his trusted sunglasses. Waves of relief rolled off of him when she nodded. “You know that I do.” His fingers had barely taken possession of hers when he dipped his head to whisper in her ear, “You can open your eyes now, Bonnie. You’re home.” She did. One glance around them confirmed his claim. In fact, he even brought them to her grandmother’s unkept porch, once again proving her his powers far exceeded those of his brethren. Apart from the light discomfort in her stomach, she felt fairly confident on her competence to teleport. “It was easier than I expected…” She mumbled as realisation gutted her. She was back. Back in Mystic Falls, her so-called cursed birthplace.

#charmeddelicacy #the mardi gras conundrum

4 notes · View notes

edka88 · 3 years

Text

Reflection

(short story for The Phantom of the Opera, originally posted on fanfiction.net)

Summary: It came as no surprise that he was a wanted criminal, and yet it was not him who had been found out.

Pairing: Christine/Erik

Rating: T

Note: Story takes place on 21st February.

– o –

Untread snow crumpled beneath her feet as Christine turned to the street on her right, then the sound repeated somewhat softer as her husband followed her around the corner.

A light breeze caught into her coat as now there were no buildings to block the wind, but then in only two steps Erik caught up with her and the cold torrent ceased as his body blocked it from hers.

It was a lovely view, this quiet street, and it was difficult to believe that such a place could exist so close to the bustle of the city center. People were nowhere to be seen at this hour, although it was early afternoon, and the arrangement of the buildings strengthened the feeling of comfort and secrecy: most of them were situated at the back of the sites, and many of them were surrounded by carefully tended gardens. Christine believed that she wouldn't have been able to spot these buildings themselves had it not been for winter, when most trees stood bare.

The rest of the houses, that stood proudly displayed to the audience of the streets, were huge, two-storey buildings; not exactly mansions, yet the design left no doubt of the wealth of the owners. It only added to the ambiance of nobility that there were nice, long heaps running along the length of the main road – flowerbeds, she concluded, that must be overflowing with colorful blossoms in spring and summer.

Far in the distance a man appeared in what seemed to be some sort of uniform and her heart leapt to her throat; then a moment later she let out the breath she was holding when the man, instead of walking up to the main entrance as a policeman would have done, disappeared at the side door of the building.

A footman.

Her stomach shrunk into a knot.

Even a smaller house in this area must cost a fortune.

“Such an illustrious neighbourhood,” she murmured, trying to fight down the heat that started to spread to her cheeks. “We shouldn't even be here.”

“You don't wish to live at a place like this?” Her husband's voice was subdued as he asked her, as if he guarded carefully how much emotion he should show.

“That's not what I meant,” she replied, venturing a quick glance to the side to look at him. His eyes were trained to the ground beneath their feet. “This is a lovely street but we cannot possibly afford to buy a house here; better not to look around at all.”

Erik looked up at her and for a moment it seemed he was startled to find she had been watching him. “Don't worry about the money,” he said with a dismissive gesture of his hand. “You merely need to choose a house to your liking.”

“I didn't even have a dowry,” she muttered, ducking her face a little lower as if to shelter it from the wind.

“It never occurred to me to expect anything like that from you,” he replied, continuing his even pace.

She followed him, wordless for a moment, struggling with the now definitely present blush on her cheeks. “Respectable women have at least a moderate sum to offer to their future husband,” she ventured to say at last.

“I didn't want to marry you to buy acceptance into society's standards,” he said, indignation clouding his words. “I wanted nothing more than your love,” he added softly a moment later.

Such a guileless confession – and such an even tone.

Only when she stole a brief glance to the side did she notice the soft tremor of his throat as he swallowed.

She reached out to take his hand and his fingers closed around hers immediately.

“It isn't just for my sake that you wish to buy a house, is it?” she asked, clearing her throat to hide the slight waver of her voice.

He shook his head. “I've never really been particularly fond of having to hide in the cellars,” he said, his eyes examining the faraway distance of the winding street.

The cold wave of a memory, from not so long ago, ran down her spine, and a moment later the ghost of his raging voice flitted in from the back of her mind.

No compassion anywhere...

No. Not fond of, indeed.

Beside her, he continued to march ahead without saying another word, and the two of them passed a site with a high brick wall that completely blocked the garden and the mansion within its walls from the prying eyes of any passers-by. Next, they passed an intricately woven wrought iron railing that guarded a meticulously arranged garden; then walked by another site with a dense hedge that completely blocked the sight of the house of the road: in fact, it would have been difficult to say if there was any house on the other side of it at all.

What are we doing here?

It seemed unlikely that anyone would want to sell their property in a district like this.

Previously they had agreed to take a long walk in the city when he would show her a couple of houses that were up for sale, suited their needs, and possibly their taste, too. And... he had even suggested finding a house in the city center and so near the opera house as well, reasoning that having to make long journeys every day from home to work would consume an unnecessary amount of time and energy – and consequently would pose an unnecessary threat of being recognized. Her sudden disappearance after the fire she could explain – her similarly sudden reappearance on the side of a wanted criminal she could not.

Next to her, he kept walking forward in silence. From time to time, he looked up from the path they walked and glanced around, and she wondered if he had heard something she had not, or it was just his usual wariness. Once he even turned around to check something behind their back and she tried to ignore the tingle of worry when it crept beneath her coat and galloped down her spine.

It was foolish to come here at all.

Getting caught was a very real possibility, with him being the most wanted person in whole Paris, and during daytime, nonetheless! However few people moved around the city in this awful cold, and however low the sky was, the disaster of the opera house was no doubt still fresh in people's minds and according to the newspapers, gendarmes kept patrolling the streets in search of the Phantom.

She shuddered and pulled the coat tighter around herself.

Depending on how close an attention the newspapers paid to her character and her wordless disappearance, she might as well be a similarly sought person. Deemed either victim or accessory, she would be probably taken to the first gendarmerie to provide her testimony, but considering the damage done to the opera house, she doubted she could say anything that would alter the verdict against him.

If they believed she had been taken as a victim...

The street swayed in front of her eyes.

To think she wholeheartedly believed all would be forgotten in a matter of weeks, and she could pretend to have married to a reclusive businessman...

She glanced back, half-expecting of having to run in mere seconds.

Nothing.

The street was still completely empty behind them.

She turned back to look forward at the sound of some distinct, but rhythmic sound... Clatter...? Thumps...?

In the end she saw the source sooner than she had the chance to decipher it: two gendarmes rounded the next corner and were now marching down the street – right towards the two of them.

Erik's hand tensed in hers immediately but he continued to walk forward and her throat began to close up.

“We should... turn back,” she choked, her knees weakening.

“Should we do so, they'll surely come after us,” he muttered, still walking forward.

“We cannot stay here, either,” she wheezed, quickening her steps to keep up with his pace. Still, he continued ahead.

“That's why we are going into one of the houses,” he replied, his steps unfaltering.

Why towards them?!

Strength ran out of her legs and her knees wobbled but she forced her feet to continue walking next to him, who was still adamant on walking to the direction of the gendarmes.

“But... but the owners would call the gendarmes just the same,” she began to protest but then froze when a gust of wind caught into the top of her hair – she was not wearing her hood.

Cold flooded her veins with the next heartbeat.

Her name had surely been printed on the first page of every newspaper – but was there her picture, too?

She shuddered – and immediately felt the soft squeeze of his fingers around her now definitely trembling hand.

“Not if the house is empty,” came his reassuring words as he suddenly stopped in front of the gate of the next... garden?

But no, a house stood there somewhere, too; beyond the long line of the trees tracing the lines of the fence. Should it have been summer, it would have been impossible to tell that a house belonged to the property, too.“This one happens to be uninhabited.”

She looked up – the gendarmes were now only about six houses from them.

“How can you be so sure?”

“The baron who had this house built left for Scotland,” came his reply.

“But they would surely find it strange to see someone walk into an empty house,” she objected as he reached into his pocket. Something gave a jumbled, clanking sound and he pulled out a strange-looking set of keys from the folds of his cloak and inserted one of the keys into the lock on the gate.

“The baron is a rather eccentric man, but he is wealthy enough to practice his peculiarities undisturbed,” he said, twisting the handle to the side a little. “Besides, we will leave through the back door earlier than they can decide whether to risk the ire of the rightful owner.” The lock gave way and the gate opened in less than a moment. With one hand he motioned for her to enter while he reached up to adjust the hood of his cloak with the other – and as he did so, his coat sleeve flitted to the side just a little so that she could also see the sleeve of his jacket and...

A cold tremor started at her nape and then quickly poured down into her stomach in several tingling rivulets.

The rope.

It was dangling hidden inside his sleeve.

She snapped back to the present a long second later at the weight of his sight on her face. His eyes turned to a dark shade of green with the turmoil of emotions swirling in them – and they stood out brightly from his suddenly deathly pale countenance.

“I won't subject you to witness such a gruesome scene,” he whispered, lowering his arm slowly.

She could only manage a brief nod.

The rhythmic steps were now only the distance of a few houses from them. Her hand twitched with the intention to pull down her hood as well before she remembered that she had forgotten about it altogether.

What if they already recognized me?

And if one of those men recognized her, surely they had no doubts of the identity of her mysterious companion.

There was no picture in yesterday's paper.

But she had missed out five days' worth of news before that.

Through the haze that seemed to cover her eyes she saw how he closed the gate and then swiftly locked it. “Pretend you belong here,” came his whisper, and he made a half-gesture to usher her in, but then his arm dropped before it touched her. “Come,” he breathed, and turned to leave towards the front door.

The footsteps on the street moved even closer, and through the row of trees she saw the two dark shadows approaching and finally reaching the front of the garden they had just walked into.

Pretend you belong here.

Her heart beat in her stomach and she wondered how unladylike it would be to be sick on the street.

Should she be recognized, they would surely arrest him – or worse: shoot him immediately. She would be considered as an accomplice – in which case he would likely insist he had abducted her and forced her into marriage. Briefly she wondered if even such a monstrosity could worsen his already long list of crimes.

She swallowed and pretended not to notice the bitter taste gathering in the back of her mouth.

“Go and open the front door,” she choked out.

“I'm not leaving you here,” he replied before she could even finish the sentence.

Air knotted in her throat. The gendarmes were only a few meters away.

“It would be more than suspicious if the two of us disappeared in the house all of a sudden but we cannot stay outside, either,” she reasoned.

Yet, he still didn't move. “It is not your – “

She whirled around, now facing him. “They cannot find you!” She managed to force out and was dimly aware that her vision was blurred by tears. “Please.”

A shadow passed over his eyes that echoed in a squeeze around her chest, but finally, with one last distressed glance at her, he left. Cold air bit at her lashes as she blinked back the tears and turned around so that the gendarmes, who meanwhile had reached the gate, would surely see her face. She stood by the closed gate and pretended to be inspecting one of the rose bushes when the gendarmes stopped on the opposite side of the gate.

On the very edge of her vision appeared a strange, indistinct dark spot, wavering; it took her a few heartbeats of time to realize that it was nothing definite but the work of her mind – similar to what she had seen that only time when she had fainted in her life. The buzzing in her ears grew louder, too, so much so that she rather saw it than heard when one of the gendarmes had spoken to her. “For a minute, mademoiselle.”

Dread cascaded down her spine with every heartbeat.

Would she be sentenced to death, too, for trying to protect her love?

“It's madame,” she corrected with a smile she hoped passed as kind, and stepped away from the bush.

“Madame,” the man corrected with a stiff nod. “About a week ago a young lady disappeared in the city...” The man's sight slowly slipped from her face and then slid down the length of her hair. “You seem to bear a striking resemblance to her...”

Damn those newspapers.

The heart that seemed to burst from her chest just a minute ago now appeared to have stopped entirely, but the terror that was surely visible on her face must have been interpreted for something else, as the man didn't finish the last sentence but stumbled to a halt and cleared his throat before continuing, “You have been stopped for the very same reason before, perhaps?”

“I have been subjected to a few peculiar stares, yes,” she said, swallowing hastily when her heart gave a forceful leap as if it had just started to beat again indeed.

“The city has been in the utmost turmoil in the last week as she is a promising talent and is rumored to have been kidnapped by a lunatic. It would be strange if you hadn't heard about it...” The gendarme's voice trailed off with what appeared to be suspicion, and he gave her a long look from head to toe before his gaze slipped from her and started to scrutinize something behind her back.

Air was suddenly squeezed from her throat.

Pretend you belong here.

“Poor thing,” she managed to breathe, barely able to control the tremor in her knees. She managed to resist closing her eyes before she ventured, “You see, my husband and I have arrived home just an hour ago and we haven't had time yet to catch up with the latest news of the city.”

For a moment a bewildered shadow passed across the gendarme's face and his eyes flitted back to her face. “Let me send someone to fetch you luggage,” he offered, a strange lilt tainting his voice.

“No, thank you. We already arranged for them to be carried here tomorrow,” she managed to bite out, then forced another smile through the swirl of her surroundings. The officer was staring back at her, his face blank.

Unconvinced.

She drew a deep breath.

Facts.

He cannot possibly doubt facts.

“My dear friend, the Comtesse of Cherbourg was kind enough to offer her coupé so that we don't have to hire a coach. She has not much use of it anyway, until she's out of town, you see,” she said, and finally a spark of interest appeared in the eyes of the gendarme.

“Oh, you are a friend of the Comtesse, madame?” Asked the man in front of her, and suddenly she felt the weight of another pair of eyes on her – the younger officer was watching her now, too. She swallowed the urge to shift on her feet.

The Comtesse was a well-known, respected patron of the fine arts and her salon was one of the most illustrious venues of the artists in whole Paris. But... anyone could say she was a friend of the renowned lady.

Facts.

“Why, indeed!” She cried, allowing herself a small sweep of her hand as if to emphasize the statement, then reached for the fringe of her shawl to hide the trembling of her fingers. “I have known her for quite a while now; we got acquainted years back when we were both visiting Saint Tropez. I have been in correspondence with her ever since then.”

The men stood a little taller at that, but the eyes of the older gendarme narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“And yet she has failed to mention to you the huge disaster that happened in the opera house?” he asked, taking a close look at her hair. “There was a most dreadful scandal.”

Facts.

She tried to take a breath through the lump that seemed to have formed in her throat within only a few heartbeats.

“I'm afraid she's just as ignorant of it as myself. She has left the city on the 12th,” she replied, aiming to sound indignant when her voice wavered. “I expect you would remember the date as before leaving, her husband had made such a generous anonymous donation to the gendarmerie for having recovered Mme de Cherbourg's lost necklace.”

A terrifying moment of silence followed –

– that finally ended with the defeated slouch of the shoulders of the uniformed man in front of her.

“Do forgive my impertinence, madame; I have seen the picture of Mademoiselle Daaé and I was misled by the startling similarity of your features. I apologize,” said the man, bowing deeply in front of her, and his colleague echoed the movement.

Euphoria of hard-earn triumph flooded her veins, only to be extinguished by the cold reality of guilt a moment later. She had misled a man – a man of law! – and now he was the one who feared the consequences.

Would saving a life condone a string of lies?

Nevertheless, it was rather unlikely that this now remorseful and humble man would feel even a shred of compassion should he know the truth – and should she be begging for the life of her love.

“I wish you would refrain from drawing such hasty conclusions based on appearance, gentlemen,” she replied, covering the weakness of her voice with adding just a touch of resentment. Her pretence must have worked, because the senior officer clapped his ankles before bowing again in front of her.

“Once again, I beg your forgiveness, madame,” he said when he straightened.

She waved a dismissive hand and hoped it was close enough to aristocratic to be convincing. “Let us forget about it.” When the officer bowed again, anger began to swell in her chest, and it successfully extinguished the last remnants of guilt.

All because you believe I have a title...

Pulling back her shoulders, she rose to her full height. “And now, gentlemen, if you don't mind, I wish to retire. The baron and I have just arrived from Scotland.”

“Certainly.” Her interrogator gestured to his companion, who bowed a quick farewell to her. “A good day to you, baroness,” replied the senior officer.

“And to you, gentlemen,” she replied with a cold smile, and turned to leave.

She managed to keep her gait nobly graceful exactly until the door closed behind her, then she collapsed against the frame.

Blood was pounding in her ears, but she only heard every second beat through her own gasps for air.

The quickly gathering twilight threw the room into an eerie semi-darkness, but even so it was easy to make out the shadowy form of her husband as he was turning back from the curtain.

And the gloomy expression on the unmasked side of his face.

“Are you feeling all right?” He asked, marching to her side.

“I think so,” she replied, and listened to the low hum of her heartbeats in her ears. “Are they gone?”

“Yes.” One of his hands rose from his side but then it fell back without touching her. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought you here.”

“It's not your fault they happened to walk by.”

“It's my fault they were looking for us in the first place.”

“They were not really looking for either of us,” she corrected, swallowing between two gasps. “I think they were only on their usual patrol in the district. If anything, it was my naivety that roused their suspicion.”

His visible brow furrowed. “You haven't done anything.”

“I wasn't wearing my hood,” she replied, burying her face in her palm, and then sweeping her hand down her cheek while letting out a deep sigh.

When at last she raised her eyes again she met his gaze, dark with concern. “Did they recognize you?” He asked.

“My picture must have been all over the papers,” she muttered.

He swallowed but then said nothing for long moments.

Outside, a little bird began to trill its evening song.

Somewhere a dog was barking.

“How did they leave, then?” Broke his voice the silence in the room at last.

“A few days before the premier...” Her voice tapered off and he turned away with a sigh, nodding that he knew exactly which premier she had meant. “I overheard a conversation between M. Andre and the Comte de Cherbourg on the corridor. He said they wouldn't be able to come to the theater for the next one month or so as they are about to leave for Venice to visit Mme. De Cherbourg's mother.” Christine shook her head, guilt once more prodding at her conscience. “I... heard enough to convince the officer I was a friend of the Comtess.”

“You said he recognized you,” he protested, his voice carefully even, but the hint of worry was still unmistakable.

“He wasn't sure. He alluded to the striking similarity between the appearance of the celebrated diva of the opera house and me and I didn't object.” He turned away with a sigh, and one of his hands lifted to rake his fingers through the hair of the wig. She wondered whether he did so often, too, when he wasn't wearing it. “He was rather suspicious,” she continued, “but I told him I heard nothing about the scandal because I was in Scotland.” His head snapped up to look at her with a look of utter appreciation in his eyes, but a moment later it was wiped away by a dark shadow that passed his eyes. He looked away hastily. “He didn't really believe me until I told him that the countess couldn't have possibly written to me about it as she had left the city two days before all had happened. I assume it didn't hurt, either, that I knew about the secret donation that M Cherbourg offered to the gendarmerie before leaving the city.”

“I see,” he said softly, still not looking at her. His fingers flexed and then curled into a fist at his side.

She tried to peer above his shoulder and out of the window to check the street.

Nothing.

“Do you think they'll come back?” She asked, realizing too late that she would rather not hear the answer.

He shook his head. “Should they have not believed you, they would have taken you right away, and they surely wouldn't have risked letting me escape while they run for reinforcement. You did very well,” he said, but although the words were clearly spoken to praise her, they lacked the warm tone that had always been present whenever he complimented her performance.

Her heart continued to beat with an empty longing for a few more breaths, but then he turned away again and took a few staggering steps towards the windows.

“We'll wait for ten minutes, and then leave through the back door,” he said, still with his back to her.

Dusk was now gathering faster with every minute, and his shadow in front of the window seemed to be longer with each passing minute as he stood there without another word.

A few minutes later she ventured another look out to the street, straining her eyes not to miss the arriving gendarmes as they lined up to run into the house, but just as before, nobody was outside on the porch, nor in the front garden.

A curtain of flakes brushed against the window as a gust of wind swept the snow from a nearby tree.

Silence thrummed in her ears.

She was standing inside the house that belonged to that garden outside; the garden of the eccentric baron who had left for Scotland, and whose imaginary wife she had been for five long minutes.

Eccentric.

What could that possibly mean?

Slowly, she looked around in the almost empty room that was most probably the drawing room. True, it was smaller than a regular drawing room (and certainly not as spacious as the parlor in Raoul's mansion), but the two large windows to the garden offered a refreshing view to nature outside and allowed light into the room. To her left, there was a huge fireplace whose ornamental resembled that of the pillars of the front porch. Then – right in front of her – a wooden staircase led upstairs, the top of it disappearing in the gathering twilight.

Just a few more minutes now, and they would be leaving.

She shuddered.

Hopefully the gendarmes were not lingering just around the corner, waiting for the two of them.

Never before had she spoken to any member of the authorities. Now she had – but had only done so to deceive them. She cringed to think what people would think to learn that meek Christine Daaé had fabricated a lie detailed enough to convince the two gendarmes. Madame Giry, for one, would surely be disappointed in her.

Except that she had been already disillusioned when she had been told that she, Christine, was not going to marry Raoul, as everyone had presumed. What would Madame think if she knew that her dear protégé had fallen so low as to become a criminal herself?

A criminal.

Had she been so wealthy as the nonexistent baroness, would she be still considered a criminal by society's standards?

She sighed and looked up once more to Erik, who was still standing with his back to her, staring out of the window.

Her husband.

Would Father disapprove, too?

She had lied to the authorities to save her husband – and she succeeded. As incredible as it seemed, the gendarmes had believed her. Several minutes had passed since then, but apparently there were no gathering corps stationed just outside on the street.

Silence thrummed in her ears.

A few more minutes.

He continued to stand by the window but hidden by the wall, with his back to her. Was he not breathing? She could only make out the slight movement of his shoulders if she focused her eyes just a bit above them.

Her wrist twitched.

It seemed that it was darker around her with each breath she took.

“You said the baron is in Scotland?” She asked her husband finally.

His shoulders straightened and the unmasked side of his face turned towards her. “Indeed. Why do you ask?”

“I would rather look around than just stand here as we wait,” she replied, chancing another look to the street, then berating herself immediately for having not been able to resist. Still, there was nobody outside.

He nodded, and slowly walked over to the door, then she heard the soft click of the lock as he turned the key.

“Let me go first,” he said, and started towards her left, opening the door to a small room – a kitchen, as it turned out.

Room by room they looked around the house, always him entering first before letting her come after him and look around. As expected, nobody was there; in fact, nobody has been there for a very long time, if the dust gathering on the windowsills and the few shelves that were left there was any indication.

“Something is really... off... in this house, indeed,” she said, having just left the bathroom that opened from behind the staircase. The house was supplied with running water – not only cold but hot water as well! –, and the bathroom was equipped with the most up-to-date appliances: there was a free-standing bathtub right next to the basin, a delicate radiator stood in one of the corners; there was even an intricate box on the wall – most probably a towel warmer.

And all of this in an illustrious neighbourhood.

Yet the house was uninhabited.

Peeking up to his eyes she once more saw that strange shadow she had spotted right after the gendarmes had come up to the gate, but the features on the visible side of his face were carefully arranged to a composed expression.

She swallowed.

At that time she had been far too terrified to notice how familiar that look was. Something she had seen not so long before, and yet, a look that had reminded her more of a memory, something that had happened a lifetime ago...

He slowly rounded the stairs and stopped in the middle of the parlor. “There's no need to stay here any longer. Let us leave now,” he offered, and started for the door.

“Do you think we have time to take a quick look around upstairs as well?” She asked, coming after him and stopping next to the balustrade of the stairs.

He halted in his tracks but didn't turn immediately.

“Why going upstairs if the very place unnerves you?”

“It's not unnerving; it is just weird that such a luxurious house is empty. How long has it been up for sale?”

“For about a year,” he replied, and, looking around one last time he came up to her and they began to climb the stairs together.

It seemed that the shadows began to dissolve somewhat the higher they ascended, and as soon as they reached the top of the stairs she realized why: the wall to her left was made of glass entirely, the likewise glass-made door leading to a huge terrace of some sort, which was overlooking the garden. The railing that ran over the edge offered a nice half-cover against the prying eyes of the neighbours, and the garden beyond it was now shrouded in the thickening grey of the winter evening as the glass wall was facing to the east. Stepping closer she examined the terrace more closely: it was a spacious one, certainly big enough to hold a table and some chairs, although it was quite empty now. In the nook between the glass-wall and the railing stood a broom, covered with a thin sheet of snow.

A few frozen leaves waved on top of the taller trees of the garden.

What a view it can be when they are in full bloom: the first rays of sunshine just grazing the leaves and warming her skin on a summer morning. His eyes would shine probably an even brighter green than in the firelight...

A gust of wind whistled across the terrace, carrying a few browned leaves from a nearby tree and landing them on top of a pile of snow accumulated by the railing.

She shivered.

“The house is not haunted, is it?” She asked, turning back from the window: he had just returned from the other direction. At her questioning look he shook his head: the rooms were empty.

“Why would it be?” he said, standing to the side so that she could pass in front of him.

“Such a pleasant house, and yet nobody bought it for a year,” she said, sweeping one hand over the carved banister on top of the staircase as she passed towards the doors on her left.

“The baron is not the type of man who enjoys being surrounded by people,” came his reluctant voice from behind her back. “He had built the house only for himself and so it is far too small to accommodate a full household.”

His voice stopped and she halted, too, just barely peeking into the room behind the first door. It was a small room, but a rather pleasant one; it had a huge window to the south and to the west, too, so it was possibly the brightest room of the whole house.

Stepping back, she continued to the next door, but then stopped in the doorway: the room was now almost completely dark.

“I'll fetch a lantern in a minute,” he said, and with that he turned and descended on the stairs, only to reappear a few heartbeats later with an already lit lantern in his hand.

Walking up to her he raised the lantern in one hand while pushing the door wide open for her.

“Thank you,” she said. He nodded in reply, and when she stepped back into the room, he followed her.

The light of the lantern cast an orange shadow on the floor as they entered, and when she looked up, her eyes detected the last fading greys of the sunbeams' memory through the window.

A bedroom facing to the west.

A perfect place to watch the sunset together – maybe even from bed.

Blushing at the thought she quickly turned away, and took a few steps towards the other side of the chamber. A soft rustle accompanied her movements and the light wobbled closer, too, as he followed her.

“Is it not strange that nobody would fancy this house,” she said while walking up to the door on the side wall. Did it lead to an adjoining room? Or a wardrobe room, maybe...? “Even if this house has no room for a full household, an elderly gentleman might find it just fine, living on his own.”

“It is...” He began but then trailed off uncertainly. He was silent for a few heartbeats of time before starting again. “There are no servant rooms in the house, not even for a valet,” he blurted out at last. His voice was soft and sounded hesitant... A confession?

Because of a house we happen to occupy for a mere ten minutes?

And how would he know what kind of a person the baron was? Or that he had been in Scotland for at least a year by now?

With another step she was at the door now that led to the only yet-unseen room of the house. She pressed down on the handle, and as he entered the room behind her, light glittered back at her from the various appliances of a luxurious bathroom.

To her left, a huge window offered a view to the west sky and the neighbouring gardens and in front of her, there was a huge pan of empty wall, covered with what appeared to be tiny dots of decoration. Stepping closer she tried to examine the delicate pattern of the tapestry? the tyles? And as she leaned forward to see better, the light seemed to follow her slowly, until a moment later she took a startled step back as light flooded the whole room in a huge wave of brightness.

She heard a low grunt, followed by his murmur. “I forgot about the mirror.”

Air left her lungs is a sudden exhale. “This is not the first time you're here, is it?” She gasped out.

“No,” he admitted, but didn't look at her as he turned away from the mirror, his shoulders slouched.

Suddenly a cold wave washed over her back as the memories followed each other in a rapid succession in her mind: the keys, that he knew about the owner, that small movement how he twisted the handle of the gate upwards to open it...

“You don't already own this house, do you?” she breathed.

He let out a barely audible sigh and shook his head.

His eyes strayed towards her but then as soon as their eyes met, he averted his gaze. He took a tentative step to the side. “Sometimes it was really difficult to stop the madness – and sometimes I didn't even try to.” He lifted his free hand but then his arm fell back to his side a moment later. “I liked to believe you would eventually say yes, and moving to a real house seemed a reasonable next step after the wedding.” He lifted an arm as if to explain further, sweeping one hand across the air in a fluid movement. “I heard last year when the baron had left the country and I came here to see the house for myself. I've only ever come here two or three times, though.” He shifted on his feet as he looked away. “I haven't been here since last October.”

She shivered as suspicion ran down her spine. “Since I met Raoul?”

“Yes.”

The whispered word faintly echoed between them, and he was deliberately looking anywhere else but at her.

At last his gaze settled on her shoulder. “It would have been like looking into a mirror,” he muttered, and turned away hastily. “To be taunted by what I cannot have...”

Air trembled between her lips as she fought for her next breath, backing away a few steps until her back met the wall behind her. The tiles were cold against her palms and fingertips as she braced herself against them.

Since October...

But before then, he had been here a few times to...

She stopped that train of thought when a shudder shook her whole frame.

I've never really been particularly fond of having to hide in the cellars.

And yet he hadn't been here since last October.

The room seemed to sway in front of her eyes.

“You had so many mirrors back in the opera house,” she said at last, pushing away from the wall while taking a deep, long breath.

“For the sake of illusion,” he nodded, venturing a brief glance at her. “At some point I believed the place could look like a real home.”

“But they were always covered,” she remarked.

“At first they were not,” he said while turning back to her, stopping before he could be seen in the mirror. “I have lived with it long enough to learn how to ignore the sight.”

“I thought you had always hated to see...” She didn't finish the sentence, and a brief look of gratitude flitted across his eyes.

“I was far from being pleased by the sight; I just didn't care,” he explained, turning to the side so that only the unmasked side of his face was towards her.

“What happened?”

Briefly, his lips pulled into a smile, and he let out a deep sigh. “I had been wondering about the same thing for a long while.” Her stomach knotted as her heart began to beat in her throat at the words, and she waited with her breath held for him to continue, at the same time hoping that he would not.

And he did not, indeed; instead, he switched the lantern from his left to his right hand. The movement seemed unnecessary – but only until she realized it was so that he could now touch the ring on his finger lightly.

She swallowed uneasily but her throat was just as dry as a moment before.

“It took me about a month to realize I had fallen in love with you,” he said. “If I didn't have to see the truth ever so often it was easier to pretend that if I wanted it enough, one day you might...” He trailed off and it seemed he never meant to try and finish the sentence at all.

“You might have just told me,” she suggested gently.

He looked away and out of the window, shaking his head. “I hated myself for it. It was utterly disrespectful towards you and I was well aware of that fact. I didn't plan to let you know about it.”

“Why would it be disrespectful? To love someone...” Her voice began to waver and she trailed off before it could break completely.

“Because you are so kind-hearted, so stunningly beautiful, and I am...” He trailed off with a shake of his head but even so she couldn't miss noticing how his shoulders tensed. “It wasn't just my face I saw in the mirror; the rest was even more condemning. I didn't want to offend you by admitting I had the gall to dream of your love.” His voice rang soft and even, but the furtive look he stole in her direction was enough for her to catch a glimpse of the turmoil in his eyes.

Not to offend her...

She tried to swallow the lump from her throat.

“But then you still came here to assess this house,” she prodded.

“I got... used to the idea of loving you, after a while. You always seemed so happy before our lessons. So eager to hear the voice. To talk about your day.” He waved in a fluid gesture of his hand. “To discuss with me something you haven't told anyone else. Sometimes it seemed you were not talking to an incorporeal being but just to...me.”

“I was,” she breathed.

His head hung low between his slouched shoulders, his eyes carefully examining the floor between them as he asked, “How long had you known that the Angel was not real?”

“I have no idea.” She shifted on her feet. “Probably after grief faded enough so that I could think again. A few months after the first time I heard you, I guess.”

He nodded, and took a few faltering steps away and towards the door, then turned around and walked back to her but stopped short of the angle from where the mirror could have captured his reflection. “I've always meant to ask for your hand in marriage, I never wanted to subject you to a life as my mistress and...” His voice tapered off, and he shrugged helplessly, as if at a loss for words. “It never occurred to me that binding you to me in marriage would rob you of your good name just the same. I didn't even have a name to give you.” He took a step towards the mirror and looked into it, but then hastily shrank back from it and something gripped at her heart. “I just wanted to let you know that my intentions were honest,” he added softly.

The lamplight wavered ever so softly but it might as well have been her imagination.

She swallowed. “What was your plan?”

“I don't know.” His voice came out in a wheeze, and he fell silent for a breath of a time. “I think I was waiting for a miracle I didn't believe in.”

“I'm here now,” she said, taking a tentative step towards him.

“Yes.” Raising his head he chanced another look into the mirror and the light of the lantern wavered for a moment in his hand. “And yet the picture is just as unforgiving.” Lowering his head he stepped away so that he wouldn't see his reflection anymore. “I wonder if you would be here should I have never deceived you.”

“You didn't force me in the end. In fact, you repeatedly asked me to leave,” she told him, but his gaze was still riveted to the floor.

“I had lied to you.”

“And given me a reason to live.”

“That still doesn't change the fact that the Angel of Music doesn't exist.”

“Why are you so keen on convincing me that I shouldn't be here? With you?” She asked, and the lamplight swayed for a moment in the dim gray of the bathroom.

“Because you deserve a better...life than this.” The pause in his words lasted only long enough to be noticable, and yet her heart skipped a beat. A better man... “And you could have had that life beside...”

“Beside a man I didn't love?” She interrupted before he could finish.

His reply of a sigh seemed to echo around in the empty room. “You agreed to marry him once,” he offered feebly at last.

“Women agree to marriage for various reasons,” she explained gently, walking up to him and finally closing the distance between the two of them.

His voice was almost too faint to be heard when he next asked, “What was yours?”

“You terrified me and he promised to keep me safe.”

“What you have seen after was even worse,” he said, taking a step to the side; he set the lamp on the vanity on his right as he stepped right in front of the mirror.

Now he didn't turn away as before, in fact, he visibly forced himself to look at his imposing reflection in the mirror: a looming black shadow broken only by the grotesque shape of the white mask.

Her throat tightened.

“I'm not afraid of you anymore,” she told his reflection in the mirror. The whiteness bowed almost imperceptibly.

“That night...” She nodded hastily before more memories could surface. “I have hurt you so deeply... How can you even look at me after that night?”

She looked into the eyes of his reflection in the mirror.“I forgave you.”

His throat moved with a swallow. “I had wanted to marry not just to show off my noble intentions but also because I wanted to make sure you would stay forever.”

“I know.”

“I will not try to stop you if you decide you wish to leave,” he said, the eyes of his reflection intent on hers. She rather saw than heard the soft sound of a guarded exhale, followed by the soft drop of his shoulders as they tensed.

“That is exactly why I'm not going to leave,” she told him, stepping to him and laying a hand on his forearm.

“I know.” His head bowed deeply with the words, and his muscles tensed beneath her touch all of a sudden before he lifted his gaze once more to the mirror. “You stayed... even in the face of reality.” His free hand reached up to his face and a heartbeat later lowered to his side once more, now holding the mask. “You've just corrupted yourself for the sake of a monster.”

He straightened his posture, displaying his bare face in the mirror, but only after a moment his eyes fluttered to the side in an apparent gesture to escape the sight before he forced them to return to his reflection. She had to force herself not to look away, either, even if her throat began to close up and her eyes began to burn.

Why...?

Even though the torment was clearly meant for himself, her stomach twisted at the sight just the same.

His eyes were riveted to the unmerciful display of his deformity in the mirror.

“When...” Her voice broke on that first word and she had to start again. “When I decided to come back, I was perfectly aware of what I was agreeing to. And I would do it again. I would lie to them again.”

“I don't deserve you being here,” he whispered, turning a bit to his left to look at her but his eyes were cast to the ground before the movement was completed.

“I didn't come back because you deserve me.” His hand shook with the shudder that had run through him, and he bowed even deeper. “I'm here because I can never be happy in a future you are not part of. Those four days...” Her voice failed her and she stopped; gathering strength from the continuous flicker of the lamplight on the floor, dancing right in front of her feet. “Those days I heard nothing but silence. And I found no will to live like that for the rest of my days.”

His head lifted, his eyes startlingly dark with emotion. “You missed the music...” He murmured.

“Not just any music. You are the music.”

“Stop it,” he wheezed all of a sudden. “I'm begging you.”

The rapid rising and falling of his chest continued for a long minute; she reached out to take his hand and after several heartbeats, his fingers returned her touch.

“When I let you go...” he began at last, but fell silent immediately.

From outside, the faint clacking of horseshoes and the rattle of wheels seeped into the room as a carriage passed along the street.

He tried again a moment later. “I thought that even after I had hurt you so terribly, I could at least give you a future where you are free of me.” He let out a deep sigh. “It was already too late, wasn't it?”

“There wouldn't have been a day when I didn't think of you. Or of what might have been should I have married you.” She reached out to his other hand that was still holding the mask and pulled him closer to her. “You are no monster.” The hand gripping the mask trembled beneath her touch and she held onto it firmer.

“I've dreamt of this so many times before,” he said, turning to her and away from the mirror, his thumb brushing the air just above her cheek. “But I could never fully believe it.” Slowly his gaze left hers as his head bowed deeply, and after a long silence, he muttered, “I think this is why the mirrors were always covered.”

“Erik, I've seen everything. And I'm still here,” she whispered, her hand still resting on his hand that was holding the mask. A gentle pull was enough to let her take it, and slowly his eyes returned to the mirror where now both of their reflections were staring back at him. She felt tension engulf him as his sight wandered to her hand, her fingers curled around the edge of the mask.

He turned away from the mirror then, but his gaze didn't dare to seek hers longer than for a breath of time; his warm exhale swept over her lips but it was only followed by his lips when she gently pulled on his sleeve.

His first kiss was more of a tremor against her lips and she leaned against him to seek a second one; one of his hands wandered to her waist and pulled her closer until she was close enough to feel his heartbeat against her chest.

Had they turned around and eluded the gendarmes, would he still be alive?

Had she chosen to hide inside the house with him?

Had she not lied?

Her heart skipped a beat at the thought and she reached up to brush her thumb against his face; then shuddered with him when a long shiver ran down his body in return.

Anything.

She would so anything to cover him, even if it meant she had to lie to the authorities again about him. Or rather, about herself; after today she would be most probably considered as an accomplice. He already told her that much – and most probably he had already added this to his long list of crimes.

Except that it was all her doing.

Had he had any idea if this was what she had in mind, when she had asked him to go inside alone, would he have still done what she had asked of him? Or would he have risked being recognized just to save her conscience?

Tears began to tighten her throat and she breathed him in, his now familiar, comforting scent that still seemed foreign because now she didn't need to deny she had already known in for a long time; and she leaned up to capture his lips in yet another kiss.

I'll protect you – even if you don't want to allow me to.

They stayed close in an unmoving embrace even after the kiss had ended, only the weight of his palm on the small of her back became more promiment.

Then his head lifted, and slowly turned to look into the mirror.

The hand on the small of her back faltered.

As he turned back to her, he held her even tighter then before.

“This was the first time you didn't disappear from there,” came his low voice, and tears began to gather in her throat when the meaning of his words began to unfurl in her mind.

Outside, the sun had already set and the lamplight was hardly enough to illuminate their forms, shrouded as they were in dark coats; only their faces were visible in the mirror as he folded her in his arms and was once more staring at their reflection.

Her fingers curled into his lapels.

I'm not going anywhere.

“I wish you saw this the next time look into the mirror,” she told his reflection, and then shivered when a long tremor shook his whole body.

“I love you so much,” he breathed, the green of his eyes unusually bright with emotions, and her throat was suddely too dry as she whispered, “I love you, too.”

– o –

Placing his cup back on the saucer, M. Clément flipped through the Wednesday morning letters, some of which had been written to M. Duranceau. It was not quite extraordinary, but as the baron had less and less affaires to be taken care of in Paris, it was certainly something worthy of attention. Especially so that one of those envelops were addressed with an unknown, overly neat handwriting.

Laying aside all other letters the secretary opened this most peculiar one.

Then frowned.

Who on Earth wants to buy the barons house?

It had been up for sale for more than a year now, and not a single person was interested enough just to inquire about it.

Most interesting.

The customer demanded to meet in person at the building in question this afternoon, and he also offered to pay the full price of the property in cash. What a curious request! Most unusual, and, to be fair, quite suspicious.

Nonetheless, the baron would be surely pleased to hear he managed to get rid of this burdensome property after such a long time.

Decision already made, M. Clément dipped the quill in the ink and began to write:

Cher M. Nilsson,

I would be most delighted to meet you after my regular office hours at 5 pm, ...

#poto #Phantom of the Opera #poto fanfiction #phanfiction #edka88

3 notes · View notes

gothpanda · 4 years

Text

A Little Bit of Attitude Ch. 36: Rehab

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

A/N: I had this written a long time ago. Which is why y’all are getting 2 chapters in 2 days

TAGS: @madamsixx @emariehorror

@nosebleedblitz

WARNINGS: angst

Previous/Next

Read on Ao3

February 2nd, 1988

Tucson, Arizona

Sammi stared out of the taxi cab window, frowning at the rehabilitation sign insight. Her palms were sweating even more than they did when on the airplane over to Tucson. The taxi driver wasn’t in any rush, somewhat understanding Sammi’s hesitation to exit their cab once they saw where Sammi needed to be. Sammi rubbed her hands on her jeans, exhaling as she paid the cab fare. The driver gave a sad smile to Sammi from the rearview mirror.

“Good luck to whatever finds you here,” said the driver.

Sammi smiled back at the driver, stepping out of the car with shaky feet. The rehab was beautiful to Sammi, with vast desert fields with different sports or relaxation activities. It looked like a rich summer camp if you didn’t know what the place really was. Sammi walked through the sliding doors, feeling cold air conditioning that hit her face, a pleasant sensation once outside in the heat. She clenched onto the strap of her purse, looking at everything around like a little child. Sammi slowly walked to the receptionist’s desk, greeted by an older man who gave a courtesy smile.

“Hello Ms. how may I help you today?” asked the man, his name tag reading Julius.

“I’m here to see Dr. Hawkins. She asked me to come in for a therapy session today. I have… family here,” Sammi said, pressing her lips tightly together. The man looked down at his notebook and computer then to another receptionist near him.

“Well, Dr. Hawkins seems to be currently in a group therapy session, but let me phone in her head nursing assistant. Could I get some ID, please?” asked Julius. Sammi reached into her purse and slid over the card. As Julius read Sammi’s full name, she could see the twitch in his face of realization. Julius returned the ID and a visitor clip for Sammi. “Okay, please have this clip on for the entirety of your visit. You can have a seat over on your right,” said Julius.

“Thank you,” Sammi smiled, walking to the rows of chairs in a maze-like fashion. Sammi was the only one in the little waiting area, seeing a sign about visitation hours for ‘patients.’ Sammi shuddered at the word, fully succumbing to the fact that the guys were patients. Patients who are most likely under medication at the moment. Patients who Sammi’s been around when completing her necessary hours to graduate. It clicked at this moment alone that Sammi found herself in the place she was aiming to work for, but this time visiting people she cared about. Sammi soon saw a nurse come out of the hospital like double doors, seeking right for Sammi.

“Samantha?” Nurse Sandra asked, extending out a hand. Sammi stood on her feet, shoulders squared, accepting the handshake.

“Yes. Hi, I’m Samantha. It’s nice to meet you,” Sammi smiled politely at Nurse Sandra. “You work with Dr. Hawkins?”

“Yes, I do. I’m one of the nurse team members assigned to Motley Crue. It’s been an interesting journey so far,” Nurse Sandra said with a smile.

“Team members? How many people are assigned to the guys?” Sammi asked with worried eyebrows.

“They each have one assigned nurse when necessary, such as distributing medication at specific hours and each a therapist. Dr. Hawkins facilitates group therapy sessions and the main doctor in charge of their treatment. Come with me so we can join the men now. We don’t want to be late,” Nurse Sandra with a smile, sensing the nerves from Sammi’s face. Nurse Sandra and Sammi walked down the home-like hallways, passing doctors’ offices and patient rooms. “Did Dr. Hawkins have a chance to fully explain before your visit down here?” Nurse Sandra asked.

“I was just told Dr. Hawkins wanted me in for a group therapy session. I just don't have the full reasoning exactly,” Sammi replied as the two stood in front of the spacious group therapy room.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Don’t worry,” Nurse Sandra said, checking the watch on her wrist and peeking inside the room. Sammi looked inside through the small window as well to see all four of the guys seated down. They all had their backs to the door, listening carefully to what Dr. Hawkins was saying. An older woman who looked like she could be Mrs. Bass's age. One chair in the middle between all four men was empty, leaving Nikki and Tommy on the left and Vince & Mick right. “Ready?” Nurse Sandra asked. Sammi nodded, swallowing hard. Nurse Sandra carefully opened the door, waving two fingers to signal Dr. Hawkins. Dr. Hawkins nodded, clapping her hands together. Sammi shuffled in the room with silence, clutching onto the strap of her purse harder.

“Gentlemen, remember how I said we were going to have a guest today? Well, here she is,” Dr. Hawkins said, standing up and raising a hand behind everyone. “Samantha, come here have a seat with us,” Nikki was the first to snap his head behind him, blinking rapidly as if he was dreaming. Tommy smiled at his sister, missing the face of someone familiar that wasn’t Motley anymore. Vince and Mick couldn’t look at Sammi, but each had different reasoning. Sammi kept her head hung low, not making eye contact at everyone's shocked faces, sitting down in her designated seat.

“Good afternoon, Samantha. How are you doing?” Dr. Hawkins asked, smiling warmly at the young woman.

“Okay… I guess. I’m not sure as to why I’m here exactly,” said Sammi.

“I wanted to invite you for a therapy session because I noticed from our team that you are a common theme in many sessions since the men have been here,” said Dr. Hawkins, grabbing a leather notecase, clicking her silver pen.

“I am?” asked Sammi, curling her lip at the surprise. Sammi looked to her right, seeing Tommy and Nikki looking down to the floor. Mick rested his chin in the palm of his hand to her left while Vince sat with folded arms and stared only at Dr. Hawkins.

“Yes, you are. Whenever the men opened up and told an event, you were mentioned many times from their owns accounts,”

“Wow, even Mick talks about me? I’m touched,” teased Sammi to break the tension, placing a hand over her heart, turning towards Mick. His mouth was covered, but Sammi could still see the corners turned upwards. “So, what exactly do you want from me? I’m just Tommy’s little sister?”

“No, you’re not just Tommy’s little sister. You’re a sister, a friend, and a romantic partner. I want you to fully open up about your experience with these men during their substance abuse,” Dr. Hawkins corrected Sammi. Sammi looked down at her lap. “I brought Samantha in here, so the four of you fully comprehend how your abuse affects the people around you,” Dr. Hawkins explained to Motley, scanning the room and seeing the discomfort in everyone's faces. “While you are a band, Samantha isn’t someone who knows all of you purely on that. She seems to be the one positive person you all have,”

“Yeah, thanks, Tommy,” Sammi mumbled, folding her arms tightly against her chest and crossing one leg over the other.

“Oh, come on, you know you love us,” Tommy replied, giving a quick one-sided smile to Sammi.

“Alright, let’s begin,” Dr. Hawkins said with a smile, pages of notes turning echoing in the room. “Is it alright if I address you as Sammi for the rest of the session?” Sammi nodded. “Great! I’ve heard through the grapevine you’re currently in school for pharmacy in San Francisco. How is that going?”

Sammi shrugged. “Good. Challenging, but it’s been going good these last two years. I’m almost finally done with school. Feels like I’ve been in college for an eternity,”

“That’s amazing. It’s good seeing young women come into the medical field for all things. I know your brother is proud of you,” Dr. Hawkins smiled, Sammi smiling at Tommy, who shied away. “You two seem close when he talks about you and your other sister Athena. It’s important to have a strong bond even during rough times,”

“I could agree. Of course, Tommy annoys the hell out me, but I’m lucky to have a brother like him,”

“And was it always like this? Did you two always have a strong bond growing up?”

“Nope,” Sammi and Tommy said in unison with a chuckle. Both repressed their laughs but still smiled at each other. “I was a bit ‘bitchy’ when I was 17,”

“And 18, and 19… It wasn’t just your fault, though. I can admit now why you’d act upset with me,” Tommy added.

“And why was that, Tommy?” Dr. Hawkins asked.

Tommy sighed. “At first, I blamed it on these two friends she had from high school, but after I got into Motley, I acted all big shot for being in a band. So we grew apart when we began having our own lives,” Tommy said, folding his arms against his chest and sinking into the white accent sofa chair.

“How did you two manage to reconnect?” Dr. Hawkins asked.

Sammi smiled to herself at the memory of the first time she met Tommy in Motley. “Ironically, the band. Tommy went to my job at the time, asking for a bedsheet that I wasn’t using anymore. That’s where I met Nikki and reconnected with Vince,”

“No, Mick?”

“I didn’t show up to the old apartment until it was the evening. I met Sammi when she came for a rehearsal,” Mick added.

“So what was your first impression of everyone, Sammi? After not seeing Vince since you were a young teen and Nikki for the first time,”

“I hated Nikki,” Sammi snickered, Nikki smiling to himself but away from everyone. “I called him a porcupine because his hair was so teased and made him call me Samantha. I hated how he was gawking at me but also liked it for some reason. I was nice to Vince but kept a distance because he had been around with people I knew, then soon my old crush came back. And with Mick, I didn’t get why the guys called him an alien. He just had a different head on his shoulders than the others. They’re all different in their own ways,”

“Those sound like fun introductions to a couple of bold characters,” Dr. Hawkins had joked. Sammi nodded, smiling a tad bit at how it all began. “But then you had moments of anger with the men? Is that correct?”

“Yeah, I did,” Sammi huffed out.

“Were there ever specific times or random moments of annoyance throughout the friendships?”

“It was first their attitudes of being macho men, mostly from Nikki. Mick never made me angry, honestly. Vince would get under my skin if he slept with girls before we got together… and even during. Then there were the drugs and times they all acted selfish, hurting someone else along the way,” Sammi said, thinking hard to formulate a proper thought of her life with Motley.

“So you never liked it when any of them used hard substances?”

Sammi looked down at the floor for a moment. “No, I didn’t. I never saw a reason to do it. The only drug I was around was weed at the time. Our parents explained why using drugs was bad all the time growing up, hard drugs in mind. When I saw Tommy and Athena do it, I freaked out, running away from them. Then I only told our parents because I’m a bad liar to them, and they kept asking questions when I got home in the morning. They chewed Athena and Tommy’s ass to dinner that night,”

“How old were you when this happened?”

“18,”

“Do you remember if you blamed a person for this?”

Sammi nodded. “I blamed Nikki for giving them coke because Vince told me,”

“Did you all three talk it out right after dinner? To keep your sibling bond intact?”

Sammi glanced at Nikki, seeing him stare at the corner of the room. “No, we didn’t. That night Nikki called me when I was in my room to tell me I was dumb after telling him he was a creep. Everyone does drugs in this scene, and if I didn’t like it, I should stay out. So I did. I didn’t talk to Tommy, Athena, or Vince for a while,” Sammi recalled pressing her lips together, looking dead at Dr. Hawkins.

“God, I forgot about that,” Mick mumbled, slowly shifting for comfort in his seat. Tommy and Vince looked at each other, remembering those times that felt like centuries ago. Nikki rested his chin in the palm of his hands, turning his body away from Sammi. It was the first time Nikki felt terrible for hurting Sammi’s feelings, not understanding why at the time. Nikki never felt bad about hurting a girl's sentiments in his young life until that night, questioning his feelings.

“How was that for you, Tommy? Or Vince? Or Nikki? Or Mick?” Dr. Hawkins asked the three men.

“Tried to make sure no one killed Nikki. I thought he was an asshole for pissing Sammi off. We all kind of gave him the silent treatment for it. Sammi didn’t deserve our bullshit so early on of knowing us,” Mick said.

“I was so pissed at Nikki. I liked having Sammi around. That was around the time I started liking her,” Vince said, cracking his fingers.

“The funny thing is, I should’ve known something happened. When I told Sammi goodbye at dinner, she wouldn’t open her bedroom door. I came home to Vince yelling at Nikki,” Tommy said. “I felt like shit for making Sammi angry at us as soon as we started hanging out again,”

“Nikki?” Dr. Hawkins asked. Nikki didn’t give a response, keeping his head away from everyone. Dr. Hawkins didn’t try to press any further for the time being.

“But after that, you all still managed to have Sammi in your lives and go down the path you chose?” Dr. Hawkins asked. Motley and Sammi stayed silent, no one giving a glance to anyone in the room. “How was that, Sammi? If you were so strong-willed to not be around, then what happened?”

“Nikki apologized for the whole thing, and I missed the guys. It’s kinda hard to ignore all of them when your brother is in the band. I had moments of being distant with the guys either way,”

“But you could’ve still stayed away. What was the real reason?”

“I liked them, Okay? I had two fake friends and a cookie-cutter life before I hung out with them. I liked being around them even if shit happened,” Sammi raised her voice a tad bit.

“Was that all, though?” Dr. Hawkins asked again.

“Listen, do you want a gist of basically the last six years of my life to fully get it?” Sammi asks, scowling at Dr. Hawkins.

“Go ahead. I encourage you to open up. Go on for as long as you want,”

“My brother gets in a band to be the drummer with three other guys. The lead singer is his old high school friend I had liked since I was 13 when he slept in our van. After a year of fucked up friendship, we finally got together even though he couldn’t keep it in his pants. All of that for him to just end up cheating on me and getting another girl pregnant. The bass player is some macho asshole, and I hate him. We end up talking for more than a minute, and I can see the asshole turn sweet on me. I end up having feelings for him, and everything gets worse but still great. When things are going good, it feels amazing, but when it’s bad, it’s like hell on earth because I can’t fix it. The guitar player acts like my dad to me because he’s scared I’ll fuck up my life when I’m around them. He got angry that I snorted coke on my birthday. He keeps his medical condition a secret from everyone because the drummer, singer, and bass player are assholes. They use him as a punching bag because he’s nice. I don’t say shit because who is going to listen to me? Mick won’t admit to being in pain, and no one listens when I say ease upon him. I stayed because I liked being around them and brushed off the annoyance. My brother and I are finally talking regularly again. That’s what it’s like being with these four,” Sammi rambled, frowning deeper lines on her face, folding her arms tighter around her chest.

Motley stared at Sammi, feeling confined to what they’ve made her put up. Dr. Hawkins wrote down in her notepad, motioning for Sammi to continue. “I hated it when they had to go too far with drugs and alcohol. I went on tour with them as an assistant for one year and saw everything. They had to go crazy to ‘prove themselves to no one who’s actually important in their lives. Every single time one of them told me, ‘that’s the lifestyle,’ I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs. I didn’t get how these four who finally got their dream would throw it away by slowly killing themselves,”

“But, you have used drugs before?”

“Yes. I admit I have done drugs, but it was only coke.”

“The first time you used was on your birthday?”

“No. It was the night Nikki and I talked after he apologized for calling me dumb. Both of us went back to the apartment he shared with Tommy and Vince, there was a party, so I stayed. When I was there, the three of them were using coke in front of me. I wanted to see why they liked it so much. So I asked, and I snorted for the first time. It was rare when I did coke after that, self-aware of taking it easy. The last time I did, it was in Vegas three years ago with Nikki. Vince would get mad at me every time I got high when we were together,” Sammi admitted

“Why would that be, Vince?” Dr. Hawkins asked Vince, turning her attention to the man slouching in the sofa chair. Vince stayed silent, thinking of what was the right thing to say. “I wanted Sammi to stay innocent. I didn’t want her to be like the fucked up girls who’d slim around us. She didn’t get crazy while she was high, which was great, but the main thing was Nikki. I knew Nikki would be the one giving her coke, and I’d get jealous every time he was around her. I guess I’m a major hypocrite,”

“It’s good that you at least know this. I want you to hold on to your thoughts about Sammi because I will be asking about your relationship later,” Dr. Hawkins instructed, Sammi and Vince glancing at each other. “Now, Sammi, if you never liked the boys taking things to the extreme and even when you have dipped your toes into their word, why did you stick so long? Besides the fact, you liked the gentlemen,”

Sammi bit her lip. “Because I felt like I had to protect them a lot of the time. I’m the only real responsible one, so I felt I needed to make sure everyone was okay in the end. And I failed at that,” Mick frowned at the last part of Sammi’s statement, knowing the weight of it.

“Was this because of Tommy being your brother? You felt as if everyone needed your protection? That’s a lot to handle for a young girl. You were barely becoming an adult,”

“I’m protective of Tommy in general even if he wasn’t with Motley. But after being around them and seeing that they were good guys underneath all the leather, I wanted to make sure nothing bad happened,” Sammi mumbled, feeling tears set in her eyes. She wiped away anything from her eyes that felt like a tear. “Even if I said mean things to the guys because I was angry, I still felt bad and wanted to continue protecting them. I’d say sorry and move on. They did dumb shit but would still try to make it a bit better,”

“We’re sorry, Sammi, for putting that pressure on you. Even if we didn’t realize it,” Mick said, Sammi smiled at him for a second.

“Did you ever feel like you failed at protecting the guys?” Sammi shrugged her shoulder, biting the inside of her cheek to stop tears from falling down, keeping a solid shell around her. Dr. Hawkins could see Sammi about to explode, passing a tissue box to the young woman. “Only you know the answer to this, Sammi,”

“Yeah, I did,” whispered Sammi.

“And when did you feel like you failed?”

“I’d probably say the last tour for obvious reasons,”

“How so?”

“Their manager had to cancel a leg of their tour because he thought they were going to die. Which wasn’t far off,” mumbled Sammi.

“Were you ever upfront about your feelings to the men? Did they listen?”

“No. and when they didn’t, I just repeated myself and blamed Nikki for everything when I shouldn’t have. And I regret our last conversation before everything,” Sammi chokes out in a gasp, frowning down at her lap, not wanting to see anyone look at her.

Dr. Hawkins looked down at her notes from Nikki’s personal sessions, seeing the tally of times he’d mention a story about Sammi. “Nikki, I’ve noticed you're very quiet in comparison to other sessions. Would you like to speak up now?” Dr. Hawkins stated.

“I’m just letting the princess speak,” Nikki mumbled, resting his forehead against his knuckles, eyes closed as if he were trying to sleep. He hoped this was all a dream where he just missed Sammi so much, she invaded his mind again. Dr. Hawkin only gave a tight lip smile to Nikki, looking back at the almost sobbing Sammi. Sammi glanced at Nikki with watery eyes, the tiny bit of happiness coming from being called princess.

“What was it that you told Nikki, Sammi?”

Sammi swallowed away the lump in her throat. “The last thing I told Nikki was that everyone was better off with him. That all of us could be different if Nikki didn’t bring us down. And something else,” Sammi mumbled, finally wiping fallen tears away with a tissue.

“Was there a breaking point for you to say this?”

Sammi nodded. “He lied again about being off the junk and breaking up with his fiancee,” Nikki squeezed his eye shut tight from remembering that night. “We left L.A on good terms… great terms after another I left and became back to L.A,”

“Where you didn’t tell him about you leaving?” asked Dr. Hawkins.

Sammi nodded. “He promised he was clean from junk, and he’d been thinking about going to rehab. We even went out to dinner, and it felt great after breaking up. I thought it meant we could have a chance at something, start over. But then I talked to someone that was on tour with them, and I had enough. I was so hurt and angry that I couldn’t shut up. So I told him to forget about me and all of our history. But then I told him…” Tears came down Sammi’s face uncontrollably, biting her lip to stop trembling. Sammi felt Mick put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it tight in comfort. Sammi inhaled a shaky breath before continuing.

“I told him if he wanted to kill himself on heroin to do it because it was bound to happen. And I wouldn’t care when I get the call,” Sammi shut her eyes tight, a stream of hot tears cascading down her face.

Nikki held his head by his temples, hiding behind his hair as he heard the cries of the woman he loved. He could feel his own tears build-up, knowing how much Nikki has affected Sammi. Tommy held Sammi’s hand, trying to be the strong brother she needed. He felt as if he was reliving December all over again, seeing Sammi crying from heartbreak. Vince felt his own heartbreak, knowing how much Sammi loved Nikki. Of course, she would have the same reaction if one of them were in Nikki’s shoes, but it wouldn’t have the same weight. Vince could see Sammi’s pain, and it was a thousand times more than she could ever have for Vince.

“After what happened in December, I wanted to go back and never say it, then maybe he wouldn’t have…” Sammi biting her lip, looking up at Dr. Hawkins shakenly.

“Sammi, do you blame yourself for Nikki’s overdose?” Dr. Hawkins asked, taking a break from writing on her notes. Even for a therapist who's seen it all, Dr. Hawkins would be lying if she said Sammi’s face didn’t hurt her. Dr. Hawkins always had a soft spot for the younger people affected by addiction in their families. Sammi nodded slowly, tears continuing to fall. “You cannot blame yourself for something that wasn’t in your control,”

“But I still said it, and it happened two months later. How can I not? If I just listened to him for a minute and not get mad at Nikki, then maybe-,” Sammi said.

“It was going to happen again either way,” Nikki uttered out, looking up with red eyes at the room. His hair falling right on his face, not wanting to move it away. Sammi looked over at Nikki, confused with a frown as Nikki finally spoke. Mick, Tommy, and Vince gave each other knowing glances, thinking Nikki wouldn’t admit to his soon confession so early on.

“What?” Sammi whispered out. Nikki rubbed an eye with his palm, remaining his gaze away from Sammi.

“Do you remember Valentine's Day when we were in London, and I didn’t call you for two days? I said I was sick with something,” Nikki asked Sammi, scrunching deep wrinkles between his brows, staring down at his feet. Tommy and Mick remained to have a comforting hold on Sammi, Tommy’s grip a bit tighter.

“Yes…”

“I had overdosed and died that night,” Nikki said, sighing out as if he was holding his breath. “I went with a friend to a drug house, and the dealer shot me up because he offered. After that, I fainted and turned purple. The dealer then dumped me in a dumpster after beating the shit out of me to wake up,” Nikki scuffed at the memory.

When Nikki finally met Sammi’s big eyes, the ones that were his weakness, he felt his heart eventually shatter into pieces. Nikki could fully see the pain caused to the one woman who ever loved him for him and nothing else with a sober mind. The one woman who Nikki wished he had kept on a pedestal if he wasn’t selfish. Sammi stared at Nikki in a ray of emotion, not understanding how Nikki could support such a secret for two years. Then again, Sammi never understood how Nikki can hide so much of himself for others’ benefit. Sammi yanked her hand and shoulder away from Tommy and Mick, looking at them and Vince with confused anger.

“Sammi,” Tommy whispered, frowned eyebrows.

“Did you know about this? Did any of you know about this?” Sammi asked, frowning at all the men.

“No. Not exactly. We knew Nikki was in a dumpster when we were looking for him, but I promise Sam, we didn’t know it was because of that,” said Mick, trying to bring Sammi back down. “He finally admitted it two weeks ago,”

“When you told me that night that I was going to kill myself over heroin someday, I didn’t take it as a green light to do it. Because if I did, I would’ve dropped dead right there in Oakland. You were the last person I had that cared about me, and I threw it away. I needed something so terrible to happen to me so I could listen. I tried to just have you as a reason to quit junk, and it didn’t work. I was in too deep,” Nikki said, staring deep into Sammi’s glossy eyes, sighing out.

“I’m sorry for it all, Sammi. I am so sorry for everything I put you through. But you shouldn’t blame yourself because of my mistakes,” Nikki rubbed his hands together, sitting deeper into his chair, not knowing what else to say. Sammi stared at Nikki for a good minute, the tears drying on her cheeks with traces of mascara mixed in. She rubbed her head as everyone was silent. Dr. Hawkins examined how everyone appeared. They all looked tired from all the chaos that was their lives. Hawkins wrote down a few bullet points for her colleagues to keep track of when it was time for the band's personal sessions, now hoping for a time to move forward.

“This is good. It’s necessary to open up about the things we keep hidden inside. When else would you have these kinds of conversations?” Dr. Hawkins said, smiling at everyone.

“I would say over drinks but fuck that,” Sammi mumbled, wiping away all her tears, the guys snickering along with her.

“Now, Vince, would you like to talk about your relationship with Sammi?”

“No,” Vince blurted out straightforwardly.

“And why not?” Dr. Hawkins asked kindly.

“Because there isn’t much to talk about. We dated. I cheated. Sammi got with Nikki. I hated it, and that’s it,”

“Well, I did tell you to hold onto that thought. Why did you hate it when Sammi decided to spend her time with Nikki?”

Vince sighed out, shifting over a leg to feel comfortable. “To me, it felt like she lied. She told me she and Nikki never had sex before we got together; it turns out they did. It just made me think if anything happened when we were together. Sammi said they didn’t, but I don’t know,”

“But you were the only one to have an affair while the relationship was going on. You’ve called yourself a hypocrite for it. So why continue this attitude if you seem to know the error?”

“Because he’s an egotistical prick,” Sammi said, looking down at her nails. Tommy hid his mouth in his hands, trying to not show too much of the smile he had on. Dr. Hawkins' attention turned to Sammi with a smile.

“I am not!” Vince objected out loud. Mick and Nikki relaxed, ready for the show to begin where they knew there’d be no crying.

“Yeah, you are! You fucking got mad at me for even suggesting rehab two months ago!”

“Why do you think Vince is egotistical, Sammi?”

“Because he can’t admit to his own mistakes. Before everything, he would sleep with girls around me all the time before we got together, one of them being my old best friend, and I don’t say anything. I only slept with Nikki once before Vince and I were together, and Vince gets mad when he finds out even when we aren’t together anymore. He cheats and gets into a relationship with the woman. I don’t do anything. I get with Nikki and keep it to ourselves; he acts as I cheated on him. He has no leg to stand on for being mad at me,” complained Sammi with a huff.

“Nikki, did you try to get with Sammi when she was in a relationship with Vince?”

Nikki thought about it for a moment, trying to remember the short romance of Sammi and Vince. “Not really. I’d flirt with her constantly, but I never tried anything. I would tell her Vince was going to cheat on her every chance I got through,”

“You knew about him cheating? Did you two know about Vince’s cheating, Tommy and Mick?”

“No,” the three said in unison. “If you know Vince, you know he can’t keep it in his pants. I’d tell her in a way to get back with me, and in the end, I was right,” said Nikki.

“I’ve gotten better at keeping it in my pants, okay? But I still can’t be hurt that my ex gets with one of my bandmates?” Vince asks in general to everyone.

“You can for a while, but dude, you have to admit that what you did to Sammi was way worse. I even told Nikki he was a better boyfriend to Sammi. Sammi living her life wasn’t your business anymore after they got together,” said Tommy.

“I know!”

“Then stop being a little bitch if Nikki and Sammi want to be together,” Mick ordered, crossing his arms. Nikki and Sammi glanced at each other, holding a gaze as if they were able to read what the other was thinking. Sammi looked away, pulling her earlobe as Mick judged Vince. Vince slouched in his chair, looking down at the floor like a little boy.

“Vince, do you believe the reason you’re mad at Sammi is that she somewhat treated you the way you’ve treated women?” Dr. Hawkins asked, Vince and Sammi both scrunching their eyebrows together.

“What?” Sammi asked.

“Huh?” Vince asked.

“You’ve been explicit about your habit with women in private sessions, stating the pattern of finding someone soon after leaving someone else. In a way, after the breakup with you, Sammi moved on with someone else. Sammi also said you slept with women right before you two got into a relationship. She had relations with Nikki before you two got into a relationship. You’re angry because Sammi chose herself just like you’ve always done,”

“Wow, we’ve struck gold,” Tommy said all of a sudden, making Mick withhold a chuckle. Sammi smacked Tommy’s arm to shut him up, looking at Vince sympathetically.

“Vince, our relationship was nice, but you weren’t ready to be in a fully committed relationship. Can we just move on, please?” pleaded Sammi.

Vince only kept his eyes on the floor. “Yeah. I’m sorry,” Sammi didn’t believe it.

“Well, I think we’ve all made some progress here. Things out in the open moving forward with your fours sobriety,” said Dr. Hawkins with a proud smile on her face. “Any questions before ending today’s session?”

“Yeah, do people feel exhausted after a therapy session?” asked Sammi. This earned her a chuckle from Dr. Hawkins.

“Yes, Sammi. Yes, they do,”

After the great therapy session, the men decided it was best to show Sammi around the roof over their heads. Activities are done across the rehab to help keep addicts at ease and find other hobbies. Sammi had noticed how the guys were beginning to gain some muscle. It was proving wonders already.

“How much longer do you guys have in here?” asked Sammi sitting down by a shaded area.

“February just started so until the end of the month. We want to get that 60-day chip,” said Tommy with a smile.

“Wow. Well, everyone is proud of you guys back home. I told mama to give her an update when I get back,” said Sammi, pinching Tommy’s cheek.

“And when will that be?” asked Mick.

Sammi checked the watch on her wrist. “Shit… in about four hours. This was only a one day kind of deal,”

“Damn. At least we’re going to stay home for a bit before hitting up Canada,” said Vince. Sammi scrunched her brows together, looking at Nikki for some answers. He didn’t want to look at Sammi after therapy. Nikki didn’t want to see anyone after this session. “We’re gonna start the next album sometime after rehab. No one wants to lose their momentum,” explained Vince.

“Great, I’ll be more bored without you!”

“Oh, don’t worry, Little Girl. You can come to visit us whenever. We’d love it,” said Mick with a smile.

“I’d love that,” said Sammi. The five stayed in content silence for a while before Sammi stood up again. “Well, I love seeing you, but I have to get going. I don’t want to miss my flight,” Sammi said, going first to hug Tommy. It felt nice for Tommy to have somewhat of normalcy with just one hug. Moving on to Mick was surprisingly sweet, knowing hugs weren’t his thing. Vince didn’t stay too close, only giving Sammi a side hug. When Sammi stood in front of Nikki, it was as if there was an invisible force between them. They stared at each other for a moment until Sammi took the plunge. Sammi swiftly wrapped her arms around Nikki’s torso, relieved to feel the same reciprocated. Vince looked away at the two as Nikki hid his face in Sammi’s hair. The two stayed silent even as they pulled away, eyes meeting only.

Nikki only wished this wasn’t his present. Wishing to join Sammi to walk out of here and get back to California.

12 notes · View notes

angelicspaceprince · 5 years

Text

Ouija

Author: Ama

Title: Ouija

Pairing: Possible Future Beetlejuice/Reader

Character/s: Beetlejuice

Word Count: 2, 473 words

Warnings: Beetlejuice has dyslexia, I do not, I tried.

Tags: @yankyo, @justballoonfishthings, @breadbudzo, @aethersghoulette, @ironically-deadinside, @beetlejuicecansteponme, @beetlebitchywitch (some of you asked, some of you I just tagged bc)

Prompt: You find a Ouija board and end up communicating with a ghost who has trouble spelling. Together you figure out a way for him to communicate with you a little bit easier.

Notes: I promised this fic like ages ago, based off of @slut-4-beetlejuice hcs that they wrote ages ago and we kinda did a dance of reblogs where we added to each other. But yeah, this is what I came up with! My plan for this fic is to do it in two parts and if y’all want more I can write more later, but I’m basically gonna portray your side of the story and then our favourite residential ghost with the most. This, obviously, is the reader’s side of the story. This is my first attempt at writing Beetlejuice as a fic, not as a hc so please be gentle with me. I hope y’all enjoy!Also, I had speechie friendo talk to me about dyslexia and I based Beej’s spelling mistakes around the notes she sent me.

Ouija Board Inspiration

Buy Me a Coffee

Ouija

It had started out innocently enough. You were bored and decided to spend the day exploring your new attic. You found a box filled with old games and decided that you wanted to sort through them, see if any were unusual or rare that you could keep. Most of them, you planned to donate somewhere, or put them back into storage.

You weren’t expecting much. Maybe a torn-up game of Twister, or Mouse Trap. Half a pack of Uno cards, or a ruined game of Trouble, and for the most part, you got what you expected. But when you found the Ouija board, you were a little surprised. Most of the games were for children, and weren’t in good enough nick to keep, let alone play. But the Ouija board looked like it just came out of the factory that created it. You go to lift the case from the bottom of the box, surprised by how heavy it was when you started to lift, nearly dropping it twice when you finally got it out and onto the table in front of you. Carefully, you lift the lid.

No wonder it was heavy. The Ouija board was wooden, and bigger than you were expecting. The dark wood had been engraved with the usual things a Ouija has, Yes, No, Goodbye, numbers 0-9 and every letter of the alphabet, the outside decorated with various designs you couldn’t make out in the dark. The one you could recognise was the pentagram engraved between the Yes and the No on the board. The planchette was also heavy, made from the same wood as the board, engraved with just two x’s, indicating where to put your finger.

You look over at the board as you hold the planchette in your hands. You were bored, yes. The attic was now in a state, yes. But the urge to test out the Ouija board was beginning to get too great. You organise yourself on the floor, placing the planchette in the middle of the board and just.... waiting. Not really sure on what to do now.

“Uh…hello?” Your voice is uncertain before you yelp when the cursor on the board begins to move. Yes, your fingers are on the x’s, but you weren’t providing any pressure. It just moved on its own.

‘H – I.’ The cursor spells out as your brain sort circuits as it returns to the centre of the board.

“Uhhhhh.” You pause, not sure how to proceed. “I’m Y/N. What’s your name?” The planchette seems to shake a little before moving towards the ‘No’ part of the board, returning to the centre. “You don’t want to tell me?” It moves back to the ‘No’. “That’s ok then. Can I ask if you’re really dead?” It moves to the ‘Yes’. “Is that yes I can ask, or yes you are?”

‘YES, I – A – M – D – E – D.’ You repeat the phrase once you’ve spelt out the letters quietly to show you’re aware of which letter the ghost was indicating with. “Sorry, I didn’t think I’d get a response, or one so soon.”

‘F – L – G – U – R – E – D.’

“Can I ask some questions about life after death?” You wait for the cursor to move over the Yes before continuing. “Is there a hell?”

So, it continued. Every day, after work, you’d come home and race up to the attic and spend time talking to your ghostly friend, who still wouldn’t tell you their name. All you knew was they were dead, had been for centuries, were bored, and were something called a bio-exorcist (which took a couple of attempts to spell). You also learnt that any form of parental figure, they hated, and any form of rules and regulations was not something they enjoyed.

You also noticed that they had a weird tendency to refuse certain questions or struggled to spell words correctly when they did. Sure, exorcist, intelligence and February weren’t easy words to spell when you weren’t writing them down, but replacing b’s for d’s and p’s for q’s, c’s for o’s and n’s for m’s. There were a lot of little things you picked up over time made you think perhaps there was more to this story.

So, you changed direction. One evening, you were talking about work and things that annoyed you and a question you thought they’d be fine answering, but the planchette just started to shake. You pause for a second, trying to figure out what was wrong. “Do you want to answer the question?” The cursor slides quickly and heavily to the ‘Yes’, causing you to move your whole body with it before it tentatively returns to the centre of the board. You think for a second as the planchette continues to vibrate with what feels like annoyance. “Can you spell the answer?” The planchette stops moving and everything is still. It’s so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. You wait for thirty seconds before you say “Hello?” and like that, the cursor slowly, tentatively, goes over towards the ‘No’ part of the board followed by a ‘A-L-W-A-Y-S-B-E-E-M-A-B-A-D-S-P-E-L-E-R. “Oh. That’s ok, I’m pretty rubbish without spell check too. Take your time.” Everything stops for a second, the energy that is always humming when you’re up here seems to have dropped to a low throb, and you slowly remove your hands from the planchette as you think.

‘How can I make this easier for them?’ You hum for a second before returning your hands to the board. “Would you prefer yes or no questions?” The planchette slides quickly over to the ‘Yes’ and you smile. “Ok, if something isn’t a yes or no question, I’ll provide answers and you can slide to the numbers to tell me which one is appropriate. Does that work?” Again, ‘Yes’.

Life moves on. It was weird at first, but you got used to asking only yes or no questions and becoming content with that as a response. A few more weeks went by, you slowly began to spend more time talking to the ghost in the attic. It was fascinating, and you were lonely and suspected they were too. Why else would they talk to you night after night after night? You never brought up the idea that perhaps they may have been lonely, but you focused on making sure like they felt like they had a friend.

A few more weeks had passed before you came up with a new idea. As good as it was to make them feel like they weren’t stupid for their spelling, you felt like you were muting them or speaking on their behalf. So, on your Saturday evening as you ate your dinner and you asked a question about if they enjoyed scaring people whenever they got the chance and the planchette moved by its own accord, you stared down at the board for a few minutes in shock. “You can move things WITHOUT me helping?”

‘Yes.’

“Why the fuck do I have to hold it then?” You forget to offer options as you take a breath, hearing the planchette slide across the board. “Its fine, I was just in shock.” You explain, not looking at what the ghost was being said. An idea pings in your head. “With your bad spelling, does it affect your reading or is it easier? One for both are hard, two for reading is easier.”

The planchette wobbles for a second before it slides over between the two. ‘R-E-A-D-I-M-G-I-S-S-T-I-L-L-H-A-R-D.’ It spells out. ‘B-UT-N-O-T-A-S-H-A-R-D-A-S-S-P-E-L-I-M-G.’

You can sense the confusion in the room as you nod, already thinking of a plan. “Have you always struggled with reading and spelling?” ‘A-L-W-A-Y-S-B-U-T-I-N-J-U-S-T-S-T-U-P-I-D’ You you’re your heart break slightly when they call themselves that. “Sweetheart, have you ever heard of the term dyslexia?” ‘No’. “It’s where your brain struggles to recognise letters or sounds, it makes it hard for people to read and write. They often miss letters or get letters mixed up, or sometimes even add letters that aren’t meant to be there.” You explain gently. “I think you may have the same kind my friend has. He reads a lot even though it’s a struggle, but if you get him to spell, he’s absolutely hopeless. Amazing at math, though. Like a walking calculator.” You smile as you get distracted before you shake your head and bring yourself back to the present. “I don’t think you’re stupid, love, I think perhaps your brain just isn’t wired to like letters and words.” You explain as you fiddle with your hands, unsure on where to put them. The planchette doesn’t move, but you can feel the air growing thicker.

‘N-O-T-S-T-U-P-I-D’ – the planchette draws a question mark over the entire board. You shake your head.

“Not stupid at all, pet.” A few seconds pass before the planchette moves over to the ‘Goodbye’ section. You sigh, slightly disappointed that they wanted to leave so soon. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

You ran late to work the next day, replaying the conversation in your head with your resident ghost over and over again as it kept you up later and later into the night. Your plan wasn’t well thought out at this stage, but you could get things started.

You stay late after work to make up for the hour that you missed this morning before rushing to the bookshop, making it there 10 minutes before they closed. You found what you wanted and quickly purchased it before rushing home, making sure to grab something for dinner as you drive home.

The moment you arrived home and placed your bags by the front door, the house felt empty. For the first time since using the Ouija board, the house felt like you were the only one in it. Pulling out the Ouija board, you asked if they were here. Nothing. You put your fingers on the planchette. Nothing again. You call out to them to see if they were there, nothing. You sigh before packing it back up. Perhaps your new-found friend had moved on.

It was a few days before your ghostly friend returned. The house had felt barren the entire time they were gone, you had stopped bringing out the board the day they returned, figuring that they just weren’t going to come back. A loud crash from the living room caused you to run out from the kitchen where you were preparing dinner to see what had happened. On the floor was the Ouija board, set up and ready to go with the planchette moving wildly across the board, so fast you couldn’t keep up.

“Hang on, hang on, hang on.” You rush back upstairs to grab the item you had purchased for them the week prior before rushing back downstairs and putting it next to the board with a satisfying thud. “I got you a dictionary, they had one with pictures which I thought could help.” You explain to where you hoped the ghost was. You put a pen in front of the giant book. “Just…. point I guess to the word you want to say. If you want to try it this way that is, I thought it might be easier for you.”

The air seemed thick as you waited for something to move, the planchette or the book. Suddenly, the cover of the book seemed to gingerly open as the ghost slowly looked for the words he was looking for. ‘IT-IS-EASIER’ they indicated with the pen. You smile as the pages begin to turn in a flurry, clearly excited to be able to communicate with you a bit easier.

So, life continued. The ghost (who you later found out was a man) would follow you from room to room, carrying the pen and the book to indicate different words to you, making comments on nearly everything that he wasn’t able to before, from the shade of paint on your walls (he thought they should be green) to what you were wearing (he was really into you wearing stripes for some reason), he would readily give your opinion on everything. It was weird, but you could feel yourself slowly falling for the now forever talking ghost. The freedom that came with the dictionary meant that your conversations become more…. conversation like. He wasn’t restricted to just yes or no answers, and you weren’t restricted to staying in one room. You found yourself having dinners next to the constantly page flipping book and laughing at his bad jokes and giving some back of your own. You found small doodles on the outside of the dictionary too, his own little crude drawings he did when you weren’t home. It was nice, it felt like some kind of perverse kind of domestic.

It had been months since your initial contact with him, and you still didn’t know his name and, to be honest, it was beginning to bug you. You didn’t say or show your annoyance about not knowing his name, but you figured it was time you knew. So, when you came home that night and had set up your dinner in your usual set up, you finally decided to ask. “Can I know your name?”

It took a minute before your squatter decided to respond. ‘ORION-BRIGHT-STAR’.

“Orion’s brightest star?” You say, almost as a question as you pull out your phone to do a quick Google. “Beetlejuice?” You look up to see a fury of pages flying as he quickly makes his way over to the ‘A’ section of the dictionary.

‘AGAIN’

“Beetlejuice?”

The pen slams back down on the page. ‘AGAIN.’

You hesitate. “Beetlejuice?”

There was a crash, a bang, and way too much smoke that filled the room as bright green lights seemed to radiate from outside your house. You cough and wave your hand to clear the smoke from your mouth when you finally hear it.

“Thanks for that babes, I’ve been wanting you to see me for months now.” You blink before you see him. He was-

Cuter than you were expecting. Shorter too. Not the scary man you had envisioned, but rather an adorable guy dressed in arguably way too many stripes, even though it seemed to suit. The green in his hair was vibrant and his whole being seemed to shake with excitement. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t know what to say.

“What’s wrong babes? Cat got your tongue?” He leans in closer to take a better look at you, but all you could focus on was the bright green of his eyes.

“You’re hotter than I imagined.” You heard yourself say before you turn bright, bright red. The grin on his face widens as he chuckles lowly, sending a shiver up your spine.

“Oh babes, we are going to have so much fun.”

#ama writes #ama's stuff #Beetlejuice the Musical #Beetlejuice #Beetlejuice The Animated Series #Beetlejuice (1988)#Betelgeuse #Beetlejuice headcanons #beetlejuice the musical headcanons #headcanons #betelgeuse headcanons #beetlejuice x reader #beetlejuice/reader #betelgeuse/reader #betelgeuse x reader #beetlejuice x reader headcanons #beetlejuice/reader headcanons

163 notes · View notes

unsettlingshortstories · 4 years

Text

Harlequin Valentine

Neil Gaiman (1999)

It is February the Fourteenth, at that hour of the morning when all the children have been taken to school, and the husbands have driven themselves to work, or have been dropped, steambreathing and greatcoated, at the rail station at the edge of the town for the Great Commute, when I pin my heart to Missy’s front door.

The heart is a deep dark red that is almost a brown, the colour of liver. Then I knock on the door, sharply, rat-a-tat-tat!

And I grasp my wand, my stick, my oh-so-thrustable and beribonned lance, and I vanish like cooling steam into the chilly air…

Missy opens the door. She looks tired.

“My Columbine,” I breathe, but she hears not a word. She turns her head, so she takes in the view from one side of the street to the other, but nothing moves.

A truck rumbles in the distance.

She walks back into the kitchen and I dance, silent as a breeze, as a mouse, as a dream, into the kitchen beside her.

Missy takes a plastic sandwich bag from a paper box in the kitchen drawer. She takes a bottle of cleaning spray from under the sink.

She pulls off two sections of kitchen towel from the roll on the kitchen counter. The she walks back to the front door.

She pulls the pin from the painted wood – it was my hat pin, which I had stumbled across… where? I turn the matter over in my head; in Gascony, perhaps? Or Twickenham? Or Prague?

The face on the end of the hat pin is that of a pale Pierrot. She removes the pin from the heart, and puts the heart into the plastic sandwich bag.

She wipes the blood from the door with a squirt of cleaning spray and a rub of paper towel, and she inserts the pin into her lapel, where the little white-faced August face stares out at the cold world with his blind silver eyes and his grave silver lips.

Naples. Now it comes back to me.

I purchased the hat pin in Naples, from an old woman with one eye. She smoked a clay pipe.

This was a long time ago.

Missy puts the cleaning utensils down on the kitchen table, then she thrusts her arms through the sleeves of her old blue coat – which was once her mother’s – then she places the sandwich bag with the heart in it determinedly into her pocket, does up the buttons - one, two, three – and sets off down the street.

Secret, secret, quiet as a mouse I follow her, sometimes creeping, sometimes dancing, and she never sees me, not for a moment, just pulls her blue coat more tightly around her, and she walks through the town, and down the old road that leads past the cemetery.

The wind tugs at my hat, and I regret, for a moment, the loss of my hat pin. But I am in love, and this is Valentine’s Day. Sacrifices must be made.

Missy is remembering in her head the other times she has walked into the cemetery, through the tall iron cemetery gates: when her father died; and when they came here as kids at All Hallows’, the whole school mob and caboodle of them, partying and searing each other; and when a secret lover was killed in a three-car pile-up on the interstate, and she walked until the end of the funeral, when the day was all over and done with, and she came in the evening, just before sunset, and laid a white lily on the fresh grave.

Oh, Missy, shall I sing the body and the blood of you, the lips and the eyes? A thousand hearts I would give you as your valentine.

Proudly I wave my staff in the air and dance, singing silently into the gloriousness of me, as we skip together down Cemetery road.

A low grey building, and Missy pushes open the door.

She says Hi and How’s it going to the girl at the desk, who makes no intelligible reply, fresh out of school, and filling in a crossword from a periodical filled with nothing but crosswords page after page of them…

The girl would be making private phone calls on company time if only she had somebody to call, which she doesn’t, and, I see, plain as elephants, she never will. Her face is a mass of blotchy acne pustules and acne scars and she thinks it matters, and talks to nobody.

I see her life spread out before me: She will die, unmarried, and unmolested, of breast cancer in fifteen years’ time, and will be planted under a stone with her name on it in the meadow by Cemetery Road, and the first hands to have touched her breasts will have been those of the pathologist as he cuts out the cauliflower-like stinking growth and mutters, “Jesus, look at the size of this thing. Why didn’t she tell anyone?” which rather misses the point.

Gently, I kiss her on her spotty cheek, and whisper to her that she is beautiful. Then I tap her once, twice, thrice, on the head with my staff, and wrap her with a ribbon.

She stirs and smiles.

Perhaps tonight she will get drunk and dance and offer up her virginity upon Hymen’s altar, meet a young man who cares more for her breasts than for her face, and will one day, stroking those breasts and sucking and rubbing them, say, “Honey, you seen anybody about that lump?” and by then her spots will be long gone, rubbed and kissed and frottaged into oblivion.

But now I have mislaid Missy…

The stench is unbearable, heavy and rancid and wreathed on the air. The fat man in the stained lab coat wears disposable rubber gloves. A dead man is on the table in front of him.

The fat man has not noticed Missy yet. He has made an incision, and now he peels back the skin with a wet, sucking sound, and how dark the brown of it is on the outside, and how pink, pretty the pink of it is on the inside.

Classical music plays from a portable radio, very loudly. Missy turns the radio off. “Hello,Vernon.”

“Hello, Missy. You come for your old job back?”

This is The Doctor, I decide, for he is too big, too round, too magnificently well-fed to be Pierrot, too unselfconscious to be Pantaloon.

His face creases with delight to see Missy, and she smiles to see him, and I am jealous; I feel a stab of pain shoot through my heart (currently in a plastic sandwich bag in Missy’s coat pocket), sharper than when I stabbed it with my hat pin and stuck it to her door.

And speaking of my own heart…

Missy holds out the plastic bag, “Do you know what this is?”

Vernon peers at it closely. “Heart,” he replied. “Kidneys don’t have the ventricles, and brains are bigger and squishier. Where’d you get it?”

“I was hoping that you could tell me. Doesn’t it come from here? Is it your idea of a valentine’s card, Vernon? A human heart stuck to my front door?”

“Don’t come from here. You want I should call the police?”

Missy shook her head. “I guess not. With my luck, they’ll decide I’m a serial killer and send me to the chair.”

Vernon: “Let’s see… adult, in pretty good shape, took care of his heart, cut out by an expert.”

I smile proudly at this, and bend down to talk to the dead black man on the table, with his chest all open and his calloused string-bass-plucking fingers.

“Go ‘way, Harlequin,” he mutters, quietly, not to offend Missy and his doctor. “Don’t you go causing trouble here.”

“Hush yourself. I will cause trouble wherever I wish,” I tell him. “It is my function. But, for a moment, I feel a void about me; I am wistful, almost Pierrotish , which is a poor thing for a harlequin to be.

Oh, Missy, I saw you yesterday in the street, and followed you into Al’s Super-Valufoods and More, elation and joy rising within me. In you, I recognized someone who could transport me, take me from myself.

In you I recognized my valentine. My Columbine.

I did not sleep last night, and instead I turned the town topsy and turvy, befuddling the unfuddled . I caused three sober bankers to make fools of themselves with drag queens from Madame Zora’s Revue and Bar.

I slid into the bedrooms of the sleeping, unseen and unimagined, slipping the evidence of mysterious and exotic trysts into the pockets and under pillows and into crevices, able only to imagine the fun that would ignite the following days as soiled and spilt-crotch fantasy panties would be found poorly hidden under sofa, cushions and in the inner pockets of respectable suits.

But my heart was not in it, and the only face I could see was Missy’s. Oh, Harlequin in love is a sorry creature.

I wonder what she will do with my gift. Some girls spurn my heart, others touch it, kiss it, caress it, punish it will all manner of endearments before they return it to my keeping. Some never even see it.

Missy: “Shall I incinerate it?”

“Might as well. You know where the incinerator is, and I meant what I said about your old job. I need a good lab assistant.”

I imagine my heart trickling up to the sky as ashes and smoke, covering the world. I do not know what I think of this, but, her jaw set, Missy shakes her head and she bids goodbye to Vernon the pathologist.

She has thrust my heart into her pocket and she is walking out of the building and up Cemetery Road and back into town.

I caper ahead of her. Interaction would be a fine thing, I decide.

Fitting word to deed I disguise myself as a bent old woman on her way to the market, covering the red spangles of my costume with a tattered cloak, hiding my masked face with a voluminous hood, and at the top of Cemetery Road I step out and block her way.

Marvelous, marvelous, marvelous me, and I say to her, in the voice of the oldest of women, “Spare a copper for a bent old woman, dearie, and I’ll tell you a fortune that will make your eyes spin with joy.”

“Here.”

And I have it in my head to tell her all about the mysterious man she will meet, all dressed in red and yellow, with his domino mask, who will thrill her and love her and never, never leave her (for it is not a good thing to tell your Columbine the entire truth), but instead I find myself saying, in a cracked old voice, “Have you ever heard of Harlequin?”

“Yes,” she answers, “character in the Commedia dell’arte . Costume covered in little diamond shapes. Wore a mask. I think he was a clown of some sort, wasn’t he?”

I shake my head, beneath my hood. “No clown,” I tell her. “He was…”

And I find that I am about to tell her the truth, so I choke back the words and pretend that I am having the kind of coughing attack, to which elderly women are particularly susceptible.

I wonder if this could be the power of love.

I do not remember it troubling me with other women I thought I had loved, other Columbines I have encountered over centuries now long gone.

I squint through old woman eyes at Missy; she is in her early twenties, and she has lips like a mermaid’s, full and well-defined and certain, and grey eyes, and a certain intensity to her gaze.

“Are you all right?”

I cough and sputter and cough some more and gasp, “Fine, my dearie-duck. I’m just fine, thank you kindly.”

“So. I thought you were going to tell me my fortune.”

“Harlequin has given you his heart. You must discover its beat yourself.” I hear myself saying these words, angry at my trickster tongue for betraying me.

She stares at me, puzzled. I cannot change or vanish while her eyes are upon me, and I feel frozen.

“Look! A rabbit!”

And she turns, follows my pointing finger, and as she takes her eyes off me I disappear – pop! – like a rabbit down a hole.

When she looks back, there’s not a trace of the old fortune-teller lady, which is to say me.

Missy walks on, and I caper after her, but there is not the spring in my step there was earlier in the morning.

Midday, and Missy has walked to Al’s Super-ValuFoods and More, where she buys a small block of cheese, a carton of unconcentrated orange juice, two avocados, and on to the County One Bank, where she withdraws two hundred and seventy-nine dollars and twenty-two cents, which is the total amount of money in her savings account, and I creep after her sweet as sugar and quiet as the grave.

“’Morning, Missy…” says the owner of the Salt Shaker Café, when Missy enters.

My heart would have skipped a beat if it were not in the sandwich bag in Missy’s pocket, for this man obviously lusts after her, and my confidence, which is legendary, droops and wilts.

I am Harlequin, I tell myself, in my diamond-covered garments, and the world is my harlequinade. I am Harlequin, who rose from the dead to play his pranks upon the living. I am Harlequin, in my mask, with my wand.

I whistle to myself, and my confidence rises, hard and full once more.

Missy was saying: “Hey, Harve. Give me a plate of hash browns, and a bottle of ketchup.” “That all?”

“Yes. That’ll be perfect, and a glass of water.”

I tell myself that the man Harve is Pantaloon, the foolish merchant that I must bamboozle, baffle, confusticate, and confuse.

Perhaps there is a string of sausages in the kitchen.

I resolve to bring delightful, disarray to the world, and to bed luscious Missy before midnight: my Valentine’s present to myself.

I imagine myself kissing her lips.

There are a handful of other diners. I amuse myself by swapping their plates while they are not looking, but I have difficulty finding the fun in it.

The waitress ignores Missy, whom she obviously considers entirely Harve’s preserve.

Missy sits at the table, and pulls the sandwich bag from her pocket. She places it on the table in front of her.

Harve-the-pantaloon struts over to Missy’s table, gives her a glass of water, a plate of hash-browned potatoes, and a bottle of Heinz 57 Varieties Tomato Ketchup.

“And a steak knife,” Missy said. As Harve turned, I stuck out my stick.

He stumbles. He curses, and I feel better, more like the former me.

I goose the waitress as she passes the table of an old man who is reading USA Today while toying with his salad.

She gives the old man a filthy look. I chuckle, and then I find I am feeling most peculiar. I sit down on the floor, suddenly.

“What’s that, honey?” the waitress asks.

“Health food, Charlene,” Missy replies, “Builds up iron.” I peep over the tabletop.

She is slicing up small slices of liver-coloured meat on her plate, liberally doused in tomato sauce, and piling her fork high with hash browns.

Then she chews.

I watch my heart disappearing into her rosebud mouth. My valentine’s jest somehow seems less funny.

She pops another scrap of raw gristle cut small into her mouth, and chews it hard, before swallowing.

Charlene, the waitress, goes past once more, with a pot of steaming coffee. “So what’s with the raw meat? You anemic?”

Missy replies, “Not anymore.”

And as she finishes eating my heart, Missy looks down and sees me sprawled upon the floor.

She nods. “Outside. Now.”

Then she gets up, and leaves ten dollars beside her plate.

She is sitting on a bench on the sidewalk, waiting for me. It is cold, and the street is almost deserted.

I would caper around her, but if feels so foolish now I know someone is watching. “You ate my heart.” I can hear the petulance in my voice, and it irritates me.

“Yes. Is that why I can see you?”

“I guess.” I answered. “Nobody’s ever done it before.” “Take off that domino mask. You look stupid.”

I did.

“Not much improvement,” she says. “Now, give me the hat. And the stick.” “I would prefer not to.”

Missy reaches out and plucks my hat from my head, takes my stick from my hand.

She toys with the hat, her long fingers brushing and bending it. Her nails are painted crimson. Then she stretches and smiles, expansively. The poetry has gone from my soul, and the cold February wind makes me shiver.

“It’s cold,” I say.

“No.” Missy replied. “It’s perfect, magnificent, marvelous, and magical. It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it? Who could be cold upon Valentine’s Day? What a fine and fabulous time of the year.”

The diamonds are fading from my suit, which is turning ghost-white, Pierrot -white.

“What do I do now?” I ask.

“I don’t know. Fade away, perhaps. Or find another role… a lovelorn swain, perchance, mooning and pining under the pale moon. All you need is a Columbine.”

“You are my Columbine.”

“Not anymore. That’s the joy of the harlequinade, after all, isn’t it? We change our costumes. We change our roles.”

She flashes me such a smile, now.

Then she puts my hat, my own hat, my harlequin-hat, up onto her head. “And you?” I ask.

She tosses the wand into the air: it tumbles and twists in a high arc, red and yellow ribbons twisting and swirling about it, and then it lands neatly, almost silently, back into her hand.

She pushes the tip down to the sidewalk, pushes herself up from the bench in one smooth movement.

She says to me: “I have things to do. Tickets to take. People to dream.” Then she leans over, and kisses me, full, and hard upon the lips.

Somewhere, a car backfired. I turned, startled, and when I looked back, I was alone on the street. I sat there for several moments, on my own.

“Hey, Pete,” Charlene calls from the doorway, “Have you finished out there yet?” “Finished? Finished what, Charlene?”

“C’mon. Harve says your ciggie break is over. And you’ll freeze. Back into the kitchen.” I stared at her. She tossed her pretty hair, and, momentarily, smiled at me.

I adjusted my white clothes, the uniform of the kitchen help, and followed her inside.

It’s Valentine’s Day, I thought.Tell her how you feel. Tell her what you think . But I said nothing, I dared not. I simply followed her inside, a creature of mute longing.

Back in the kitchen, a pile of plates was waiting for me: I began to scrape the leftovers into the pig-bin.

There was a scrap of dark meat on one of the plates, beside some half-finished ketchup-covered hash browns.

It looked almost raw… but I dipped it into the congealing ketchup and, when Harve’s back was turned, I picked it off the plate and chewed it down. It tasted metallic and gristly, but I swallowed it anyhow, and could not have told you why.

A blob of red ketchup dripped from the plate onto the sleeve of my white uniform, forming one perfect diamond.

I called across the kitchen. “Hey, Charlene, happy Valentine’s Day. And then I started to whistle.

2 notes · View notes

ahtohallan-calling · 5 years

Text

chapter 5 of promises to keep is here!

[kristanna / 18th c scotland au / love and angst and kiltstoff in equal measure / rated t / 4k words this chapter]

masterpost

He would find a way. He wouldn’t waste the opportunity he had been given. He’d make a name for himself, earn a reputation as one of the “good ones”, whatever that meant; someone, someday, might take pity on him, shorten his sentence in exchange for work done, and then, at last, he’d go home and beg for her forgiveness.

chapter 5: and another year older

With every strike of the hammer, Kristoff said their names in his mind, over and over. Callum who had befriended him, Anna who had loved him, Lachlan who was the reason he stood now, mostly whole, in the prison’s forge hammering out another set of heavy iron chains, the twin of the set that locked around his ankle and kept him from leaving this room.

He had forged that set himself two weeks ago when the guards had noticed the old one had started rusting. He had seen, too, and allowed himself to pause for only a moment to consider how easy it would be to draw the iron taut and drive the hammer against the weakened links, to make his way down the corridor and find the key to remove the band around his ankle, and then he’d go home to her, running the whole way if he had to, and go away with her like she had wanted, like he should have done in the first place.

And then he had leaned too far on his bad leg to examine it and nearly fallen to his knees; even if he found a suitable walking stick it would be painfully slow-going, and he would be an outlaw, now, one they knew by name, and they would find him and drag him back here and hang him and Anna would be there watching in horror if she was lucky and swinging beside him if she wasn’t.

And so he had turned back to his work and ignored the snorts of laughter when one guard had muttered to another, “They told me the highlanders were stupid, but I didn’t know how bad it was. Poor bastard could have been miles away by now if only he’d bothered to look down.”

—

The weeks leading up to Christmas were harder than the day itself.

Now that the floodgates had been opened, Anna had found herself weeping more days than not throughout the fall, but once the first snows fell and she remembered his old promise, it seemed she could hardly keep her eyes dry long enough to get her daily errands run. Sometimes it came on without warning, without even a thought or sight to trigger it; other days she woke up with her eyelashes already damp and a weight on her chest that made it difficult to drag herself from the bed.

She was determined to make it a festive season for the children’s sake if nothing else, and so she spent the advent season flurrying from house to house helping to hang mistletoe and holly, listening to the children’s little excited chatter and keeping a mental list of which gifts would bring the most delight where. Elsa had long since sold off most of the old furniture in the castle– which was more of a manor, anyway, really, but even still was too big for only two women– and, though she had given the majority of it to those who found themselves utterly adrift after the war, she had set aside a small fund precisely for things like this. And so Anna found herself more than once making the trek to Glenfinnan, coming home with sacks full of ribbons and dolls and oranges and trying not to think of how she had once meant to run away here and not look back.

And she wondered, with every visit, every afternoon spent comforting a widow and every supper spent listening to the same stories, if somewhere Kristoff would be proud of her, if he knew she would do the same for his family if there had been anyone left but her to mourn him.

And that was what she thought about most of all, in the dark depths of night with no sound but the wind whistling through the bare-limbed trees. It had been nearly a year and a half now without him, eighteen months of aching, and she couldn’t stop herself from agonizing over what might have been if he had come home when he’d meant to, if he’d never left at all; even if he had survived the final battle and come home defeated, she would have loved him just the same, would have built a home with him and done all she could to make it a happy one.

On Christmas Eve Elsa excused herself early, leaving Anna to sit alone in a chair before the fire in the parlor. For a long while she simply sat, looking into the depths of the fire and thinking of the flame she had seen burning in the depths of Kristoff’s dark eyes that day she had found him in the blacksmith’s shop and kissed him like she never had any intention of letting go. They would have been married by now, for well over a year if she’d had any say in it. And she would sit beside him, just like this, in front of a fire he had built himself, bellies full with a holiday dinner, and she would say something to amuse him and he would laugh and lean to kiss her cheek, and perhaps it wouldn’t be just the two of them any longer; perhaps she’d be cradling a babe against her breast, one with hair the color of new wheat who looked like his father and laughed like his mother.

Suddenly the ache in her heart was too sharp to bear, and she stood and crossed to the other chair, where Elsa had left a blanket and pillow, and she took them and sat back in her own chair.

If she draped the fabric over her shoulders like so, if she settled the pillow against her chest, if she closed her eyes tight enough and let her mind wander, she could almost imagine how it would feel to have a husband’s arms wrapped tight around her, to have a son slumbering in her embrace, and she knew this was the way to madness, but for one night– one night, perhaps, it would be alright, just to pretend; it was Christmas, after all, and this little sliver of peace might be the only gift she got.

—

“Bastard is going to drink himself to death at this rate,” a voice shouts from down the hall. “What good is it keeping a smith on salary if he’s too drunk to lift a hammer? Fucking useless, I tell you…”

The men around him perk up, curious, but Kristoff doesn’t move. He sits, one leg extended and the other pulled up to his chest, with his head bowed low, focusing only on drawing in one breath at a time.

It had gotten better at first, the pain, and then it had gotten so much worse. He can’t stop looking at it, the way the skin puckers red and angry around the wound. He knows well enough what it means and has resigned himself to the outcome. Perhaps it’s what he deserves, a cruel twist of an ending as repayment for his foolishness; surviving what would have been a merciful death only to die here of a soured wound, conscious til the end of how he has failed the one thing– the one person– that he did all of this for.

The voice comes closer then as its owner kicks ferociously at the bars. “Don’t suppose any of you lot know anything about smithing, do you?” the guard asks, laughing humorlessly.

“Aye,” comes a familiar voice from the opposite side. “I do. I know my nephew over there’s the finest smith in the highlands.”

A snort of laughter is the initial response. “Should have done a better job, then, maybe then your weapons would have done you some good, eh?”

“His did,” Lachlan says again, determined. “Look at him, the great blond bastard. D’you really think farm work built him that way?”

The guard pauses for a moment, considering. “Can you repair links, boy?”

It takes a moment before Kristoff realizes he’s the one being addressed. “Aye.”

“Alright, then,” the guard says with a heavy sigh, and then the door is being swung open, and he’s being yanked to his feet by the collar with a hiss of pain. “Fucking hell, how’s he going to smith for me on that leg, eh?”

“Guess you’ll have to fix him up,” comes the sardonic response.

“Better be worth my time,” the guard mutters. “Can’t believe I’m hiring my next smith on the advice of a condemned man.”

Kristoff dares a glance over his shoulder as he limps out. Lachlan is grinning ear to ear despite the heavy, scabbed line that runs the length of his face. “I may beat you home, laddie,” he calls, “but we’ll get you there soon enough.”

—

January was cruel enough, but February was worse, offering her snatches of sunlight again that shone on the hardened crust of snow that had lingered for weeks with only new ice falling like needles to make the pathways nearly impassable. There was no work to do, no holiday to prepare for, nothing but the biting cold and too-short days and trips to the cliffs when she’d told Elsa she was visiting Bridget.

That was where she was now, her cloak wrapped tight around her shoulders as she huddled against the wind. She was grateful that it wasn’t a crying day, at least; the tears would have frozen before they fell, sealing her lashes together and blinding her.

“If you were here,” she said softly, “you’d be angry, wouldn’t you? Tell me I was bound to get frostbite out here and make me wear your cloak, too, til you got me home.”

Anna did close her eyes then, picturing it, how he’d stomp around for a minute pretending to be cross when really she knew he was frightened, and she’d steal over to him and sneak her hands around his waist and hold him and tell him how sorry she was.

Somehow even her daydreams always circled back to that, to the lead weight of regret that threatened to drag her down into despair. She wasn’t so sure anymore what she believed about heaven and hell and all the rest of it, but it was a comfort, at least, to think that perhaps he was there above her somewhere listening each time she whispered it with no one around to hear but the breeze.

“Anna!” a voice called, and her eyes flew open. What was her sister doing out here?

She rose in a panicked flurry, turning on her heels and fully expecting to see pity in Elsa’s gaze, but instead she saw pure, heart-stopping fear.

“We need you,” Elsa panted. “There’s– there’s soldiers, English ones, we don’t know if they’re trying to cause trouble, or–”

Anna didn’t wait to hear another word. This was a remote village, but word had still gotten to them about the new draconian regulations outlawing the use of their own mother tongue, the wearing of tartan and playing of pipes, anything that set them apart from the English; and worse than that the raids of every nook and cranny of the highlands and lowlands as the army sought to eradicate any last whispers of Jacobite rebellion.

Thank whatever god might be in the heavens, then, that her father had sent her off to an aunt in Yorkshire when she’d been a girl to “finish” her; she wasn’t quite sure that he’d gotten the desired result, but she could at least speak English now, though how rusty she might be she didn’t stop to consider as she caught sight of the red-garbed men and slowed her pace to a leisurely stroll.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” she said with a deep curtsy, the picture of demure ladyhood. “And welcome. Might I inquire what brings you here?”

The shorter one, a man with a curling mustache, growled, “D’you mean to mock us?”

His partner laughed and put a hand in front of his companion’s chest. “Hold, Arthur. The first time we see a glimpse of civilization in this godforsaken country and you think to insult her?”

Anna kept a sweet, simpering smile on her face, though inside she was already boiling with rage. The second man turned back to her, green eyes glittering as he swept into a bow. “My lady,” he said, mockery underscoring his words, “I do hope you don’t mind giving us a tour of this…what would you call this, Arthur? Do you think it qualifies as a village?”

“Stop playing around, Henry,” Arthur grumbled. “It’s cold as a witch’s teat this far north.”

Henry sighed. “He’s no fun, is he? But I suppose it is best for us to get on with it, don’t you think?”

“With what?” Anna asked, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in her voice.

“The Duke of Cumberland has sent us to make sure things are running here as they should be. You understand, of course; it’s a favor, really, to put any traitors out of their misery before they try something idiotic again.”

A crowd had gathered around them now, and Anna heard murmurs of dissent. Please, god, she prayed, let them stay quiet. “Of course,” she said with a dip of the head.

Henry gave her a gleaming smile before stepping past her into the nearest home. “Just going to have a look around,” he called as Arthur followed him, gleefully kicking aside chairs and flinging open every door haphazardly.

A cry of indignation rose up behind her, and she spun to see an elderly man pushing his way forward. He opened his mouth to speak, and without thinking she flung a hand over his mouth, silencing him.

“They’re armed, Harris,” she hissed. “And they’ll not hesitate to harm you if they hear you speaking Gàidhlig.”

The man stiffened beneath her hand as he watched his home being ransacked, but after a tense moment he nodded, and she lowered her hand.

She turned back to see Henry smirking, his hands casually resting on his unslung musket. “Problem, my lady?”

“Of course not,” she said sweetly.

They worked so roughly it took barely an hour for them to have torn apart every home in the village, Anna trailing them all the while. Mercifully, the townsfolk had heeded her warnings and found places to hide their heirlooms that the soldiers wouldn’t bother to look.

And of course, she thought dully, they’ll not be finding any former Jacobites here, will they?

With a sigh, Henry stepped closer to her. “Shame I won’t have a reason to come back and visit you, my dear…what was your name, then?”

“Anna,” she said, holding his gaze.

A cruel smile unfurled over his face. “You’re far too pretty and well-mannered to live in this shithole. You’re welcome to come back with us if you’d like. I’d take excellent care of you.”

Hot tendrils of rage curled around her heart. “I’m a married woman, I’m afraid,” she said, raising her left hand to show him the iron band she still wore.

He tipped back his head and laughed. “Are you? Where is he then?”

When she didn’t reply, his smile broadened. “You’re not married anymore if he’s dead,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “If he died like the rest of them, squealing like a stuck hog. Who knows, maybe I’m the one who did it. I hope I was– make this whole thing feel very full circle, wouldn’t it?” he asked, lifting one hand to curl around her cheek.

She didn’t dare to move. She’d come across men like this before, men who were itching for a fight; he’d come here hungry for blood and had found none, and so it had fallen onto her to keep any from being spilled today.

“What do you say?” he asked, drawing closer. “I’ve heard how you barbarians scream in battle– now I’d like to hear how a highland whore screams in my–”

“Annie!” a voice called. “There you are, my love!”

A hand clapped on her shoulder, and she turned, blinking with surprise, to see Ross there, holding Bridget’s son in his arms. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Well, you’ve found me now, haven’t you?” she asked, the words spilling from her tongue automatically. “What is it, then, dear?”

“‘Fraid this wee one’s gone and soiled himself again,” the boy said, wrinkling his nose exaggeratedly. “And I can’t find any clean cloths.”

There was no odor, and in fact the toddler looked quite content, but she pulled back all the same, hearing a huff of irritation from Henry. “How big of a fool do you think I am, then?” he snapped. “To think you’re married to this child?”

Ignoring him, she took the baby in her arms. “There, there, my darling,” she crooned, kissing his forehead. “Mummy’s got you now.”

They walked off then, Anna not daring to look back. Thankfully, Ross did for her. “They’re getting on their horses now,” he whispered urgently. “Do you think they’ll come back?”

“We’ve given them no reason to,” she replied, her shoulders sagging with relief. “Jesus, Ross, you got there just in time.”

“I was watching all the while,” he said, sounding once more like the boy of barely fifteen he truly was. “And I– I saw him touch you, and heard what he was saying, and I suddenly thought about my Da and how brave he was, and how he’d want me to be brave, too, and I sort of looked at Bridget and she…she understood.”

“You were very brave,” Anna said fondly. “And your father would be awfully proud.”

The boy flushed under the praise. “Do you really think so?”

“Aye. I know it.”

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “Others might come, you know. To make sure we’re…adjusting. To how they want us to live. Do you…do you think you might teach me to speak their tongue, too? In case next time you’re not around?”

For a moment she froze, and he frowned, worried. “Did I offend you, Miss Anna? If it’s too much trouble, I–”

“No, no, not at all,” she said quickly, a smile blooming over her face. Here it was, then, at last, the next right thing, a step she could take to helping them all recover and– as much as it pained her to think of it– move on. “We’ll start this afternoon.”

—

Kristoff knew it was nearing summer again by the stench that wafted through the bars over the window even he wasn’t tall enough to see out of. He had his own cell now, and had had it ever since he’d made a new knife for the warden. The man had watched him closely the whole time, making sure he didn’t try to turn the weapon against any of the guards, and when it had been presented to him, even and perfect and solid as all the yards and yards of iron chains Kristoff had forged over the last few months, he had nodded in satisfaction. “Take him out of that shithole of a cell,” he had instructed, and as Kristoff had left it for the last time he’d heard his fellow former soldiers whisper that’s a lad and well done, you.

He’d expected them to be angry for him; they knew full well who’d been making the heavy leashes that chafed at their limbs and kept them tied to the cold stone. And some had been resentful, at first, but as the months wore on and they’d seen he wore his own handiwork, they had softened towards him, enough to tell them of their own families and sweethearts back home.

He never told them about Anna, but they knew, all the same, from the look in his eyes, the determination in his shoulders as he limped heavily down the hall every afternoon.

He missed it sometimes, the companionship, though it was an improvement not to piss in the same corner as five other men and share mouldering piles of hay and crusts of black bread and always those blasted fleas. It felt like an unearned grace to sit now in a cell alone, no longer even chained unless he was being brought to the forge– and to know that tucked behind a loose stone was a tiny pile of coin, given to him by men who had seen the warden’s dagger and wanted favors of their own. It meant he had to work harder than usual on whatever work the guards gave him that day, knowing that if he took any longer than normal it’d be the whip for him and back to the underground cells, but he didn’t mind the exhaustion, not really, not when it made falling into sleep that much easier.

The door to the hall opened, and he rose to his feet, reaching for the cane one guard, inspired to pity over Easter a month before, had brought him. It was too small for him, really, but it was better than leaning on the wall and dragging his ruined leg behind him when it gave out after only a few yards of walking.

“Here we are, then,” the warden said, unlocking the door and stepping aside.

Kristoff frowned. “I did not think there was more to be done,” he said, grateful that years ago Anna had taught him the foundations of this unfamiliar tongue.

“There always is, isn’t there?” the man said gruffly. “But now they’ve gone and decided I can’t make use of you any more. Damn shame, I’ll tell you that. What you did for free was twice as good as what that old bastard Whitby used to do for a shilling a day.”

“What?” Kristoff asked, not understanding.

“You’re free. Full pardon. All of you fucking traitors. Not my idea, mind, so don’t go thinking I’ve gone soft.”

Kristoff still didn’t move, and the man growled in irritation. “I knew you fucking highlanders were stupid, but this–”

“I can go home?” he interrupted, his heart picking up speed. “I can leave?”

“If you don’t hurry up and do it,” the warden snapped, “I’ll arrest you for wasting my goddamn time. Get out.”

He didn’t wait to be told again.

—

On the first day of the third act of her life, Anna was kneeling in the garden, weeding

around the cabbage plants, when a little girl came running up to her, calling her name.

“What is it, Addie darling?” she asked, brushing her hands off against her skirts and turning to the child with a smile.

“There’s a stranger here, Miss Anna,” the girl said anxiously, “and he said he won’t talk to anyone but you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Was he armed?” “No, Miss, he just has an empty pack and a walking stick. He just walked right in to the blacksmith’s shop. Is he going to hurt us?” she asked, wide-eyed.

Without waiting for another word, Anna was off and running, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst. “Please, God,” she begged aloud as she made her way through the streets, “please let it be true.”

It couldn’t be; it had been so long, two years now as of last week, she couldn’t even remember the sound of his voice sometimes unless she sat very still by the sea, and even then, even then–

She burst through the half-open door, panting, and her first thought was it’s not him, grief sweeping through her all over again; the man seated before her was too thin, his hair too long, his shoulders curling inward and hands trembling.

Then he raised his head to look at her, and though there were shadows like she’d never seen before under them, those were his eyes, and he was looking at her as if she were a ghost when he was the one who had died.

Somehow she made it over to him without her knees giving out, though she was shaking from head to toe, and it wasn’t until she settled her hands on his shoulders that she could believe that he was really there, that it wasn’t a dream. “Is it you?” she whispered anyway, needing to hear it before she could believe it.

“Anna,” he said, and though his voice was hoarse she would have known the sound of it anywhere, no matter how vast and empty the chasm of time that had stretched between them, and she let out a sob and collapsed against him, burying her face in his shoulder.

He caught her just in time, his arms not as broad as they once were around her waist, but warm and solid and there all the same. “You came home,” she choked out, her fingers tightening in the worn fabric of his ragged shirt.

“I promised,” he said, his voice so soft she wouldn’t have been able to hear him if he hadn’t turned to brush his lips against her temple. “I promised I would.”

#OKAY THE BAD STUFF ISN'T OVER BUT WE'RE GETTING THERE #ptk #my fics

36 notes · View notes