#i love the vibe of her brownstone..

[simphic]

Still Saturday for GG & Mocha, Monday for everyone else..🌇

[hussyknee]

Red, White & Royal Blue: Collector's Edition Henry PoV bonus chapter by Casey Mcquiston.

(transcribed from the page pictures posted)

This is the coda to the end of the book, so don't read it if you haven't read the book first. Sadly, the Collector's Edition doesn't seem to be available on Kindle so. Arrrr matey.

Download link for file at the end.

....

HENRY

“I am not asking you to believe in it, or even to like it,” Henry says stonily. It’s been a long morning already. He is beginning to perspire. “I am simply asking you to show a modicum of respect.”

“To–to your quiche?”

“Yes. To my quiche.”

Bea puts down her tape gun and wipes her eyes. “Pez!”

“Yes?”

“Henry says he’s going to make us a quiche!”

Pez’s squawk of a laugh bounces down the stairs. “Pull the other one!”

“I make them all the time for Alex,” Henry insists. “They are perfectly edible.”

“So, when you promised us breakfast if we got up early to help you.” Bea says, “you meant that you were going to make us breakfast?”

“Yes!” Henry says hotly. “Stop laughing!”

“I’m sorry!” Bea says. “It’s only that...well, Henry, the last time you cooked breakfast for me, you were twelve and you put a sausage in the microwave until it exploded.”

“That was your idea! And it’s been ages since then! I’ve studied, all right? I’m quite good now. Those pictures I send the group chat aren’t just for show.”

“Oh, aren’t they?” Bea says rudely, as if his incredibly generous offer to cook her a shallot-and-thyme quiche with mushrooms from the farmer’s market means nothing at all. As if he’s lived in this house for five entire years without learning to use its kitchen.

Perhaps if their lives weren’t so chaotic, if Henry weren’t flying out of New York every time Bea had a spare moment to fly in, he could have proven this to her earlier. But Pez, who lives mostly in the city now and visits so frequently he’s earned his own Secret Service code name (Cardinal, since Henry is Bishop), should know better.

“Percy Okonjo,” Henry says as Pez joins them, “you were here last weekend when I made mince pie. You loved it.”

“Did I?” Pez wonders aloud, with an annoyingly Bea-like lilt.

“Look at this apron!” Henry gestures to himself and the navy blue apron he’s wearing. Alex gave it to him for his birthday last year. “Would a man who can’t make a quiche have an apron like this? It’s monogrammed.”

“You’re royalty, babes,” Pez points out. “Everything you own is monogrammed.”

From the pocket of his serious-home-cook apron, his phone buzzes. Reinforcements. The FaceTime connects, and Alex says, “Good morning, love of my li–”

“Alex,” Henry interrupts, “tell them about my quiches.”

Alex pushes up his sunglasses and frowns into the camera. He looks so lovely with his faded T-shirt and jean jacket and shaggy hair. Pure American heartthrob, might as well have a cowboy hat on. Henry never does tire of it.

“Sorry?”

“Bea and Pez don’t believe I can make a quiche.”

“What? Have they seen your apron?”

“That’s what I said!”

“Henry’s quiches are great!” Alex says loudly, to the kitchen at large. “I almost never find shells in them!”

That sets Bea and Pez off again. On the screen, Alex’s face crinkles into laughter.

“Thank you very much, Alex, you’ve been a tremendous help,” Henry groans. “How are things? Florist this morning, wasn’t it?”

“Just finishing up.” Alex says with a grin. “Final approvals done. Everything looks great.”

With only one week until moving day and two until the wedding, it made sense to divide and conquer. Henry agreed to stay in New York and finish packing up the brownstone with help from Bea and Pez, while Alex, June, and Nora are ticking off the last of their checklists in Texas.

“Of all the surprises that wedding planning has brought us,” Henry says, “your ability to micromanage floral arrangements has certainly been...one of them.”

“You know I love to curate a vibe,” Alex says.

“That you do,” Henry agrees. “Where are the girls?”

“Getting donuts,” Pez answers before Alex can. He holds up his phone, open to a photo of June blowing a kiss while Nora fellates an éclair.

“Donuts!” Bea says. “Now there’s an idea!”

They spend the rest of the day drowning in cardboard boxes and bin liners, packing everything but the furniture and the downstairs television. Pez reminds him once an hour that they could pay someone to do this, but Bea is stubborn, and Henry is reluctant to let anyone else wade into all the intimate trappings of his and Alex’s life. It was bad enough explaining the contents of the trick drawer in their dresser to Pez, much less some mover he’s never met.

When it’s done, Bea puts A Knight’s Tale on in the living room and promptly falls asleep on Pez’s lap. Pez passes out too, but Henry stays awake, because Heath Ledger deserves an audience. And because he knows if he doesn't wake Bea and move her to the guest bedroom, he'll have to hear about her back spasms in the morning.

David hops up beside him on the loveseat, and Henry strokes the top of his snout until his little body relaxes into Henry's side.

"Nervous old boy," Henry hums. It still does seem like the ultimate irony that the dog he adopted for emotional support has anxiety. David has grown more and more worried all week, as more and more of his home disappeared into boxes. "We won't leave you, I promise."

The brownstone has been a good house for them. Sturdy brick walls, neighbors that actually let them be. Henry has loved it more than he ever loved Kensington, or at least as much as he loved Kensington when his parents both lived there too. Some mornings, when he comes downstairs to find Alex with the coffeepot and the kettle already on, he feels the way he did when his family all slept under one roof. This roof is quite a bit smaller than that one, but the feeling isn't.

So, perhaps David hasn't got entirely the wrong idea. It is hard to let the place go. For the past month, Alex has kept asking Henry why he's staring, and the truth is that he's been committing to memory exactly how Alex looks in every room. How the bannister fits in his hand, the place on the foyer wall where he always braces himself to pull on his shoes.

Everything that's happened in the past five years has happened, at least in part, inside this house.

…

It's seven months after Alex's mother's second inauguration, and Henry is wishing he had never even heard the word "credenza." Then he wouldn't have to decide where to put one. Alex is arriving in half an hour to help him move it, but Henry still doesn't know where. Across from the fireplace, perhaps? But what if he wants to put a sofa there? Does he want a regular sofa, or a sectional? Should it go upstairs, in his study? Or should he leave room for bookcases?

He longs to be back on a beach, sipping something from a pineapple.

It’s been a long, glorious summer since Alex packed up his White House bedroom, called Henry, and asked, "Do you want to get the fuck off the continent?" They did Dubai first, then Lagos. Rio, for old time's sake. Buenos Aires, paper lanterns in moonlight and Alex flirting with the bartender for free drinks. June through August became a lovely blur: Alex asleep against his shoulder on the plane, Alex throwing his Portuguese phrase book out the window of a speeding car, sand in unmentionable places, Alex Alex Alex. Endless runways and half-arsed disguises, swimsuits that got smaller and smaller until they simply didn't wear them anymore. Falling in love, the sequel, with fresh suntans and all the time in the world.

And now here they are in Park Slope, where Alex is renting the second floor of a brownstone two blocks from Henry's.

It's practical, they agreed, to live in the same neighborhood before they live at the same address. They've scarcely gotten a chance to date the normal way yet– if it can be called "normal" when their combined security teams are headquartered in an empty apartment down the street. Still, Henry wants this to last.

They've sprinted headlong into everything so far, but now he wants move slowly, in delicious increments. He wants to savor nights, minutes, firsts, to covet them and then let them dissolve on his tongue, like the sugar cubes he snuck off his gran's filigreed tea trays when he was small. He wants a life.

He wants someone to tell him where to put this damned credenza.

It's a vintage Broyhill Brasilia piece, walnut with clever brass drawer pulls. June helped him pick it out when she was in town with meeting her editor, but she never gave him any advice on where it should go. He hasn't ever been allowed to decide where furniture should go before.

So, it’s...there, in the center of the empty living room, the first piece in the entire house.

“Maybe you could start with a rug or two,” says Alex from the foyer.

Henry turns to find him with his keys in one hand and a paper bag in the other, smiling in a beam of mid-morning light, and, ah. Yes. There it is. That sweet, sharp gasp of nerves. The half second when he forgets how to use his mouth. If he knows nothing else, at least one certainty remains, which is that seeing Alex Claremont-Diaz in the flesh will always do this to him.

Alex in a photo is handsome, but Alex in life is a symphony. He’s refracted light with a cherry cola chaser. He’s got a Fibonacci jawline and a troublemaker smile and thick forearms built for posing in doorways with his sleeves rolled and thumbing corks out of champagne bottles. The first time Henry ever told Pez about him, he said, “God, but he’s lethal.” It’s only worse once you get to know him.

“Weird place for a credenza,” Alex comments. He kisses Henry’s cheek, then passes him a warm bundle wrapped in parchment paper. “Hope you like sausage-egg-and-cheese.”

“I don’t know where to put it.”

“Sandwich goes in your mouth, typically.”

“The credenza.”

“Ohhh, right,” Alex says, pretending to have just caught on. He winks. Henry sighs theatrically but accepts a second kiss, on the lips this time. “Why don’t you just put it right here?”

He points to his left, where a blank wall stretches from the front door to the foot of the stairs. It does, upon closer inspection, appear to be the exact right size.

“Oh,” Henry says.

This is where they overlap. Where he ends and Alex begins. Great gooey puddle of feelings, meet course of action; endless burning energy, meet point of focus. Agonies, meet your most obvious, most natural, most inevitable conclusions. It’s frightening sometimes for a person like Henry, who has spent his entire life pedaling his agonies about like baguettes in a posh little bicycle basket. What is he to do with them now?

Yes," Henry concedes, "I suppose I could," and Alex laughs.

...

It's the summer of 2022. Henry has opened his third shelter, and Alex has just finished bulldozing his first year at NYU Law.

A few boxes of books still wait at Alex's place, but otherwise, he lives in Henry's brownstone now. Their brownstone. A UT pennant beside a Chelsea scarf on the living room wall. A fridge full of Topo Chico and Bulmers. Two pairs of shoes by the front door, brown Barker derbies and Reebok trainers. Nobody could mistake it for anyone else's.

It's their first Chore Sunday (Alex's idea), and Henry has put the last of the laundry in the dryer. He's in the kitchen doorway, watching Alex unload the dishwasher.

Alex once told Henry the type of man he's typically attracted to: tall, broad-shouldered, pretty eyes, a little haunted. Bit of attitude and a smile that makes you curious. For Henry, it's never been so simple. He liked boys in his classes because they bothered with the assigned readings and fancied one of Philip's awful Eton friends because he could sail and smelled of cinnamon. The only thing all his Oxford boys had in common was that they didn't know how to speak to him. He's never had a type, and he's always been sure Alex was singular, anyway. Alex is unlike anyone he's ever met before or since.

But here, now, watching Alex bend to remove a salad bowl from the bottom rack, he is confronted with the hard truth. All those boys did, actually, share one trait.

"Are you gonna help me with this," Alex says without even an investigatory glance over his shoulder, "or are you just gonna keep staring at my ass?"

...

It’s Christmas 2022, their first since Alex officially moved in, and Henry is going to make a yule log if it kills him.

Perhaps he’s been too ambitious. He’s rather new to all. Growing up, he was rarely permitted in the kitchens, and he concentrated his uni diet on fast food and takeaway. He can make toast and boil an egg, and he’s got a deft hand with the coffee percolator and a gin swizzle from time to time. He knows about food– the finest foods, actually, he’s yet to meet an Englishman who can select a better brie– but he never learned to cook, until recently.

Recently, as in when Alex became too fanatically involved in his second-year coursework to remember to feed himself.

It began with force-feeding Alex a bacon butty twice a week. Henry’s arms suffered little constellations of grease burns, but bacon was easy. And those faded, so they didn’t deter him for long. Curiosity piqued, he taught himself the basics of pasta, how one can simmer almost anything with garlic and onion and butter and it will taste good over noodles. It bolstered his confidence enough to truly commit, and now, between hours at the shelters and video calls with his mum, he watches tutorial after tutorial on how to brown butter and roast chicken. Only half of what he makes turns out the color it’s meant to, but he loves it.

He loves walking to the market on the corner and hunting down specific ingredients from the family recipes June sends him. In fact, it’s become such a regular pastime that the paparazzi have cottoned on, which is why his mother finally forced his security team to hire an actual body double. Now some bloke named Angus with his height and build and nearly the same face goes on diversionary strolls while Henry peruses jarred chilies.

With all his independent studying, he was certain he could manage a dessert. He wanted to do something impressive, since they’ve convinced their families to let them host Christmas dinner. Only, his sponge has gone all wrong, and if he’s learned anything from Bake Off, he knows it’s not meant to have cracked in five places when he tried to roll it up. Paul Hollywood would have him pilloried.

“Think you might’ve left it in too long?” Oscar asks from across the kitchen island. He’s wearing his white elephant prize, a sweatshirt airbrushed with the slogan YOU CAN’T SPELL CONSTITUTION WITHOUT TITS. Inexplicably, Henry’s own mother brought that one. “Lookin’ kinda dry there.”

“I appreciate that you are trying to be helpful,” Henry enunciates, “but if you say one more word I may start crying, and then we’ll both lose some respect for me.”

Later, when Pez has persuaded him to “call it, mate, put it out of its misery,” he carries his disgraced platter of ganache and cake and marzipan out into the living room and lets everyone go at it with spoons. The house feels full to bursting, and not just because of the Christmas crackers. There are all three of Alex’s parents, Henry’s mum, June and Nora, Bea and Pez, Shaan and Zahra on speakerphone, occasionally an awkward Philip and Martha via FaceTime, and, because he had nowhere else to go for the holiday, Angus.

(“I don’t like him,” Alex muttered when Henry suggested inviting his own body double to Christmas dinner.

“Why not?”

“Because he looks exactly like you, but I find him deeply unattractive, and that freaks me out.”)

Ellen tells everyone the story of the year Alex got his first real bike for Christmas and knocked out his two front teeth by Boxing Day, which prompts Catherine to recite eight-year-old Henry’s letter to Father Christmas, in which he requested a leather-bound journal and a holiday to East Wittering so he could gaze at the sea. Bea pushes Henry behind the upright piano, and he takes requests for an hour. It only ends when Pez rewrites half the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” to be about his own lactose intolerance. No one wants to follow “tidings of Lactaid and soy.”

After the third round of mulled wine, when Alex’s parents have called their drivers and his mum has retired to the guest room, June and Nora find themselves under the mistletoe. Everyone whoops and whistles until Nora finally pulls June in by her Christmas-light necklace and kisses her to a round of applause. June's cheeks turn red, but she looks pleased as anything.

"I can't believe it took this long for y'all to finally kiss." Alex says, to which Pez bursts into laughter. "What?"

"Alex," he says fondly. He drains his glass and pecks Alex on the forehead. "You gorgeous, stupid little turnip."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Pez just shakes his head and strolls off to the kitchen.

"Wait," Alex says.

He frowns, like he does when he's trying to recall something incredibly minute and specific from his torts textbook. Then, suddenly, a light goes on, and his own mug is clunking on the lamp table, and he's running off after Pez.

"Pez, what's that supposed to mean?"

...

It's late morning the summer before Alex's last year of law school, 2023, and Alex is the first word out of Henry's mouth.

Truthfully, that's how he begins most mornings. On a Monday morning five time zones away, "Alex" pitched low to the screen of his phone. On a Friday when Alex's early lecture is cancelled, "Alex" in F major, muffled in the pillow as his body moves and the day stretches out before them. Half three the night before an exam, a hoarse "Alex," followed by, "turn the bloody light off and come to bed."

This morning, it's because David is barking at the door. A rainstorm is brewing, and if jet lag didn't have Henry dead under the bedclothes, the gray gloom would. Alex was the one who surfaced from sleep half an hour ago and blearily ordered three entire pancake breakfasts from some 24-hour diner a few neighborhoods over. He should have to get up and answer the door.

“Alex.” Henry mumbles, turning over.

Alex has got the quilt tugged up so high he’s only a shock of wild curls on white linens.

“Nnnghh,” Alex groans from the depths.

“Breakfast is here,” Henry says. The doorbell helpfully rings again. David howls.

Alex’s face appears, pouting. There’s a crease from the pillow down one of his cheekbones, a comet’s tail in a constellation of freckles. “Can you get it?”

Henry rolls his eyes but smiles. Inevitable.

He drags himself out of bed and pulls on the joggers and hoodie from last night’s flight. It’s not until he feels the breeze on his ankles as he descends the stairs that he realizes they’re Alex’s, not his.

On their doorstep, a pink-haired delivery girl is looking bored under her bicycle helmet.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Henry says. He fishes a crumpled bill out of Alex’s pocket. “For your trouble.”

The girl pulls a face.

“Got any real money?” she asks. Her accent reminds him a bit of Alex’s mum.

He blinks down at her hand, which is holding a twenty-pound note. “Ah. Sorry again. Er.” He snatches his wallet out of the bowl on the credenza and gives her all the American dollars he has.

“She’s gone, Davey,” Henry says afterward to David, who’s now fretfully circling the living room. “You’ve protected us from another fearsome home invader. Well done.”

He lets David out into the back garden to do his business, then carries the food upstairs. Shockingly, Alex is awake and propped up against the headboard.

“I’m getting too old for red-eye flights,” Alex says, rubbing his eyes.

“Love, you’re twenty-five,” Henry reminds him. He deposits the bag on the nightstand, and Alex wastes no time tearing through the plastic and tucking in to his breakfast. “And I’m older than you.”

“Yes, you are. But like... I get why we have to go to Philip’s kids’ christenings. The cousins, though?” He sets to work smothering his pancakes in syrup. “I mean, at least my cousins would stack their baptisms. One and done, baby.”

Henry opens his mouth, prepared to answer with one of a thousand things. That the tabloids will have even more of a field day than usual if he stops doing his chores, that there will always be a church dedication or a swan upping or an appointment for a top hat fitting, that he’ll always be obligated to have one foot in London and one day they’ll have to choose where to settle down. It’s far from the first time they’ve had this conversation.

But then Alex shovels a massive bite of pancakes into his mouth and says, “Anyway, I love you. Do you wanna have June and Nora over tomorrow? We can play Mario Party again. I wanna see them get in a fistfight. Oh, and my dad’s in town next week, and he said to tell you he’s bringing that book you asked about–”

And that’s when Henry knows: He doesn’t ever want to go back.

...

It’s the end of spring 2024, and Henry is not eavesdropping, per se. He excused himself to answer a call from Shaan, which really could not be avoided. Shaan has taken to his new life as a househusband with predictable aplomb, and most of his calls these days involve Henry getting to talk to a baby who is clearly destined to become prime minister. He simply can’t send that to voicemail.

It’s the first time they’ve had room in the schedule for his mother to visit since Alex accepted his law job, which Henry understands very little about but has been assured is the most strategic next step for Alex’s career long game. When Henry left the room, Alex was still trying to explain it to Catherine. It all sounds terribly prestigious.

He is just returning to the sitting room with a fresh pot of tea when he hears his name from around the corner.

“–and the next morning Henry and Arthur vanished,” his mother is saying, “and when Uncle Algie called, I told him that Henry couldn’t go on the annual pheasant hunt because he was violently ill, but actually Arthur had taken him to Rome for two weeks on the set of that go on ridiculous car heist film he was working on, the one with, oh, what’s his name–“

“Jason Statham,” Alex says promptly, through wheezing laughter.

“That’s the one!”

“Loved that movie,” Alex says. “I can’t believe Henry got to be on set.”

“It was all Arthur’s idea, but he was right to do it. Uncle Algie is a dreadful bore, and Henry despises his son. Guilford. Did you meet Guilford at the wedding?”

“Henry made sure I avoided it.”

“Yes, that’s for the best,” Catherine says daintily. “He has matured into an absolute dickhead.”

Henry wishes he was in the room to see the way Alex sputters out, “Oh my God.” Alex always forgets that Catherine went to uni and married a commoner from Sheffield.

And then Alex sighs and says, “When Henry and I get married–”

Henry manages to recover the teapot before he drops it.

It’s not a surprise to hear Alex mention marriage. They’ve been sorting it out for years: political logistics and Alex’s child-of-divorce anxiety and a thousand questions about a royal wedding neither of them actually wants to have. He’s already bought an engagement ring, even, and judging by how tetchy Alex gets whenever Henry tries to put his underwear away for him, he’s not the only one.

But it is the first time he’s heard Alex mention it to his mother. He dropped it so casually, so matter-of-factly, as if he’s been talking to her about marrying Henry for years. Henry supposes it’s possible he has been. Is this why Alex had tea with her in London last month and told Henry he wasn’t invited? Have they been conspiring?

They’re discussing hypothetical guest lists now, which cousins secretly hate one another and who wore an inappropriately large fascinator to whose birthday tea, but Henry isn’t listening anymore. He’s thinking of a cafe table in Rome, his dad waving over a second round of gelato.

In his memory, he’s nine years old, and his father is saying, Whoever you marry, Henry, make sure they think your mum is a laugh, because she is. She really is.

He clears his throat and finally rounds the corner. “Tea, anyone?”

...

It’s 2024, and nobody knows they’re engaged.

Granted, they’ve only been engaged for about three hours, but Henry is curious to see how long they can go. It feels nice to keep a secret that doesn’t have to be a secret. It’s more that they’re keeping it like a pet, or something especially beautiful from the garden that they’ve coaxed into a jar.

A record is spinning on the turntable, one of Alex’s, maybe the Joni Mitchell he borrowed from Bea. They’ve shoved their phones under the couch cushions and ordered a pizza the size of the moon, and now they’re sitting in the center of the living room floor, demolishing it. They kiss, then eat more pizza, then get distracted kissing again. Henry licks a streak of pepperoni grease from Alex’s forearm, which is a fantasy he didn’t know he had until he’s living it. They tangle up on the rug, and Henry decides he’ll take Alex sailing next weekend, or even out to the edge of the river, just to see him against a horizon.

Four-nearly-five years in, the main thing he’s learned is that Alex is a world without end. All Henry wants is to go on with him forever. To keep finding new favorite parts, to keep turning things over and studying their soft bellies and finding the best bits.

So, he will.

...

It snows on New Year’s Eve 2024. Alex looks out the window and shrugs off his coat.

The Young America Gala may be no longer, but Nora, June, and Pez aren’t to be stopped from throwing a New Year’s party, especially now that Pez has gotten his own part-time flat in the city. They’re the three fates of New York City’s holiday social circuit: birth (June, managing invitations), life (Pez, topless), and death (Nora, also topless).

“What if,” Alex says, turning to Henry on the foot of the stairs, “we don’t go to the party?”

“Nora will murder me,” Henry says. “She told me she’s not afraid to do that now that I’ve given up my title.”

“Murder is still a crime even if you’re not officially a prince.”

“Yes, but she said, quote,” he puts on his best American accent, “They can’t put me in the Tower anymore. Who’s gonna arrest me now? Mr. Bean?”

“Why don’t we just send Angus? It’s dark. Maybe she won’t notice.”

“Where’s your double, then?”

“We live in New York, I’m sure I can find a male model somewhere.”

“As always, sounding the very bass string of humility.”

“Is that fucking Shakespeare?”

“Henry IV.”

“I’m gonna give you a wedgie, you fucking nerd.”

In the end, it doesn’t take much to convince Henry to stay in. Lately, it never does. Alex texts June a flimsy excuse, and they toe off their shoes and relax out of their button-downs.

Henry does have to admit he’s exhausted, in the way that one only can be on the last day of the year, when every other day of the year piles way up behind it. It’s been a big one: Alex’s first law job, the endless press about Henry’s decision to surrender his title, the engagement, Bea’s wedding, the incident with the croquet mallets and the Dutch ambassador at Bea's wedding.

Sometimes Alex jokes that they squeezed it all into one calendar year because no headline can stick if there's another next week, but it's only half a joke. They've been bone-tired for months.

"I'm surprised you're the one who wants to stay home," Henry says. "I remember a young lothario who lived to ruin people's lives on New Year's Eve."

"Ruin?" Alex says. "That's not how I remember it."

"It certainly felt that way at the time."

They drift to the kitchen, past all the traces of the year. The dried flowers, the new scuffs on the floorboards. The box of bound manuscripts of Henry's first finished poetry-ish short-fiction-ish essay-ish collection. The holiday cards from senators and diplomats and old Texas friends, topped off with Alex's favorite of Rafael Luna and his astonishingly fit partner in matching Christmas jumpers. Henry would think Raf had been forced into it if it hadn't come with a case of beer and a note of thanks for letting him stay over the last time he visited Alex and had one too many tequila shots at drag bingo.

Alex withdraws a bottle of Clicquot from the refrigerator and says, "We're not washed, are we?"

“We're aging," Henry points out.

"That's right," Alex says, eyes immediately sparking at the opportunity. Henry preemptively sighs. "You're almost thirty."

"Almost twenty-eight is not almost thirty."

"It basically is. You're old. You'll be thirty a whole year before me. You'll be popping antacids and I'll be in the club, popping my p-"

"You're not even in the club now."

"I could be, I'm just choosing not to, because I don't want to deal with the snow. That's not aging, it's growth."

He slides Henry a glass of champagne and adds, "It's probably time for us to start talking about what's on your Do Before Thirty list, huh?"

Henry takes the glass and chooses going with Alex's bit over pointing out that he's entering his late twenties, not dying.

“I’ve done quite well on that front so far, actually,” he says. “Wrote a book. Started a nonprofit. Engaged to the love of my life.”

“Involved in an international sex scandal.”

“Shook the hands of all five Spice Girls.”

“Best dressed at the Met Gala.”

“Cried in the Water Lilies room at the MOMA.”

“Grew your hair out, then cut it all off.“

“Taught myself to make beef Wellington.”

“That one’s, uh, still in progress,” Alex hedges. Henry gives him an affronted look. “But, yeah! Definitely. And you got really good at scones.”

“That I did.”

“Right,” Alex agrees. “So what’s left? Streaking? Dropping acid? Having sex on our kitchen island?”

Henry takes a moment with that one.

“Having sex on our kitchen island?”

When the clock strikes the new year, the house is quiet. The timer on the light over the front stoop clicks off. The champagne bottle rests between two glasses on the edge of the sink, spent and sticky around the rim, a single soggy strawberry at the bottom of each flute. Miles out from their apartment, fireworks fight the snow over the East River, but in their kitchen in Park Slope, the only sounds are the two of them.

Henry, almost twenty-eight, presses his warm body to the cool marble and gets his midnight kiss.

...

“Do you know what today is?” Alex asks on a lukewarm September.

It’s 2025. He’s in the doorway of Henry’s study, where Henry has been all evening, answering emails.

“Hm? No.”

When Alex doesn’t immediately fill the silence, Henry looks up from his laptop screen.

“What is it?”

“Five years since the story broke,” Alex says.

It takes a moment for him to realize what story Alex means; there have been so many of them. But of course, he means that gigantic, terrible one. The one that changed their lives forever.

“Oh,” Henry says. He closes his laptop, leaning back in his chair and away from it. “Well. Hated that.”

“Yeah,” Alex agrees. “Zero out of ten. Would not do again.”

His tone is light and casual, but when he folds his arms across his chest, Henry can see his glasses in the front pocket of his flannel. It’s been months and months since the last time Alex didn’t feel confident enough to wear them.

For his part, Henry can remember much of that day, but not all of it. He remembers stirring sugar into his morning tea when Shaan walked in wearing an expression Henry had never seen before. He remembers Pez arriving like the cavalry in Gucci slippers, hustling Henry away from his handlers with the same graceful disdain he used to direct at Eton classmates who stared at them too much. He remembers Bea finding them in the music parlor and refusing to hear Henry’s apology, and he remembers Alex’s call and Alex’s arrival.

The funny part, though, is he can’t remember anything between Bea and Alex. He knows that Philip was involved, and there were stories on every news channel, and he spoke to his mother at some point. But the space in his memory where those hours belong is simply blank. His psychiatrist says it’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and Henry is inclined to agree, considering the two of them spent the entire following year recalibrating Henry’s anxiety and depression medication around the event.

Those hours will always be gone. There are things he will never get back.

Most of the time, though, when he thinks of that day, the second worst thing that's ever happened to him, he thinks of Alex's hand in his under a Buckingham Palace table. He remembers, clear as a bell, Alex's voice telling him they would survive it together. It happened to Alex too. It wasn't what they would have chosen, but it was what they received, and they've done their absolute bloody best with it.

He rises from his desk, crosses to the doorway, and gathers Alex up against his chest. Their size difference isn't that pronounced—Henry is taller but lean, Alex shorter but sturdy—but in moments like this, he's thankful for the way Alex's cheek perfectly aligns with the crook of his neck. He's grateful for how effortless it is to slip a kiss to Alex's temple.

Neither of them says anything else. It's all been said a thousand times, in speeches and through official statements and in the dark when it's only the two of them. It's enough to stand here in the center of the house, in the quiet, and let it hold their weight.

...

At the end of 2025, Henry has a bad day.

There's nothing specific that causes it. The days just happen like this sometimes, even with all the therapy and medication and supportive partnership and fulfilling creative projects in the world. There are other people, he supposes, who don't spend their lives waiting for the next bad day. He's had every bloody luxury but that one.

Alex comes home from work to find him curled up on the armchair in the study, staring out the window at the light-polluted night sky over the row of brownstones across the street.

“What are you doing?" Alex asks him.

"Looking for Orion," Henry deadpans.

Alex kneels on the rug in his tailored suit pants and rolled-up sleeves and rests his cheek on Henry's knee, the way he often does when Henry's in a mood. Henry's fingers slide into his curls. They've grown a bit longer in the past few months. Lately. Alex looks quite like he did when they met, except for the glasses and the stubble dusting his jaw.

“I’m tired of big law, “ Alex confesses. It would appear he’s in a mood too. “I know it’s only been a year and a half, but...I kind of hate it.”

Henry contemplates that, along with the dark circles around Alex’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.” Henry tells him.

Alex looks at him like he did in that hotel room in Paris the first time they woke up together, like the only thing he knows for sure about what he’s being offered is that he wants it completely. It’s an intimidating look to receive, but it’s only ever improved Henry’s life in the end.

He kisses Henry’s knuckle, just below his ring.

“I have some ideas.”

...

In February 2026, a flu sweeps through Park Slope. Neither Alex nor Henry can agree on who gave it to whom first– Henry knows it was Alex, since he’s been up late consulting with his mum about a voting rights bill in Texas, and his immune system always suffers when he gets upset about Texas—but regardless, they’re trapped in the brownstone together for a week. At least Alex doesn’t have to work through his illness the way he usually does, since he resigned from his job last month.

Somewhere around day five, Henry realizes it’s the longest consecutive amount of time they’ve both been home in years. They always seem to be leaving or returning: rushing off to appearances, climbing out of security caravans in half-undone suits, meeting Cash at the curb at three in the morning with bags over their shoulders. It’s nice, in a way, to get reacquainted with this home they’ve built together.

While Alex naps, Henry paces the entire floorplan.

The first floor, with its long living room and the original beams and mantelpiece, which Henry had restored before he moved in, because he always has been precious about the history of things. Then the kitchen and the deep blue cabinets and the wide back window over the knotty pine dining table handed down from Alex's dad. Upstairs, on the second floor, the guest bedroom with all of his mum's preferred hand creams in the attached washroom and the sitting room with the shelf of swan figurines Pez started collecting years ago in a dramatic fit of June-related yearning. One more flight up to the top floor, with his study and Alex's office and the hall with their photo from Shaan and Zahra's wedding and, at the far end, their bedroom.

The bedroom is his favorite part of the house, and not only for the obvious reasons, no matter how much Alex tries to imply otherwise with suggestive eyebrows. He loves the high ceiling and the chipped plaster medallion of roses at the center. They picked out the bed together, and every morning that he wakes up in it, he gets to turn over and see Alex's loose pens and glasses wipes scattered atop the dresser and know that this, his life, is still real. Perhaps he likes the room best because it feels separated from every other part of the house, lifted up and bundled in, which is the first time he's ever been safe in a tower.

Most importantly, of all three levels of bay windows jutting from the redbrick front of the brownstone, only the one in the bedroom has a seat. They've filled it with velvet pillows and mossy green cushions, and once or twice a year, on one of their vanishingly rare slow days, Alex will climb in and fall asleep.

That's where he finds Alex when he eases into the room with a mug of soup in each hand. He recognizes the quilt wrapped around him: they slept under it in Alex's childhood twin bed the night Ellen won her second term, and then Alex crammed it into his suitcase and brought it back to Washington.

He stirs as Henry sets the mugs down on the dresser.

“Thanks,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Henry nudges in beside him, gingerly removing Alex's glasses from beneath his elbow before they get crushed.

"You know," Henry says, "I chose this house for the bay windows."

Alex blinks at him, fully awake now. "Really?"

"I thought you might like them. You always talked about the one you grew up with. Hoped they might make the place feel like home."

Alex smiles. "They do."

Henry looks at him in his quilt, sleep-mussed and flushed from fever and overdue for a shave, and he remembers that night in the yellow house in Austin. Before Alex led them back to his old bedroom, he peeled up the cushion in the living room window seat and showed Henry pages of elementary school scribbles still hidden there. And he told Henry that he thought once of hiding a picture there too, if only he'd had the nerve to tear it out of his sister's magazine.

Love, Henry has found, has a way of growing backward. You fall in love with a person in the present, and then every person you've ever been gets to fall in love with every past version of them. A sleep-deprived Georgetown freshman falls in love with an Oxford sophomore who's testing out undoing the top button of his shirts sometimes. A ruddy-cheeked teenager with his nose in a book loves a backtalking lacrosse captain. A boy comes home from school with perfect marks and sees a picture in a magazine, and the boy from the picture pauses on a palace staircase.

The crux of it is, he loves every version of Alex to ever sleep under that quilt. Everything else is mostly set dressing

"I'm having a thought," Henry says.

"Congratulations," Alex deadpans automatically. Then, "Tell me."

"This life we have here," Henry says. "This house. It's good, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course it is."

"But we could have a good life somewhere else too."

Alex frowns. "Like where?"

"Somewhere... farther from everything, maybe? Somewhere we could slow down, and things could be quieter, and you could do the work you want to do. I think I could use some time away from it all, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't even have to have a body double anymore."

Alex considers that for a long moment. They both know where Henry means, even if he doesn't say it. Besides New York and DC, and London on its best days, there's really only one place Alex would seriously consider living. They've joked about it before, but Henry's always thought it might be nice to spend a few years somewhere completely different than he's used to. A place where he could see the stars.

At long last, Alex sniffs and says, "You're gonna fire Angus? He was just starting to grow on me.”

...

“If you don't wake Bea up, you're gonna have to hear about her back spasms in the morning,” says a voice that is most certainly not Heath Ledger's.

Henry startles awake to find Alex leaning over his shoulder from behind the loveseat, curls everywhere. The room is dark, and the end credits are rolling.

"You're not home until tomorrow," Henry mumbles.

"Moved up my flight," Alex says. He's so close to Henry's face, he's gone a bit cross-eyed. His lips bounce off the tip of Henry's nose. "I missed you."

It's only been a few days, but the truth is Henry missed him too. He supposes he should be used to empty beds and time differences by now, especially when they began that way, but he suspects he'll never stop waiting at the door. You know what will be the best part of getting married?" Henry asks Alex.

"The line dancing."

"The way I won't have to miss you nearly as often."

Alex softens, then maneuvers himself over the armrest until he's draped across Henry's lap. David climbs on top of him and curls up on Alex's left buttock.

Letting go of the house has been hard, but this particular decision was easy, once they finally said it out loud. A gradual, careful withdrawal from public life, at least for a few years. They’ve given so much of themselves to the world and had the privilege of feeling a legacy take shape beneath them, but they need rest too.

It was June who convinced them, actually. Even now, there are certain things only June can say to Alex. Early in the spring, when she was finally transitioning out of her speechwriting job for Raf, she called Alex from Colorado and told him she was moving to New York to be closer to Nora and Pez, and she wanted to sublet the brownstone. When Alex pointed out that he was still living in it, she said, "We both know you've been looking at farmhouses in Austin for six months, it's time to shit or get off the pot."

(Henry loves his particular collection of Americans. They truly do say what's on their minds.)

The new house is beautiful. Henry's only seen it in person once, but the previous owner was a reclusive tech executive with shockingly good taste, so Architectural Digest featured it last year. He's had the article open in a tab on his phone for two months, and he scrolls through all those perfectly lit photos twice a day, getting high on possibilities. Lazy mornings in the wide sunroom, midnight dives in the lake. It's easy to imagine Alex mellowing into a brisket-smoking, tamale-rolling Texas dad out there, and it's just as easy to imagine them basking under cedar trees until their mid-thirties and then deciding they're ready for another round. The wonderful thing is, they can take their time either way.

It isn't a full release from their obligations, but it is the next step after formally relinquishing his title. More boundaries, more of their own rules about what they will and won't do. No royal wedding, but a private ceremony at the lake house and a honeymoon unpacking boxes. A job for Alex at a smaller firm where he can finally get his hands in the earth. A quieter life.

"You're right," Alex says. "You know what else is gonna be awesome about married-people life? We can have actual, real-life date nights. Just imagine it: free refills and bottomless chips and salsa."

"Oh, I've got another one," Henry says. “You can finally show me how to navigate an H-E-B."

“Baby, don’t talk dirty to me in front of company.”

“Please,” says a groggy voice from the couch.

“Hi, Bea.”

“Time’s it?”

“One in the morning.”

“Ugh.”

Grumbling and tugging a blanket around herself, Bea wakes Pez and the two of them head off to wash up before bed. The odds of Pez returning to the couch for the night or availing himself of their bed so that Alex has to sleep on the couch are just about even, based on six years of Pez falling asleep at their house. It’s a comfort to know that when they leave the brownstone and June moves in, Pez will still be making himself at home in it.

Downstairs, surrounded by boxes, Alex crawls out of Henry’s lap and slides a large shopping bag out from behind the loveseat. “I brought you something.” Alex says.

Inside the bag is a box made of the sort of heavy cardboard that augurs something expensive. He imagines Alex hurling his patched-up rough-ridden leather duffle into the overhead compartment of the airplane and then sliding this bag under the seat so carefully that there’s not even a crease in the paper.

He takes the lid off the box and unwraps layers of tissue paper to reveal a hat. A cowboy hat. It’s made of gorgeous, thick felt, with a cattleman crown and a satin lining. A nearly identical one has hung in Alex’s office since he moved in, though Alex’s is midnight black and this one is a warm, pale sand. Where Alex’s hatband has a small gold buckle, this one has a silver pin in the shape of an English rose.

“It’s a Stetson,” Alex says. When Henry looks up at him, his cheeks have darkened faintly. “I know it’s not really your thing, but you ride horses, and it’s kind of a big deal where I’m from to get your first Stetson, so I wanted to be the one to give it to you since you’re about to be an honorary Texan. You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want–“

“I love it,” Henry interrupts.

Alex pauses, then breaks out in a grin. “You do? I was afraid you’d think it was a joke.”

“It’s the least ridiculous hat I’ve ever been given,” Henry tells him. “It didn’t even come with a matching tailcoat.”

“Nah, but maybe we can get you some Wranglers,” Alex says.

“Some chaps, perhaps.”

“I just told you not to talk dirty to me.”

Henry laughs and kisses him over the open box, thinking of the next year of their lives. Sunday morning fry-ups, swimming holes, a wedding cake that doesn’t wind up on the floor. Tomorrow he needs to ask if Alex checked on the bakery while he was in Austin, and if they have any more packing tape, and whether Amy’s daughter has gotten her flower girl dress yet.

Tonight, though, Alex is home a day early, and the house is making all its soft, familiar night-time sounds around them. No one sees in through the windows. No one comes in through the gate.

“Henry,” says Alex.

“Alex,” says Henry.

“You and me,” Alex says.

“You and me,” Henry agrees.

End.

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[farfromstrange]

Carpe Noctem [Chapter One]

ONE: “All these spindly roots”

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: Vampire!Matt Murdock x F!Nun!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Religious imagery & symbolism, mentions of rehab, crisis of faith, mentions of blood, the typical "animal attacks" aka vampire attacks, mentions of childhood trauma, stalker vibes at the end, Dead Dove Do Not Eat (the entire series)

Chapter Summary: You return to Clinton Church for the first time since Father Lantom saved your life, but what you first believed as an opportunity to start over reveals itself as a mountain of secrecy you have yet to uncover. Needless to say, your first week as a sister at Saint Agnes leaves you with more questions than answers, and an impending sense of darkness coming to get you.

Word Count: 6.8k

A/n: I finally got this done! I started with 3k words and it doubled in size. But I suppose it is enough to set the scene a little. We will certainly be diving deeper in a short while...

Read Me On AO3!

Sunlight streams through the colorful mosaic of stained glass. Red fades into magenta and violet, and blue fades into yellow. Innocence is a fleeting concept in this modern-day garden of Eden, and salvation remains merely a whispered promise. 

Centuries rest on the shoulders of those hallowed walls; the knees of countless worshippers have left indentations on the wooden benches, too many to count, even, but a tragic beauty remains in the art of architecture that stands tall amidst worn-down brownstones in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen. 

Catholics believe in the Devil. He preys on the innocent and makes them eat their souls like Eve bit the apple. He corrupts them, slowly, passionately, and intimately until they have nothing left. Then, and only then, does he take them by the hand, and he drags their lifeless bodies down to the fiery pits of hell. 

You once danced with him. You met him, and you were charmed by him. You shared a bed with him. You loved him. But then the snake whispered about the forbidden fruit, and you had to taste it. You were already broken when he found you. You were shattered glass on white marble floors, bleeding wine into the cracks. The serpent didn’t have to try—you fell hard and fast for his blatant corruption. A silver tongue whispering the sweet promise of salvation to a broken soul, but you never saw the end of it.

Three years you spent surrounded by brick walls and sycamore trees. It was ironic, really. You, the least catholic person to have ever breathed, confined to the walls of a nunnery. For three years, you prayed your knees bloody, yet three years later, it still feels like you learned nothing at all. 

You professed your first vows shortly after you returned to New York. It is a vivid memory. You thought you would never see the city again, not after everything the cold and dark streets put you through, but it was the only place willing to give you something to live for. To survive for.

The cold of the marble stairs before the altar will forever remain etched into your skin. Candlelight reflected in your eyes. When you lifted your gaze, you remember, you met the hollow eyes of Mary as she looked down on you. Like her inanimate features were suddenly overcome by a wave of shame for you. Her hands were clasped in prayer, as most of her statues are. A figure from thousands of retellings forever cast in stone. She was given no choice, but neither were you.

The church was alight with the wonders of early spring the day you took your first vows. Yet, when you met the dead eyes of the Virgin Mary, a shadow cast over her pale features like a widow’s dark veil. The sun disappeared behind a set of clouds with the promise of rain, and the kaleidoscope of colors from the stained glass faded into gray. The walls around you resembled more of an asylum, the priest before you reciting a Bible verse you still fail to remember even to this day. You weren’t listening. A voice was calling for you, and the darkness threatened to possess you with its magic.

The longer you stared at the statue, the more the stories set into the church’s window started to come to life. A window to the soul of Christianity: Mary and Jesus, and the apostles, and Judas betraying Jesus; God’s son dying on the cross for all of our sins before rising and ascending to heaven. Judas was greedy, or so they say. He gave up his friend for money, and in return, they both suffered. 

The serpent that tempted Eve crawled out of the glass and toward you, the original sinner. Every story played like a bad movie before your eyes, coming at you inhumanly fast. The voice in the back of your mind kept getting louder, and louder and louder as it called your name. 

Your sins hung above your head like a guillotine, the very fruits of your labor you had to bear far too young. A daughter, not a son. An inconvenience to those who bore you. You were forsaken from the start, you were told, and the day you took your first vows to become a child of God after being no one’s daughter for most of your life, the walls of the church seemed to know that even after hours of confessing all of your sins to the priest, no Hail Mary could ever take them away. They would always be there until the day you die. You could have done penance until your knees were bloody—you would always be a sinner in the eyes of the church. 

You had the Devil inside you, they said. Because you let him inside. And he did not hesitate to steal your virtue from the source, forever tainting the well of your innocence. 

“In the presence of God, the Blessed Virgin Mary, and all the saints, I humbly offer myself to His service,” you recited on those marble steps, but the shadow only continued to grow around you, wrapping its black wings around you. The fallen angel. Was it you or the Devil? 

The people around you disappeared. You weren’t taking your vows that day; you were standing trial in front of God and all his disciples who came before you. You were taking a stand, and only the jury could decide if you were worthy of your title. 

“I vow to embrace the holy virtues of chastity, poverty, and obedience, following in the footsteps of our Lord Jesus Christ and the teachings of the Holy Scriptures,” you said. “I promise to submit myself to the will of God and commit to live out these vows faithfully all the days of my life. Always.”

Amen.

You lay your broken soul bare, cuffing yourself to the congregation with unbreakable steel and throwing away the key. And there remained the voice, calling for you from the threshold to the darkness.

You thought you could ignore it. Until you returned to Hell’s Kitchen. 

Until him.

Your heels drag over the stone floors of the seemingly endless hallway stretching through Clinton Church. The walls look different when you’re not running. When you can breathe without yearning for means of self-destruction that set fire to your lungs. 

When you asked Father Lantom if you could come back to Clinton Church, he didn’t hesitate. You were unsure what it would be like. The last time you were here, the circumstances that led you into the arms of the empathetic priest were anything but conventional. The memories you have since tied to this place are a conflict between reaching your breaking point and begging for someone, anyone, to help you, and the overwhelming guilt that came with committing the worst of crimes, and a cardinal sin.

You were not a woman of God. You doubt you were a human being at all. If anything, you were a puppet. 

Father Lantom said three years ago, “When you feel ready to take your first vows, come back. I will always have a room waiting for you.” And come back, you did—for he was the one who held your hand when you were falling into an abyss headed for certain death. When you were covered in blood and feared you would burn in hell, the past came back to haunt you with pitchforks and execute you at the stake for the entire town to see. He was there, and in that moment you knew you could not disappoint him. It was then you first started believing in the idea of God.

You gaze down at your habit. The tunic, the cincture, and the veil. You have never been more dressed up, yet you have never felt more naked in the eyes of another man. The fear of judgment for choosing a path you once thought you would only pick over your dead body is rooted so deeply within you that it nails you to an invisible cross. 

“Three years,” the priest breaks the silence. You look over at him, walking beside you as he leads you around the hidden corners you’re not yet familiar with. 

You nod. “Three years,” you repeat. “Doesn’t feel like that long ago.”

Sensing your conflict and the underlying insecurity that renders you speechless a lot of the time, Father Lantom clears his throat. “You look…better,” he says.

“Thank you, Father. My time at St. Anne’s was very… self-reflective. I learned a lot.”

“Good. I’m proud of you.”

Your wide eyes snap back up at him. Oh. 

Pride is not the word you would have used. Proud of you, he said. He sent you away to cleanse your soul, and most days you are not sure if it even worked, but he is proud of you. The man who only knows the worst version of you looked at you and saw good instead of evil. It is a concept that had once been so foreign to you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

“For what?” he asks.

“This. Everything.” You shrug. “I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me here, so hearing you say that…it means a lot to me.”

“I promised you would always have a room here if you chose to come back.”

There is so much sincerity in his voice. In his eyes. You swallow thickly, feeling the tears burn behind your eyes. You don’t want to cry in front of him, but the words die miserably on your tongue. Instead, you nod. You just hope your eyes manage to convey what you want to say.

The priest leads you to a door that connects the church with the grounds of the orphanage next door. “You will be living with the other sisters at Saint Agnes,” he tells you. The change of subject is welcome. “After we had to close our convent because Tony Stark could not be bothered to fund our restoration, all postulants who have since wanted to join our order were sent to study at St. Anne’s. Like you. But most of them stayed there,” his tone changes slightly into hurting. “They offer a lot more than we can. Donations can only get us so far, and we barely get those anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you cut in. 

He sighs, waving your concern off with the flick of his wrist. “We make due, and now that you’re here… well, the sisters are going to appreciate the extra help.” Father Lantom puts on another smile like you would put on your veil. “We don’t have any separate living quarters, unfortunately,” he states, “so your room is a floor above the children’s dormitories. Sister Grace offered to show you around.”

“Sister Grace?”

“She’s the one in charge.”

Your eyes flick back to the walls you’re passing. Intricate details are carved into the stone even here, far away from the chapel. These hand-made masterpieces breathe a certain eeriness into the church. Not just life but a certain wave of mystique because even the stories from the bible are left open for interpretation, especially when they are turned into art. 

A sense of doom falls over you like a dark cloud. “Does she know?” you ask. 

Father Lantom raises his eyebrows. He studies your features. Your chin tipped toward the ceiling, observing. He notices the gentle shift in your breathing pattern as your heartbeat speeds up, and when you meet his eyes again after an agonizing bout of silence, he smiles at you once again. 

“Sister Grace?” he inquires. You nod. “Well,” he says, “She does know. She’s the abbess. I had to let her in when I told her you were coming here, but I assure you, she swore to the utmost discretion.”

You breathe out. The weight rests heavily on your chest. “And everyone else?” You turn back to him. 

The Father shakes his head. His eyes are so gentle. “It’s not my story to tell,” he says. “If there’s one thing I learned after years of talking to people—taking their confessions, listening to their fears, their anger, and their pain—it’s that we all suffer. We all have things we’d rather not talk about.”

The words penetrate your heart like a sharp dagger. 

“And as humans, we tend to often see our burdens as sins, even if those apparent sins hurt us, or we had to commit them to protect ourselves from getting hurt. And sometimes, hurt people do stupid things. Objectively stupid, that is. It doesn’t mean we are going to hell for doing what it takes to survive. People suffer, and most of the time, that suffering doesn’t stop. That’s the truth,” he says. “Now, a lot of these people come to confession because they think it will give them a clear conscience, which it does, momentarily. They believe that God will make the pain go away with the snap of his omniscient fingers. A few Hail Marys, a few extra hours at Sunday mass, and your burdens will be dealt with. That is not the truth. Confession is not therapy because penance does not heal decades of trauma. If that were how it works, we would collapse from overcrowding.”

Father Lantom breaks off with a chuckle, but you can’t find amusement in his wisest insight. It’s real, too real. You can’t even muster a pity smile. 

“Why do we do it then?” you ask. 

“Do you want the Catholic answer or my personal opinion?”

“If those don’t intersect, I’ll choose the latter. Please.”

He takes a moment. “Well, confession works as a tool,” he explains then. “God knows the difference between an actual sin and human nature. Sometimes, these two are the same, but a lot of the time, there is a big difference, and He knows that. Confession helps regain balance where you’re standing with your faith. That’s why we do it. Because faith… faith can be a strong motivator. That’s why a lot of us—sisters, priests, and… and monks—are here now. Because we found a passion and a purpose in devoting ourselves to God. It’s not for everyone, of course, but it is a clean slate if you want it to be. Whether you tell the other sisters about why you chose this path, is up to you. Not me. Because that trauma is yours, and yours alone.”

The silence stretches between you, long, longer, as the church holds its breath. You absorb every word and every breath of his like a sponge. You swallow them. A bitter pill, that’s what it is. It goes down like hard liquor. 

You walk a few more steps in that silence with his eyes on you and the world on fire within. “Father,” you whisper. The sound is not more than that. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. And this time, you smile at him.

Behind the door that leads to the orphanage, another hallway awaits. The walls smell faintly of moss—nature but a bit rotten. A woman in a similar habit makes her way toward the two of you from the end of the hall. She carries herself with a quiet air of authority. You can’t look through her. 

Father Lantom may have vouched for Sister Grace and her discretion, but her judgment is not his to determine. She is her own woman, with thoughts only she can determine. You’re not sure if you are ready for that, either. 

He greets her with a smile. “Sister Grace,” he says.

“Father. Good morning,” at him, she smiles. 

He nudges you forward. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

Her gaze shifts to you then. “The uniform is unmistakable.” She nods. “Welcome, Sister.”

It’s a start, a small step towards finding your place within these hallowed walls. 

“Thank you, Sister,” you reply. “It’s nice meeting you.”

“Likewise. Though it’s been a while since we had someone new here. So young, too.”

“I know. Father Lantom mentioned. I’ll try my hardest not to disappoint you.”

She nods. “Let’s get you settled into your room first before we worry about that. I believe Father Lantom has mass to prepare.”

Father Lantom gives you a reassuring nod. “I’ll leave you in Sister Grace’s capable hands. And remember, you are not alone. If you need help with anything, don’t hesitate to come and find me.” With that, he turns and makes his way back through the door you came from, leaving you with your fellow sister and a lump in your throat.

She leads you down the corridor. “This way,” she says. “Your room is above the children’s dormitories. Second floor. You’ll find it quiet enough for reflection but close enough to be of help when needed.”

Her tone suggests that you will be plenty busy, no matter where your room is in the building. More work means less time to think, and less time with your thoughts sounds like a blessing.

As you follow her, the faint sounds of children playing filter through the walls. It’s a comforting contrast to the silence you’ve grown accustomed to. 

Sister Grace opens a door to a narrow staircase, and you both begin to climb. “The other sisters will be eager to meet you,” she says over her shoulder.

You nod, even though she can’t see you. “I am, too,” you answer.

At the top of the stairs, she leads you down another hallway, then finally stops at a simple wooden door. “This one...will be your room.” She pushes it open to reveal the small space behind, connected to a window with a clear view of the adjacent cemetery. “I admit, it is a little scarce,” Sister Grace says, “but you are more than welcome to add a few personal touches; pictures, curtains, maybe even a plant or two. Don’t worry, Father Lantom encourages it.”

The wooden floorboards creak beneath your weight as you step inside. You look around. A single bed, neatly made with crisp white linens and a worse-for-wear mattress occupies one corner of the room, a crucifix nailed above the headrest, and casting a faint shadow on the aged plaster walls. On the other side, a desk and a wardrobe offer some storage space that leads to a second door—the bathroom. It is scarce, but you came here with nothing but a cardboard box filled with your hopes and dreams and books and diaries; people have built homes from less. 

“Our shared kitchen is downstairs. Feel free to store your food in the fridge, but don’t forget to label the containers if you don’t wish to share.” Sister Grace pauses, chuckling softly as her hazel eyes meet yours. “You wouldn’t believe it, but even nuns can be picky eaters, and very territorial about snacks.”

You smile, but your attempt at kindness falls into artificiality. “Thank you.”

“Nonsense. We look after each other around here.”

There has to be more to it, surely. Innocent may be a construct, but most of the sisters in the community were born into their faith. They started studying from a young age, always destined to dedicate themselves to the cause. You were far from religious before destiny found you dying in the flames of your old life. Whether destiny or a curse befell you that night remains open for interpretation. You have seen it both ways. An opportunity arose. You received a second chance from a very nice man, but the price to pay was your soul sacrificed to a God you once thought you would never believe in. 

Do you have faith or do you not? It is a loaded question. You think you do. You want to know you do too, but you are never fully certain. In the eyes of God, you are a loyal soldier who studied the scriptures and did her due diligence praying for penance, but when you look in the mirror, all you see is Judas. 

A heavy breath ripples through you. “You didn’t have to let me in,” you whisper. “Father Lantom didn’t have to offer me refuge, but he did. And you’re not judging me even though you have all right to… I just don’t understand.”

Her answer is a shrug. “When you were desperate,” says the sister, “God led you to us, and you found refuge at the church like so many before you. I don’t believe that was a coincidence.”

You were covered in blood when you came—your hands stained with the essence of another man’s life, clothes torn beyond recognition. You can still feel his hands on you, wandering, lurking… The crimson had seeped into the fine lines of your palms. It took you days to get rid of it, and weeks more to scrub the last remains from under your fingernails down the drain. 

You grapple with their decision. “I, uh… I wasn’t sure. At St. Anne’s, they treated me like an outsider. Because I didn’t grow up Catholic, and—”

“And you found your faith in rehab?” Sister Grace smiles knowingly. “Trust me, it happens so often that it no longer comes as a surprise.”

“But there is still judgment. There will always be judgment,” you insist.

She takes your words into account, nodding. They digest for a brief moment until she breaks into a soft chuckle—a mere breath from her full-moon lips. 

“A small piece of advice, if I may?” she asks. You hum. “If you spend all your time here questioning whether God has forgiven you for your sins, your lack of faith in the Lord, as tiny as it may be, will always stand between you and taking your final vow. And if you keep worrying about the judgment of anyone other than God, you won’t find happiness.”

You vowed to dedicate your life to religious service, and if you don’t close the last period of your study after taking temporary three vows with a solemn declaration to give up even the last of your possessions then the gap between you and God will be too big for you to ever be anything but a simple sister of the congregation. 

But is that what you want? To close that gap and give yourself fully to a higher power? It would be a live sacrifice, you knew that from the start.

You believe in God and the Devil, and you believe in eternal damnation. And you believe that you are damned, too. Doomed, forsaken, and cursed. A scratched record. God’s wrath is not a match for the fear you instill in yourself; your mere existence is maddening. 

You are drowning in a darkness you were born with, and possessed by demons you never learned how to exorcize. Not even studying a newfound faith in God to get on the right path could get rid of the monsters that are not lurking under your bed or in the shadows but in the dark corners of your mind.

The beast inside of you has gone to sleep, but God knows that he is a ticking time bomb, even in a comatose state. The Devil has planted his seed—all these spindly roots growing from your soul to the pit of your stomach, digging their claws into your fragile heart and tearing you to shreds. The protective poison ivy you grew over the years can only last so long without water before it starts to wither. 

You look over your shoulder when the door shuts gently behind Sister Grace as she leaves you be. 

The cardboard box on your desk holds an abundance of scriptures, books, and leather-bound diaries. Your diaries. They told you that writing your feelings on paper would help you heal. If you crave something you know you should and cannot have, you should write it down; you have been for years now, but with every pen wasted and every diary hidden in compartments around your room so no one can find them, the words you write turn into firewood, and your tears are the gasoline. 

Outside, the wind brushes through the trees. It beckons you, its tendrils creeping into your consciousness like creatures of the night reaching for the last flickers of light.

With a heavy heart, you flip open the worn-down leather. Seconds turn into minutes turn into hours turn into days. Knees turn bloody from praying, and the joy of one child’s happiness dies at the hands of another’s trauma. 

Dear Diary, 

Yesterday, the groundskeeper dug another hole in the cemetery. Father Lantom will officiate the funeral on Sunday. Another addition to the bones and rotting corpses hiding under a shield of dirt, but does anyone know what happens after? 

I tried to ask the Father, but he didn’t give me a satisfying answer. He told me what he thought I wanted to hear, but I did not. I can’t help but wonder if he is protecting me or keeping secrets. The latter would be highly unethical, I suppose. 

Other than maintaining a religious belief in heaven or hell or rebirth while we are alive, what does happen to us after we die? Is it definite? Is it infinite or is there something else, something... more? 

Is it the Devil? Is it God? Or is it heaven and hell? 

And why do they keep digging holes in the cemetery? The children keep asking me every day, but I do not know how to answer them. 

Dear Diary, where do we go when it is all over?

The clinking of porcelain and cutlery emerges from the kitchen like a mushroom cloud. As you approach the dining room through a long hallway, the soft soles of your vinyl shoes barely make a sound. The voices inside overlap, but a few rise from the masses, demanding your attention. Like a moth to a flame, you fly toward it. 

“…and they found another one this morning. Washed up on the river banks after the storm last night,” one of the sisters whispers to another. 

“It’s been fifteen this month alone,” another one says.  

“What kind of animal does that?” a third cuts in.

“The kind that isn’t an animal,” says the nun you now recognize as Sister Marjorie, the oldest of the bunch. “It happens every two months for twenty years that bodies wash up on the shore, supposedly mauled by a bear or a baboon in the middle of Hell’s Kitchen, and then the city grows quiet again. I’ve been here for forty-five years, and it still happens like clockwork.”

The one next to her sighs. “Well, maybe it’s the changing climate. Lord knows it has humans and animals going crazy alike.”

“Can’t you see?” Marjorie raises her voice. “These aren’t the actions of an animal. It’s the Devil!” 

It seems as though the mere thought puts the fear of God in them—your fellow sisters, usually so strong and collected, reduced to whispers of the rumor mill as the color fades from their skin. 

Sister Grace clicks her tongue, interrupting them all at once. “That’s enough,” she says, trying to remain calm but there is still a sense of urgency in her voice. It’s not an exclamation but a well-concealed warning. Behind that façade hides a leader you would not want to cross twice. 

Only one of Sister Marjorie’s eyes finds you standing there, eavesdropping like a misbehaving child. The other remains unmoving, caged in by a white scar across her cheek and an iris made of glass. 

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Animal attacks?” you dare to ask. 

Heads snap toward you. The table falls speechless, compelled into a sudden silence by your presence. The world stops turning. 

“Oh, dear, don’t you worry about that,” Sister Grace, the first to find her voice again, reassures you. She ushers you from the doorway to the table, but the eyes of your fellow sisters suddenly feel like tiny needles all over your skin. “It’s just idle gossip,” she says, shooting the others a glare, “nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

But the silence starts to wrap around your neck like a noose regardless. Curiosity is only appreciated when they can answer it, you have learned. In the eyes of God, lying is a sin, and you spend each day teaching the children to believe the same, but is omitting not essentially the same as lying? 

They’re scared. They don’t want to admit it; no one does. Fear does not fit under the veil of ignorance, so they try concealing it as idle gossip. The rumor mill is always spinning, and it is an outstanding excuse, but you will never forget the look in Marjorie’s eyes when you dared to ask—dared to question. 

A thud from outside causes you to sit upright in your bed later that evening. The springs that are digging into your lower back creak when you move so suddenly. 

Through the window, you can see the cemetery hulled into a fog where cold and warm air meet for the night. You put the children to bed, got them dressed in their pajamas, brushed their teeth, and told the little ones a bedtime story. They like it when you do it. Something about the way you tell them fascinates their little minds, so it has become a ritual in the week you have been here. 

The more it strikes you as odd that there is noise outside. After bedtime, no one is supposed to be out and about, and if a sister has something to do out of schedule, they have to share it with the group. For safeguarding reasons, they told you. 

Against your better judgment, you roll out of bed and into your slippers, wrapping a cardigan around your body. Your nightgown is not the warmest thing to wear on these cold walls unless it is under a thick wool blanket. 

The door creaks when you open it. Father Lantom gave you a flashlight a few nights ago because he asked you to take care of something on the church grounds for him after the sun had set, so you kept it. You weren’t sure if you would still need it. Thankfully, you did.

You follow the noise to the back door one floor below. It leads out into the backyard, and a few more feet east, a fence and a gate separate the many acres of the cemetery from the rest of the church’s grounds. 

The flashlight illuminates the path before you. “If it’s another stupid raccoon, I swear…” you mutter to yourself. It wouldn’t be the first time one of those critters found their way into the trashcans and caused mayhem in the middle of the night. 

Somehow though, it always seems to be you who catches them. The night-owl. The one who is always on guard, always on edge, even when she knows she is safe.

You wander through the backyard, closer to the fence. You tilt your head. There is a small gap in the gate to the cemetery. The fog makes it harder to see. 

“Hello?” you call out into the darkness. Nothing. 

Through the rustling of leaves and the howling of an owl in the woods far beyond Saint Agnes, a small whimper breaks the silence like a hot knife. It is faint, but unmistakable nonetheless. 

You strain your ears. “Oh no,” once again, you curse to yourself. “No, no, no…” 

You follow the sound through the gate and into the cemetery. June Montgomery and her husband share a grave. They died over twenty years ago, but it is still well-maintained by their children and grandchildren. A few steps further though, the infestation of poison ivy begins. 

The graves under the gigantic cherry tree are the most hidden, and the best hiding spots. You had to tell the children many times that the cemetery is not a hiding place, especially not for games, and never alone, even when the gates are open. The general public has access to it during the day, and if they wander too far, they will land on a populated street. It’s dangerous. 

You were so careful. You did everything by the book, and someone still managed to sneak out. 

Your heart pounds in your chest, the wet grass soaking your thin slippers until you come upon a small figure huddled behind one of the bewildered gravestones. Sara Mayfield; she died in 1945. Your sigh resembles a cry of relief. 

“Timmy!” you exclaim. “Thank God!”

He’s curled up into a ball behind the headstone. Tears stream down his cheeks in bottomless rivers. Your flashlight blinds him, and his whimpers escalate to sobs. Your heart shatters at the sight. 

“Hey there, it's okay,” you try to soothe him, crouching beside his tiny figure. “It's just me. Hi. What are you doing out here all alone?” You shed your cardigan, wrapping it around his shoulders. “It’s the middle of the night, sweetheart.”

From what you’ve learned about Timmy, his parents died in a freakish car accident about a year ago. He was in the car when his father fell asleep at the wheel and drove the car into a tree. His mother died instantaneously, but his father bled out right in front of him. He has been receiving therapy ever since he came to Saint Agnes, but he is a troubled child. 

Timmy sniffles, accepting the makeshift blanket. He recognizes you, which is a good sign. “I had a nightmare,” he confesses. “I-I wanted to see the stars, but then I heard a crash, and I got scared.”

You wrap your arms around him. “It’s okay to be scared,” you say. “But you shouldn’t wander off by yourself, especially at night. You should have come to me, or Sister Grace.”

“I’m sorry, Sister.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just glad nothing happened to you.”

His skin is clammy and cold. You don’t know how long he has been out here, but he is also in no state to be questioned. 

“Come on,” you say and lift him into your arms. “Let’s get you back inside.”

Together, you make your way back towards the orphanage. But as you approach the gate, there it is again, that voice. Whispers of nothing in the chilly breeze. The air crackles with a certain, sinister something. A chill runs down your spine, and the back of your skull starts to burn as though someone is watching you. Listening. Lurking. And it is not a raccoon this time.

You set Timmy down on his feet. He whimpers again. “Go to your room. I’ll be right there,” you tell him. 

He looks up at you with his innocent blue eyes. “Promise?” he asks. 

“Yes. Promise.”

The boy lets go of your hand, quickly sneaking back inside. He knows better than to make any more noise. Any other sister would have threatened consequences. But he’s just a traumatized little boy, and the night is dangerous. It’s creepy. Of course, it would only add to childish fear and trauma that has had time to manifest for an entire year.

You turn around when he is safely inside, pointing your flashlight in the direction where you came from. 

You scan the blanket of fog for any sign of movement. And that’s when you see it—a shadowy, obscured figure standing amidst the graves by the woods, behind the cherry tree.

Your breath catches in your throat, the whispers echoing in your mind once more. It could not be your name. It’s something else. Latin, perhaps. What terrifies you most though is that you're not scared; you feel strangely drawn to the figure. 

You hold your breath. The figure tilts its head, and you do the same. Your heartbeat remains eerily steady throughout. You should scream. You should alert everyone that there is something—someone—out there, but they would call you crazy, surely. And maybe you are. No sane person hears voices and sees the darkness as a comforting presence. Not a nun. Not someone who is not supposed to let the Devil win. And what other explanation is there but for the figure to be a phantom of the Devil's making? 

In the blink of an eye, the figure is gone. The hold on your lungs eases, and you gasp for air like a desperate woman.

Instinctively, you turn to the door and usher inside. Timmy is still standing there. “What’s wrong?” he asks. 

You shake your head, trying to clear your mind. “Nothing,” you say, but when you lock the door to make sure no one can get in or out, your hands shake. A single drop of sweat runs down your temple. “Come on.”

Inside, you’re freezing. Like a cold hand touched you and set you on fire, but it had claws that let the ice age into your heart, and now you’re poisoned. 

Taking Timmy back to his room, you can’t shake the feeling of unease that gnaws at your insides like a hungry beast. You tuck him in; you check under his bed for monsters, and you lock the windows. It takes a while for him to settle back into sleep, but when he finally does, you leave his room on your tiptoes and close it. 

The other children are all peacefully asleep, and your fellow sisters seem to not have noticed the commotion you caused on your way in. Every door is locked—you check twice. Still, when you get to your room, your hands tremble once again when you use the key for the fragile lock for the first time. 

Fear is not what compels you. Uneasiness, maybe, but not fear. The venom in your veins stems from something else entirely. You can’t explain it. The feeling is familiar somehow, but so foreign at the same time.

You clutch the rosary from the nightstand over your diary, facing the fog you yearn for so desperately. “Foolish, foolish idiot,” you mutter. 

Dear Diary, 

Did I force myself upon God out of… of guilt? Or was it a sign that He led me to Clinton Church that night? I thought penance would wash away my sins, that by dedicating myself to Him, I could erase the past. You know, like magic. But I was so wrong. Father Lantom… He told me that’s not how it works, and Sister Grace… She’s so sure that will stand in my way, and now I can’t help but wonder… Did I study scripture and Catholic rules for the past three years like a mad woman out of faith or because I was trying to make good for something I did by neutralizing myself?

I’m lost. I don’t know the path to righteousness, and I don’t know how to silence this… this darkness inside me. I can hear it calling my name. Every night… I’m scared that I’m not scared enough. I’m a flawed creature; I’m desperate and tired, but I don’t want to disappoint Him. But how can I? 

How do I serve a God I have been lying to from the start, and how the fuck do I fix this?

You squeeze your eyes shut, the pen cracking under the pressure, and the ink bleeds onto the page, over the letters and your broken heart. Your blue fingers wrap around the rosary again as what you have written disappears under the chemical ocean. 

In the heat of the moment, you tear the page out of its confines, but it has tainted all the ones to come. You ruined it like you ruined yourself. The page had been you once, being bled all over by an ink meant to stain for the rest of your miserable life, but you tried to glue it back in place. You tried not to fall apart like your diary just did at your very hands—as everything you touch rots or turns to ashes eventually.

You ball a fist around the paper, tossing it across the room. It hits the window. You catch your runny reflection in the glass. To think you were just looking to be loved, to be seen and forgiven ever since you were a little girl dreaming of being a princess, but instead, you are falling apart. 

But no, you will not let the Devil win. You pull the curtains closed, and you hide the cemetery where it belongs—with the dead, both in heaven and hell and everything in between. The Devil can’t have you because God already does. 

You have to seize the night before it seizes you. Anything else would be, for the lack of a better word, certain suicide. 

Tag List: @luvebugs @mxxny-lupin @1988-fiend @bluestuesday @ghostheartbeat @cheshirecat484 @faesspace (if you want to be tagged or I forgot to tag you, let me know!)

[literaticat]

Hi Jenn. Can I ask you some info about “cozy” mysteries? I’m part of a writers group and recently shared some details about the plot of my novel and others in the group keep throwing around this term in relation to my book. Thing is I’m not sure if what I’ve written is a cozy mystery. I mean, it sort of is but also not. It’s a murder mystery and it’s set in a cozy UK village but it’s also kind of dark, with themes dealing with grief and thriller elements. I’m also querying UK agents to start with before I query US ones and while it looks like the term is maybe international I’m also wondering if it’s more US than UK? My comps are Agatha Christie, esp her Poirot novels which I see some saying online are cozy and others saying aren’t cozy, plus modern authors like Graham Norton and Tom Hindle. I know I can ask some of this in my group but I’m embarrassed to as I don’t know if I’ve written a cozy or not or given it’s kind of darker, if I’ve just written a murder mystery. I know this isn’t your area but if you could help me I’d really appreciate it, thank you.

With the caveats that I don't rep adult mysteries, I don't really read adult mysteries, I don't know anything about the market for adult mysteries in the US *or* the UK, nor what terminology is in use for the UK since I am not in the UK? Uh. Sure.

In my opinion, there are four main attributes for a proper cozy.

A cozy mystery must:

Feature an amateur sleuth. In other words -- the main character's JOB is not to solve crimes -- they are not a cop or P.I. or FBI agent or forensic pathologist or whatever. They may be a reporter or a novelist or a little old lady who happens to have a passion for puzzles -- they may be a kooky barista or bookstore owner or chef or something totally not-crime related!

Have a charming setting. By that I mean, warm, cute, safe-feeling -- say, a village/hamlet/vicarage called Button-on-Twee with a delightfully quirky cast of characters. The kind of place you want to take a weekend vacation to. (Not all villages/small towns are like that. Plenty of REAL small towns are in fact impoverished and bleak -- that wouldn't be the case in a cozy small town). It doesn't HAVE to be a village, it could be something like a hotel, vacation resort, or on a large yacht or something -- as long as it's charming/lovely. If it is set in a city, it would be like a pocket-neighborhood within a city. Like, maybe there's a darling B&B and a brownstone full of chatty neighbors and pets on a street that has a kindly greengrocer and a bookstore etc -- and we stay in that little corner of town, far away from skyscrapers and dangerous bits. It would be much harder, IMO, for a cozy to be set on like, a remote and isolated desert planet or farm in the middle of nowhere with no neighbors or something -- those things are not cozy!

Be "clean" -- ie, no explicit sex or grisly violence on page. Obvs there may be romance/relationships, love/kissing, etc if you want, but it will be closed-door, ie, the actual uh... graphic bonking stuff may be implied but will not be shown. Obvs there may be murders, but think, like, the level of violence on Murder She Wrote -- MAYBE we see an assailant whack somebody on the head or something like that -- but when bodies are shown, they are rather discreetly presented, or are discovered off-screen. They aren't showing twisted bodies or guts and gore and maggots in eyes and whatnot, yanno?

Be comforting and satisfying. Like, idk, it's just a vibe. Though there may be murder and light mayhem and delving into some of the darker parts of the human psyche (after all, MURDER, hello!) -- and the reader may certainly experience SUSPENSE (how will our hero get out of this jam?!) -- they will not experience TERROR. The reader knows they are in good hands and that the problems will be satisfyingly resolved and the main character will be OK at the end. They should come away from the book feeling satisfied, with a smile, not upset or stressed out.

If your book ticks ALL of those boxes, you can deffo call it a cozy.

If it ticks 3/4, like, it's sorta borderline 4, as long as the vibe is still comforting, it still could potentially be a cozy, but at the end of the day: If you don't think it's cozy, that's fine. Just... don't call it cozy then! Call it a mystery and then describe it and put the comps and let people come to their own conclusions.

(FWIW, Miss Marple is an amateur sleuth whose books are mostly set in a small town or vacation destinations -- Hercule Poirot is a former cop and professional detective whose books are set all over the map, literally. So by my definition, Poirot books are not cozies. Marple books might be -- but I haven't read them, so IDK about the vibe!)

[ashmp3]

We need to discuss this. Somebody put together a list of all the fragrances Joshua has discussed

https://www.fragrantica.com/member/2266967#customs

Overall thoughts. 1) girly. Which whatever makes sense for him. 2) more gourmand and floral than expected. But really. I should have seen this coming. Idk in general to me men should be smelling like oakmoss and tobacco and leather. Or like. A very blue scent. #toxicmasculinity

FRIEND FRIEND FRIENDDDDDDD you have no idea... oh the ungodly sound i made this is everything to me

okay well yeah i agree with you but it IS what i expected from him + i expected something a bit more clean and soap-like but still... this is so very joshuji to me. okay and this is coming from someone who dgaf about men and their colognes i generally think they have like 4 different modes and thats it. Aquatic citrusy and forest-y.... and another one i cant pinpoint but its a bit fruity like a waremelon. and that is my favorite and whenever a man smells like that i want to ask what is it but i dont want him to think im hitting on him LMFAO anyway back to joshuji let me just go one by one or something bc this is alot. i think autoportrait and maybe the diptiqye one are kind of your vibe. royal oud is his #he/him smell. bleu de chanel too...br 540 is something my little sister has (gift from her parisian friend like she didnt even know what it was LMFAO) and i cant detect ambroxan im 99% sure. When i steal it from her i make sure to layer it with my green tea body lotion and i love that weirdly enough... AND I SAW SCS OF HIM TALKING ABOUT ANGELS SHAREEEEEE i literally had the same conversation with my mom about the bottle yk. anyway i would steal it from him in a blink of an eye idgaf i think im gonna save up for it #yolo jo malone mimosa & cardamom intrigues me. Santal 33 is when he feels like NYC blonde fashion influencer that films her fit checks in front of brownstone. baie 19 intrigues me as well i might try to find a decant i think i would enjoy it i love patchouli sue me. clean blossom? now thats just diabolical. you are right he is SO flowery and fruity oh you are so peculiar mister joshua grace is it too much to end it with -> and when dyke and a fa-

[gazellefamily]

CARTOONIST DOCUMENTARIES ON KANOPY “This my new shit. When it’s 10pm and you only want to watch an hour of TV before bed on a weekday, folding laundry and drinking tea: See what slightly crusted documentaries about cartoonists are on lovely Kanopy. Gives you that cozy PBS vibe, like how 80′s and 90′s documentaries were more chill & humble than today’s aggro Netflix docs. And like how when you were 8 you thought there would be a career for drawing cartoons in the Sunday funnies or comic books. Was 100% certain that was my future. An old woman in FUNNY LADIES said she started drawing her newspaper strip “Brenda Starr” as a way to put her kids through college. Read that sentence again with 2023 eyes. We born too late and now I gotta think about monetizing a Tik Tok stream instead of drawing one caricature a week like Hirschfeld so I can buy an uptown brownstone.” -Sonny Gazelle

[e-121phi]

I went as SonicMan. Threw together the costume on a budget of about $20 (for the stuff I didn’t already have in my closet) and wasn’t expecting to get more than some funny looks, maybe couple of laughs.

I absolutely could not have anticipated the kind of reaction I got.

People were genuinely, sincerely excited to see me. Young and old, fans of all different races ethnicities and genders- I joined the queue outside the United Palace theater and immediately heard someone yell “IT’S SONICMAN!” followed by people laughing and cheering.

I couldn’t even make it to the bathroom during the intermission because so many people were stopping me for photos, shaking my hand and telling me that I was awesome. I got lost on the way back to my seat and people were calling out “SONICMAN! SONICMAN!” as I was running up and down the aisles.

Even the venue staff were a delight. One of the security guards jokingly put up his dukes when he saw me coming like we were about to throw down, and one of the ushers actually gave me a nod and said “SonicMan!” as I was leaving.

When I got outside, I ran into a group of little kids who were all clamoring to take a picture with me. I saw someone in a Sonic costume and pretended to freak out and be starstruck (“oh my god, is that Sonic?! I’m his biggest fan!”) which got some laughs. Someone told me that they were my biggest fan, and a lovely woman reached out to me on Twitter to thank me for taking a picture with her nephew and tell me how excited he was.

Even as I was heading back, I got reactions from locals who weren’t even there for the concert. A lovely old fella saw me and stopped me for a picture “(I gotta get a picture of you my brother, I gotta tell everybody I saw Sonic on the street”) and laughed when I told him that I was actually SonicMan, and I was basically Sonic’s protege (“We don’t use the word sidekick, it’s demeaning”). Someone else called out to me from the door of a brownstone “You gotta go fast, man! I wanna see you go fast!” and I shouted back “No, no, Sonic is the one who goes fast! I’m SonicMan! I gotta go slow!” which got some more laughs.

The concert itself was absolutely amazing. I about lost my voice singing along to all the vocal tracks in the second half, and the acoustic rendition of One Way Dream at the end genuinely made me get a bit teary eyed.

But even with all the talent in that place (see @jackbotnik, pictured above) and all the other amazing people I saw cosplaying the likes of Sonic, Amy, Rouge, Surge and Infinite (you all looked incredible, by the way!) I still felt like a celebrity with the reactions I was getting. I know it sounds a little corny, but knowing that I’d brought such genuine delight to so many people made me feel so good about myself and I feel like I’ve been riding the high of it ever since.

I am so, so grateful I got the chance to go to the Symphony. I genuinely feel like it’s changed my mental health for the better- I feel happier, more confident, and it’s absolutely restored my faith in Sonic fans after dealing with years of toxicity in the fandom online and helped me shake off the stigma I felt over being bullied for liking Sonic when I was a kid. Everyone was so friendly and welcoming, nothing but good vibes the entire night. I had some wonderful interactions with total strangers, made some new friends, and gave other people memories that I hope they’ll remember as fondly as I will.

All in all, absolute 10/10 night. Awesome, Outstanding, Amazing. Way past cool.

The Sonic Symphony in NYC was, without hyperbole, one of the best nights of my entire life and I don’t think anything will ever top it

[justplainwhump]

Making Angel

Masterpost

In a skiing resort for the wealthy, a rich young bastard man hits it off with a confident young woman - and gets told no.

Almost half a year later, that young woman ends up at a secret WRU facility, along with a decent advance payment and clear instructions never to let her say no again.

That's where this story begins...

Contains: BBU, lady whump / box babe, facility whump, whumper POVs, bad people with mundane problems, conditioning, guilt, overtones of noncon (mostly due to the setting, sometimes explicit). Each piece will be tagged individually, too.

Please mind that I'd like to keep my writing 18+, including the pieces that aren't marked nsfw.

(Special shout out to Vee, @for-the-love-of-nsfwhump , who created this AU/spin off with me and is a constant source of inspiration, and to @ashintheairlikesnow for all the rich worldbuilding that I could draw on while building my own part of the BBU sandbox.)

Characters

002238 / "Angel" (she/her) - WRU romantic trainee. Did not sign up for this, but has always been good at pretending.

Handler Alan Nguyen (he/him) - One of WRU's best romantic handlers. Doesn't believe in physical violence in training. Finds beauty in creating devotion. Very arrogant, very successful.

Handler Tyler Parker (he/him) - Junior handler on one of his first assignments. As much of a himbo as one can be when earning money as a professional torturer. Has his own spinoff, [here].

Thane Barlow (he/him) - @for-the-love-of-nsfwhump s character. Mean bastard man. Prospective owner of 238.

Alex Nadler (they/he/she) - Client Relations officer at WRU, specialised in involuntary acquisitions. Would do anything for client satisfaction.

Writing (chronological, sadly that is not the order of posting because I'm a mess // will be updated regularly) * means new

Dany (before)

No (Thane and Dany's first meeting)

Deal (ask reply, before 238)

Big sister (written by Vee)

Over * (abduction pt 1)

Red * (abduction pt 2)

Arrival * (abduction pt 3)

238 (facility)

Truth

Assignment

Match 

Not fair

Dimple

Good Girl

Finishing touch

Sound

>>> [Tyler’s spin-off] * starts here

Season's Greetings *

~

Angel (with her owner)

Good / Unboxing *

Rule one *

Deserved *

Left Behind *

The Driver (explicit noncon)

Hot tub (written by Vee)

~

Angelina (with a predatory and gaslighting "boyfriend", this arc is big on the domestic abuse vibes)

Stalker

Want

Angelina

Brownstone

Impressions

Barcode

Good girl (drabble; Sloane at Angelina and Tim's wedding)

[in progress]

~

Angel (in freedom)

No. * (Angel meeting Tyler again)

Comfort * (with Lourdes)

Headaches (drabble; free!Angel facing her past)

Cemetery *

Knowing (drabble; free!Angel talking about her fate)

~

Angelina (with pet lib) -- probably not canon any longer

Not products

Circles -- definitely not canon

~

Other scenes (drabbles and 'before')

Intake Papers

Before and After

Why (written by Vee)

Jingles (Sloane and Rosa) >> that family led to a whole distant spin-off, Pet Safety, following Rosa's fate

Documentary (a bit of a meta thing - the beginning of the documentary Tara will do about the case)

~

Free!Angel with Lourdes (created with @wildfae-afterdark ; Lourdes is their OC from this BBU story)

Grateful (explicit dubcon, written by Vic)

Waiting Up (angsty fluff, written by Vic)

Comfort * (also canon, see above)

Acting *

Bad Pets *

Freckles * (just a snippet)

Bath (written by Vic) *

Shifting *

[maddiem4]

Reposado

A novella thing about letting go, and other things that I'd rather not spoil. I'll try to queue up daily updates, but I promise nothing. This is, essentially, writing practice that I'm doing in the open, rather than anything attempting to be a grand work unto itself.

Chapter 1

In hindsight, I think I first noticed the blood in the women’s bathroom. If there was something more subtle, it never caught me by the hair and dragged my face to it, like a dog being scolded for soiling the carpet. Maybe there was something subtle I missed. Maybe several things. But the first one I remember is a Monday morning, looking in the mirror as I put on mascara, and there it was reflected in the smudgy glass, painted on a stall door.

Like… you remember, when you see a crusty, dark brown handprint. That sort of thing stands out.

It had clearly dried over the course of the weekend, there was nobody else in the bathroom, but… ew. We all bleed, it’s gross, whatever. You don’t have to smear it on the door of a bathroom stall like a psycho. But on the other hand, it’s high school, there are psychos here. You just hope none of them are the shoot-y type, and you live your life.

Lashes, lips, done. I’d originally been planning to chill here for awhile, but the bathroom had less of a sanctuary vibe with that period blood handprint - nasty - so I might as well get back out into the fray. It was whatever. Seventeen isn’t technically grown up, but it’s the worst parts of adulthood, and the worst parts of being a kid. You’re just… stuck in the middle, you know? You’re not really allowed to be anybody.

And your problems aren’t really adult or kid either. They’re in between, like everything else. This was not a great moment for me, and yeah, it was for teen drama reasons. Even in the moment, I was rolling my eyes about it, but… I couldn’t solve it. It’s like having to fax in a job application, it’s the most awful feeling. You just get absolutely bushwhacked by something you’d love to be making fun of, that deserves to be made fun of, and is absolutely ruining your life.

The halls were empty, but not ambiently quiet, on the way back to science class. There’s a hum of living people in all the classrooms, you know what I mean? I didn’t feel lonely in a haunted house kind of way, even though I was technically alone. It honestly felt like a relief, and one I was dreading to see the end of. Room 232 was up ahead, and I felt every footstep on the way there. Being alone with people is so much worse than being alone by yourself, because you can feel that it’s wrong. There’s no excuses. You’re just disconnected.

Hand on doorknob. Turn however many degrees. Note that it’s whogivesashit in radians. Smile. Pull.

And yeah, there was a whole classroom there. And a teacher. I saw Cassie. My oldest friend, and one of the best. She was twirling her curly black hair around a pen, when she looked up to see me and smiled. I smiled a little wider and felt bittersweet about it. After a few seconds that felt like autopilot, I was sitting next to her again. Back to the lab grind.

“Oh god you missed so much stuff, Lees!” she said, mockingly. “I tried to take notes, but it was way too fast. Mr. Brownstone unfolded new worlds of knowledge that our puny minds will be coping with for centuries. The written word could never capture it. You’re just doomed, kid, dooooomed!” I laughed, and Mr. Brownstone glared at us, and I’m still not sure which of us he was more annoyed with in that moment. Not that I could ask him now, obviously.

“God, stop it. Jeez. I wasn’t even gone for long, and it’s a lab. What are you on, now, number 7? Lemme copy your worksheet.” I began scribbling on my blank copy, tongue planted in the corner of my mouth, a focused machine.

“Hey, you can’t cheat!” Cassie play protested. She made a big show of covering her work.

“Come on, Cassie, you’re my lab partner, I would never cheat on you! Now was that Fahrenheit or Celsius? Stop hiding it.”

“Never ever, huh? Suuuure. But alright, partner.” She got a little quieter in that moment. There was a softness that snuck into her voice, maybe a little shine in her eyes. “Anyways. It was meters actually.”

“Fuck.”

I remember, I’d looked it up. One year, 3 months, 25 days. It’s still crystal clear to me now, the exact duration until graduation, and god did I want to be out of the kiddie pool, but… that’s when friends say they’re gonna keep in touch, and they all know they’re gonna drift off in different directions with their lives. And half of ‘em are gonna be burnout losers or something. And we all just know it’s coming, whether we’re ready or not. I wanted real bad to be too grown up to be afraid of something like that, but… I wasn’t.

I guess the rest of the lab went fine. I don’t really remember it that much.

[troius]

Felt like doing some low effort content tonight, let’s break down the 23rd ending of the anime (song is “Stay Beautiful” by DIGGY-MO’, it’s kind of great).

Song opens with Ichigo gazing up at the tall buildings of what is clearly supposed to be New York, although the geography is a mess-- you don’t have a view of the Empire State Building from Wall Street, it doesn’t intersect with Park Ave (much less Park St, which is in Brooklyn), and  “Gate St” and “Dyeworks Ave” are not real streets. But whatever, Ichigo’s in present-day New York, very cool.

Same goes for Rukia, so far so good, this could be any young woman in Harlem circa 2010 or whenever this was made.

But after a quick glimpse of Orihime, we get this, and I guess it seems plausible that Barragan and a bunch of the Arrancars could be modern-day mobsters, this seems a little more Godfather than anything else.

And now I know we’re in reference territory, because this seems like a clear homage to 1940′s Superman, with the Soul Reapers working at an old-timey newspaper and Don Kanonji (lol) flying through the sky

Not sure what this is a reference to-- the clothes and presence of Wonderweiss as a street urchin suggest the Great Depression, and they seem like detectives of some sort? Maybe spies?

Okay, this definitely has an prohibition-type speakeasy vibe, you can tell they’re not following the law because they let Lilynette in.

Lol I have no idea what’s going on here. Why is Nel hanging out with Mashiro and Hiyori. Why do the clothes and the buildings suggest France instead of New York. Someone help me.

Hell yes Grimmjow and his fracciones as a West Side Story gang, I love it.

Full credit for having Harribel keeping bar and putting up with her own fracciones’ nonsense, and bonus credit for showing the bottom of her face.

Noir detective Ulqiorra alert!

Chad out here like Jake LaMotta, LITTLE DID THEY KNOW.

These guys never meet in-story and it’s a crime.

Hachi went to all the trouble of making this fancy dinner and his friends didn’t even dress up, what the heck.

Ukitake and Kyoraku took their lieutenants out for dinner, and had to leave when Ukitake had an allergic reaction to the sight of Nanao’s dress. Who thought that was a good idea?

Unohana out here living that Gilded Age brownstone lifestyle.

Uryu going up against arrancars in pool (who are the two on the left? I don’t recognize them).

Six hearts beat as one (terrible fashion sense)

Dreamgirls! With questionable body proportions and heights!

Anyways as a product of Manhattan myself I enjoy seeing what other folks associate New York with.

[gretagerwigsmuse]

random asks: edelweiss, aloe vera, nutmeg 🤍

the way i immediately knew which picture of miles you were talking about when i saw the ask about the juul and your tags because i saw it on pinterest weeks ago 😂😂

see!?! thank you!! it’s a VIBE he looks fluffy and cute and hot

edelweiss ⇢ how’d you think of your url/username? what’s it associated with to you?

confirmed greta gerwig writes every one of her movies with me in mind as the protag (i’m really just obsessed with her and i want her to direct the when harry met sally reboot i’m going to win best adapted screenplay for at the oscar’s in 10 years)

aloe vera ⇢ what’s something (mundane) you really want to experience in life?

you’re all gonna think i’m so toxic, but i want to get separated and then fall back in love with my husband. that’s weird isn’t it? it’s weird

nutmeg ⇢ how’s your room/home decorated? do you have a specific theme or style going on?

so i live in an old brownstone and am OBSESSED with the vibe i have going on? it’s so clean and classic. like lots of mid century modern and oak furniture in the living room (thank you cb2) that makes my white couch pop? and same with the dinning area (lol it’s a table next to my fireplace that doesn’t actually work) and bedroom. like i’m OBSESSED with my bed and comforter (cb2 is saving lives truly) and how open it all looks? i like to keep it very neat, but am super into all my boy smells candles and artfully stacked paperbacks and have these really cute prints on my walls 🥰

[qqueenofhades]

Modern AU Heartrender Husbands gives me the vibes of like they'll watch eurovision bc Fedyor wanted to and Ivan only begrudgingly agreed but in the end it's him who's standing really close to the TV with a bottle of beer loudly criticising the jury vote

Anon, your Mind. As 100% ever, I am so very easy to enable. As before, this is set in Phantom!Verse, and serves as a sequel of sorts to this (and as a further prequel to PEL).

Brighton Beach, 2014

It’s their first spring in their new home – they arrived in America in August 2013 and got this place, fittingly, right around Orthodox Christmas in January 2014 – and that means many things to them. Their apartment is in a formerly rent-controlled brownstone tenement right off the boardwalk, but prior to their arrival, it was occupied for fifty years by an old bat from Krasnodar Krai who apparently never, ever, threw anything away. (Fedyor is too scared to ask if she actually died in this apartment and her mummified corpse is lurking at the bottom of all the junk.) That is why he and Ivan were able to afford it, at least, but now that the weather is warmer, they have been spending all day cleaning, hauling boxes of crap to the dumpster, and trying in vain to get the smell of pickled cabbage out of the kitchen. It looks exactly like your Great Aunt Masha’s house, the one that traumatized you as a child and has never left your nightmares since. Home sweet home.

The upside is that the location is great, the apartment is surprisingly spacious and lovely – a big bedroom, a bathroom with two sinks and a deep claw-footed tub, a living room with high windows that let in lots of light, original crown molding and hardwood floors – and if it was located in the really chic parts of Brooklyn and inhabited by a tech-startup hipster rather than a Russian émigré spinster with definite hoarding tendencies, it would rent for some astronomical monthly sum. Fedyor has a three-ring binder full of paint swatches, sketches, furniture samples, and other plans to give it a total overhaul (he’s thinking a nice pale green for the living room?) But the one thing that spring definitely means is Eurovision, and it is just the ticket to relax from their grueling schedule of throwing boxes of junk away and hoping they don’t stumble upon a withered hand in a glass jar. He likes America and he’s excited for their new life, for all that they had no choice but to leave Russia in a hurry, but Eurovision is Eurovision.

Actually watching it, of course, is easier said than done. For one thing, Fedyor can’t find a blasted station that is airing it, when he could have just switched on the TV and found it right away back home. For another, Ivan is deeply dubious of the whole endeavor, having watched five minutes of it once when he was eighteen and turning it off in disgust, never to return. Fedyor spends a lot of time wheedling him to give it another chance. “Come on, Vanya. It’s fun!”

“It is a lot of homosexuals gyrating in leather to very bad music,” Ivan snaps. “They look ridiculous. And sound even worse.”

Fedyor glances at them – the fact that they’re sitting on the couch, he’s on Ivan’s lap with his legs draped over Ivan’s thigh, and Ivan’s arms wrapped around his waist – and coughs. “I’m not sure how to break this to you, darling,” he says, “but you are also a homosexual.”

“Maybe, but you would never catch me dead up there.”

“Of course not.” Fedyor rolls his eyes. “You might actually have to smile.”

Ivan makes a scoffing noise. Then he notices the full-on puppy-dog face that Fedyor is now giving him, and says, “Oh no. Oh no, Fedya. Do not look at me like that.”

“Why not?” Fedyor shamelessly snuggles closer. “Is it working?”

The predictable outcome is that Ivan grudgingly agrees to watch it with him, though they’re on American time now and Eurovision Song Contest 2014, held in Copenhagen, Denmark, is six hours ahead of them. Ivan thinks that it’s stupid to sit down and watch a lot of gyrating homosexuals in the middle of the day, when there’s still so much work to do, and tries to demand that they just watch the recording later. Fedyor says this is nonsense, you simply cannot watch a recording of Eurovision, and after a lot of investigation, finds the online streaming channel on his laptop and hooks it up to the TV so they can watch it there. Then he prepares his popcorn, his alcoholic beverages, and his glitter glasses, corrals his recalcitrant husband, and readies himself to experience pure joy. No wonder Ivan doesn’t get it.

However, the effect is both swift and remarkable. By the end of the first semi-final, Ivan is put out about the fact that Russia came seventh in the popular vote but was knocked down to eleven by the jury (this is evidence of an anti-Russian conspiracy, according to him) and when only Moldova, a tiny no-name non-EU former Soviet state, deigns to award them the full twelve points, he is openly incredulous. “Moldova?! That is all we get?! MOLDOVA?!”

“Well,” Fedyor says delicately. “There is that little situation in Ukraine, so I’m afraid we are not that popular right now.”

“That is bullshit,” Ivan grouses. “This is a song contest. The Tolmachevy Sisters are not Vladimir Putin. I am sure they have worked very hard to be here.”

Fedyor glances at him and wisely decides not to say anything. He is likewise a little peeved when the Russian contestants get booed by the Danish audience, but Ivan looks like he’s about to leap through the screen and throttle every single one of them. He thrusts out a hand. “Give me a drink, Fedya. I need it to suffer this indignity.”

Fedyor cracks the lid off a cold one and hands it over – there is the Brighton Bazaar just a few blocks away, stocked with Russian goods, so they are spared the ordeal of drinking Yankee beer – and Ivan takes a long slug. He thinks they can skip watching the second semi-final two nights later, since Russia isn’t in it, but Fedyor puts it on anyway. They both like Austria and “Rise Like a Phoenix,” sung by the bearded drag queen Conchita Wurst (there have been a few dumb comments about her from the usual suspects), but Ivan hits a fist on the arm of the sofa. “She was not better than the Russian girls,” he says loyally. “I still think that they should be the ones to win.”

“Right, well,” Fedyor says. “I think the only ones less likely to win are the Brits, and they never win, so we might be waiting a while.”

The grand finale, on May tenth, is an inadvertently hysterical exercise. They get up early and put on the pregame show, like the Americans do with their bewildering fixation on the Super Bowl, and Ivan gets even more furious when the Tolmachevy Sisters are booed again. “Are they not supposed to love everyone at this glitter bacchanalia? So much for the Scandinavians being tolerant and accepting people! The song is nice! They are nice girls! What is wrong with them?!”

“Come over here and give me a cuddle, Vanya,” Fedyor suggests. “Otherwise you will blow a blood vessel long before the show starts.”

Ivan growls like an escaped tiger from the zoo, but consents to sit down next to Fedyor. They both drink copiously once the festivities get underway, singing along loudly (and not that melodiously) to the various entries, Fedyor’s arm draped around Ivan’s neck as he sits on his lap and critically judges the acts before the official results pop up. Once again, the only twelve-point awards Russia gets are from former Soviet countries (Azerbaijan and Belarus) and Ivan looks like he’s going to have a conniption before Fedyor kisses him and he gets distracted for the next three minutes. “This is disgraceful,” he mutters, when they break away. “Not you, Fedya. Just the horrible way they have clearly rigged this show against us.”

“You know,” Fedyor says. “That’s Eurovision. You declare war on your neighbors when they don’t give you twelve points. Now they have the EU, they’re not supposed to fight anymore, this is the only way they can get all those old rivalries out. Just be glad that Australia isn’t in this year. You might have really blown a gasket.”

“Australia?!” Ivan shifts Fedyor to a more comfortable position on his lap and grabs for his third bottle of beer. “AUSTRALIA IS NOT IN EUROPE! It is not even anywhere NEAR Europe! WHY DOES AUSTRALIA GET TO BE IN EUROVISION!?!”

Fedyor laughs out loud. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Ivan says. “But this is still the stupidest thing I have ever seen.”

“Shh.” Fedyor nuzzles him. “Just give in, Vanya. Just give in.”

Ivan consents to turn his grumbling down to a simmer, and is somewhat mollified that Russia comes in sixth overall, which is better than even Fedyor thought they were going to do. Austria takes the champion’s crown, they can both agree that Conchita Wurst deserves it, and get up and dance around their still-junk-cluttered living room as she gives her bravissima performance. A few things have been thrown during the judging, but they can’t add much to the existing mess, and in Brighton Beach, “damage caused to the apartment because Russia got shafted during Eurovision finals” might actually be a legitimate excuse. As he leans against Ivan’s chest and grins into his neck, Fedyor has to admit that this place may just feel like home yet.

[bad-bitch-beauchamp]

Songs About Me - Chapter Three

After karaoke night and Claire's impromptu performance, both Claire and Jamie spend the next day reconciling with their choices from the night before.

Read on AO3

“Stay, Sassenach! One more drink!” 

“One more drink might be the death of me, Mr. Fraser, and if you’d like to watch me embarrass myself again next week, I can’t be on my deathbed tonight!” 

He had tried to convince her to let him walk her home, but she waved him off and pulled the sweater that had fallen off her shoulder back up to its rightful place at the junction of neck and shoulder -- a place Jamie couldn’t tear himself away from until that moment. She wrangled a loose curl behind her ear, tugged on her coat, and caught Jamie watching her every move, drink at his lips, eyes just over the rim of the glass. She could’ve stayed, could’ve responded, could’ve reacted to what she was feeling right then… no. A couple of hours together in a bar and a poor excuse for a solo at closing time did not change the fact she didn’t know this man. This very handsome man, she reminded herself. No. You came out here for yourself. Leave by yourself.

She met his eyes one last time, gave a nervous laugh, declared “Hope to see you next weekend!” all too loudly, and spun on her heel. She had stepped over the threshold when she thought she heard her name from inside, but she didn’t turn to find out. 

———

Claire realized exactly three things when she awoke the next morning: The sun was shining too brightly, the street musician playing on the corner directly below her bedroom window was playing too loudly, and the memories of the last night with the redhead who loved music and books were coming on too fast. Somehow, in the span of a few hours, he had literally become her waking thoughts. She sat up in bed, still cocooned in a cloud of white cotton sheets and linen comforters. What do you even know about him? Probably not even anything. She pulled herself from the warmth of the bed, her feet landing on a soft oriental rug in shades of blues and greens. His eyes were the colors in this rug. Just like the ocean itself. Okay, she remembered one thing about him. The woven textile gave way to worn hardwood floors, on to cool hexagon tiles lining her bathroom floor as she passed through glass french doors between bookshelves on the wall. 

When Claire inherited her Uncle Lamb’s brownstone, she could remember only one thing about the place from her visits: the upstairs was magical. Quentin Lambert Beauchamp was an archaeologist, and although it rarely happened, he had decided he needed a home base to work from. In the historic brownstone, he neglected to update much besides the upper level. As the brownstone was on a corner lot, Lamb declared it must have every window possible to let in the light. Days were too gloomy and cloudy in England, and he would soak up all the light he could while teaching here at Harvard, thank you very much. The most magical room in the entire home (according to both Beauchamps) was lined from front to back with alternating windows and storage -- wide bookshelves on the top, long cabinets on the bottom. The opposite side was almost entirely made of the same bookshelves, save for two sets of french doors leading to a large closet and a larger master bathroom, respectively. The bookshelves traveled up to a curved ceiling, rails and ladders lined the walls to reach the highest and most precious of his belongs (now hers as well). Claire had painted the walls and trim shades of white and cream and ivory. The shelves were stripped and stained with a neutral-tone light wood with white filler. The brass fixtures and ladder rails sparkled in the warm morning light. Claire placed plants wherever she could fit them, and donned the shelves with memories to mingle with the ones Lamb left behind. This room, this place, was her favorite in the whole world. 

Back in the bathroom and walking to the walk-in shower, Claire bent down to reach the sweater she tossed aside the night before. The underside of his hair is this color. Right at the base of his neck, with the extra curls. She shook her head and started the tap. Maybe all his curls would turn that color when he got wet. She turned the faucet as hot as she could stand it, reached an arm for her phone, and set Spotify to only play Blink-182. We’re done with those feelings! No feelings, only the angst possible with punk rock! 

Cold tile brought her down to earth again when she stepped out of the shower, the trails of water dripping down her back and breasts a refreshing break from the onslaught of pounding heat. He felt like a breath of fresh air. Just like this. 

With a towel wrapped around head and a t-shirt tossed on, she made her way back to the bedroom and took a seat on her bed. She desperately wished she had stayed for that last drink. Or at least got his number? Why didn’t I get his number?! Now, she’d have to wait another six days before seeing him again. Maybe her attraction to him was nothing more than lust, but if she could text with him, get to know him better, maybe she could find out. With no way of reaching him, she opted to get dressed and head out to clear her head. Maybe find a place to write? Since her decision to put herself first, she’d put letting off steam by writing and singing. It fell in live with the general creativity that fueled her life, while still being different enough from the greenhouse to give her a bit of rest and peace. As she contemplated where to adventure off that morning and pondered the correct way to lace her Doc Marten boots, her phone rang. A photo of three fresh faces graced her screen, a woman with wild dark curls with her mouth gaping with laughter, another woman with a waterfall of red hair and piercing green eyes made less intimidating by the crinkles at the edges, and a man with deep dimples surrounding his smile and an eyebrow raised in surprise at the camera taking their picture. Claire hit the accept button on the call, and thus the inquisition arrived. 

“We need to talk about last night!” The screen was split in two, with Geillis’ video on top and Joe’s on the bottom with Claire’s in the corner. 

“What about last night? I honestly thought our song was pretty good! I was thinking next week we could do--”

“That’s obviously not what we’re talking about, LJ! But agreed, we did a damn good job.”

“Will you two quit it?” Geillis cut them off and brought her face closer to her screen. “We need to talk about Claire, that viking, and the unreal chemistry. Spill it ALL, Claire.”

———

Jamie had woke nursing a headache, but alas, today would not be the day for rest. He flipped the sign in the window of Fraser Literature from closed to open, and began to check off the list of opening duties. On the list was to water the plants. Set on a table in a small alcove, on top of side table next to an worn leather chair for patrons to sit and peruse a story in, hanging from simple planters in the window that stretched from edge to edge in front of the shop, guarding the aisles of books ready to be enjoyed by people who hadn’t read them yet. Jamie often visited a greenhouse just outside town for the shop’s plants. While a small place, it was teeming with love, peacefulness, and a sense of adventure with green as far as the eye could see, boarding the windows with giant leaves and trailing vines. The feeling inside was something he wanted to emulate in his own place, and so he started adding a wee bit of flora here and there. Rupert and Angus initially laughed off his efforts, claiming Jamie was “destroying the manly vibe” they were aiming for. With every bit of decoration, every little bit of effort however, the shop grew in reputation and success. Jamie was immensely proud of the shop he built, and even more grateful he was able to spend his days surrounded by the words of great men and women, constantly inspired and in awe of the endless stories at his fingertips. 

The boys -- Angus and Rupert, that is -- had brought up the idea of expanding into a few other fine art ideas within the shop. Jamie had been reluctant to agree to anything that wasn’t directly related to literature. As they stood around the front counter, Rupert led the charge: 

“Jamie, man. The people who like books are also the ones who like art and music and such. Why not try to bring them all together?” 

“What if they don’t care about the books? What if they don’t even look at them, and don’t care? What’s the point in having the shop, then?”

It was Angus’ turn to reply with, “Well the point is getting people in the door, and letting your “wee shop” as ye always call it speak for itself, aye?” 

Jamie had to agree with that point. He settled for telling the lads that if they could come up with a suitable idea, he’d agree to it. Twenty minutes later, Angus and Rupert stood in his office doorway saying they would be asking for local musicians to come and perform. 

“Doesn’t seem like yer asking for approval.” 

Jamie didn’t look up from his computer, but could hear the grin in Rupert’s voice as he replied, “‘Tis because ye know it’s a good idea, and ye wouldn’t refuse a good idea.” 

Jamie sat back in the rolling leather chair behind his antique desk and sighed, then laughed. “Why do I even try to control what ye two do? Yer jes’ going to do it anyway.” The lads grinned at each other and shrugged. “Go on then, see if ye can have some posters made up to put in the window.” 

He stood as Rupert saluted him and Angus muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Aye aye, captain,” and stretched his long, lean, muscles. He needed to get a few errands completed, so opted to spend the next few hours outside both to complete his tasks and to get out in the fresh air. He told his friends he’d be back soon, and to let them know if he needed anything. 

With one step out into the sunlight, he immediately regretted the amount he had drunk the night before. Two in the morning was not a suitable time to be out, but for the lass with the dark curls and the whisky eyes, he’d give every moment of his time. From the moment he woke, he thought of her. Thought of how she made him laugh. Thought of how bonny she felt under his fingers, her hips on the barstool as she wiggled back into place, her thigh touching his under the booth table. He thought of how she’d gone up on stage as an act of defiance against him for the insult to her friend’s song, but how instead she ended up showing a piece of her soul to him, and him alone. He thought of how her eyes matched the swirling liquid in his glass. He thought of her abrupt departure after he had asked her to stay, and how he almost ran out after. He thought of how he was so incredibly stupid as to not have asked for her number before she ran. Look what ye did -- now ye have to wait to see her, and yer barely functional as it is. While Angus and Rupert had been gauging his interest for the musical talent in his office earlier, he had been searching the Facebook page for the 21st Amendment, combing it for references to her. To Claire. Maybe she had performed there? Perhaps she and her friends had tagged the place in one of their pictures? There was no sign of her, and she hadn’t told him her last name. Six days to go, mate. Ye can do this. She’s just a lass. Ye don’t know her. 

After a few hours of tedious tasks (could the post office ever be efficient, just this once?), he made his way back to Fraser Literature. It was a warm day for autumn, and the shop would have a cart with discount books out on the sidewalk and the door propped open for fresh air. He would never tire of seeing his name on something he built, something he was so proud of. As he neared the shop however, it wasn’t the name on the window that drew his attention -- it was the many people standing inside, facing the window, looking outside. Jamie stopped and looked around, but not finding anything out of place around him. He took a few steps closer. They weren’t looking outside, but rather at the inside corner of the shop, the corner where the window meets the wall. He was only a few steps away when he saw it, when he heard it. A woman with bouncy curls and a round arse, sitting with her back to the window at a keyboard bench. He didn’t have to see her face to know. Her voice was enough. It was enough at two in the morning to imprint on him forever. 

She was there, in his shop. His place. Claire. God, his Claire. 

With one shaky step and an attempt at a steadying breath, he moved inside his sanctuary.

[glowyjellyfish]

Lake Buena Vista part 2:

Yesterday I made almost all the noble houses; today I finished the Tremaine estate and built Gepetto’s house. Funnily enough, I was able to 100% complete Gepetto’s house whereas all the noble houses were left unfinished and half-furnished; this is because I have been trying to follow the canon houses as much as possible, Gepetto’s house is a very small peasant shop, and in my setup Gepetto is not only a merchant, but also an Adult Human Jiminy Cricket was created separately and moved in, giving them a rather absurd bonus. I am considering charging them more for their first round of taxes--maybe make the first round be a net worth tax and every other round be income?

Anyway, the remaining poor quality pictures from yesterday:

Lucinde Verene, aka the Fairy Godmother from Cinderella. I believe I totally made up that name. You can’t really see it in this blurry picture, but she’s got some aging makeup on to disguise the fact that she’s... just an adult. I figured it would be more interesting if most of the clearly elderly characters were marriageable adults in my game, especially the women, plus she’s magic she can be any age she wants. I’m going to adjust their ages a bit to put these older characters at the higher end of the Adult section, but they will all have a chance to start families if they want to.

I did work hard to give her house a Grandma vibe though; that seems like her style.

Interior pictures will arrive when I sit down to play the lot. I don’t know why I decided to make it a fairly bland brownstone, but here we are. Also, I am kind of distraught over the ugly lot elevation I couldn’t work with very well, but I don’t think I can do much beyond moving her to a new lot, and it’s a little late for that right now.

Here we have the Grand Duke from Cinderella, who I have named Raymond Lamaire. As a single male nobleman who is neutral, he’s kind of a hot commodity; in theory he should get paired off with one of the Wicked Stepsisters, if I am true to the rules and the hierarchy, but he really can’t stand them, and they each have someone they prefer. I’m testing the waters for many relationship options, but it’s likely he’s gonna end up with a Humanized Mouse that he hit it off with.

(Look, there were some animal characters I always wanted to make into human sims for this hood, and eventually for the sake of maximizing the female characters, adding some diversity, and sticking to a fair rule for the whole project, I decided with few exceptions I would just make every sentient, named animal character into human sims to add to the hood. I made the mice human because they talk; I did not make Lucifer human because he doesn’t. And I haven’t so far added any animal characters as animals because I’m bad at playing pets in the Sims 2, and I have to keep my sanity somehow.)

...the Grand Duke’s estate. Those roof pieces are expensive; he really has a lot of work to do to make this place actually livable.

A picture from today, after I got rid of the blur! ...but the Tremaine estate is the lot I used to make everybody meet one another, and as such it loaded at night. Well, whatever. It’s Lady Tremaine! I gave her the first name Eleanor, and I might come back and give her a touch of age makeup. She’s in the same “should technically be an elder but it’s more interesting this way” boat as Lucinde, and her remarriage prospects are hilariously interesting: she is into Stromboli from Pinocchio! It’s not terribly in character, but highly amusing, especially as she also wants to be a Prestidigitator. Lady’s got her priorities, wherever they came from. I like to think she’s allowing herself to pursue a valueless lower-class relationship because she’s putting everything into her daughters bringing in the wealth and prestige.

Anastasia Tremaine! I will tell you right now, when I got the citizens aquainted with one another and checked them for chemistry, I set everybody as Bi just to see if sparks would fly. No true love anywhere in the hood yet, but Anastasia is VERY interested in THE EVIL QUEEN. Isn’t that amazing? Of course Lady Tremaine would set aside any bigotry to get her daughter married to a queen! Maybe Anastasia will learn witchcraft from her and they’ll conspire together to raise the status of their royal house and overthrow Cinderella! It’s so perfect, OUAT can eat its heart out. (just kidding OUATW I still love you)

And Drizella Tremaine! Her romantic prospects aren’t nearly as interesting as the other two, and she might wind up just marrying a mouse or a dwarf and be forced to maintain the family name while Anastasia gets to marry up and Lady Tremaine gets to indulge her wild side.

The Tremaine estate; I did my best. It is *very* sparse within, and I didn’t even build the tower yet. They need so much money.

On to our merchants; here we see Gepetto talking to a dwarf. Yet another character aged down for the Drama this may create. I don’t have many plans for him yet, though; he’s just got his toymaking business.

Pinocchio, one of the few children amongst the founding families. And he’s absolutely surrounded by dwarves.

And a nice humanized Jiminy Cricket! Again, I went to some effort to not just copy OUAT on his design; I think I did okay. I am not sure there were *any* romantic prospects for him, which saddens me. I’ll check again when I play, I just have not recorded any chemistry so far. Perhaps he’ll be into the White Rabbit or somebody when I unlock Alice in Wonderland.

Gepetto’s house and shop! It is the BEST house I’ve made for this hood so far, probably. Perhaps only because it’s pretty much finished.

Look, interior shots, because it’s actually furnished throughout! Although I see I forgot all the lessons I learned about roofs and ceilings from the medieval hood, le sigh.

I probably modeled it after the canon house a little too much; they have $40,000 left I can probably build them a small extension to put their kitchen someplace more private.

Currently, there are two small bedrooms and a bathroom at the back; Pinocchio and Jiminy have to share.

That’s about it for now; my report is caught up. Next I’ll do Katrina Van Tassel’s house, then the (beat) eight commoner houses I gotta build. And then it will be time to start playing!

[allandoflimbo]

Bad Guy

Summary: You experience another night out in your new hometown. One that has you reaching for a drink, and maybe ending with a certain someone between your legs.

Warnings: Drinking, cursing, and (mild, well for me) fucking.

A/N: This is a submisstion for @amanda-teaches​ 2k Writer + Reader Challenge. My prompt was “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.” This was really fun to write. Thank you for letting me participate in this! And I hope you really enjoy this one. :) It’s pretty light hearted. As most of you know, I will no longer post my writing on Tumblr, i’ll just be sticking to my other platforms now. If you wanna check me out i’ll be on AO3, mostly. This is my final closing. :)

The night was turning crisp, a heavy contrast to what it had been that afternoon. 

It had been humid and overbearingly hot; too scorching for a late August summer. 

It was around six o’clock when the temperature had dropped a sudden ten degrees. Now it was pleasant, and those that had hidden away all day in their air conditioned homes, finally decided to venture out into the cooling air. 

There was an intense misconception about New York City that not many understood, not until they experienced it first hand, at least.

Sure, it was beautiful in its bright lights and air that seemed to ooze hope for everyone’s future. It gave off a vibe that made you admit, that yeah, it kind of was like the movies. 

Except that it wasn’t.

From afar, it was quite the spectacular, but as you narrowed down and took a closer look, you’d see it for what it really was.

The brownstone buildings that housed the speakeasies and restaurants on the ground floor; they were beautiful, surly. 

So were the homes across the streets, with their lights still on.

 The streets, they were nice too. 

People stood all around, greeting new friends and old ones, talking about which place they would go to next or which bar.

You liked the village. It had its pros and cons, but at the end of the day, you were glad you settled for that fifteen hundred dollar studio on the first floor. 

It had a nice view of the deli and the prestigious restaurant across the street, and it was a brownstone.

Yeah, all of that was really nice.

Except when you took a closer look and realized that even the prettiest of things had its faults.

Those streets filled with smiles and laughter also had trash bags piled up every ten feet and on every corner. 

Those restaurants and speakeasies - the brownstones were older so the walls outside the building were washed out, aged. 

The air also had a strange, but yet addicting, smell. 

It was a mixture of all the restaurants around mixed with booze. 

The stairs that led down into the restaurant entrances were old and rusted. 

The ATMs that lounged outside each one - because that’s right, most of them only take fucking cash - six out of ten of them were always out of service and served as nothing but mediocre décor next to the window. 

Heavy graffiti lined their sides.

The doors to the restaurants were older, too. Some of them never even closed properly or were too damn heavy.

And your apartment...it was perfect. 

You’d have to settle into become a minimalist to even fit your bed inside. 

The flooring was also old and scratched and the walls needed a new paint job. But it wasn’t too bad. It could’ve been worst.

But you loved it. 

You loved the feeling of the city around you, and you loved how you had made your new friends so easily after moving in from your old home in little ole’ Ohio. 

You loved going to bed being able to hear the life outside, the laughters and sound of people making new memories and falling in love.

And those restaurants and speakeasies that looked flawed up close, they were anything but inside.

The owners  were always so imaginative. The lighting was always warm, there were always people inside enjoying life and the food- in every single one of them.

Because, that’s right, all their food were good food.

New York City was beautifully flawed. 

It was just what you were looking for.

You think this to yourself for the hundredth time since you moved here as you walk down the street towards a new bar you hadn’t been to yet.

You pass by locals as well as tourists and it’s nice. 

You’re about to cross the street when you see a couple getting out of their little apartment. 

Your heart warms as you see the man take the girl’s hand in his, both of them giggling as they prepare for a night out of making memories.

You feel your phone vibrate as you arrive to the other side of the intersection. 

You hear a car horn in the distant and a nice summer breeze blow in through your hair.

You open your lock screen.

Nat

You here yet?

You quickly type away a message while also trying to avoid walking into others coming in the opposite direction as you.

You hold tighter onto your bag as it bumps into a girl, your small heels clacking beneath your feet. 

You open your map to see the distance of the location and then reply back to her.

I’m a block away.

You see it from where you’re standing and it had it a decent sized line to get inside. 

Budapëis

It read in white letters on the blackout windows.

You sped up a bit as you got closer, your excitement growing in your belly.

It doesn’t take much longer after you’ve been in line to realize it was actually moving pretty quickly.

A larger and dark man greets you at the entrance and you hand him your ID which he quickly scans. He gives it back to you and you thank him.

Inside the bar was loud. The people chatted away happily and the music thrummed in your bones. It was also very dark, the only light being the orange glows of the candles on some of the tables and the dimmed warm lights hanging above.

You watched as the cute male bartenders worked proficiently and sync, but also making sense to make small talk with each client as much as they could over the loud noise. 

A girl says excuse me but still manages to nudge into you.

Spinning your head around, you realize there are no more seats left to sit and it makes sense why half of the people were all standing around and huddled like cattle.

Oh boy.

You feel a tug on your arm and you spin around to see Nat holding a Martini in her right hand, her left arm going in for an immediate hug.

“You made it!” She says.

“Of course!” You hope she can hear you.

She pulls away and tugs you towards her, “Come on, we’re all in the back.”

You let her lead you to the “back” which is really just a small space in the corner of the bar. 

You immediately recognize Steve, Sam, and Wanda from afar.

“Oh, hey, you made it!” Steve yells, grabbing you in a tight hug.

“Hey, Y/N” “Oh, hey.” Sam and Wanda greet you.

“Hi, sorry I took a bit long. I was doing laundry.”

“Ha.” Sam snorts out loud, “come on you need a drink.” He adds.

“I will, I will —“ you dart your eyes to his own cup and point, “what’s that?”

“New York sour. Tastes like shit. Wanna try?” He says way too excitedly.

“Sure.” He hands you his glass and you take a sip.

You barely have the tip of the glass all the way out of your mouth when a body hits you on your side, making you stumble. 

The drink doesn’t spill crazily, but it’s enough to get on your hand and to leave it sticky, leaving you annoyed. 

You’re also not too fond of the face full of hair you just got and the elbow that keeps nudging into the side of your rips.

You stumble a few centimeters to the left, because seriously, it’s not like you have an option right now.

You look over to the girl who is now laughing and talking exceptionally loud with Nat and all your friends.

Did they really not see that? 

But you wouldn’t blame them, there was barely any light in the place anyway. 

If it weren’t for Sam reaching over the girl’s head to grab your glass, you’d be certain he had forgotten all about you.

You hand it back, cringing as you try not to elbow the girl in the face. 

Sure, she was rude, but you weren’t going to return that sentiment. 

“What’d you think, Y/N?” Sam shouts to you.

It’s then, finally, when the girl looks over at you. 

She was drop dead gorgeous. At least 5’9. Her hair was a natural light brown and her eyes a piercing green.

Clearly a model trying to make it big in the city.

Her face is emotionless at first but then she attempts a smile. 

You feel awkward under her gaze, awaiting an apology when Sam pulls you around. 

“Come on, lets get ya something good.” He says, dragging you the bar.

You follow him until you’re at the side of the counter closest to when you first came in.

You sigh, already dreading this night, when you overhear Sam ordering two shots of tequila and two lemons.

“Me and you, y/l/n.” He says, taking the glass from the cute bartender.

Sam hands you the shot and you both countdown together before taking it simultaneously. 

You chase it with the lemon, and okay yeah, you feel a little bit better.

“Glad we finally got ya out to a real bar.” Sam smiles.

You shrug.

“It’s been a while. Been busy trying to work, book places.”

“Oh, yeah, what is it that you do again?”

“I’m a singer, Sam. Whole reason I came from Ohio. Hello?”

He shoots you an infectious grin.

“I know, I’m just messing with you.”

You sigh. 

Sometimes you did feel like people forgot though, especially in a city with 8 million other people trying to reach the same dream as you.

You hang around your friends for a bit longer, finally, finally getting the opportunity to wish Nat a happy birthday.

It must’ve been about an hour now later and you’re glad that one girl was gone. 

Whoever she was.

“Is Bucky still coming?” Sam asks randomly out loud.

“He said he would get here as soon as he was done with his shift.” Steve mumbles, looking down at his phone, a glass filled with amber alcohol in his other hand.

“Shocked he’s taking so long. Wonder if he knows Aubrey is here.” Sam says.

“He’s an ass. And a whore. He knows.” Nat screams over to the guys.

You look over at Nat and Wanda and you see them already out of it giggling while looking at some guys’ Instagram feed.

“I’m gonna get another drink.” You announce.

“Hell yeah you are, y/l/n!” Sam yells with a wink.

Steve elbows him in the side.

“Stop peer pressuring her.” He says.

“I’m not, she just needs to let loose—“ he voice fades as you walk away. 

You sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted. You contemplated ordering some fries or maybe mozzarella sticks.

You fold your arms onto the cold counter, waiting for the bartender to give you his full attention. 

It takes a bit with the amount of people he’s serving along with the other bartender.

Finally he looks over at you and he smiles bright. 

God, so cute.

You lean your head on your hand.

“Hi, can I have a gin and tonic?”

He taps the table top.

“Sure thing.” You watch his arms flexing as he makes your drink. 

Mmm.

He slides it to you with a wink.

“You on a tab?”

You tell him Nat’s name and everything necessary and he nods. 

You sip your drink, letting the music drown and numb you along with the alcohol. Your finger trails the condensation on the glass gingerly.

“Hey, man.”

A soothing voice comes up next to you, greeting the bartender.

The bartender’s face lights up.

“No, way. Finally out of his damn shell.” The bartender greets him with a over hand handshake.

You slide over to the side a bit, giving them some space. 

The man next to you orders a drink, giving the bartender his card and requesting a tab.

You feel the heat of his presence as he leans on his own arms  over the counter right next to you, and you can’t help smelling the delicious smell of cologne wafting off his body. 

You don’t know if it’s the alcohol but you feel yourself biting on your bottom lip, and sticking your ass in the air, still dragging your hand up and down the glass. 

But this time on purpose.

It doesn’t work.

You look over to take a look at the man in question and you swoon.

His dark brown hair was begging to be pulled and he had the softest of scruff on his face. 

He wore a black leather jacket and jeans and shoes that looked way too expensive. 

You drag your eyes back up his body to see a smirk, and fuck, he’s looking straight at you.

Those eyes. They were so blue.

You blush faintly, turning back to your glass and taking another sip.

You know he’s still there, eyes stilling lingering on you.

He takes his drink and then clears his throat.

You’re expecting him to say something when he leaves.

Your smile fades and you feel a weird emptiness. Rejection? 

No that couldn’t be it. 

You’re finishing your drink when your eyes drift back up to your friends.

Sam, Steve, Wanda, and Nat are all smiling. 

But then Steve is smiling more and the commotion is even bigger as they spin around.

You perk a brow as you watch the man that was just next to you a few moments ago greet your friends.

Was that Bucky? The infamous asshole?

He was beautiful. 

Of course he was. 

You try to compose yourself before walking back over to your friends.

Sam looks at you disappointed, eyes darting to your empty hands.

“I thought you were getting a drink.”

“I already drunk it, dumbass.”

“Why drink there, drink here.”

You chuckle, your eyes darting to Bucky briefly who eyes you for a moment making a connection.

His friends were your friends too.

There was something strange the entire time, about the connection in the air between you two. 

It must’ve been the alcohol. He was way out of your league. 

But you didn’t understand the asshole your friends were talking about. Well, not that you really knew him that much anyway.

As you pretend to be intrigued in your conversation with Nat and Wanda, yours was actually focused on Bucky.

It’s like you both are playing a playful game of who can catch the other looking first. 

You find yourself licking your lip...twirling your hair around your finger…

You swear he’s staring at your finger. 

God, what was happening to you?

“Hey, babe!”

You heart Plummets into your stomach as you see the same girl from before (the one who spilled the drink on you) wrapping her arms around Bucky’s neck and oh yeah, she’s definitely sticking her tongue down his throat.

You feel your heart in your stomach and the strong taste of the gin in your mouth.

He pulls away with a moan and a slight grimace.

“Hey, Aubrey. What are you doing here?” 

His hands go to her arms, prying her off of him.

“I came with a few friends and ran into yours. You haven’t been answering any of my messages.”

“Yeah, we broke up, remember?”

Everyone’s attention is now to Bucky and Aubrey as they watch their interaction.

“But come on, just one more night, one more good fuck for all times sake.”

A heavy snicker leaves your throat, but you quickly try to disguise it by pretending to wipe your mouth. 

The girl’s head spins towards you and she peaking a brow at you.

She quickly ignores you and turns back to Bucky.

“Come on, Bucky.”

Bucky looks over it.

“Aubrey, Aubrey stop.” He says seriously.

She pulls back from him and they stare at each other for a moment longer before she scoffs and spins on her heel.

You turn away from the scene, suddenly needing another drink or at least some fresh air.

You settle for the latter, telling your friends you’d be right back.

You settle to lean back against the brick wall of the bar, taking in the sweet smell of a summer night.

The contrast of the silence outside felt amazing your ears, and the small amount of alcohol in your system only made it better.

You cursed yourself for being a horny little freak. But you chuckle to yourself as you pull out your phone. You couldn’t help that you needed physical attention.

You’re skimming through your emails when you feel someone next to you. You look up to see Bucky, his left shoulder leaning on the wall right next to you.

You find yourself smiling at his little smirk and you bite your bottom lip, looking away.

“You were trying to get my attention so bad before, and now you don’t want to talk?” He asks playfully.

You shake your head, but you still have a smile on your face.

You feel your cheeks grow hot.

“Wow, seriously?” “Am I wrong?”

You think about your answer as you continue to look through your emails, except at this point you were just trying to look like you were.

“No, but that was before I realized who you were.”

His smiled slides off slowly.

“What do you mean?” 

You finally decide to put your phone away and you spin around to look at him, now face to face.

The look in his eyes are intense and you find yourself blushing. You knew all these things about him, but yet he had this aura about him, almost like everyone else was wrong.

Your eyes dart from his eyes and to his lips.

“Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy.” You say quietly.

When he doesn’t say anything, you look back up until your eyes meet.

“Are they wrong?” He asks.

Your perk a brow at his answer.

“I—I don’t know.” 

He chuckles.

“Exactly.”

You nod, pushing yourself off the wall. You take a deep breath, looking at the people on the street.

“It’s getting late, I should get going.”

Bucky nods, still not moving from his spot.

“Okay, yeah.”

You stay glued to where you are, your eyes darting back to his.

“Yeah.” You repeat back.

You watch as the tip of his tongue licks his lips. You feel the heat in your core and you feel the heavy beating in your chest.

“Do you live close by?” He asks huskily, looking over your shoulder.

____

You don’t know how it happened, but one minute he had you up against the public hallway wall of your apartment building - where literally anyone could see you - and the next he was pushing your jeans passed down your hips in your living room.

You groaned as your lips connected again, and as you pulled on his hair again.

He cursed into your lips as he cupped your center, feeling how wet you already were for him. 

You whimpered as he rubbed small circles over your clit, before finally inserting his finger deep inside of you.

He pushed you down onto your bed, his left hand still fucking you. You lifted your left leg onto the bed and he groaned into your mouth as he quickened the pace of his hand. 

You threw your head back, moaning.

You felt your desire quickly dissipate as he pulled away from you.

Bucky chuckled at your whine, but your disappointment was short lived as your watched him pull his shirt and jeans off.  

You did the same with your own top and then your bra.

He was on you in a hot second, capturing your lips in a long kiss that had your toes curling against your blanket.

When he pulled away you were captivated by how delicious he looked. You also couldn’t help but swoon at the look he had in his eyes. 

Endearment? You weren’t sure.

Your fingers trail over the side of his face as he continues to stare down at you.

“I’m not the bad guy,” he kisses you. He slides into you with a grunt, “I swear, I’m not him.” He kisses you again.

Your hook your left leg over his hip, pulling him in deeper into your hot core.

You pull away from his mouth, your left hand going down to his stomach.

“Fuck. Fuck.” You pant heavily. It felt too good too fast and you know he felt it too as he stretched his forearms on either side of your head.

A long whimper leaves his lips as he sets a faster pace, fucking you into your bed.

He almost looses it completely when he feels you reaching down to rub at your clit, your fingers hitting the base of his cock and his little hairs.

You feel your pussy tightening around him and you know you’re so damn close.

“Yeah, come on, baby. That’s it.” He coaxes you, panting desperately into the crook of your neck.

You feel the fire burning in the pit of your tummy and you know that with a few more thrusts and a few more rubs on your clit that you were done for.

The sounds in your little apartment were filthy. You could hear his hips snapping against yours and both of your groans.

He slowed down his pace as you felt yourself come undone.

“Shit, I’m cumming.” You tell him through gritted teeth, your face only millimeters from his.

He has a wicked smirk on his face and some of his sweaty strands of hair stick to his forehead.

“Me too, fuck, I’m cumming, too.” He says.

You scream as you pulse around his hard cock, not missing the way his own eyes squeeze together, a strong grunt leaving his mouth.

His hips slow down to a stop and when you open your eyes again, he’s already staring down at you.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.” You say, running your hand through his hair.

Bucky chuckles as he leans forward to leave a kiss on your collarbone.

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone - Chapter 36

Title: Empty

Warnings: profanity, some angst

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @tragiclyhip, @miss-smutty, @alievans007​

He watches her as she stands in front of the Christmas tree; countless strings of light bathing pale, smooth skin in a multicoloured glow. She’s at her most beautiful during moments like this; enjoying silence and the relief and relaxation that comes with a warm and comfy house, clad in an oversized plaid nightshirt and her hair slightly damp from a much needed and deserved soak in the tub. She’s always been naturally beautiful; appearing much younger than her actual age and make up only taking away from her features instead of accenting or showcasing them. She’d been perfectly at home in Australia right from the start and had easily adapted to -and adopted- the casual ‘beach’ vibe; constantly bare foot and clad in tanks and shorts with wind swept hair and sun kissed cheeks and the hint of salt lingering on her skin.

While she’d been breathtaking from the very moment he’d laid eyes on her, she’s only become even more so over the years; his love for her growing with each passing day and bringing with it a new found wonderment for every inch of her. Body thicker now; cheeks rounder, breasts fuller, hips wider and curves in all the right places. It’s an appreciation made stronger by not only a strong and seemingly unbreakable bond, but a friendship as well; his truest and most loyal confidant and the keeper of his deepest and darkest secrets and his biggest and most fervent supporter. And the mother of his children. Willingly giving him the large brood that he so desperately had graved; selflessly sacrificing her own body and allowing it to become a safe haven for all the incredible little human beings that would grow and thrive inside of her. Watching someone grow bigger with your child and then become a mother brings on a whole new level of adoration and respect; putting them even higher on the pedestal that you long ago constructed for them.

Her body sways from side to side; slowly and rhythmically in an attempt to keep Tabby quiet and content. The baby had spent the better part of an hour extremely unsettled; fussy and irritable as she continued to fight sleep without the comfort of either parent. They’d offered to keep both children and Ovi and Riya had jumped at the chance; planning on coffee and dessert at an all night cafe close to their home in Queens. With two little ones and his hectic and overwhelming schedule at the hospital, it makes it nearly impossible for them to get any alone time together; much needed considering the several months of non stop wedding planning and the stress and headaches that had accompanied it. Ovi would return for his daughters -and for breakfast with the family- in the morning; Tabby accompanying him and Tanner to the American Museum of Natural History while Micki got to enjoy time with grandpa and lunch and a shopping spree at the American Doll store.

The time together as a family is rare; thousands of miles and a handful of different time zones separating them. Moving to New York City simply out of the question; neither Tyler or any of the kids fully able to get comfortable and happy in a much bigger and chaotic place. Australia is where their hearts are; their dream home tucked away at the end of a gravel street and accompanied by acres of both forest and beach. It’s quiet and it’s relatively secluded; giving him the privacy that he craves and the sense of the security that he needs in regards to his family. And while Esme had spent years living in the Big Apple and had loved her time there and once dreamed endlessly about going back and finding an area to settle down in, those feelings have long dissipated. Content with simply visiting a handful of times throughout the year; getting to experience the different seasons and enjoying the magic of a white Christmas and loving the convenience of being somewhere so vast and populated.

He had mentioned it a time or two; perhaps moving back to the States and calling the brownstone their permanent residence while using their home in Cooktown as their ‘getaway’ spot. But she’d vehemently argued against it; not keen on the idea of permanently living in her country of origin. Her happiness and her own sense of peace long ago settled Down Under; falling in love with the people and experiencing genuine awe and wonderment with every stunning sunset and brilliant sunrise. It’s where her heart is. Where it always HAS been. She left it behind years ago when they’d been forced to flee; her happiness lingering in that little two bedroom apartment that they’d called home. It hadn’t been much; the rooms shockingly small and filled with second hand furniture. But it’s where their love for each other had been fully discovered; getting to know each other -outside of sex- while he recovered from the wounds suffered in Dhaka and she’d been growing and nurturing their child inside of her.

Most of all, he’d enjoyed having her -the love of his life- in his homeland; marvelling at how she so effortlessly blended in, proud of how not only the locals so willingly and easily accepting and falling in love with her, but how she handled being thousands of miles away from her own home. Although he was -and still is- notoriously private and withdrawn, she made acquaintances so easily; Aussies quickly drawn to that bubbly personality and that cheerful and positive outlook on life despite everything she’d been through. She’d taken the place by storm; falling in love with her new life and thriving in the environment and getting up every day ready to tackle the mountain of change just dropped into her lap. Her dreams still haunted by what had taken place in Bangladesh, but her heart still so open and accepting; taking every opportunity to explore everything around her and quickly returning to loving life and everything in it. And even on the hardest of days, she’d never fail to make him smile. The way she’d giggle when learning all the slang words or how her nose would crinkle in disgust and she’d give a long, drawn out ‘ewwww’ whenever he attempted to turn her into a Vegemite lover. The fascination in her eyes whenever they’d hit up a zoo or a wildlife reserve and she’d get to come face to face with some of Australia’s most famous of creatures; crying when she got to hold an orphaned koala and then staring in absolute amazement when a kangaroo Joey hopped over and ate goodies straight out of her hand. Even at the beach she was like a little kid on Christmas morning; not quite enjoying the feeling of the sand between her toes, but marvelling at the expanse of the ocean and the way the sunlight sparkled on the water.

Even now she remains in awe of the life she’d been given; he still sees that disbelief that captures her face during a particularly stunning sunset. Mesmerized -and even moved to tears- by the colours; vivid shades of purple, pink and orange. Always expressing how grateful she is. In awe that she’d been given such an amazing opportunity; an incredible life in a beautiful place with someone that loves and worships her and children that absolutely adore her.

He doesn’t speak as he joins her; placing both hands on her shoulders and pressing a kiss to the back of her head. He savours the moment. Eyes closed and his palms running up and down her arms; face buried in her hair as he deeply inhales the familiar yet still alluring scent that clings to those dark, damp tresses. And with a peck to the cheek he steps alongside of her; hand moving to her shoulder as he tucks her tightly into her side.

“She okay?”

Esme nods, then smiles down at the little one resting along her arm. Still fighting sleep but quiet and content; snuggled tightly into her grandmother’s chest and wrapped tightly in Addie’s well loved blanket. “She is now. You just had a bit of a hard time, didn’t you Tabby. You were just missing momma.”

He moves his hand down and settles it on her hip. Reaching across her with the other, a callused palm rests gently on the top of the baby’s head; his thumb smoothly and repeatedly brushing against her brow. Tabby gives a content sigh and long yawn in response; enormous brown eyes -constantly fluttering as they continue their valiant battle to stay open- staring up at him.

Esme tugs the faded and tattered blanket upwards, smoothing it around Tabby's tiny body.

“Everyone asleep?”

“The oldest are still awake. I told them to keep it down. So they wouldn’t wake the littles up. I might have threatened them a couple times; told them I’d take their tablets away AND throw them...the kids...not the iPads...out into the snow.”

“Might work for a little bit. I think they’re used to you by now ; they know daddy is full of empty threats.”

“Guess it will really shock the shit out of them when I finally do act on it and out they go.”

“I’ll see it when I believe it. I’ll probably be the one that snaps first and DOES offer them as sacrifices to the sharks.”

“That threat held in there longer than I thought it would. We still have three that fall for it.”

“Let’s hope it continues for a little while more. She’s perfect, isn’t she?” Esme muses, beaming down at the baby and then up at him. “Absolutely perfect.”

“She is,” he agrees, and places a lingering kiss to his wife’s temple.

“And so beautiful,” she looks down at their granddaughter once more. “Just like her mommy.”

“And like her grandma.”

She gives a quiet laugh and looks up at him. It’s always there; all that love and adoration and pride that she possesses for him. It never fails to make his breath catch; overwhelmed by the amount of blind faith and trust that she holds for him. “As much as I appreciate you feeding my ego, that compliment would only work if we were biologically related.”

“Doesn’t matter, babe. You’re beautiful. And I love you. So fucking much.”

“Christmas time always gets you right in the feels, doesn’t it,” she teases, and then moves to stand in front of him; body pressed tightly into his and the back of her head resting against his chest.

“Not just Christmas lately. A lot of things, it seems.”

“I like it. When you’re sweet and sappy.” She tilts her head back to look up at him, a soft smile curving her lips. “And adorable.”

“You know, I SHOULD divorce you for that. Of all the insults you’ve hurled at me…”

“I swear you’d rather me call you a dick head or a shit for brains. Accept it, you’re adorable. You will never, EVER, change my mind. And divorce me? You’d never. You’d miss me way too much. You’d miss me and all my bullshit.”

“I actually would. Would you miss mine? All my crap?”

“I don’t know about that. You CAN be really tiring.”

He frowns.

“I’m kidding. I would take every single ounce of your bullshit over not having you around. You’re relatively tame, considering. Everything you've been through? All the shit handed to you since you were a kid? You could be A LOT worse.”

“That’s a compliment, yeah? I THINK that’s a compliment.”

“It definitely is. When I think about what you've been through? From the time you were little until now? It’s remarkable. That you’re as normal and sane as you are.”

Smirking, he leans down to press a kiss to the tip of her nose. “Did you really put me and normal and sane in the same sentence?”

“Considering what your father did to you, being in the army and out there in war zones, AND being a mercenary? Babe, you’re lucky to be how you are. You realize that, right? That you could be SO much worse. You could have totally gone in another direction; when it comes to your personal life. You could have easily turned out violent and aggressive and a complete prick. You know how many times I saw that? You know how many mercenaries I came in contact that were horrible, horrible people? Ninety nine percent of them. You? You were...ARE...a total study in contradiction.”

“I guess I never thought about it that way. How much worse things could be. I could be.”

“You could have turned out to be the worst case scenario. You could have been one those that actually LOVED killing other people. Just thrived and got off on the violence and the bloodshed. You could have turned out to be like Gaspar.”

“That’s a little...unsettling.”

“Right? He was nuts. A total sociopath. Look how quick he was to backstab you! Someone he’d known for years! Someone who’d saved his life! He was ready to kill you. To get to me and Ovi. All because you WEREN’T like him. And don’t even get me started on that whole killing doves thing. DOVES. The bird of peace! What the hell kind of person kills THEM?”

“A pretty messed up one.”

“My point exactly. He WAS messed up. Huge. And you could have so easily gone that way. Especially hanging around him. Having him for a friend? That could have been bad news.”

“First off, he wasn’t really what I’d call a friend. It's not like I saw him outside of work. I never visited him, he never visited me, we never talked on the phone or texted or anything like that. Any interaction I had with him was done on the job. And when I WAS around him? I was drunk. That’s what we had in common. Getting wasted.”

“The way he acted and the way he talked, you would have thought you’d been friends since the two of you were in diapers. I still can’t believe he screwed you like he did. You SAVED his ass. And that’s how repays you? Like what the hell?”

“Babe, it’s a long time ago. And yeah, it sucks. It was a bitch move on his part. But I was never, EVER, going to go along with what he wanted.”

“I only asked that once. Five years ago. If you even considered it for a second. I never meant to suggest you were that person Tyler. And I still feel like shit for that. I never meant to hurt you. And I know what I said did. And I’m still sorry I ever said it.”

“Trust me, there’s a long list of things I’m sorry for. Things that I kick myself in the ass for every day. I regret EVER taking you and the kid there.”

“You were just doing what you thought was best. We didn’t really have options, did we. There was really nowhere else for us to go. No way you could have known what he was going to do. It’s not your fault, Tyler. The way things ended up. I’ve never blamed you for any of it.”

“I know.” Curling his arm around her waist, he drops a kiss on the top of her head. “Let’s stop this where it is, yeah? There’s no need to talk about it. It was thirteen years ago almost. And I know you’re still pissed and you’re having a hard time getting over some of the stuff that happened. I get it. There’s still shit that bothers me. But can we at least let it lie for now? Until we get home? And bring this all up at therapy? That’s the place it needs to be brought up, don’t you think?”

“You’re right. This is definitely not the place and certainly not the time. Not when I’ve got this little sweetie with me.” She smiles down at the baby in her arms; body commencing its slow and smooth swaying. And she places a hand on Tabby’s stomach; all five fingers immediately curling around one of hers. “He did good, huh? Ovi?”

Tightening his hold on her, he rests his chin on the top of her head. “He did real good. He’s come a long way that’s for sure.”

“He really has. He’s a man now. With his own family. He’s going to be a DOCTOR. Sometimes it seems like just yesterday; trying to keep him calm in that factory in Dhaka. Now he’s living in Queens and he’s got a soon to be wife and two beautiful little girls. How did that happen? How did he grow up so fast? It’s like I blinked and he went from boy to man.”

“It’s been almost thirteen years, Me. As hard as that is to believe. And a lot’s happened in that thirteen years.”

“You’re not kidding me. If someone had told me, when I walked out of your place, that you were going to go from being my fake husband to my real one? I would have told them they were nuts. That was so not on my radar; getting into a serious relationship, never mind MARRYING someone.”

He nuzzles the tip of his nose against her ear, then presses a kiss to the lobe. “I knew it. You really did just want me for my body. Sex. That’s all I was to you. A piece of ass.”

“Maybe at first,” she admits, and then giggles when he playfully nips at the side of her neck. “But somewhere between the third and sixth orgasm, I realized that hey, maybe there IS something to be had out of all this.”

“So basically you came to that on the first day. Because if I do remember correctly, we didn’t just get down to business once. And you were on your fifth orgasm by the second round, so…”

“I realized very quickly that there was something different about you. Something that you didn’t let many people see. You weren’t like anyone I’d ever met on the job. Especially other mercenaries. You were special, Tyler Rake. I recognized that pretty early on.”

“Man, your standards really WERE low.”

“My standards happened to be very high, thank you very much. Which is why I went on my eighteen month sexual sabbatical after Mark. So what does that tell you? You had to do something awesome to get me to break. And you broke me right quick, let me tell you. I actually thought maybe you would break me a couple times, actually. Physically speaking.”

“You shocked me. That someone so tiny could take so much. From a guy so much bigger. You weren’t scared? Not once? Not even when I grabbed you by the neck?”

“Nope. I’ve never had a reason to be scared of you. Not even back then. I saw it in your eyes; you weren’t trying to hurt me. You were trying to protect yourself. You didn’t want me getting too close. And you didn’t want to feel anything. YOU were the one that was scared..”

“I was,” he admits. “It scared the hell out of me. That I WAS feeling things for you. Especially that quick. I never thought it was possible. To be that into someone so fast. Always thought was bullshit when I heard people talk about it. Then I met you. All five foot nothing and a buck twenty soaking wet. And boy did you turn my world upside down.”

She smiles and turns her face into his, tip of her nose pressed into the side of his. “In all the best ways though, right?”

“Nothing but the best, Me. Smartest thing I ever did? Agree to that job.”

“I told Ovi the same thing tonight. That it was the smartest decision I’ve ever made. I mean, it was crazy and it was weird and it was twisted, but it led me somewhere...and to SOMEONE...so beautiful and amazing. I don’t regret a single second, Tyler. Or any of the decisions I made. It was the best thing I ever did. YOU’RE the best thing I ever did.”

A grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Are we talking just sexually or…?”

She laughs. “You totally blew it out of the water. Sexually speaking. And you continue to you ALL the time. But I mean in EVERY way. You’re everything I could have ever asked for. In a best friend, a partner, a husband, a baby daddy. You just came into my life and everything changed. I changed. It’s all been worth it. Even the bad times.”

“You know how you always say I have a habit of making you cry at the holidays? You're giving me a run for my money.”

“Even men deserve to hear all that mushy stuff. No matter how big and strong and how bad ass they are. And you, husband, re very big and strong and bad ass. And I love every damn inch of you.”

“Baby, I love you.” Tears sparkle in his eyes as he presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose. “And thank you; I DID need to hear all that.”

“I should tell you more often. And I would. If I wasn’t afraid your head would get too big to fit through the door.”

“Always following up the corny shit with some shitty, smart ass comment. That’s my girl,” He slides his hand under the bottom of his shirt and traces a fingertip around her navel; chuckling when she shivers against him and shoves his hand away.

For several minutes they stand in silence; his arm once more wrapped tightly around her waist and her head resting back against his chest. Both watching the child being rocked in her arms, his hand seemingly even larger and more powerful as it rests upon the baby’s coal black hair; thumb continuing to brush across her forehead.

“Look at the way she watches you.” Esme says. “Look how big her eyes are. How they’re sparkling. What is what with you and babies? They always love you. Our babies could NEVER get enough of you.”

“I don’t know. Voice, maybe?”

“Could be. When you’re not pissed off about something and you’re totally relaxed and comfortable, it’s so deep and so soothing. Soft, even. I used to think about that all the time in Dhaka; how your voice would seem so different when we were in bed together and having those late night chats. YOU’D seem different, actually. You were so calm and you completely let your guard down and you were so...I don’t know...different. You weren’t the guy you were when we were out on the street. Not that there was anything wrong with THAT guy. That guy was insanely sexy and man, could rail me like no other. Just the other guy? The calmer one? He really set the bar high.”

“And now?”

“You’re still him. You’re still Tyler. You still have all the different sides and I still love them. I love them more and more every day.”

“How much have you had to drink tonight? Because I know you can be sappy, but you’re even sappier than usual.”

“I barely had any. I don’t even have the slightest buzz going on. I’m just feeling sentimental, I guess. Seeing how good Ovi is with Riya and the girls and finally coming to terms with him being a daddy and someone’s soon to be husband. It’s just brought up a lot of things. A lot of GOOD things. When it comes to us.”

“Like?”

“Just how we were when we first started out. When we first got married and I was having Millie and we’re living in that little apartment. You were still recovering and still had quite the road ahead of you, but just got your shit together and stood up. You were so good, Tyler. At everything. No matter how much pain you were in or how much you were struggling mentally to get over things. You just shelved your shit so you could be there for me. And our baby.”

“All that mattered to me was you. And our daughter. That’s it.”

“And you showed it. Time and time again. Best damn lamaze partner and labour coach EVER.”

“Even if I almost DID faint?”

“Even then. You were awesome. You were such a good daddy to be. You were so in awe of the whole thing. The way you’d always touch my belly and you’d read surfing magazines to her and you’d go out at three in the morning to get me fast food or ice cream. You never even complained. Well, maybe when you were in the car you did.”

“Honestly? No. I was just so fucking happy to be getting the chance to have another kid that I was enjoying every second. I wasn’t going to take anything for granted. Even middle of the night Maccas runs.”

“I mean it, you know. When I say I couldn’t have asked for a better father for my children. You’ve been incredible. Right from the start. I lucked out, that’s for sure.”

“I don’t know, Me. I think I got you beat in that department. Luck.”

“How about we both agree that we’re lucky? That we BOTH bring some amazing things to the table.”

“I don’t know…”

“We BOTH lucked out. Big time. We definitely both upgraded. From our first marriages.”

“We can definitely agree on that. I certainly made the right decision. When I got up the balls to ask you to marry me. Even if it was in the bathroom.”

“It was perfect. For us.”

“You know what else is perfect? Seeing you with her. Our granddaughter. Makes me think of all the times with our babies. Watching you with them. Thinking how beautiful it was. Being just so in awe of you. Is it wrong I kind of miss it? You with a baby? Even you pregnant?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Not wrong at all. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it. I mean, I always had issues, but I actually liked being pregnant. I liked watching my body change; my hair thickening and darkening and my boobs and my butt getting bigger.”

He grins and pecks her ear. “That last part was DEFINITELY my favourite.”

“And feeling them move inside of me. I didn’t matter how many times I went through it; it was always so amazing and beautiful to feel them. And you’d always get that dorky smile. That one that’s reserved solely for expectant dads. The one that says ‘hey, look what I did!’. You know, I should have had a t-shirt made for you. With those words on it. And an arrow pointing at my belly.”

“I would have worn it, too. Like I wear that Super Sperm every now and then.”

“I can NOT believe you do that,” she laughs. “It was meant as a joke. Not for you to wear it and be proud of it!”

“But I am proud of it. Of my accomplishment. I knocked you up FIVE times. A total of SEVEN babies. That’s some fucking skill, Me.”

“I don’t know if your boys are skilled or just plain lucky, but I’ll let you have it. Your pride in your handiwork. Congratulations, honey. You came inside of me. Quite the feat.”

“Listen smart ass,” he playfully pinches the sensitive area below her right rib cage. “Can’t you just let me have this? Can’t I have my moment? Those kids are the best thing I’ve ever done. Other than their mum, of course. She’s my favourite thing I’ve ever done.”

“You never miss the opportunity to be dirty do you. I do miss it, you know. Being pregnant, having a baby in the house. It’s kind of bittersweet; knowing it won’t happen again. I spent the better part of seven years pregnant. Starting with Millie and ending with the twins. We had seven kids in a VERY short period of time. It’s kinda hard to get used to; not having an infant or two around.”

“I mean, it COULD happen. We could both get things reversed and just hope for the best.”

“I don’t know if I can do it. If my body can even handle that. I think I’m babied out. As sad as that makes me to admit.”

“We could get a surrogate.”

“That’s a no from me. I know it’s an amazing thing and I admire the women who do it. I really do. But I do NOT like the idea of you having a baby with another woman.”

“You realize I don’t actually get to fuck them, right? I don’t get to actually enjoy the baby making process?”

“Of course I realize that. I just don’t like that idea. I’m not comfortable with it. Your sperm in someone else. Even if it WAS put there by a turkey baster.”

“A turkey baster?” He chuckles. “Is that seriously how it’s done? I do my thing into a cup and…?”

“I don’t know. Something like that I guess. I just can’t deal with that. The thought of your stuff inside of some other woman. Sounds stupid, right? Tell me it’s stupid. That I’m being totally irrational.”

“Actually, I get it. I understand where you’re coming from. If I couldn’t pitch in, I wouldn’t want some guy’s sperm being put into you.”

“Oh it wouldn’t just be put in me. I’d totally sleep with him.”

Tyler scowls. “Excuse me?”

“I’m kidding! You know I’m kidding! Baby, there is no other guy in this world I want to sleep with. You’re the only one I want to do those things with. Why turn around and settle for less when I already have the best? When I’m already married to someone that’s walking sex. A God among men. Only you, Tae. You’re the only one I want to sleep with.”

“Yeah?” He presses a series of kisses along the outer edge of her hair, followed by the length of her jaw. “You want to sleep with me tonight?”

She grins, then sighs when his teeth nip at the side of her throat. “I want to do A LOT of things with you tonight.”

“Oh really? Well in that case…” he places a kiss on her temple, lips lingering as his hand once more slips up the front of her shirt; fingertips grazing along the smooth skin just above the waistband of her pyjama pants. “...maybe we should close the house up for the night and go upstairs.”

“I think that’s a very good idea. Tell you what, I’ll lock everything up and set the alarms. You take your granddaughter and put her to bed. I already set the playpen up for her. In the den.”

“You already have her. Why don’t you do it?”

“Because you have a knack of getting babies off to sleep. You’re a natural. And besides, you doing the whole big, strong man with a baby thing? It totally turns me on.”

“Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” He gently and carefully removes the baby from her arms. Holding Tabby tightly to his chest; a forearm under her bum and a hand on the back of her head.

“Very nice,” Esme enthuses. “Is it wrong that I’m wet for you already?”

He leans in to kiss her. “You’re dirty.”

She lays a hand on the side of his face, and kisses him eagerly in return, pausing when she giggles into his mouth. “You have that effect on me.”

******

“Adoption.”

His voice rumbles deep in his chest; reverberating against her back and tearing her away from the edge of sleep. Their love making had been a welcome change from the nights past. A bruising and punishing pace exchanged for something much slower and attentive; slow, deep thrusts that kept her whimpering in delight and her nails clawing at his back shoulders. Long and languid kisses; little pecks interspersed with the movement of closed mouth upon closed and followed by greedy yet explorative tongues. The degrading names and the filthy words replaced by whispered praises and declarations of love; her cheek cradled in the palm of his hand as he gazed down at her with so much admiration and adoration that it both brought tears to her eyes and took her breath away.

She’d been enjoying the sensation of his naked and sweat slicked body pressed against hers. Her back against the muscled and solid expanse of his chest and one of his thighs wedged between both of hers; a forearm stretched across her pillow and her head resting in the crook of his elbow. A large, strong hand hovering near her stomach; calloused fingertips tracing slow and intricate patterns on the skin. Her body completely sated and so relaxed and secure in his arms that sleep had come on quickly; encouraged by the soft breath that tickled the back of her neck and fluttered her hair.

“It’s what we should do,” he continues, as his index finger draws continuous circles around her navel. “Adopt.”

“Are you seriously back to thinking about that?

“Back to thinking about it? I haven’t STOPPED thinking about it.”

Esme frowns. “You were thinking about adoption while we were…?”

“Not WHILE we were. I did stop for THAT. I do have to concentrate more now, you know. I’m getting old.”

“Oh please…” Esme rolls her eyes. “...how many times have we had sex? In almost thirteen years? You could be fully comatose and still get things done. Muscle memory and all that. And you are NOT getting old. What’s the saying ? You’re only as old as you feel?”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? ‘Cause I feel like I’m ninety.”

“You have just as much stamina and enthusiasm now as you did when we met. If not MORE. You’re hardly getting old. What’s gotten into you lately? You’ve been talking about the weirdest things. Getting married again, having another baby, adopting a kid. Are you okay, honey? You don’t seem okay.”

“I’m pretty far from okay. I thought we established that a few days ago.”

“OTHER than that. What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing. Nothing is going on with me. It’s just things I’ve been thinking about. Things I want to do. With you.”

She rolls over onto her other side, settling her head on his bicep as she faces him. “Are you going through a midlife crisis? Is that what’s going on here? Last month, you went and got a motorcycle after I finally caved. You went back out into the field. You’ve started talking about wanting to renew our vows and how we could get things reversed and have another baby. Now you’re onto adoption. Is that what all this is? A midlife crisis?”

“No. It’s not. No one lives to be ninety four.”

“A LOT of people live to be ninety four, thank you very much.���

“Well I hate to break it to you, but I won’t be one of them. And nothing’s gotten into me and I’m not going through any kind of crisis. It’s just things that I have on my mind. That I’d like to do with you.”

“Well the baby thing is off the list. I can’t go through the whole process of having things reversed and MAYBE getting pregnant. There’s no guarantee I would and I honestly don’t think my body can handle it again. I had problems with EVERY pregnancy. And each time things got worse and worse. Do we really want to take that chance? That I do get pregnant and something horrible goes wrong?”

“Nothing went wrong with Takota and Brookie. It was the best pregnancy you had. I mean, you had the cramping and the bleeding in the first three months, but after that…”

“They each weighed eight pounds. Or close to it. They were BIG babies for twins. Do you want to take that chance again? That we’d have another set?”

“I highly doubt we would. That seems pretty unlikely.”

“We thought having a second set would be unlikely. But it happened. I had all kinds of problems with Addie; I almost lost her twice and she was early and so tiny when she finally came. I gave birth to Declan on our living room floor. And don’t get me started about TJ and Tanner. Because that was a nightmare. I can’t do it again, Tyler. I just can’t. I can’t put myself through that; procedures to reverse everything and then getting pregnant and something going wrong. I just can’t.”

“Okay, so we don’t go that way. We adopt. It’s not like we can’t afford it.”

“What is going on with you? I used to think it was a breeding kink. And I was more than happy to go along with it and I figured you’d just grow out of it. Now I’m starting to think it’s something more than that. What is your issue? About needing so many offspring? How come every time we agree to stop, you change your mind a few months or a couple years later?”

“I don’t HAVE an issue. Maybe I just like having kids with you. Having a big family. What’s wrong with that? It’s what we wanted, isn’t it? What we agreed on.”

“We agreed on three. Then you changed your mind and talked me into it and we settled on four. I lost one and then we split up and one of our little hookups ending up with me getting pregnant with Declan. He was supposed to be the last. That was it.. And low and behold…”

“I changed my mind and we had Addie.”

“And then Kota and Brookie. Even though we BOTH swore up and down that Peanut would be very last. You even went and got a vasectomy. Didn’t exactly work, did it.”

“That was totally my fault and I owned it.”

“We have our big family. Way bigger than either of us really ever planned on. And now you’re talking about more? This is when we’re supposed to start really enjoying each other. All of our kids are in school; we have the entire house to ourselves. We should be capitalizing on that. Going places together; out to lunch or taking those road trips we like we used to or even spending time on the beach. You can try to teach me to surf. AGAIN. Now that you’re home more…”

“That’s just it, Me. I’M home more. Not you. Me. I spend ninety nine percent of my time working from home. That’s what YOU wanted. You didn’t want me going out anymore; you wanted me home and running the business and not going out there and getting my hands dirty. I gave you what you wanted, didn’t I?”

She frowns. “I thought we both wanted that. We AGREED on it. You even said yourself that it was the best decision you could have made. Considering how long you had to rehab for and the little setbacks and the complications and having to get your knee redone. You admitted that you would never have been able to go back out. At least not at the frequency and the pace you were used to.”

“I did. I DID say that. And I meant it. I CAN’T keep going the way I was. I’m nowhere near the same guy I was thirteen years ago. Or even five years ago; before Nathan got his fucking hands on me. I CAN’T do it anymore; not full time anyway. My body can’t take it. Neither can my brain. And that’s the one I worry about the most.”

It’s a bitter pill to swallow: admitting aloud that you’re nowhere near the person you’d been not even a decade ago. That you just don’t have it in you anymore; physical and mental exhaustion finally getting the better of you. And he is better behind the scenes; he enjoys running things and being the one to delegate and the guy that others look to for answers and help. But it’s still a kick in the gut. Admitting that you just can’t do it anymore.

“But I thought being home almost all the time meant getting to spend more time with you,” he continues. “That’s what I thought would happen. I thought we WOULD get a chance to enjoy being around one another more. Because you know what? I genuinely like being around you. I WANT to be around you. I want us to go places together and do things with one another. And that’s not what happened, did it. When I agreed to this whole bookstore thing. When I bought you that place.”

It had been a tenth anniversary gift; the purchase of the building and the help of both a contractor and a designer to make her vision -her dream- come to life. And it’s flourished; the locals falling in love with Esme and the business and making it far more successful than she could have ever imagined it would be. And while he’s proud of her and the success that she’s achieved and would never stop supporting her, it has come with its downside. There’s been moments of animosity towards the business itself; never expecting that it would eat up so much time or her time and take her away from him. He'd certainly never expected to miss her THAT much; hating the loneliness of a completely empty house and the mere absence of her voice. And it isn’t so much the intimacy that he longs for. The sex and the moments of more innocent displays of affection; walking along the beach with their arms around each other, the kisses while standing in the surf, holding hands while walking through the town. It’s the friendship. The laughs they have together when he’s attempting -yet again- to teach her surf and the conversations over lunch on the back deck and the road trips they take; either making a picnic the night before or simply grabbing food at a drive thru and then just driving with no set destination. Listening to her singing along to the radio and laughing when she dances in her seat or even letting her talk him into a silly and childish game of ‘eye spy’. And that little shriek and giggle she gives when she sticks her arm out the window; the accompanying breeze both startling her and tickling her skin. He enjoys those moments with her. Not just his wife and the mother of his children, but his best friend. His confidant. His most loyal and steadfast supporter. The keeper of his deepest and darkest secrets.

“I just thought we’d have more time,” he adds. “Together. That me stepping back and being a boss meant that we would get a chance to be with another more. Especially when all the kids ended up in school.”

“And I agreed that I’d cut back. I’ve already adjusted the schedule and everyone has stepped up and are more than willing to take on extra hours. Xavier was more than willing to take on a management role; I gave him more hours, benefits, a business account he can use for meals and gas costs. I’ve already taken care of all of that. Just like you asked me. Like you wanted.”

“I wanted you to want it too. I wanted you to want that time with me.”

“And I DO want that time with you. Have you ever thought maybe I felt being home more somehow hindered you? That maybe I’d be a distraction? That you’d put off work in favor of catering to me? I didn’t want to get in your way, Tyler. I know how important the business is. How well it’s doing. And I didn’t want to feel like I was taking you away from it and making you neglect things.”

“Why didn’t you just TELL me that? Why didn’t you let me know you were feeling that way?”

She shrugs. “I didn’t want to come across as whiny and needy. You’re running a company. A very successful one. I didn’t want to hinder that.”

“Baby, you could never hinder it. Or be a distraction. Well, unless you’re coming into the gym in the middle of a work out and you’re only wearing a bathing suit or a bathrobe with nothing underneath. Then you are DEFINITELY a distraction.”

“I’ve been good lately. I’ve held off. If I’m horny and don’t want to handle things myself, I don’t come in until you’ve got at least an hour and a half in. Isn’t the last thirty minutes to an hour cardio? Well I show up, offer you sex, and then you don’t have to go on the treadmill or the rowing machine or use the assault bike.”

Grinning, he uses two fingertips to clear her hair away from her face , tucking wayward strands behind. “So THAT’S your game plan. You’re an evil genius, you know that?”

“I know how much you hate standard cardio. How the rowing machine makes your back act up and that running on the treadmill bothers your knees. So I figure why not offer myself up? Spare your body any future agony. And if we go really hardcore at it, it’s DEFINITELY better than any other form of cardio out there.”

“You think so do you? Did you read that somewhere? Google it?”

“I DID google. It was actually in a highly respected and esteemed publication, I’ll have you know.”

“Cosmopolitan is NOT a highly respected and esteemed publication. No matter what you think.”

“I don’t know, their sex advice is pretty damn good. I’ve used a few of those things. You never complained, that’s for sure.”

“Which tricks? What did you try on me?”

“I refuse to give away all my secrets. But you enjoyed them. Very much. And sometimes you even ask me to do them again. How long have you been feeling this way? Like I’m neglecting you? Neglecting US?”

“I didn’t say you were neglecting anything.” Combing his fingers through her hair, he cups the back of her head in his palm and places a kiss on her brow. “I just…”

“It’s neglect. Let’s not sugar coat it. I put my business before you. Before us. And I never meant to, Tyler. Other than our children, there is nothing or no one more important than our marriage and you. I just didn’t want to get in your way. Honest. That’s all it was about. I wasn’t staying away because I wanted to. Or because I didn’t want to spend time with you. It was never about that. It was never about you. And I’m sorry. That I made you feel you were being put second. I never meant to make you feel that way.”

“And I never meant to make you feel you were going to get in the way. I didn’t even realize I WAS making you that way. I guess we haven’t made as much progress as we thought. In the past five years.”

“Are you kidding? We are totally different people. Separately AND together. We’re stronger. Our marriage is better. We hardly fight anymore. And when we do it doesn’t get nearly as heated and ugly as it used to. We’re able to calm ourselves down and not let things get out of hand. We HAVE come a long way. And I see that every day. You must see it too.”

“I do. But we still got work to do. We’re still lacking a bit on the whole communication thing.”

“It is one of our weak spots,” she admits. “But we’ll just keep working at it. Reminding ourselves that we can and WILL do better. I don’t want us going back to how we were.”

“Trust me, that is the LAST thing I want. I like where we are now. And I like that we still keep working on things. I’m proud of us, Me. And you. I’m proud of you.”

Smiling, she lays a hand on the side of his face and kisses him; long and soft and sweet. “And you call me sappy. Is that why you got onto this wanting another baby stuff? Because me being pregnant meant I’d be home more?”

“I guess so. I don’t know. Maybe it’s part of it. But there’s more to it. The way I’m feeling. I don’t even know how to describe it. I just know what it feels like.”

“You want to try telling me? What’s going on with you? You know you don’t have to keep this shit from me, right? That you can tell me ANYTHING?”

“I do. I DO know that. But that’s the thing, Me. I want to tell you. I just don’t know how to. Because I can’t even make sense of it. So how are you supposed to?”

“Try me. Just talk. Don’t even think about it. Just say whatever pops into your head.”

“That could be dangerous you know. Aren’t we supposed to be working on me trying to get some of my filter back?”

“Baby, you wouldn’t be you if you had a filter. It’s been almost thirteen years. I’m used to you. Just say whatever you need to say. Nothing could possibly shock me. Or offend me.”

Sighing heavily, he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against hers; fingers buried in her hair and gently kneading at her scalp. She gives him time; patiently waiting for an often confused and muddled mind to not only put the bits and pieces together, but for him to find a way to adequately express them. It’s part of the brain injury; the minutes he’d spent deprived of oxygen when he’d coded twice in the operating room. It brings with it a wide variety of issues that can go radio silent for weeks, months, and sometimes even YEARS at a time; short term memory issues, problems controlling and expressing emotions, lack of impulse control, bouts of confusion and an increased temper and sexual drive. And she knows how frustrating it is for him; those times he struggles to concentrate on even the simplest of tasks and conversations or he forgets what he did half an hour before or can’t recall something she told him ten minutes before leaving the house. And when he takes in another sigh -longer and shakier than the one previous- she pushes her hand into his hair and presses a kiss to the bridge of his nose.

“It’s okay.” Her voice is calm, quiet, and patient. Nails lightly and briefly scratching at the back of his head before her hand moves to the nape of his neck. “Take your time. There’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere, babe.”

She can tell by the way his shoulders tense and his nostrils flare that he’s struggling; desperately trying to piece everything together and express exactly what he’s feeling. And her heart aches for him; this strong, powerful, BEAUTIFUL man continuing to be tortured by a troubled past. He’ll never be able to fully shed the memories of Dhaka; the brain injury and its side effects and the numerous scars permanent reminders of the hell he’d been through.

“You okay?” Her hand once more moves back into his hair, gently tugging at the longer strands. “You doing alright?”

Nodding, he clears his throat noisily and opens his eyes. “I love you. And my kids. So fucking much.”

“I know you do, Tyler. I never doubt that.”

“I need you to hear it. I need you to KNOW it. Because I don’t want you taking what I say next out of context. Because it’s probably not going to come out the way I want it to. The way I MEAN it to.”

“I know you love us. I’ve never once doubted that. Just say what you have to say. No getting upset, no judging you, no taking offence. I promise. Just tell me.”

“When I met you, I had nothing. Inside of me. I was empty. And you came along and you filled most of that up. Very quickly. And then we had Millie and we started having more kids and adding to our family and each time we did, more and more places inside of me started filling up. Am I making any sense? I hope this is making sense.”

“It is,” Esme assures him. “Total sense.”

“And it should be completely filled, yeah? That emptiness? You’d think between you and seven kids and the fact we have this incredible life and all this money and two beautiful homes that there’d be nothing left to fill. But there is. And I don’t know why. I don’t know why I can’t fill that last piece. There’s this hole. In my heart. And I can’t find the piece that fits it. No matter how hard I try.”

“So you thought another baby would fill it? Be the answer?”

“A baby of our own, adopting, going back into the field. I guess I thought one of those three would be the answer. That one of them would do the trick.”

“You realize NONE are the answer, right? That none of those things are what you’re really looking for?”

“That’s just it, Me. I don’t know what I’m looking for. But whatever it is, it’s out there but I can’t find it. And I’m not saying this to hurt you or make you feel like you failed in some way. Because you haven’t. It’s not about you. Or our kids. Because I love you; with everything I am and everything I have. None of this is about you.”

“I know. I’m not upset or hurt. I know you love me. You show me and tell me all the time. When did this start? Feeling like this?”

“Couple months ago, I guess. Four at the most.”

“Right around the anniversary of Austin’s death?”

“Yeah...maybe...I don’t know…” The mere mention of his son causes tears to fill his eyes and a lump of emotion to settle in his throat. “...I guess that could have done it.”

“Baby, it’s okay to grieve. It’s okay to still be heartbroken.”

“It’s been seventeen years.”

“There’s no time limit on these things. I still miss my dad. A hell of a lot. Every day something happens where I’m reminded of him. One of the kids will do something and I’ll think about how I wish I could just call him and tell him about it. Or send him pictures of them. Or videos of Millie doing her MMA stuff or TJ scoring goals in lacrosse or Addie at dance recitals in her cute little outfits. It hurts like hell when I realize I can’t share those things with him. When I think about everything he’s missed and how much he’d love those kids. And you. I don’t think it ever really goes away. Grief. I think it’s always there in some way.”

“I just didn’t think it would be this hard. Hurt this much. Especially after so long.”

“You lost a child. A human being that you helped make,” she reasons. “I can’t even bear it when I just think about losing one of mine. So I can’t even begin to imagine what it feels like when it actually HAPPENS. To have to sit there and see your child suffer.”

“But I didn’t sit there,” he reminds her, voice cracking with emotion. “ I took off. I left him there. That was my son. And I LEFT him.”

“You were scared. You were young and you were…”

“I was thirty one years old. I wasn’t a kid. I was a grown ass man. I wasn’t some fucking kid right out of high school. And I wasn’t scared. I was weak. I was a fucking coward and I left him. When he needed me the most. He was sick and he was terrified and I left him.”

“Tyler…” She cradles his face in her hands, thumbs clearing away the tears that slip down his cheeks. “...it’s okay. It’s okay to talk about it and it’s okay to feel the things you’re feeling. But beating yourself up like this? Hating yourself? This isn’t good, babe. You can’t hate yourself forever.”

“You think so? You just watch me.”

“Listen to me,” she pleads, and digs her nails into his face. “You can’t do this. You can’t spend the rest of your life hating yourself. You made a mistake. And yeah, it was a really bad one and I am so fucking sorry that happened to you. That Austin got sick and suffered like he did and that you felt you had no choice but to leave.”

“How can you not hate me? How can you look at me like you do? Why don’t you see me like a monster? Like the huge piece of shit that I am?”

“Because you’re not a piece of shit and you’re not a monster. You’re just a human being that made a bad mistake. I could NEVER hate you. I love you. More than I ever thought I could love someone. And if there was some way I could go back in time and change things and make them better for you, I would.”

“No. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that. Don’t ever even wish that. Because going back and changing everything would just change everything now. It would mean I’d lose you. And my kids. I loved my son. But I would never bring him back if it meant losing everything I have now.”

She kisses him softly; tasting the salt of his tears as her fingernails lightly drag along the lines of his jaw. “You need closure, Tae. It’s something you’ve never gotten. If you knew where he was…”

“She’d never tell me. Not even seventeen years later. She wouldn’t even tell my lawyer. When we got divorced.”

“Have you tried tracking her down? It’s been a long time. Last time we saw her was thirteen years ago. She may have mellowed. She might be willing to tell you now.”

“I’m not exactly her favourite person, Me. And do you blame her? I didn’t just leave him, I left her too. When she needed me. I know she was a shit wife; constantly fucking other guys when I was away. Sometimes when I was even still in town. But she didn’t deserve that.”

“Do you want me to track her down? I could call or go and visit and ask if she’d…”

“No. That is the last thing I want. I don’t want my past mixing with my present. My future. I appreciate it, Me. And I love you for wanting to do that. For being WILLING to do it. But no good will come of that. You and her meeting up.”

“Is there anything I CAN do? Because I hate that you’re going through this. And I especially hate that you hate yourself. That I can’t take that away. Because you don’t deserve that. That hate. From yourself or anyone else. Tell me what I can do. Please.”

Sniffling noisily, he swipes the back of his hand across his nose. “You can’t fix me, Esme. No matter how much you want to. Or how hard you try.”

“I don’t want to fix you, Tae. I just want to love you.”

The tears immediately return, and when he chokes back a sob she gathers him in her embrace and rolls onto her back. An arm across the middle of his spine and hand moving to the back of his head; fingers tunnelling in his hair as he rests his brow against her chest.

“I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve YOU.”

“You deserve EVERYTHING. And you’ll never convince me otherwise. Let me love you. That’s all I want. To love you. Can you let me do that?”

Nodding, he slides further down the bed; both arms circling her torso as he buries his face in her stomach.

“It’s going to be okay, Tyler.” Both hands push through his hair; tightly gripping the dirty blond tresses, nails digging into his scalp. “I’ve got you.”